Photos

I fell a little behind and neglected one of my race-director jobs last fall. It's actually a fun one, but it got buried by a pile of other, more pressing tasks, and I am embarrassed to say that it wasn't until the new year arrived that I actually found time to do it: send the photos.

Of course, to send the photos, I had to actually LOOK at the photos—thoughtfully this time, matching bib numbers with names and addresses from our database. The work this year, maybe because it was delayed, was even more enjoyable than it usually is. And it sparked a revelation that made me see my work in a new light.

I saw that race directors are enablers—but of the very best kind. They're the Glinda the Good Witch of enablers. Most of the time, though, I think they must have no idea of the kind of things they make it possible for folks to do until hours, days or weeks after the race. (At least I don't, and my race isn't all that complicated. Imagine how the queen of all race-director enablers, Sharron Ackles, must feel on race day.)

Race directors provide us with a place where we can test ourselves, in some measured way, against where we hope we are in our development as athletes—we toe the line hoping to race as our very best selves. Sometimes we fall short. Sometimes we stun ourselves with what we're able to achieve.

But back to the photos. Because this race is a fundraiser for the school where I work, I have the luxury of really good photos taken by our photography teacher (and avid cyclist), Cole Thompson. They aren't finish-line photos per se, but a collection of moments in the arc of a race. And I don't think they're unique: I think all races have moments like this—the pre-racing greetings, the post-race fish tales, the strain of the actual work. It's just that sometimes we don't see them in our hurry to find our friends, or get a drink, or head out on a cool-down jog.

Cole captured the race's fine details, the small bits that add up to the soul of the thing. I will swear to you that you can see hopes and dreams in these photos, right along with pain and sweat and the honey-colored light.

Here is concentration, here is focus, here is what it looks like right before the race starts. No. 319, collegiate runner Kelly Rusk, won the 5K for the second year in a row, despite being sick in the days leading up to it. He was determined to come and take a shot at our course record. He missed, but not by much.

Yes, the light really was that beautiful honey color. It was a perfect day for racing—not too hot, not too cold.

Then there's a succession of photos that made my heart leap. One shows two angelic-looking children holding homemade signs that say, "Go Mom." (The "go" is very small; "Mom" is very big.) I looked and looked but couldn't find any indication of who mom might be, but I knew she'd want these pictures. Dad was in one of them, too, wearing a hand-lettered shirt that said her name. Eventually I came across a photo of two women running up the hill. Slightly ahead of them is the finish line, and a small girl in a pink sweatshirt, her little brother and their father are all waving homemade signs. The girl's arms reach high into the air as she tries to get her mom's attention. You can see she's thrilled and excited and proud.

So what do those images tell us? That there's a little bit of nobility in every one of us, just for daring to do something that challenges us. And that we can inspire others, perhaps without even realizing we're doing it. People come out to cheer their boyfriends, wives, mothers for a reason: They want to applaud the effort.

I have to tell you one other thing about being a race director. It is one of the ultimate leaps of faith. You start the race and you send the athletes on their way. You can only plan for so many things, and you know that out there, lurking, just waiting to trip you up, is the great unlimited potentiality that is Life in the World. The thing you couldn't have planned for or even considered. The frogs that fall from the sky in "Magnolia," for example.

That's when you start to pray to the higher power of your choice. You ask for everybody to come back happy and healthy. You ask for your volunteers to be safe, and to point people the right way. At this point, you don't give a rip if anybody has fun. You just want everything to be all right.

Probably even agnostic race directors say prayers like this. It's like that old adage—as long as there are tests, there will be prayer in schools. As long as there are races, there will be RDs who pray—to somebody or something.

Then your lead runners come in and you start to breathe. Boy, you didn't know you could hold your breath for 15 minutes, but apparently you can. People are clapping, and smiling, sweat is flying. It's all good. Then the middle of the packers come in. And they are still smiling. It's a miracle. Soon the walkers come. And then soon, too soon, it's all over. You're left with nothing but memories, and pictures, and dreams for next year when you hope everybody will come back and play again.

Because really, that's another thing about being a race director: It's like you have a really neat sandbox, maybe the best one on your street, and you get to have all the neighborhood kids over just once a year to play with you. So you want it to be perfect, and you want them to have fun, and you can't wait to see them all again next time.

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