My Life as an Accidental Spectathlete

I'm not what one might call "athletic." As a teen, when all my gal pals were picking which Spice Girl best represented them, Sporty Spice wasn't even in my top five. (Yes, I know there were only five. That's how unrelatable I found her, her tracksuits, and ridiculously high pony.) And yet somehow, I've found myself in a relationship with...  a runner.

I assure you, he was not a running man when we started dating, or else my love-being-lazy-Spidey-senses would've gone off. But, as is his way, when he decides to be passionate about something, he goes ALL in. Cue last spring, at which point he had run a total of three 5ks in his life, just for funsies, and was one of those guys who never went to the gym, but somehow stayed super skinny (due to willpower - that personality trait which continues to elude me). Then one day he woke up, and decided that running was his thing. (Very Forrest Gump of him.)

And here we are. A year later. Since that revelation, in 2017, he ticked off the following races (not to mention countless training hours):

• Nine 5ks
• Two 8ks
• One quarter marathon
• Three half marathons
• And one 1-miler burrito run (don't ask)

2018 is just over three months in, and he's already surpassed the 300 mile mark. Beyond practice, we've had four races so far: two 5ks, one 10k, and another half marathon. Of these 20 competitions: I've so far only missed three.* Which means that, despite my general inability to run properly, firm opinion that running should be reserved for snagging the last donut in the break room / fleeing if one's life is in danger (zombies), and overall confusion as to why anyone would put their body through that torture... I've accidentally become a Spectathlete.

Running down the dream....

Being a Spectathlete goes beyond just showing up. That shit's for pansies. That was me, once: wandering aimlessly, bringing way too much shit without having anything helpful, and basically being more of a burden than a help. But now, I'm a well-oiled machine. A mix between the cranky-old-man coach from Rocky, cheerleader, and psychotic mama bear. While he's prepping by putting on the miles, I'm preparing to be the ultimate support system.

So, what does an average race day look like for someone who is acting as beach mom, coach, caddie, chauffeur, dasher, doctor and documentarian, all in one?

PRE
The weeks leading up:

• Constantly check the weather. The worse the predicted conditions, the more annoying I am about convincing the beau that racing is awful and he should stop.
• Read and re-read the event website. Figure out the best place to stake out. Memorize parking and street closure details. (I also scope out what kind of food/rewards will be given, so I know what snacks I can expect to hijack.)

Finisher freebies: breakfast of champions!

The night before:

• Continuous commentary about weather conditions.
• Nail down wake-up time based on start time. Set backup alarms.
• Make sure attire is laid out and ready (last minute laundry, as needed). Add backup race gear into my backpack (extra socks, fresh sweatbands, windbreaker jacket, etc). 
• Carbo load. This is for me, not the beau. He carbo loads prior. This is just an excuse for me to eat more while I stress about him somehow injuring himself the next day. 

The morning of:

• Awake at ass crack of dawn / stupid early. Make sure the beau is up / showering.
• Hydrate and have a quick breakfast. Pack second breakfast (usually candy) to eat while standing along the trail, staring at all the runners sweating and panting. 
• Argue about how he should wear more clothes, it's cold out. Slather some sunscreen on his face and neck as he squirms away. Try to convince him to wear a hat, lose the battle, pack said hat just in case he changes his mind. 
• Add last minute stuff into beach mom backpack - typically just body glide. You know. For the nips. 
• Freak out that we're leaving late and rush out, with a spiked hot cocoa in hand. 
• Since my man's legs don't need to be doing any additional work, I put the pedal to the medal. Sometimes that means a quick drive to an easily accessible lot near the starting line. Other times, it means having left too late and being blocked at every turn by various event barricades and me shrieking, "I'M GOING TO GET YOU TO THIS RACE!" while taking evasive action. 
• Arrive at course. Convince beau to stay in the car as long as possible. 
• Once we're in the throng of people, it's time for pre-race stretches. Because he doesn't stretch on his own ever, in the minutes prior to the start, I force him to do some leg swings, toe taps, and some bring-it-around-towns.
• About 15 minutes before the start, he gets antsy and leaves me to go stand in the corral, pushing his way to be near the pacer of his choice. I go find a spot past the start line and take a zillion rapid click photos trying to capture him among the crowd as the race begins.

