Putting the MANSHIP back into SPORTS

My wife is a runner, and to paraphrase a great friend of mine, she does so without even being chased.

To be honest, I don’t understand this desire to repeatedly put one foot in front of the other, and at such a pace and for such a distance, that pain becomes not merely a possibility, but an expectation. And, not only do I not understand it, I don’t pretend to understand it. I know that when my wife comes home from a run, and she speaks of blisters on her feet or twinges in her hip, I don’t give her a look that says, “I feel your pain, Baby.” I give her a look that says, “If God had REALLY wanted us to put our bodies through such paces for the sole purpose of getting from one place to another, He wouldn’t have invented cars. Duh.”

However, while I might not understand it or even pretend to understand it, I accept it and respect it as a key part of my wife’s existence. There is something about running that gives her a glorious feeling that nothing else can replicate, regardless of how many speeds it has or how many batteries you put in it, and that’s a mystery that will forever go unsolved for me, along with things like the Kennedy assassination and yogurt in a tube.

Recently, my wife participated in the 10-mile portion of the Christiana Care Delaware Marathon / Relay / 10-Mile. The notion of a relay interested me, because it consisted of multiple runners on one team combining each individual leg for one marathon’s distance. I was almost inspired to take up running, but it turns out your team has only four runners somehow dividing the marathon’s distance. They don’t let you run a 26.2-mile relay race with a team of 262 people running .10 miles each.

So much for my running career.

When my wife has run races in the past, I have stayed home with the kiddies, but the kiddies are now of an age where one can baby-sit the other (as long as I hide the duct tape first). With that, and for the first time, I accompanied Baby to her race.

Like a good runner, she brought with her a sack of running-related stuff. I have no idea what most of that stuff was, just as I have no idea what most woodworking tools look like or what the inside of a human chest cavity contains (other than what I’ve seen on CSI: Woodshop). What I do know, though, is how to be a good supporter, and a good supporter brings four things of his own: sunscreen, an I-Pod, a chair, and the newspaper.

After Baby began her trek along what I can only describe as one humongous loop, I found a spot near the finish line, parked my chair, slathered enough lotion to form a thick SPF cocoon around my fair-skinned exoskeleton, cranked the tunes, and perused the news of the day. As time passed and more people gathered near the finish line, I took to my feet so I wouldn’t look like a complete lump, although the guy across the street jamming breakfast sandwiches down his throat pretty much guaranteed me no better than first runner-up in the Mr. You-Really-Don’t-Belong-Here-Do-You 2008 Pageant.

Then, an odd thing happened. A runner crossed the finish line, headed for the table of complimentary replenishment foodstuffs, and quickly found his way next to me so that he could cheer on the runners who would eventually follow him.

Huh?!?!?!

As runner after runner passed, this other competitor, not really sweating as much as gushing from his pores, rooted for complete strangers whom he had just beaten, as well as runners from the other two races! And then more runners followed suit, cheering on those who followed after them. And this was no feigned enthusiasm. This was no congratulation exhibited by forcedly polite golf-claps. This was palm-reddening, voice-hoarsening enthusiasm for runners of all stripes, from runners of all stripes.

I was so stunned I had to sit down. That and I was getting winded…you know, from standing there and stuff.

Where was the gloating? Where was the thrill of (your own) victory? Where was the agony of (the other guy’s) defeat? No jerseys were popped! No fingers were wagged! Who stole the egocentric humanity I knew and loved and what sort of alien symbiotic communal life form did they replace it with?

According to my wife, my X-Files-esque accusations were both cute and creepy at the same time. She went on to explain that this camaraderie is routine in the running community. It seems that runners have a much better sense of, and respect for, the effort it takes to finish a race.

Runners are bonded by the shared experience of not only the physical toll that repeated ground-pounding dishes out to the body, but also the mental toll of knowing, one stride after the starter’s pistol fires, you have 26.2 miles (minus three feet) to go, and there is no whistle to allow substitutions, no middle reliever to warm up in the pen, and no pit crew to change tires. Only YOU can finish YOUR race…alone. And when you finish that race, you take satisfaction in knowing, and your running brethren take satisfaction in knowing, that what you have done truly is an accomplishment worth cheering.

Eating breakfast sandwiches? Not so much.

So I applaud you, runners; not only for your physical and mental toughness, but for your deep understanding of sportsmanship; that while individual statistics are important, at the end of the day, it’s not about winning or losing, it’s about the achievement of the act.
Now, can someone please pass the aloe? I missed the back of my neck and the sunburn really hurts.