It’s a whole weekend of events. The marquee event is today, fifty miles. Tomorrow, on Sunday, the marathon and the half start bright and early, then we pack up and leave town.
The shorter distances are new this year. FIRE already paid to shut down the roads in and out of town, so we got our permits extended and added two more distances to maximize the number of participants (and race entry fees).
“I’m going on a coffee run; you want anything?” Ana asks. We both had to get up before dawn and we look it.
“Yes!” I yawn out and hand her some cash before relaying my very specific order. “Half-caf, iced latte with almond milk.”
“No syrups, no sugars?” Ana asks, not even batting an eye.
“Nope,” I respond, once again surprised that the small details of my life that are so specific and altered by my condition aren’t as big of a deal to others. I’ve been building it up too much in my own mind.
We arrived on site an hour before the fifty-mile ultra-marathon began. The start of a race always feels ritualistic. The different elements of the religious ceremony that is a run of this length. Praise for the earth and the joints. Also questioning why. Why do this? Why am I putting myself through this? Who am I trying to prove it to? And then the triumphant celebration, the dopamine hit to end all others, the crash and then: when is the next one?
My pangs of longing, of missing the thrill of a finish-line chute, were quickly erased by the long list of tasks to handle while the race was underway. I’ve been Oliver’s shadow all day. Snapping photos of him doing the iconic start-line speech and sending them to our social media manager back in Tampa. Meeting with local officials for the city and state, reconnecting with top run coaches.
“Oh, you’re Tom’s daughter,” most of them said as they shook my hand, eyeing my feet, confirming I am indeed wearing shoes and not barefoot like my father is famous for. Oliver was quick to jump in and sing my praises, even though I’ve only been on the team for two weeks.
I’m proud to be Tom Ross’s daughter. I was his assistant coach for four years. But I want to be my own person too.
The finish line is anything but quiet as the runners are out on the fifty-mile ultra-marathon course. Most won’t finish for several hours, but family and friends are camped out with signs for their loved ones, huddled close to the Wi-Fi router to be able to track their runner on our app. It’s the same scene at every race. Someone finds reliable Wi-Fi and everyone gloms on.
Ana returns with our coffees and I find a table to lean against in the merchandise tent. Some of our coworkers are milling around here and throughout the race expo area. A few of the other team members from merchandise, expo, and operations are doing a relay for the half-marathon. Trey from travel is on site this weekend too, which seems a little odd. Apparently, before his days working a desk job, he used to haul the frames and arches and set up the expo. He’s chatting with Ahmed, who is a six-foot wall of muscle. If he didn’t have an infectious laugh and smile, he would be super intimidating. They’re chatting nearby, trying to come up with a punny team name.
“Are you doing the relay tomorrow?” Ana asks while checking her phone.
“Nah, I’ve got to shadow Oliver,” I reply, happy for the excuse that has nothing to do with my condition.
“I’m sure he can spare you for thirty minutes,” Ahmed says, clearly eavesdropping. He’s younger than me and fit and muscular. He definitely looks like a guy who can lift two pop tents and haul them to the box trucks without breaking a sweat.
“Nope. Besides, I just got these sneakers.” I point to my fresh shoes. I was told I needed to wear the brand that sponsors our events. “If I ran in these, it would be blister city.”There, now I have two solid reasons that can’t be resolved.I’m grateful that none of my coworkers know about my condition, but I also wish they knew not to ask at all. It’s not that I hate running. I love it.Loved it.Too much. “Maybe next time.” I shrug and turn my attention back to Ana. Trey and Ahmed refocus their attention on which team name will be the most “epic.” “The kids’ race goes off in thirty minutes. I have five minutes before I need to round up the emcee and PR so they can get the images they need to promote it,” I remind her.
“Oh my goodness! The kids are so cute. The parents are so . . . insufferable. Like, it’s a two-hundred-meter dash, calm down.” Ana rolls her eyes.
I know exactly what she is talking about. It will be approximately three minutes of cute overload as kids from two to seven run in oversized FIRE Kalispell T-shirts and do their own variation of celebration dances when they cross the finish line. The only thing possibly cuter will be the doggy-dash during tomorrow’s races.
“I’ve got tofetchCeline,” I say with a sigh. “She’s supposed to gather the local press for the dash, but she’s been hanging with Raj, our ‘celebrity guest’ all day.” Most runners doing the fifty-miler will tackle it solo. But we have an option for a team relay. Three to four friends can all switch off and conquer the course together. Raj Reddy, Mr. 300 Million YouTube Subscribers, also known as King Cool, is running our event with his friends. And recording a video for the channel. This is a big win for Celine. I have to give it to her.
“Ugh, of course she is. I get that she’s PR, but she acts so superior because she works directly with ‘celebrities’.” Ana sneers as she says this.
I agree. Raj is mega famous, yes. But he’s also just a guy.
“Better than the third-place finisher on last season’sBachelorettewho did the ultra-tri in Wisconsin and threw a diva fit in transition and stormed off course. At least Raj seems nice.”
“No way!” I shake my head in disbelief. I guess diva celebrities do exist. I thought it was a bad stereotype.
“Yup, I saw the whole thing. Almost posted about it but didn’t want to start a social media meltdown. Besides, Celine is playing nice with the network. I guess they want Oliver to doThe Golden Bachelor,” Ana explains.
The thought of Uncle Ollie on a reality show to find a partner is hilarious to me.And also, ew, that’s my uncle. I don’t want to see that.
“OK, I need to go boil my brain to erase the thought of my boss dating a harem of women on national TV,” I say and pretend to retch before I set off for where Celine and Raj are standing near a line of trees on the relay path.
I try to politely interrupt her conversation with Raj and not appear starstruck.
“Hey, Celine, Oliver needs the local press for the children’s race,” I tell her.
Celine looks like she just stepped out of a catalog for running gear. Her hair is in a perfect ponytail, no bumps or knots in sight. Her black tights have mesh cutouts running down her legs, her sneakers don’t have a single scuff or smudge on them, and she is cover-worthy even without any makeup on.
Celine eyes me as if I am one of the many gnats buzzing around the park, mutters “Ah yes,” and walks away without introducing me to Raj.
