Running Scared
On getting ready to race and thinking about what matters most.
It’s piping hot in Eugene this week and I’ve declared it the summer of the crop top. My heat management strategy has been living and running in BOA’s new crop’it tank and not-new-but-always-awesome performance bra (which I dig because it’s a little longer than your average sports bra and crop toppish) and, as always, BOA’s split shorts (because split shorts and also the super fun colors and prints).***And you can try any and all of that BOA gear for 25 percent off with the code BOATrailMix25 (and it’s the last week of this hot deal so get on it!)***
I keep saying that I’m in an open relationship with my race registration for the Siskiyou Out and Back in July. I’ll spew all kinds of crap about how little I care about the race.
“If something better comes along, I’ll leave that SOB faster than you can say ‘piece of dirt,’” I’ll tell anyone who asks me about the race.
The Siskiyou Out and Back (affectionately known around Oregon as “SOB,”) is a classic Oregon trail race in the state’s southern-most mountain range. I signed up back in January, mostly because so many of my running friends are doing it and I’m easily persuaded by the opportunity to do a big running thing with a big crew of friends.
So, I signed up, but I didn’t fully commit myself to the race.
If you ask me what I’m training for, I’ll say I don’t know.
If you ask me if I’m racing anything soon, I’ll say not really.
And if you ask me about SOB, I’ll give you my line about playing the field.
Part of my reluctance to Define-The-Relationship with this 62-mile jaunt through the Siskiyous is due to a lack of a fiery connection. While I love the trails around those mountains and have loved the run in past years, it’s not the race I want to make my Main Miles of the season.
But a very real part of my hesitancy to commit is because I’m scared.
I’m scared to put myself back out there after having such a successful run last summer.
I recently met another trail runner, who liked to talk about his running, but didn’t really want to talk about my miles on the trails. The conversation stayed as one-sided as a Shakespeare monologue and it seemed clear he didn’t think I was a runner who was worth much dialogue.
He would start talking about a race, and I would say “oh! I’ve done that three times. How exciting!” And then he’d move on and tell me about how fast he ran a 100k in 2009 instead of asking me anything about the race – or my running of it.
After hours of this, I realized that I wanted him to realize he was wrong about me. I wanted him to think I was worthy of running talk. And I thought that he would see me as a worthy runner if he knew that I had set the record on the stretch of the PCT through Oregon.
Obviously, there were many red flags in this conversation. (Like what a dingbat this dude was during our chat.)
But, a fire engine red flag that stands out was actually an internal one: the fact that I’ve attached a certain amount of my worth and identity as a runner to the success I had on the trail last summer.
And so, to race something else feels scary because I am worried I might not be that runner in my next race. I’m scared my next run will make me less than my most recent result.
While I was in the Sierra last week, I went out to pizza and beer with my friends Danielle and Kelly. We started talking about what we’re all planning to do this summer, because we’re runners, and runners like to talk about what we’re running next.
When the conversation got around to my plans, I started to give them my line about playing the field – and then confessed my fears to my friends.
“I’m scared of it. I’m scared of how I’ll finish. I’m scared to not run as well as I did last year.”
“Emily,” Danielle started. Her voice as firm as a teacher who had just caught her student stealing someone else’s crayon.
“You are not a person who doesn’t do something because you’re scared.”
Her words flew straight from her mouth and slapped me right in the face.
I sat there chewing on her truth bomb and I knew that I would race that SOB.
Because she was right. I’m not someone who doesn’t do things because I’m scared of them. And that’s something that I really love about myself – as a runner and a human.
And as much as it may scare me to have to face the possibility of a subpar run, I know that no result would be as disappointing as succumbing to my fears. And that’s a way more important part of who I am as runner – and a human – than any result I’ve ever achieved.
When I think about the things that I am proudest of in my running and athletic career, it’s not the numbers on the clock or the miles on the watch. It’s the times that I have showed up with courage. It’s the runs where I’ve stared down my fears and plunged in. It’s the big and scary things that I’ve chased – without any guarantee of success and a very real chance of failure. It’s my excitement to push into the unknown. And to work real hard and to get real gritty trying to see what I can do.
Things like going for the FKT on the Oregon PCT – no matter what happened out there. Or climbing up steep things that made me sweat through my pants. Or big solo runs through remote and rugged terrain.
And while my braver and bolder runs have sometimes resulted in numbers and miles and summits that I’m also really proud of – those results are a byproduct of the qualities that really matter in who I am as a runner – and a human. And that definitely includes my jaunt across Oregon last summer.
So, I’m changing my tune about that race in a couple of weeks. I’m still scared of it, but I’m ready to commit to that start line. Because to show up and dance with that SOB means I’ll be the kind of runner I want to be - no matter how I finish out there.
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