By Rachel Toor
Cover photo courtesy of Toby Carroll
Last spring, when I got the email for the Wild Woman Marathon, I didn’t immediately hit delete. I hadn’t been back to those soft trails near the base of Mount Adams for years, though I loved that women-only race. Could I pin on a bib after years of not racing and, well, not race?
I invited a couple of far-flung friends to come for a June weekend of fun. Sara did the full marathon; Ann and I both did the half, where she kicked my butt. This was as expected as it was annoying. (Also, inspiring. At 65, she just ran 4:07 at the Portland Marathon.) Sara had a rough race and kind of hated me for making her fly across the country to do it.
On the other hand, I had so much fun pushing myself I began looking for more races. I found a 25K on Mount Spokane the next weekend. Just a chance for a nice trail outing, I told myself. I had nothing to prove. I could stroll if I wanted. I thought, It doesn’t matter if women pass you! No age group awards! Nope. Having entered a race, I ran until it hurt.
In September, Sara came to Spokane. She’d mostly forgiven me, so I got her and my husband Toby to sign up for the Boulevard Race: an easy trot, a community event, and only four miles. “Just a fun run,” I assured. Bibs on, we took off, barely faster than a walk. We had little choice since we picked the “cruise” corral. The crowd trudged along and kept us (me) in check.
For the first mile, we chatted, enjoying the day. I sped us up as soon as the throng thinned. Still, nice and easy. When we hit the marker for the final mile, I told Sara we were going to pick up the pace for the last half mile. “Um, okay.” About 60 seconds later, I slid in front and said, “Keep your eyes on my back. Pretend a rope is tethering us.” I said, “Relax your shoulders, don’t clench your jaw, pump your arms going uphill.”
Here’s the thing. My body, like that of a high-strung Arabian horse, seems to have been made to run and somehow takes care of itself (while I do little to maintain it), even as the clock showed I had started to slow down. I loved racing, but for years when I pinned on a bib, I carried a wooden dowel with balloons tied to it that announced the time I’d cross the finish line after 26.2 miles. I found joy as a marathon pace team leader, helping others achieve their goals. While I’ve never cried after racing, I often finished teary-eyed when runners hugged me, thanked me, and claimed (falsely, I knew) they couldn’t have done it without me.
Even though Sara didn’t care about her time, the pacer in me knew she was capable of more. I couldn’t help myself and pushed her to finish strong. Our last mile clocked in at more than two minutes faster than our first. She was only a little mad.
Now in my 60s, while I have (mostly) given up racing and pacing, habits of mind are hard to break. Sure, I find joy on family runs with Toby and our mutt, Harry, and I still go out most days for at least a handful of miles. But when I pin on a bib, dormant parts of my brain spring to life. Can’t help it. Like (also elderly) Jessica Rabbit, that’s just the way I’m drawn.
Rachel Toor lives in Spokane and teaches creative writing at Eastern Washington University.
