It was three in the morning.
M and I were sitting in an area close to the transition tent with three small fire pits and a few benches. It was a cold Sierra night and I had on my
team sweatshirt and a parka. M was only wearing
a tee shirt since she was still warm from having just finished running almost
seven miles.
M was exhilarated. We
were on a road relay team together last year where unfortunately she did not
enjoy her night leg at all. This time
around, despite having to run the most difficult loop in darkness, she had a wonderful
time. She said it was beautiful in the
moonlight and she found herself a nice community on the trail. Runners were helping each other out, sharing
the light of their headlamps, calling out hazards (“rocks!”, “log!”), and
offering general encouragement. It wasn’t
team against team, but runners versus mountain, all united in a joint endeavor
that most in the general population would think of as mildly insane. Hearing her tell of her experience really captured
the essence of why these long distance relays can be so special. Despite the physical and mental pain of sleep
deprivation, magic happens in the night.
I was the runner on deck.
M sat with me as I waited for A to come in while the rest of our team
slept. We chatted with other people milling
around the fire pits. Many, like us,
were unashamed to say that the course was kicking their ass, but we came across
a sullen pair who defensively said they were only “a little slower” than
expected. Considering even the most accomplished teams were hours behind, it was a startling claim. In an environment where goofiness
abounds and achievement is fostered over competition, I thought it was a bit
sad that these two couldn’t spare a moment’s vulnerability.
People came and went by our fire pit. Sometimes the conversation flowed and
sometimes M and I simply sat in tired silence, staring into the flame. Either way, it was nice to spend a few quiet
moments with an old friend.
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