This is Ragnar

It’s difficult to sum up the Ragnar Relay experience. In short, it’s a race that involves six or twelve people (depending on preferred running distance), two vans for point-to-point transport, two days, one long night, and two hundred miles of running. In long, there is so much more to the life that transpires in those finite hours. I know there was a whole lot of evolution for me on our journey from Key Biscayne to Key West.

One thing I truly admire about the varied patchwork of people who comprise my running/triathlon group is their follow-through. Though we are many people from many walks of life at different chapters of our lives, we seem to all have the same commitment to making things happen. Regardless of our ages or stages of life, single or married, male or female, kids or kidless, we remain undaunted in the tasks before us. From my vantage point, it seems we each not only possess the endless endurance to complete a race, we all have the initial drive and organization to make happen what we say we are going to make happen. I like that kind of dedication and accountability.

What began as a silly email among twelve friends some ten months ago culminated into a reality this past weekend. Kimmie sent out the initial shout out soliciting interest to the proposed Ragnar group, and after much banter back and forth, we settled on our teammates and an entry name, “Faster Than a Prom Date”. What could be more fun than running a relay of 200 miles in eighties prom attire? We settled on using Boy Chris’ SUV and mine as our vans, and divided our group into six bodies in each. The rules of Ragnar state that coed teams must be equally divided among men and women. The six in Van 1 (Kimmie, her boyfriend, Boy Chris, Girl Chris, Jason, Vinnie, and Lisa) run their legs before those of us in Van 2 (Mark, his brother Carlo, Craig, his wife Teri, Margie, and me) run our legs, and we repeat that cycle two more times, a total of three legs, each of different mileage, for each runner.

We caravanned to Miami to pick up Boy Chris and after a group lunch with jovial camaraderie, we were off to Key Biscayne. From the start, I admit I was apprehensive about the heat index and unsure about the course. I have never been a fan of the Keys, so I was somewhat reluctant to embrace the experience entirely. The Keys has always felt so isolated to me, like I am trapped by means of only one road in and out, and that has always been sort of anxiety-producing for me. However, knowing the cast of characters I was about to embark on the journey with was reassurance enough that at the very least, we would laugh and create new memories, as long as everyone made it out alive.

As one of the faster teams signed up, we were slated to begin in the very last timeslot, 2:00 pm Friday afternoon. Other teams had a jump on us by several hours, leaving as early as 6:00 am that morning. It was thrilling to see the teams line up for their assigned go. There we were, competitive but unassuming, some in our prom attire and accessorized with blowup doll. The other number teams’ first legs joined Boy Chris at the start and I was surprised to discover just how serious some teams were with their matching team garb and game faces on. It was somewhat disheartening that some of these people refused to even interact with us, the competition. Serious.

Boy Chris was off with his van in tow, waiting for the next exchange. Their van had to complete the initial 22.8 miles of the race. Meanwhile, Van 2 headed to our check-in to get organized and find some downtime before the endless night ahead of us. We found a lot of traffic, some rain, and stifling humidity, but eventually reached our destination and settled in. It was exciting to watch Kimmie come in and handoff the “slap bracelet” to Mark, our first runner from Van 2. We chatted and caught up on details with our guys in the first van, and then they were off to recover and decompress. We had the next 34.3 miles on the books.

Van 2 carried on, cruising to the next exchange to find Mark and drop Craig. Everyone was in high spirits and I quickly came to appreciate the ease with which we worked together. No one was overly opinionated or bossy. There was great mutual respect and support, from offering to take driving shifts to distributing drinks. It was reassuring. Extra kudos to Margie, the last minute addition to our group when Laura had to bow out with a family conflict; Margie came into our tight-knit group like a rock star, bringing not only her fast wheels, but falling right into the ridiculousness of it all without missing a beat.

We were excited to witness our first handoff between Mark and Craig. Margie and I asked Carlo how to cheer, “Go pansy!” in Portuguese. “Via Viado” was the response, and we happily choreographed some footwork to go along with it as Mark came racing down the sidewalk. He looked fresh, but the night ahead was long.

The exchange between Mark and Craig was uneventful luckily, and let me just say that speedy guys rule. Mark had us off to a screaming start and Craig kept the torrid pace up. Van 1 had reported that our team was “DFL”, Dead F-ing Last, upon the completion of Van 1’s first rotation before handing off to Van 2, so we had a lot of work ahead of us to reel people in if we wanted to be in any sort of decent standing. Never in my wildest dreams did I think we would even finish top ten, knowing there were almost 500 teams out running, but I would be lying to say I didn’t care if we finished DFL.