Cocoa, cocktails, and cowbells

DURING

• As soon as he's off. I'm out. If it's a long run, I'll hoof it to get food, or will walk about. If the weather is awful, I'll hop back to the car and read or write up my weekly to-do list. If it's a short run, I don't go far. 5ks are a quick ordeal, and I want to be there for the finish. 
• For the long runs, I prop myself up along the route, ready to give the beau a mid-race cheer, a quick kiss, fresh socks, that hat he swore he wouldn't want, a tissue, etc. This also means I'm in prime position to have him chuck his empty water bottle or a sweaty jacket at me, to lighten his load. (At which point, I typically fail to catch whatever he threw, and have to dash into the course to chase after said object.)
• Yes, I carry a cowbell. When I'm not frantically waving it, being a screaming fanatic, it dangles off my beach mom backpack and I sound like a lost, stray sheep.
• Despite my tendency to eat ice cream while spectating, I genuinely try to support all the runners, even if it's stupid early and in typically less-than-optimal conditions. I've learned to yell helpful things, like "Don't forget to breath!" or "There's a GIANT puddle a few yards up - veer left!" or "You're just behind the 8:30 pacer!"
• Depending where I was staked out, sometimes I need to drop into a dead sprint to make it to the finish line in time. Cutting the course and dodging between the crowd to get to that final victory moment. It's a tuck-and-run, speedy little ninja scenario.
• Near the finishing chute, I hold my ground among the proud spouses, moms, and various fan clans. We make small talk. Many of us have already spoken while hanging out along the route. All of us want to catch that final photo of our loved one crossing (or about to cross) that finish line. We need to be there to give that last hurrah and to mop up their sweaty foreheads as they clumsily put on their medal. I'll cut a bitch if they get in the way, even if we're new race-day-BFFs. Plus, sometimes someone pukes after they cross the finish, and who doesn't want to have a front row seat to that ridiculousness??

Keep it up, runners! I'll be right here, snacking.

POST

• As official record keeper, I immediately shove a camera in the beau's reddened face. Especially for the winter races he foolishly signed up for (IN WISCONSIN), I was sure to photograph his frozen misery as a future cautionary reference. And then whatever photo I take, I text to his mom. #BecauseMoms
• After I've consumed his freebie finisher snacks, and he's had his post-race beer (again, Wisconsin - every occasion ends with a beer), we head to the car. He regales the tales of his adventure, providing a play-by-play of every pace change and hill. We critique the group who hosted the event and compare notes about how well they did (or didn't do) with setup, course markers, etc. 
• Once home, the commentary continues, as my dearest man obsesses over the posted times of others in his age group. I make the occasional comment and offer suggestions. He showers and (after much training) hangs up his sweaty clothes. 
• Have you ever seen a runner's feet? Don't. If you have to, just be ready to play doctor and patch up some bloody toes.** Forcing a man to take care of his body is like trying to force broccoli on a toddler - they'll thank you later. 

And then he's back to normal. I force him to hydrate, and he consumes an entire day's worth of calories in one sitting. Life returns to its usual pace, and I get a full 24-hours without hearing the comment "I'm going to pop out for a quick run..."

And then it starts all over again. 

No, running is not something I'm good at. Per my doctor, "Some people just aren't meant to be runners, sweetie." And no, it's not even something I really comprehend as a choice of hobby. BUT, once a year, instead of taking on my usual role as a spectathlete, we run a 5k together. We​ don't run side-by-side like some couples, because in this arena, we're not equals. He excels, and I'm so proud of him. When we're in the same race, he high-fives me while coming back around (when I have yet to even hit the turn around point). And when I huff my way, red-faced across that finish line, he's right there, cheering me on. Because at some point in the past year, running went from being a solo activity, to being a team sport. And since then, we've been running down that dream... together. 

Teamwork makes the dream work...

* In case you're curious as to why, of the three I missed: one I was in Vegas for a bachelorette, another I was in NYC for work, and the last one I had a going away happy hour for a coworker who was departing to go write her novel (worth celebrating!). So. Valid ish reasons, in my opinion.
** Helpful hint for preventative foot help: medical paper tape is good, Body Glide is better.