Tales from the Trail: The Race That Went Wrong

I love participating in races.  I love the planning and the preparation and the anticipation.  I love packet pickups and gathering at the starting line.  I love walking the miles with friends and crossing the finish line.  I love the post-race parties and our traditional Dunkin run on the way home.  Okay, so maybe I don’t love the early wake-up times for most races, but it’s a price that’s (usually) worth paying. Once I’ve crossed the finish line and enjoyed my post-race snacks—after I’ve stopped for my traditional Dunkin on the way home—the rush of endorphins continues.  Even if I’m a little tired, I still feel upbeat and accomplished—and I’m usually ready to go home and sign up for the next race.

Sometimes, though, a race just hits…differently.  And there’s one in particular (well, two, technically) that’s become a running (walking?) joke with my walking friends.

At the time, my walking buddy Kristin and I were training for our first half marathon (which also went wrong—but that’s a story for a different day)—so we were excited to sign up for a two-race series that would allow us to increase our mileage.  The race had three distance options: 5k, 10k, and 15k—so we signed up for the 10k for the first race and the 15k for the second, which was two weeks later.  As an added bonus, the race came with some awesome swag, so we were excited for so many reasons.

When the first race morning came, we drove down to the race course and lined up with the rest of the crowd at the starting line, eager to get started.   But once we got moving, we realized that this race wasn’t quite what we were expecting.

The course took a scenic 5k loop around the river, almost entirely on sidewalks.  In theory, that sounded nice.  We could walk along the water instead of along the same old streets.  But if you’ve done an in-person race before, you know that the first mile or two can be crowded.  You often end up bobbing and weaving through a whole bunch of people.  Now imagine taking the people who normally crowd the street and putting them on a sidewalk.  There were so many people walking at a leisurely pace on that tiny sidewalk—many of them walking together in huge packs—that we spent the first mile just trying to get around them.  Needless to say, it didn’t make for an especially speedy (or enjoyable) first lap.

Still, we were able to get by them and enjoy the scenery as we walked past the mid-course hydration station and greeted the one police officer who was directing traffic at the one street that we had to cross.  We looped our way back to the starting line and started our second lap.

After that first lap, things quieted down.  A lot.  It was clear that most people were there for the 5k—so while we were occasionally passed by a friendly runner, we were mostly on our own.  It was…strangely quiet.

When we finished our second lap, we were greeted by Lynne, who’d done the 5k.  One of the few remaining volunteers handed us our medals, and we went to the small finish line tent to grab a granola bar.  As we were standing there, finishing our granola bars and chatting, we were almost hit by a van that had pulled up to load up the tent and the granola bars and tear down the race.  It was the most anti-climactic race we’d ever completed.  In fact, it was a little depressing.  The only people left were a couple of unenthusiastic volunteers and a DJ. 

And that’s when it hit us: if everything shut down as soon as we’d finished the 10k, what would the 15k be like in two weeks?

We contemplated skipping the second race and just meeting up for a walk later in the day (after all, this was the first race we’d completed that wasn’t worth the early wake-up time).  We discussed whether we’d finish the whole race or just give up after the second lap.  But, in the end, we decided to show up, do the race, and earn our medal.  But we agreed that it would be smart to grab our medal after lap 2—because we weren’t sure that anyone would be around after lap 3.

So, two weeks later, we were back at the same starting line with another crowd of people—but, admittedly, we were feeling less enthusiastic.  More…resigned to our fate.  We made our way through the crowded first lap before moving on to the second.  And around halfway through, I lost Kristin and Lynne.  I didn’t have headphones packed, but I continued on solo, determined to finish.

When I finished lap 2, I told the volunteer “I’m doing one more lap, but I’ll grab my medal now, so you don’t have to wait.”  He seemed incredibly confused, but he handed me my medal, and I stashed it in my pack for the third lap. 

By the time I reached the mid-lap hydration station, there was just one lonely volunteer left.  “Hey!” I called to him.  “My friend Kristin is coming up behind me.  She’s dressed in black.  Tell her she’s awesome.”  (Surprisingly, he did.)  And when I reached the race’s one intersection, the police officer was nowhere to be found.

When I reached the finish line, I wasn’t alone.  There was one other racer right behind me.  But the photographers had gone home, and everything but a couple of granola bars had been packed up.  Fortunately, Lynne (who’d done the 10k this time) was there to cheer for me as I finished.  And we were both there cheering a while later, when Kristin crossed the finish line and was handed a granola bar by an adorable little girl who was the only volunteer left at the finish line.  Within a couple of minutes, everything was gone except for the DJ—and, as we left, we stopped to thank her for sticking around for us.

The whole experience was just…dismal.  We’d gotten up early on a Sunday morning (two Sunday mornings), to do this thing.  And instead of feeling proud and excited and celebrated, we felt like an inconvenience.

For runners, the race probably felt a little bit different—still somewhat stripped down and over-crowded, maybe, but at least there were people to greet them at the finish line.  But while the experience is often a little different for walkers—who finish long after most of the runners—it’s usually still a whole lot of fun.

Sometimes, though, (fortunately for us, only on rare occasions) you’ll come across a race that makes you realize that some people think walkers just don’t count.

These days, I don’t think we participate in a single event where we don’t joke about those abysmal races at least once.  “Well, all of the goodie bags are gone, but at least we didn’t have to carry our medals for the last three miles.”  Or “It’s nice that the finish line is still inflated.” That race was definitely an eye-opening experience—a lesson learned. 

As a walker, you might end up in races like this one.  But don’t be discouraged!  Find a way to celebrate yourself and your friends.  Keep cheering each other on.  And then don’t sign up for that race again—no matter how good the swag may be.

Have you ever participated in a race that took a wrong turn?  We’d love to hear your stories!