Working hard to be awful at something
Watching the backs of all the other runners disappear off to faster finish times and trying to be OK with it
When I first watched “The Barkley Marathons: The Race that Eats Its Young” I was struck by something that the race director said. I’m going to paraphrase, but basically: the people who run Barkley are the kind who have never failed at anything they set out to do. So Laz set up his race to ensure they get to fail.
The folks who run Barkley are objectively the best at, well, basically everything that is needed for such a crazy endeavor. Endurance, sure, but also vert, orienteering, fueling, mindset, and who knows what all else. I’ll certainly never know, anyway. To enter Barkley is a success in itself; to finish a single loop is amazing; to finish the whole race is superhuman. So thinking about the people doing this race as “failing” in any way at all just sort of stuck with me.
Right now — and probably forever — running anything at all ensures I get to fail. At least by some measures. And, like the Barkley runners, I am not used to failing. Except when I run. Running is a true, deep love that I commit stupid amounts of time to while simultaneously being an endeavor in which I will never get significantly less terrible.
It confuses me. Am I that former gifted student who needs the achievement validation that comes with racing, or am I the trail runner who runs because it’s primal and fun? Does failure even have any meaning here? Am I as laid back as I pretend to be or am I going to stop having fun if I stay at the back of the back of the pack much longer?
FOBOP, BOMOP, and BOBOP (IYKYK)
Around this time last year, I had no intention of ever participating in another road race again. On the path to my first ultra, though, I needed reasons to keep my mileage up. It turns out that organized road events (known to fast people as “races”) are fantastic for my motivation and consistency. They get me out of bed when the weather is gross and keep me committed to running those longer distances that I adore but tend to skip when I’m on my own recognizance. They provide an enjoyable and festive atmosphere and, often, food and beverages. What’s not to love?
At half marathon distance and below, I’m solidly FOBOP (front of the back of the pack, for the uninitiated), striving to be sustainably BOMOP (back of the middle of the pack). I have no goals to move much beyond this.
Most days, like the cheerful kids at the back of the classroom goofing off and not worried about their future, I’m just a happy slow runner doing my thing. In my world, consistent running with lack of injury is the big achievement, not speed.
So I don’t care if I come in actually, truly last as long as I’m running, right? Right??
At 20+ miles on the road I’m at the back of the back of the pack (BOBOP). Taking that last finisher medal from the intrepid volunteer who stood around in the freezing cold waiting for me to cross over the mat a minute or two before cutoff. DFL in my age group and in the last 5 overall. At least where I live, which, admittedly, is super competitive running country.
And I’m finding out that I care. I care a LOT. It bothers me that I care, because I’m unlikely to be able to do much about it. I have never worked so hard to continue to be so bad at something. Am I failing?
`In that direction,’ the Cat said, waving its right paw round, `lives a Hatter: and in that direction,’ waving the other paw, `lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they’re both mad.’
`But I don’t want to go among mad people,’ Alice remarked.
`Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the Cat: `we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.’
`How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice.
`You must be,’ said the Cat, `or you wouldn’t have come here.’
— Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
On dirt, there is no last place
I started doing serious distance with small trail ultras. These feel more like celebrations of moving around outside than “races” (don’t tell the winners that though).
There isn’t an obviously meaningful “last place” when you run 8 hours in circles, or are willing to embark on a multi-day timed run. You might know intellectually that you’re in last place, but you’re on the same course at the same time as the winners. Sometimes they’re going slower than you are.
If I had a dollar for every “great job” I have heard or given on a trail run I’d retire tomorrow. There’s this “we’re all mad here” camaraderie, and the whole point is to cross the finish line last. To hang in there the whole 8 or 12 or 30 or 144 hours and not give up sooner. Even if you’re trucking along at 2mph, the party is going to be there when you finish, and probably while you’re running.
Of course people get super competitive about trail running and ultras. Obviously. It’s just less a thing.
On asphalt, they pack up the aid stations before I get there
Lately I’ve started doing traditional marathons, and wow am I struggling. Not with the distance! But with the mindset. And with how obvious it is an endeavour meant to rank people rather than unite people (I mean, it’s a race, I get it, the entire point is to rank people).
I deliberately sign up to run for 8 hours in the middle of August, so an up-to-6 hour marathon pace doesn’t strike me as a problem. Am I one of the slowest people out there? Yup. Am I just rolling along, doing my thing, having a great time and singing along to my headphones because wow how privileged am I that I get to just spend a day outside doing what I want to do? Yup.
Am I often totally alone on the course after the halfway point, aware that the aid stations (if they’re still there) are packing up before I’m on that last 10K? Yup. Is all the food gone when I cross the finish line, spectators dispersed, volunteers moving on with their day? You guessed it — yup. The only thing they hadn’t run out of was beer when I finished the Louisiana marathon, but they’ve never run out of beer in that state so it’s not saying much.
It’s disconcerting enough to write a whole article about it. What gives?
I celebrate other slow runners. Why do I judge myself?
I’m proud of folks who enter a race knowing they’re likely to be last. The grit, the fortitude, the sheer not-giving-a-toss-what-you-thinkness of that is what I idolize.
So why can’t I apply that attitude to myself? I am, after all, running with people I legitimately see as heroes, those back of packers who allow me to keep company with them. The against-all-odds folks. The “you think I can’t do this? watch me” folks. Or folks just truly enjoying their run without any grit necessary — just running because they can.
I want not to care, but I do care. Sometimes I care so much. I hate so much how much I care.
No matter how good you are, there’s always someone better
As a kid I was often told: “no matter how good you are, there’s always someone in the world better than you. So what are you going to do about it?”
Whenever I heard that, I knew I was in serious trouble. In the bitter mind of the man who raised me, if I wasn’t number one, I was literally nothing. Disgusting, a failure. In hindsight, I can see that was his own self-hatred coming out in my direction. He couldn’t be number one, so he was literally nothing in his own mind.
But I also took the statement quite factually, as simple truth. Yes, no matter how good I get — and for awhile, there were some things that I was extremely good at — there’s always someone better. That’s exciting! That means there’s always someone to learn from! Being number one is inherently fleeting, but really it’s the process of striving and improving that’s valuable, not the ranking.
Running a road race where the rankings are so clearly visible sets off the bitter old man in my head who hated everybody because he couldn’t be better than them. He sees anything less than an age group place as a failure, and is mad at everybody who passes me on the course. He’s gonna be real mad for a real long time, because I just can’t run that fast.
Running a trail race is the wide-eyed kid who wanted to learn everything from everybody and is thrilled just to be included. Some of the events I run aren’t too far removed from spinning in mad circles on the playground (come try my favorite 0.33mi course one day). Keeping on till the end is success in itself, bonus points if you have fun doing it.
Both of these attitudes live inside of me. I had thought the bitter old man had been banned years ago, but it turns out he’s still in my head, still trying hard to rob me of my happiness. So bring on the last place finishes and BOBOP life. Let him be mad. He’s an asshole anyway and doesn’t deserve any airplay. I’ll be over here spinning around in giddy circles and hoping there’s a banana and a beer when I’m done.
I have set myself a goal of completing at least 50Km — running, walking, or a combination of the two — in all 50 states. To acknowledge that I’m traveling on land that was stolen from others, I am donating to the First Nations Development Institute for each new state I complete or each state I travel to for a race.
Thank you for reading and supporting me on this journey. If you’re able to chip in — for your state, or for all 50 states — you’ll help me double the impact I’m able to make on my own.