The evening wore on. Craig handed off to Margie and I was worried about that little creature. Her ran began from a mall parking lot in the suburbs of Miami in the midst of Friday night rush hour. In a word: chaotic. Not only was the traffic hectic, night had fallen and it was dark—very dark. Zipping in and out of traffic, dodging cars and trying to find her footing on broken pavement proved challenging, and I think Margie was happy to reach our van at the end of her leg. She handed off to Carlo and he disappeared into the starry night. We followed him to his destination and tried to calm Teri’s nerves. She had the next dark and spooky leg and was afraid of getting lost at the turns. It is the responsibility of each individual to know the course well, as support vans are not allowed to directly follow their runners. The course, while marked, was not always entirely clear. We were headed south, but not before they ran us through some serious swamp and surly side streets.

Teri’s leg was something right out of Children of the Corn. Endless overgrown palmetto trees lined a never-ending canal. Knee-high grasses tormented the back of her legs as Teri ran through more darkness. We leap-frogged her with the car, driving ahead and waiting for her with hazard lights on so she would feel our presence in the distance. I admired her bravery. Mark joked about hiding in the palmetto trees and jumping out to scare her when she rounded a corner. The remaining women in the car (Margie and I) were not in favor of this idea.

Malachi never nabbed Teri, which meant I had to suit up and get ready to run next. Teri was terrified of that leg, but was a trooper for laying it down, snakes in the grass and all. We went to the next exchange. The Brazilian brothers were kind enough to help map out my route to guarantee safe passage through Homestead, a rather ghetto area, in my mind. My 5.3 miles were uneventful and I actually had lit sidewalk almost the entire way. I finished at Homestead Speedway, which was novel. We each were keeping a running tally of other teams we were picking off along the way. I think I pulled in seven for that stretch. It was sort of a lonely run, which was also surprising to me. I had assumed there would be runners all around us at any given time. Thank goodness for official signs marking the course, because I had very few bodies to chase initially.

We had received word that Van 1 had been drinking their cares away by moonlight with moonshine while waiting for our arrival at the racetrack. Just how lush they were became apparent when I made that final turn and Boy Chris was waiting for the handoff to restart Van 1’s rotation again. With all of the moonshine those hillbillies drank, I am not sure how they were standing, let alone planning on running. I will remain forever impressed that Boy Chris not only pulled off his leg in its entirety, he actually ran negative splits for his miles. They continued down their rotation of tipsy runners and Van 2 found ourselves at Cracker Barrel as we continued to chase the road south to our second rotation. With a total of 48.3 miles ahead of Van 1, we knew we had roughly four hours before our van was on deck again.

The thing about Ragnar is one begins to really appreciate all of the unspoken conveniences she takes for granted everyday. It really causes pause for gratitude for eating a decent meal, taking a shower, brushing teeth, retiring to a comfortable bed, and using a clean restroom. I did find great joy in stripping out of sweaty clothes in the Cracker Barrel parking lot and slipping into dry sweats. Just peeling out of a wet sports bra was cause for celebration, given the thick humidity that plagued us.

It has been said The Keys has two temperatures, “hot and hotter”. We had “hotter” and my stomach was so unhappy from the heat of my run, I opted to sit at the dinner table (or is that “supper” at Cracker Barrel?) and just sip water. After a while, I did stomach a few of Teri’s fries, an indulgence I would not ingest under normal circumstances, but something about the salt just did me right.

We wrapped dinner and took inventory of the condition of body parts. As we stood up from the table and compared notes, it sort of reminded me of those famous lines from Goldilocks and The Three Bears. It brought me right back to the part of the story in which the bears come home and discover someone has disturbed their abode.

“Oh, someone’s been eating my porridge, ” said Father Bear.

“Oh, someone’s been eating my porridge, “ said Mother Bear.

“Oh! Someone’s been eating my porridge, and it’s all gone!” said Baby Bear.

The Ragnar Relay version goes something like this:

“Ohhh, my hamstrings are tight, “ I said, walking to the parking lot.

“Ohhh, my quads are tight,” said Carlo.

“Ohhh, my calves are tight, very, very tight,” said Margie.

We climbed into the car and I was grateful Mark offered to drive the hour south to our next destination with his brother as copilot. Everyone else knocked out in the back of the car. I dare say I even had a decent nap, interrupted only when the car stopped abruptly and I heard Carlo say, “Bro, that’s a red light. You gotta stop. Wake up, dude.” I was so delirious, I didn’t even care that we almost blew through an intersection. Kink in my neck, but I adjusted my head and back to sleep I went until we reached the high school where a trillion people were coming through the Ragnar mill. I have always known Mark and Carlo to be kind and helpful. Only 18 months apart in age, they are very close and have a nice rapport. But this trip made it even more apparent just how very close they are and the respect they hold for the other. They were excellent adventurers and navigators, calculating our time and destination perfectly.

