Unsung Heroes

I sometimes listen to a podcast that includes a segment entitled “My Unsung Hero.”  Every story is an inspiring account of what Martin Luther King called the “inescapable network of mutuality” between all of us.  Those being interviewed tell a story about the way someone showed up, usually a stranger, in an unexpected moment to fulfill a need or brought light to a dark time or offered something they didn’t even know they needed. There is something powerful about the ways we affect one another, sometimes without even knowing that we’ve made a difference. 

This month’s Athlete(s) of the Month represent the threads that tie us together. Anna and Mickayla Griffiths share the road and each race together and one is made better by the other.  Competitors are like that, sharing a kind of reciprocity of giving and getting that we are sometimes not even aware of.  I will never believe that not to be true; a competitor is not an adversary, but a gift, the running version of an unsung hero, just like Anna and Mickayla are to each other.  My PR in the half-marathon and my first marathon were both among my peak running experiences. Who doesn’t love to run faster than they ever have before, and if I’m honest, faster than I was probably capable of, and the landscape of my first marathon was the rolling waves of the Pacific Ocean on my left and the Santa Lucia Mountains that suddenly rise from that ocean on my right.  Location and a PR, however, are not why they were peak experiences. What made them special was that in both, I found an unsung hero who changed me for the better. 

For those with a competitive nature, there is a natural “scene size-up” at packet pickup and if not there, for sure at the starting line.  We scan the field for the ones who look like they might be in our age group, we identify the “real runners,” we assess the gear, the shoes, the shorts.  We guess who the walkers are and who the serious competition might be, and when the starter sends us off and the drama of the race unfolds, we often discover that our assessment of the field was wrong.  The outside appearance rarely tells the whole story.

There is only one reason I set a PR in that half-marathon, a finishing time unrivaled by any half-marathon time before or since for me.  The reason?  “My Unsung Hero.”  About midway through the race, a woman who I had guessed was in my age group pulled alongside me.  I really wanted to medal (I might have a slightly competitive nature) so I started to push.  Back and forth we went, she pulling ahead for a time, and then me reaching and passing her only to have her return the favor.  It was a beautiful dance with a total stranger, each partner leading for a time then acquiescing to the other.  She pulled me through those miles and surfaced in me an acceptance of pain and an effort I have never been able to duplicate.  Because of her, I found something more than I believed was possible.  In the end, she finished just ahead of me.  We hugged at the finish for the longest time, the hug of mutual gratitude, the hug of human connection made visible.    She was my hero that day, and it didn’t matter that she reached the finish line before me.  She was my guide to my very best and that was enough.  I will never forget her.

My first marathon was in Big Sur, California.  The starting line was filled with runners, trained and ready.  Marathons give you the luxury of assessing the field far beyond the beginning of the race. I employed a strategy I learned from experienced marathoners that is made easier to do by this early race assessment.  Set your sites on just one runner ahead of you.  The goal is to pass one runner at a time, making a game of it.  When you pass one, you focus on the next, and then the next, ticking off runners along with the miles.  I would be deeply ashamed if my unsung hero that day knew why she made such a difference to me.  Her lesson for me that day did not make me run faster.  Her lesson gave me insight into myself and sits at the heart of the Platte River Fitness Series.  She made me a better human and taught me to see what it means to be a “real runner.”  You see, running had been good for my waistline.  I carried too many pounds for too many years.  Running did something for me that swimming never did, it helped me reach a healthier weight. By the time I was ready for the marathon, I had been running for three or four years and had gotten closer to the image of a runner I prized.  My unsung hero came into view not quite at the halfway mark of the marathon, the waves crashing on the shore providing the soundtrack to the drama.  She was younger, my height, and she was also about fifty pounds heavier.  There would be no drama I thought.  I would fly by her and take off to find the next runner to catch and pass.  I did in fact catch her…once.  She ran past me soon after, leaving me far behind. I never saw her again. 

Her bigger body ran unencumbered while mine shuffled along.  Apparently, no one told her that she was supposed to look a certain way to be considered a “real runner.”  I don’t think she read the running books. She was smooth and powerful, and she steamrolled me up the never-ending hills.  She ran in full form, head held high, proud that her body was doing what it was made to do.  She did not fit the image of a runner, and I am grateful that no one told her.  And if they did, her strength and graceful stride told me she knew better. I felt profound humility, ashamed to have ascribed to someone else the assumptions and the judgements that had been so painful to me when someone assigned them to my bigger body.  I finished well behind her, and I left California understanding a new truth. We are all athletes. Full stop. Shape, size, age, gender, natural gifts, no gifts, fancy shoes, no shoes.  None of it matters.  What makes us athletes is our hearts, our willingness to openly accept suffering, challenge and struggle and to use our bodies in ways that celebrate their design.  To be open to adversity, open to learning, to coaching, to risk and to care for this one and only body in the very best way we can. An athlete is someone brave enough to get to know their authentic self. My unsung hero’s heart that day and her will were bigger than the expansive ocean beside us.  She was the real runner, and she was my hero.

Look for the unsung heroes.  They are all around you.  They come in the form of race directors and volunteers, the first to arrive and the last to leave on race day.  Businesses and organizations that give generously and keep giving year after year to support us in what we love to do.  They come in the form of the causes and charities we lift up with our effort.  Unsung heroes come in every shape and size, every age and ability, and every pace.  They listen to our race stories, share our concerns, are willing to call us family.  They run alongside us and keep smiling when we blech, pass gas and wipe whatever leaves our nose on our sleeve as we move along, never passing judgement because that is what it means to be a real runner. Look for the unsung heroes, especially the one in the mirror, the one that is you, running along, choosing to try, choosing to be well, choosing to be whole.  I am surrounded by heroes, and you have changed me for the better.