I try to race on weekends, to make sure that I get a “fast” run in. For long, slow runs I have less need of inducement.
But what makes a run a race?
A week ago, here in Toronto, I had occasion to wonder.
Wherever I am, I rarely have trouble finding an organized race. There is someone about with a good cause and the willingness to do the work. A few clicks, an entrance fee, and a journey to the site: such are the runner’s minor undertakings. Aside from the running itself, of course!
Last Saturday was different.
My daughter and I made our way to Mimico Creek, a starting point familiar to me from long runs. There was a crowd of runners waiting already – but no organizers to be seen. Mystification hung in the air with the frozen breath: this sort of thing hadn’t happened to anyone before.
Generally organizers are present hours before the race itself: their absence twenty minutes before the start should have been conclusive evidence that something was wrong. But I was confused myself until someone else said the word: “scam.”
Looking at my phone with my sharp-eyed child, we noticed some hints that something was wrong: there was only an Event-Brite page and no proper race web page; there were Americanisms in the race description; the start time was later than one might have expected; the kids’ race was after the main event rather than before…
Gloom began set in. It was below freezing. The snow was coming down harder and harder. Just standing around made us cold. No official was there providing the encouraging structures: the starting line; the turnaround point (it was an out-and-back); the finish line; the numbers. There would be no cheering volunteers along the way, no medals hung on necks at the end.
At about 8:50am, one local guy raised his voice and summarized the position. A scam had brought us together. But we could run the 5k anyway. He knew where a good turnaround point would be. People made a circle as we listened; we saw one another’s faces. We started across the Mimico Street Bridge at about 9am, the notional starting time.
There were no chips and no timers, and so the element of competition was gone. And yet we ran.
I had planned to go “fast” and let my daughter run at her own pace; now, with no volunteers and low visibility, I wanted to stay together. She was wearing my earbuds (one of them, anyway) under a big hat, and had strapped a wallet with a phone under layers of clothing; we got a slow start as we struggled to with all the gear.
Indeed, we were just starting to pick up the pace on our way out when we crossed paths with the first runner coming back!
It is quite beautiful to run northeast along Lake Ontario towards downtown Toronto from Humber Bay. There was no view of the skyline that morning; but as heart rates increased, the white of the snow and the greys of the skies and nearby buildings were color enough. We got warm: I ended up carrying my daughter’s winter coat in my left hand.
It feels better to run than not to run. We reached the turnaround point, put in a bit more distance to be sure, and headed back.
It is possible that we passed a couple of people… who had decided to walk… It is also possible that they passed us later… In any event, we were not especially close to the head of the pack as we approached the bridge that was serving as start and finish line.
The first guy, the one with whom we had crossed paths, must have finished twenty minutes earlier. I had a feeling, though, that he and others would still be hanging around, and I told my daughter that it was time to kick to the finish: down a hill, up a hill, across the bridge. And she did.
Sure enough: there he was, on the far side of the bridge, at the head of a friendly gauntlet. Every runner who had finished had waited, forming two lines, one on each side of the path, to offer congratulations as finishers passed between. My daughter joked that she had won her age group. Which, maybe, she had.
Was it a race? What happened?
What did we make happen?
We were all fooled by a digital scam that played to our better angels and took our money. The scammers claimed to be helping veterans on Canada’s Remembrance Day. And we fell for it. And then we gathered ourselves up, organized ourselves as much as we needed to be organized, did the thing, and felt better. The smile on the face of the first finisher as he high-fived my daughter made my day.
We fell for it. And then we went for it.
A small true story, perhaps gathering itself up somewhere near the turnaround point, picking up the pace, and striving to cross the line to become a little parable. I leave its energy with you as your Saturday begins.
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