Don't Tell a Runner "You're Almost There"
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Two weekends ago, I ran the Marine Corps 17.75K, a race that celebrates the founding of the U.S. Marine Corps and provides all finishers with a guaranteed slot in the Marine Corps Marathon in October. I’ve been on hiatus from races during covid, aside from the occasional 5K and a Ragnar team event, and had no intention of running the marathon in 2022. But two days before the 17.75, I got the urge, so I grabbed a last-minute registration.
I’m so glad I did. Marine Corps races are always exciting and well run, and the 17.75 is a pretty (though hilly) 11-mile course that winds through a wooded park. I’m not eager to go back to my prolific pre-pandemic race schedule, but I’ve missed the pump-up music at the start and finish lines, the volunteers offering water and encouragement at aid stations, and the inspiration of seeing so many different people getting the miles done.
Cheering spectators are wings to a runner’s feet, and just about anything shouted in a spirit of encouragement can help, but here’s a pro-tip, especially in races that are 10 miles or longer: do not say “you’re almost there” unless you’re basically in view of the finish line. You may think a runner at mile 23 of a marathon is so close to the end that they’re in the home stretch. But as the saying goes, a marathon is a 20-mile warmup followed by a 10K race. Those last few miles are long and brutal–they’re the heart of the thing. Some races have started advising their spectators to avoid “almost there.” I will never forget the person who shouted “you’re almost there” during a previous Marine Corps Marathon. We were at mile 9. Honey, no.
“Almost there” means well. I can’t get that mad at it; it usually has the very best intentions. We think a cheerful attitude will get us where we need to go. We want to believe that everything will work out OK, so we tell one another that it will. Just hang on a little longer. The problem–and of course I’m talking about more than just running–is it doesn’t seem like “a little longer” when you’re in it. It seems like it will never end. (Does anyone else feel like this late phase of the pandemic is more grueling and interminable than the height of lockdown?)
It’s like the difference between praise and encouragement. If you tell a child, “You’re so smart,” they will start to doubt themselves if they struggle: “I’m having trouble with this math problem; clearly I’m not as smart as they thought.” But if you affirm effort–basically, if you describe what you see–that means something. Good encouragement acknowledges that the experience is hard but that the person is capable. You are so strong; look what you’ve overcome; you can do this. You ARE doing this.
In a recent conversation about her new book Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole, Susan Cain recalled a vacation she took with her kids in which they stayed next to a field inhabited by two donkeys. Her children befriended the donkeys, to the point that when the vacation ended, her kids were bereft and inconsolable. After trying some comments like “We can come back next year,” she found that the only thing that calmed them was to name and normalize the grief: “This is part of life, this saying goodbye, and it’s painful when it happens, but the pain lessens and then you’re going to have great memories afterwards, but it’s part of life and you’ve had it before and you’re going to have it again, and everybody has it.”
I woke up the morning of 17.75 feeling good and the weather was ideal, so I decided to try for a PR (personal record). I managed to beat my 2015 and 2019 times, and even my virtual 2021 time on a flatter course. I’m super proud of that, but it means the last couple miles were a real slog. The hills felt like mountains on my tired legs. As I wondered if this suckfest would ever end, I heard a guy up ahead calling out, “You’re almost there.” (Ugh… really dude?) Then I heard him say, “You’ve got one more short hill, then a quick curve, and then that’s it–just a straightaway and the race is over.” Still, I was a bit skeptical–I’ve been burned by “one more hill” before. But as I got closer, I saw he wasn’t just a spectator holding a sign. He was wearing a bib and a medal, which means he’d finished the race. He described the landscape perfectly because he’d just been there. He knew how it felt, because he’d run those miles too.
Life is hard for so many people right now. I’m one of them. People don’t need platitudes and false assurances. What people need is the company of folks who’ve suited up and are honest about running a tough race too–sharing their own experiences and compassion, which literally means to feel with, to suffer with.
I’m glad we’re in this together.
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What I’m Up To
After thinking I wouldn't run the Marine Corps Marathon again, I decided to do it as a charity runner. I’m fundraising for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. This will be my fourth time running MCM but first time for AFSP. Please consider supporting me here, especially if, like me, you have loved ones who have been touched by depression.
This week on the Blue Room podcast: tick, tick...BOOM!, and How to Live Like We’re Running Out of Time
Hope Notes returns in May with two more gatherings before I leave for sabbatical. We will discuss CODA with the great Shani McIlwain on May 10 and Pixar’s Turning Red with the great Larissa Kwong Abazia on May 31. Learn more and register here.
Thanks for going along with the good fun of my first and perhaps only April Fools joke. But it sounds like a NOPE book would sell. Who knew? 🤷♀️
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Link Love
100 ways to improve your life without really trying. I love this list.
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