By Shalini Kovach
It’s 4:45 a.m. on another quarantine Tuesday and as I lay awake in my bed, my brain is shooting a million directions. Like a lot of us these days, I continue to battle worry, uncertainty and anxiety — especially as it relates to my job. What’s my job? “I’m a race director,” says the little voice in my head. This is evenly followed by, “But why?”
You see, just yesterday I was desperately holding onto one of my races that was originally scheduled for April 4-5 but had to be rescheduled for May 24-25 due to the novel coronavirus that we all now call our “new normal” (I hate that term).
The need to postpone the race was based on the decision of the parks department to revoke the original permit. But my decision to still hold the race rather than cancel it, was based on the ultrarunner in me, which was screaming for some normalcy, desperate for contact and in denial to accept the inevitable. Why? Because that’s what ultrarunners do. We don’t quit. We struggle, crawl, pull our shit together and make it out to the other side. Somehow, we are good at finding that light at the end of the tunnel, no matter how bleak it may appear in our times of despair. So, there I was, holding onto a bleak light in a shit storm, and I was not going to abandon my post.
What followed my decision to reschedule the race for May was a lot of negative commentary, cynicism, and criticism of my actions as a race director. People I depended on for support threw in the towel on me, and I was on the receiving end of a barrage of emails from runners unhappy with my decision to host the race, unsatisfied with the deferment policy and unhappy because they wanted a refund. One runner in particular sent me a long list of his beliefs along with what he thought I should do (“in your best interest as a race director…”) and his suggestion that I do the race as a virtual event. He even followed it up by attaching Maslow’s “Hierarchy of Needs” chart. Um, thanks?
Naturally, I questioned my decision to reschedule the event and wondered if I should have accepted a cancellation (what I saw as a DNF) back in March. But an ultrarunner’s brain doesn’t work that way. We slog from aid station to aid station in the hopes that we make it to the finish line. The little voice in my head repeatedly said, “Be realistic. Accept the outcome. This race isn’t happening.” But there I was, adamant to keep running until I missed the cutoff at an aid station, only to get pulled off the course.
On Monday, May 11, I got the notice from the park’s department for a second reschedule and I made the decision to cancel the event for 2020 altogether. I had to let it go.
The point of this story is simply to provide insight into the daily hustle of a race director. I’m not looking for sympathy. This is my job. I choose to do it, and it comes with ups and downs. But there are a few things I’d like everyone to know. Most race directors are dreamers. We’re optimists who spend a lot of time in front of a PC working on the many details that no one will ever see unless they’ve been involved with race directing themselves. We’re cautiously hopeful for favorable outcomes, and we put our heart and soul into our races to obtain the desired results.
No one will ever know the feeling a race director gets when she sees a runner striding across the finish line on the course that she herself loves to hate. Race directors don’t shy away from challenges; in fact, our entire careers are based on being visionaries and rolling with the punches. Most race directors I know are runners first, and the struggle to complete the hosting of a race isn’t all that different from the struggle of finishing an ultramarathon.
I understand that human beings are independent, contrary creatures and that we often learn more from each other when we disagree. If we strive to live forever in a state of mutual acceptance, we just carry on in the same old way. But the next time you reach out to a race director with anger and spite, perhaps remind yourself that by simply having some empathy, we can share our different opinions in such a way that we spark conversation and create closeness instead of cruelty.
And if you’ve never thanked the race director of an event that touched you as a runner, send them a note, because right now we could really use your patience and support.