           

We reached our destination, Coral Shores High School, where we were told we could shower for a donation of $3.00—a bargain for sanity in sticky conditions. Everyone in our vehicle got out and ventured to the locker room for a rinse. I was so spent, I decided to wait out some quiet time in the car and take a shower post nap. With so much noise and chaos all around, there really was no rest for the ragged Ragnars, but it felt good to be alone with my thoughts and contemplate the adventure in progress. I was thinking I hated this race, and I still had two more legs to run. I tried not to think about the pavement that still lay ahead of me. We still had so far to go.

People in and out of our car, music blaring from vans all around us, and participants dancing on the hoods of their vehicles made for a chaotic scene. It was well past midnight now, and I just wanted a few more minutes of rest. Craig and Teri had retreated to find some real estate on the lawn of the high school and spread blankets for their napping place. Margie had followed, but came back shortly thereafter when the thick dew had blanketed her and she was in need of more clothing, poor little thing. Mark had reclined the driver’s seat and Carlo had done the same with shotgun. I was stretched out in the middle seats, trying to sleep, but entertained instead by their discussion of who they were going to punch in the face if the noise didn’t abate soon.

Headlights from opponents’ vans on all night, mariachis and foreign tongues, our restless sojourn was about to expire. I reluctantly dragged myself off the leather, sticky from sweat, and to the locker room with backpack in hand, desperate to brush my teeth. Though I had been warned about the condition of the bathrooms, I chose to remain optimistic. That was a pipe dream quickly snuffed out. Upon entering the sauna of too many women given too much hot water, I was horrified by the discarded razors, worn bars of soap, and used tampons on the shower floors. I ran out of there faster than my designated race leg and found a restroom across campus. There, I improvised by using wet wipes to towel myself off from face to feet, and scrubbed my teeth for about eight minutes. It wasn’t a shower, but I felt like a new woman—well, a cleaner one, by Ragnar standards, anyway.

The thing about Ragnar is it is a different mentality and culture altogether. It’s crude. It’s rudimentary. It’s counterculture. As endurance athletes, we are used to persevering in less than ideal conditions. We are generally low maintenance to do what we do. We can hang tough and go the long haul, even in primitive conditions and inclement weather. We push our bodies to their outermost limits and we live for lactic acid discomfort. What I believe some of us underestimated was the funk factor associated with this race and just how disgustingly inconsiderate some humans can be. (Really? You don’t know how to find a trashcan for that tampon?) 

My patience was wearing thin. Maybe I was cranky because I was starting to get hungry, having skipped dinner earlier. I inhaled the night air and took in the starry sky on my solo walk back from the restroom with countless strangers all around me. I encountered several interesting team names scribbled on vans along the way. This is part of Ragnar culture, as well. It seems it’s the law that teams leave their mark in shoe polish or window pastels on their vehicles by means of graphic names and inappropriate pictures. In fact, we learned it’s sort of expected to mark your territory on other vehicles, as well.

Our car was tagged by several teams via bumper stickers and magnets, marred by the mark of competitors’ names, “The Third Leg is the Hardest”, “Beer Today, Gone Tomorrow”, “Running With Our Conchs Out”, “We Can’t Even Run Straight”. Team names, of course, were usually double entendres with sexual innuendo or drinking references; we also saw several nods to Hemingway. It was obvious who the seasoned veterans of the group were, as they already had the memo about choosing team names with the Key West theme. Maybe next year we’ll come up with something referencing a six-toed cat (or camel)?

Slowly, Van 2 was coming alive (sort of) and we were gathering our troops. The lawn cadets made their way back to the vehicle and we were rallying to get Mark ready to take off on his nearly ten-mile run. It was nearly four am now and none of us were cheerleader-worthy after the night that had transpired. “Stay off the sidewalk” rang in my brain over and over after listening to a race volunteer bark that through a megaphone for the last several hours. Athletes had been coming in all through the night and the sidewalk seemed a continuous conveyer belt churning out weary legs and ugly reflective vests, required for night running.

Mark was exhausted, but off he went for his 9.9 mile journey. This time around, Van 2 had 38.0 cumulative miles to run. We joked that it was our usual morning run start time, but somehow, with compromised sleep and nutrition, it was so much more difficult. I heard Van 1 was drunk and mostly passed out, but I cannot confirm this, as I was so lacking in enthusiasm and energy. I couldn’t be bothered to see our first runner off again. Lame, I know, and Mark’s leg was labeled “Very Hard”, probably due to distance and lack of support available. Carlo’s words were echoing through my head when I asked him if he would do Ragnar again, “Oh, hell no!” Yep. Summed that up immediately for me, too.

We drove to our next exchange, 19, and joked that we should continue to blow up Van 1 with the obnoxious barrage of group texts they had sent us through our “sleep” shift. Now that they were off to recuperate, it seemed fitting we should equally annoy them. We were too tired to participate in such shenanigans. We picked up Mark and saluted him for his run well done. Craig was off and moving as fluid as a fast machine. He was still costumed in construction-like gear in the dark of morning, with his headlight, rear LED, and fluorescent green vest. Hot as a Village Person, minus the hardhat. He had 6.2 of “hard” miles ahead of him.

