When I signed up for the Susitna 100 in 2006, I liked to emphasize that this 100-mile bicycle race through the wintry Alaska backcountry would be my first competitive event ever. I wasn’t entering the endurance racing world through the normal progression of a 20-mile criterium or a half marathon. No, instead of getting my feet wet, I was going to plunge face-first into the deep end. I was a complete novice going all-in in a big way.
“But,” I’d usually clarify once my declaration earned the shock value I thought it deserved. “That’s if I don’t count the Fun Run.”
The Fun Run was an extracurricular 5K foot race at my junior high school. Children who signed up could earn extra credit in three classes, which gave hundreds of students an incentive to give it a go. Though the Fun Run was presented as a recreational fitness event rather than a race, each runner was given a ranking, and results were posted on the wall near the main entrance of the school. Thus, we were incentivized to do our best.
The non-race that was technically my first-ever race was held on October 24, 1991. I was a fresh-faced seventh-grader who had never excelled in athletics, but I’d also never really given running a shot. A field of about 700 students lined up on the sidewalk in front of the school. The autumn air was thick with hormones and nerves. I took off at a full sprint, shadowing a group of taller boys, pumping my arms and legs as hard as I could. Within a half-mile, my lungs were on fire and my limbs were rapidly weakening. The course skewed uphill and I fell well behind the main pack. I continued to try but mostly staggered through the remaining two miles, watching for the volunteers who guarded each intersection and praying — actually praying to God — that this would be the one to point us back toward the school.
“When I finally got there I got 272nd place out of 700 kids,” I wrote in my journal. “I was hoping for something a little bit better than that, but there were a lot of cheaters, and a lot of ninth-graders, and also teachers who practice a lot.”
Ah, yes, sand-bagging excuses. I was already becoming a runner and I didn’t even realize it. But given my mediocre showing in something I really, really tried to excel at, I was beginning to believe I was not a runner.
Still, extra credit is extra credit. I entered my second annual Fun Run on October 13, 1992.
“Picture this,” I wrote in my journal, setting an ominous opening for my wittily titled E-NUF RUN. “3.2 miles on an unusually warm October day. Half of the people are in front of you, half are behind. You’re in a strange neighborhood. No friends are around. You’re all alone.”
I reported that I again ended up near the middle of a field of about 500 runners this time, receiving a finish rank of 236.
“My hand was so sweaty that when I was holding it, the 36 blurred,” I wrote. “The number isn’t too bad. At least I wasn’t Rachel, who got number 416.”
Ah yes, the lowered expectations. I really was growing into the runner I would become.
Apparently, the entire event lowered its expectations. By my ninth-grade running, only 164 students entered the Fun Run. This October day was cold and rainy, with a fierce headwind blowing along the wet pavement. The school changed up the course this time, moving it from the eastern streets to a suburb north of the school. I lined up at the start in my gym clothes with a Levi jacket for warmth. Before the race even started, I had wrapped the denim jacket around my head to shield my face from the stinging rain.
“I started out with 8 friends, but I let them run ahead, one by one, till I was left in the far back with a girl named Brittany,” I wrote. “We walked slowly in the sprinkles, trailing farther and farther behind, and then it began to pour.”
Brittany and I continued to shamble through the driving rain, soaking our shoes in frigid puddles. We lost sight of all of the other runners and soon came to an intersection where no volunteers were waiting. Likely, I concluded, they just went home. Meanwhile, we had no clue which direction to go. Brittany suggested a turn and I agreed. We were both beginning to shiver, so we tried to pick up the pace. The next intersection was also abandoned. Neither of us had a clear idea about how to find our way back to the school, but now we had no choice but to keep moving.
“We probably walked and then ran at least five miles,” I wrote in my journal. (Note: It was unlikely this much extra distance. But isn’t that another classic runner trait? Exaggerating hardship in a race report?) “Finally this sympathetic person who I have never seen before and will likely never see again gave us a ride and got us back on track.”
We finally returned to the school long after the race had ended, but were still given finishing times. Not only were we last on the finishers list, but our time was more than a half-hour slower than the next slowest runner. As a burgeoning teenager embracing the apathy of the Grunge era, I was terribly proud of my result. Whenever my friends and I passed the printout posted in the hallway, I made a point of bringing it up.
“Did you guys do the Fun Run? Yeah, we were dead last. Yeah, it’s so stupid.”
My friends laughed when I pointed to my name at the bottom of the list. They indulged my harrowing tale about getting lost in the rain and wandering around a strange neighborhood for untold miles. This distinction was deeply satisfying.
The Fun Run taught me that only the rare few can be the best at something, and the rest of us can either strive for mediocrity or go our own way toward adventure and potential notoriety. It also taught me that I was definitely not any kind of runner or competitive athlete, a lesson I’d take to heart for the next 12 years.
Another great story. I'm loving your childhood remembrances. Eric embraces his red lantern finishes!