You get up at 4:30 a.m., too. Sometimes, you are the one to wake the athlete, allowing her to sleep in just a little bit longer as you prepare a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for her breakfast, as you fill his water bottles with scoops of powdered sports drink, water and some ice cubes, as you pack the car with her transition bag, bicycle, and other various sundries. You just smile and make light small talk when the grumpy and nervous athlete fails to say thanks—or worse yet complains about your efforts to make his day a little easier.
Sometimes, you drive the athlete to the race. You always offer to carry their bags and gear—no matter that they’ve packed their transition bag in preparation for the nuclear winter. You wonder if you need training to be a triathlon Sherpa.
You spend all day in the weather, too—be it the hot sun, the humid air, the driving rain, or the chilly wind. You give up your clothing, your water—whatever you’ve got that might be of value—at the end of the race for the athlete you’ve spent all day chasing around a busy course, a crumpled copy of the course map in your back pocket. You stand, nervously, waiting for the first glimpse of your athlete as they head out of the water, as they come in from the bike, as they round the last turn toward the finish line. You make it your job—and you don’t miss a single opportunity to cheer on your athlete, as well as other athletes who pass by.
You hold up signs with all sorts of wonderfully inspirational sayings, and you ring your cowbell until you develop a mild case of tinnitus. You scream athletes’ names and race numbers until your throat hurts: “Go, Johnny!” “Looking strong number 535!” “You got this, Maria!” “Way to stay focused number 1321!” You clap until your hands are chapped. You snap more pictures than the paparazzi at a Hollywood premier. You make friends with other spectators, sharing stories and making plans to meet up at the next race.
You wait around after the race for the results to be posted, and then wait around some more for the awards ceremony. You feel the warm glow of accomplishment.
To all of you: Thank you so much for coming to our races. Thank you for being nice when we are crabby and anxious before the race starts. Thank you for knowing what we need and keeping track of our times. Thanks for reminding us to tie our shoes, or take off our helmet, or to remember our race belt. Thank you for telling us how awesome we are when we finish the race. Thank you for listening (often more than once or twice) to the blow-by-blow details of the race, nodding your head in appreciation for how “fast” that bike split really was—at least for us and especially on that course. Thank you for thinking our finishing statistics are impressive—even when we are dead last. Thank you so much for having faith in us that we will complete the race—strong and able. Much love to you.
A note about this entry: On race day, the athletes get a lot of attention by the press, by the race director, and by the spectators. But, what about the spectators? In the races I’ve done over the past year, I’ve learned how wonderful are spectators—who, in the main, are a network of family and friend support. This blog post is in honor of those committed folks who make race day smooth for the athletes.
