Thank You: From the Front of the Pack, To the Back

*Guest post*

The time has come for me to finally say thanks, to thank a lot of people I’ve been meaning to thank but haven’t had the courage. I want to say thanks for all the inspiration I got from the runners I’ve seen and talked with, but that I’ve never run with. Specifically, the people who doubted themselves in word, but inspired me through work.

This is my confession of thanks, from one runner in the front of the pack, to the runners in the back.

(Photo credit: Drew Reynolds http://www.drewreynolds.com)

This year was my second year training for the Chicago Marathon with Chicago Endurance Sports (“CES,” as we call it), an awesome group of people that run year-round training for all manner of races. And when I say all races, I mean it: they have groups for people just beginning running to complete their first 5K and for experienced athletes training to complete full Ironman distances. The biggest groups are those training to run the Chicago Marathon. After the wonderful experience I had last year, I decided to sign up to serve as a pace group leader.

What an experience it has been. And it has made me so thankful.

The CES participants were always so friendly and chatty. But there was always one question I’d dread. “What pace group are you?”

When people would ask me this, I’d cringe inside. Not because I was embarrassed — far from it. The runners I have had the privilege of joining on their journey to the marathon are, to a person, amazing people who have been an absolute joy and an inspiration to get to know and to train with through all of our ups and downs.

I’d cringe at the question because, so often, I knew where the conversation would go after I said my pace group (it was the fastest pace group offered, with long runs somewhere around 7:30 minutes per mile — though usually faster — while also logging the most mileage).

Not always, but far, far too often, the questioner would immediately make some form of self-deprecating comment. “I’ll never be that fast!” or “It’s going to take me over six hours to finish, I bet that seems pathetic to you.” Or, the absolute worst, “I bet you hardly consider me a runner.” I heard so many flavors of these sentiments.

I’d say some reassuring words about us all being in it together and 26.2 miles being the same distance no matter how long you spent covering it. But I’d cringe inside for the sole reason that I knew, yet again, I wouldn’t be brave enough to say what I really wanted to say to that person.

But, it’s never too late. So I’ll hide behind this keyboard and say it here:

You inspire me. You: the self-doubter, the first-time-marathoner, the run-walk runner. You, the “I’ve never been athletic,” the “I don’t even know if I’ll be able to finish,” the “I’m not at my goal weight yet,” runner. Every single one of you that I met. You inspire me.

And this is why.

I’m not as humble as I should be, but I’m humble enough to know that a whole lot of my success in running is unearned. I didn’t do anything to “earn” being born with a high metabolism, a skinny little frame, tiny hips and big quads, lungs and muscles that process oxygen more efficiently than most. All of this contributes greatly to my “success” (as most define it) in running, but I didn’t earn any of it. It just is.

And I know all too well that the vast majority of people, myself very much included, gravitate toward activities that they’re naturally gifted doing. Positive reinforcement is powerful. While I get a lot of innate joy out of running, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to my vanity and say that I enjoy being competitive, chasing age group wins (even overall wins in local races), and all the cheers and adulation that come with finishing in the front of the pack.

So the reason the people who would talk down to themselves inspire me more than anyone else is that I know the weakness that’s in myself. And it is not in them. I may talk strength, but I know the weakness that’s in me.

They don’t know it, but they are stronger than I am. Because while their words were muttering of their own doubts, their actions were shouting of their power.

And I wasn’t brave enough to tell them.

I honestly doubt whether I would have the dedication to run marathons at all if I were in their shoes. Some mornings, getting out the door in time for the long run is about all I can muster. Would I have the strength to get up a half an hour earlier on weekend mornings to start with the run-walk groups, knowing that I’d be out doing my long run after many of the other groups, including the groups that started a full half an hour later, would be done and back home with their families and enjoying their weekends? I know how much time I sacrifice from my family for my training. And the people who would denigrate their own sacrifice to me were sacrificing more than I.

And I wasn’t brave enough to tell them.

I honestly doubt whether I would spend the time and effort on running if “all” I got from it was the internal satisfaction, if it wasn’t something  I was naturally (undeservedly) gifted at, if I couldn’t race to beat the field but instead was “just” racing to beat my own limitations, to outrun my own doubts. And the people who would downplay their own accomplishments to me were accomplishing so much more than I was, and they didn’t know it.

And I wasn’t brave enough to tell them.

I honestly doubt whether I would lace up and run if it wasn’t something that everyone always, innately, believed I could do. If I wasn’t the kind of person that people would take one look at and say “he looks like a runner,” or “I bet he’s fast.” It is the most natural thing in the world to do what everyone expects you to be capable of doing. But doing what no one (not even one’s self) thought possible is an entirely different level of achievement. And so people who were doing exactly what I was doing, with no one’s expectations to push them along, would compliment me for doing what everyone had always believed I could do. They were sprinting up a hill, while commending me for jogging down it.

And I wasn’t brave enough to tell them.

Until today.

Today’s the day that I finally say it. While I may be running in the front of the pack, the runners that inspire me most are the runners at the back.

The people who were quickest to put themselves down to me were the people who I am most inspired to run with.

People who were running their first marathon and truly doubting whether they could finish. People who have struggled at times in their life with their weight and who decide to enter races despite not yet being at their goal weight. People who never thought of themselves as athletes, to say nothing of having other people praise them for their athleticism. People who train their heart and soul out with the goal of finishing before the course closes, so they can be recorded as an “official” finisher by the powers that be.

So, from behind the safety of this keyboard, I’m finally brave enough to say it. I’ve heard the words coming out of your mouths doubting yourselves during your training. But while you were saying those things about yourself, I couldn’t hear what you were saying because your actions were speaking so much louder.

I saw, week in and week out, the way you cheered each other through every run. I saw the way you would look so worried at the beginning of the run, and as the run would go on and on, even as you grew more tired physically, you’d be stronger and stronger spiritually. There would be more joy in your faces as you’d conquered yet another week of “this is the longest I’ve ever run in my life.”

And on the Sunday of the Chicago Marathon, whether you had a great day or a bad day, whether you met your goal time or didn’t, whether you finished your first marathon or just took another step on your journey to when you will finish your first marathon: I saw you out there, and your courage and passion and accomplishment and strength moved me to tears. Literal tears. You inspire me. Thank you so much for your inspiration.

In the days and weeks and years ahead, you’ll be out there running and I will too, and we’ll cross paths. I’ll be running my pace while you’re running yours. When you see me nod in passing, know this: I’m certainly not looking down on you. I’m not even looking back at you. I’m looking up to you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

— Chris Willis is a husband, toddler-wrangler and dedicated runner who practices law in the remaining hours in the day. His best race distance is probably somewhere between the mile and the 5K, so naturally, he mostly runs marathons. He lives in Chicago.