As I prepare to tackle yet another distance race, I’m reminded that I didn’t get here alone.
My Rogue friends have followed my training schedule to support me–even when that means waking up at 5 A.M. to run 12 miles on a hot June morning instead of taking it easier with six or eight miles. And they could easily drop the midweek workout intensity down a notch for the summer but have continued pushing me.
When I have doubts about reaching my stretch goal, my running friends (and several members of my family) tell me I can do it. They
listen to me bitch ignore my complaining about the heat/distance/rock in my shoe/chafing issue/whatever, indulge my obsession about pre-race weather forecasts and playlists, and drive me to races. They let me stay in their houses, sometimes displacing their children for me. They don’t let me slack in training, they pace me to PRs, they jump back into a race they’ve already completed to help me finish strong, and they cheer at the finish line. They message me encouragement.
They believe in me.
And during next week’s race when I start to struggle, when my tired brain says, “fuck it, that goal doesn’t really matter,” when everything hurts and I’m dying, all I have to do is look at my shirt and remember that my Village is with me, even from 4500 miles away.