A simple thing
Elizabeth Werhane

I showed up on the Pier to Peak course at about 6 a.m. armed with two hand-painted signs and my camera to both support and document my friend's race. As I waited to see her approach the mission rose garden, I cheered for the other runners. I cheered for dozens of runners and walkers, flashing my hideous bright red "You rock!" sign and calling out all the short phrases that always give me an extra boost when I race.

And some runners responded--a nod, a smile, a "thank you," and even a "You rock!" right back at me.

I was overwhelmed with respect for those runners who were tackling 13.1 miles up 4,000 feet and actually having fun.

And I realized that running wasn't as fun for me as it used to be.

I'm a mediocre runner. I'm one of those dime-a-dozen washed up high-school cross country captains, who was a respectable runner--earning a varsity letter every year--but never won a national, state or even league title.

I kept running. I raced some 5Ks and 10Ks, but gradually I stopped identifying myself as a "real" runner. And while it was still fun and rewarding, I knew I had more fun in high school. I attributed that to my faster times and better training. But I think the real difference was the team.

High school cross country and track were social groups disguised as sports with uniforms, coaches, medals and stop watches.

Workouts weren't just about making us stronger and smarter athletes, they were opportunities to talk and plan and get to know each other. We were able to gauge our progress in both running and life by comparing ourselves to those around us.

Those after-school practices were also just a prelude to post-workout trips to Taco Bell, to a hike in the foothills of Mt. Baldy or a study group. Pre-race pasta dinners were a chance to see each other without sweat and show off non-running skills like billiards, diving, cooking or darts (depending on whose parents were hosting).

Meets were even better. There was a busload of people who would spill out onto a course or a track united in purpose: kick the other schools' collective ass. And that led to enthusiastic pre-race psych up sessions, encouragement along the course, and post-race consolation and congratulations. Nicknamed "Energizer," I would easily double my workouts on race days by running around and cheering for teammates.

And in between races and calculating paces and adding up totals, we bonded as high school students do: sharing snacks, doing each other's hair, comforting those who had a bad race, celebrating PRs, and, of course, flirting. (I definitely secured more than one date to a dance on a track in my day.)

And that's what's been missing from my running. When I've crossed finish lines, I haven't always had people to cool down and stretch with. I haven't had someone, or better yet an entire group of someones, there for the pre-race pep talk or the post-race decompression.

You want people who can relate to what you've just experienced—how beautiful it was along that stretch, how much that hill sucked, how surprised you were with your killer kick, how you hadn't expected the wind, rain, heat, smog or altitude...

After moving back to Santa Barbara a year ago, I wanted to be among a community of runners, so I dutifully sent my $25 to the SBAA. I wanted people to train with. I wanted to go to races and feel the sense of team that I had in high school--having a group of people to support and who would support me.

But I messed up.

I got the newsletter, I ran some races, I joined in a few interval workouts, but I was afraid of not making the team, so to say. I knew I was slower, WAY slower, than SBAA's core group of runners. Out of fear, pride and sheer inertia, I retreated into solitary runner mode.

My training went in spurts. Sometimes fantastic. Sometimes nearly nonexistent. But it was safe because I was only judging my progress against myself. I accepted that I would not be a part of the secret society of "real" runners, and I continued my sunset loops around the Mesa--the entire Pacific Ocean before me and no one to share it with.

As my friend Leah (and high-school students everywhere) would say, "That's stupid."

So I have both a resolution and a request.

My resolution is to be a more social runner. That means having the courage to accept that it's OK for me to run my pace. That means having the courage to try to make friends and running buddies.

My request is that others do the same. The SBAA is an amazing resource for people, and I think it can be an amazing resource for even more people. Maybe if enough runners like me come out of hiding, we can add some more variety to the "workouts" link on the www.sbrunning.org Web site and maybe even meet up for a drink now and then.

- Hold me accountable to get out and run in the rain.
- Say "stay strong" when you pass me and can tell I'm hurting.
- Push me that extra mile in the workout.
- Tell me I rock.
- And I'll do the same for you. Every time.