The most difficult part about Ragnar, incidentally, is sort of the most rewarding. We had a lot of downtime in between our legs, so it was anxiety-producing because exhaustion would settle in, particularly as the night wore on, and left one wondering if she would muster the energy to complete her miles. Mentally, this part was far more grueling than any miles that had to be covered on foot. The flipside of falling into a catatonic, stiff state was the conversation that ensued in the car. That remained lively, and we found ourselves not only engaged in silly discussion, but began finishing each other’s sentences and coining phrases and terms as our own.

For example, Mark had given us fair warning that if there was any sleep to be had during the night, he might very well snore. I told him when my husband snores, he gets the push, which usually prompts him to roll over and adjust his breathing. This gave way to a hilarious exchange about which partner is the snorer and who gets “the push” back at home.

Carlo told stories of the guys at work while on shift in the ambulance. We laughed about the ridiculousness of some of the “emergency” calls that come in, but funnier still, how anyone with skin darker than Carlo’s Brazilian bronze is referred to as his “people”. Seems that even if they are African American, Cuban, Columbian, or Hispanic, on Carlo’s watch, his firefighting partners refer to them as “your people” all the same. This prompted those of us with fairer skin to ask for foul words in Portuguese and take any excuse to use them.

We delighted in the disgustingness among ourselves. We knew we were gamey and the car was starting to retain those odors. While pulled over for the second exchange between Mark and Craig, Margie became my new hero when she exited the vehicle and, completely unconcerned about the boys’ whereabouts, dropped her shorts to pee right next to the front passenger side tire. Moments later when Carlo came around to reassume shotgun position after seeing his brother in, she alerted him to “watch his step”. Girl didn’t pee—she left a landmine, and with the car windows open, we smelled it. I think it even woke Teri from her slumber in the third row seat. Margie’s Ragnar name from then on became, “Merdinha“, or “Little Poo”, in the language of Mark and Carlo’s people.

Craig came in strong, and Margie was up again, several pounds lighter after her merdinha on the grass we left behind. She ran a bunch of bridges for a total of 8.1 “very hard” miles, as we closed in a little closer to Key West. She was pale and pasty upon return to the vehicle, drenched in sweat with the heat index hovering around 95, but trembling with cold. We “burrito wrapped” her (another ism taken from Carlo’s technique for handling less than desirable people on his EMT calls) in a large towel and walked her down to the waterfront to take in some salt air.

Margie was in a bad way. Her slight frame appeared as fragile as a scared child. I was waiting for her to vomit over the seawall. I decided to give her some space, but she ended up back in the car where we tried to pump her full of water. Finally, she settled on sipping some coke and nibbling a few pretzels, and slowly came back to human. We all breathed a little easier. Dehydration comes on quickly and it will derail a runner fast. We knew it would be a hot day, but we didn’t count on melting. She took the third row seat, the one we came to call “The Sleeping Seat”, or “The Hole” because it stood alone among all the gear in back and was generally the only space one could sort of nod off.

Now Carlo was out running 4.1 “moderate” miles in the heat, but happy to be without his reflective vest with the sun lighting our way, at long last. That vest was largely the culprit of our overheating, in my humble opinion. Necessary for safety, but dreadful for allowing sweat to evaporate, the mandatory gear was met with mostly hate.  We drove by him, yelling “Princessa”, or princess, in Portuguese. He flipped us off as we drove by. Margie and I began to pride ourselves on our fluency with foul words in the language, now with “pansy”, “little poo” and “princess” in our repertoire.  

Carlo must have been moving because Teri’s turn came all too fast; that meant I was up once again. The Ragnar Bible declared Teri’s 2.9 miles “easy”, and she was handing me the slap bracelet before I knew it. My legs felt decent, but my back was tight. I was worried about the heat, too, knowing my belly never fares well in that. Teri had run like a champion and now I had 6.9 “hard” miles to go. I wonder who decides how to qualify these miles by degree of difficulty. There is no elevation to speak of, however, I can only surmise this leg of mine was deemed difficult because it was mostly exposed. I will say it was a gift that the first two miles of my stretch were somewhat shaded. They put us on a bike path, so now we were off A1A and along the water. I hugged the tree line as much as I could. The sun was climbing higher, and so was the temperature. The pavement reflected the torturous rays.

I stayed motivated by counting the runners I passed…six, seven, eight, nine…Then I saw a guy dressed in nice gear and running a decent pace in front of me. I knew if I caught and passed him, I would be committed to that speed for the balance of my run. Guys never like to be chicked and I had made a pact with myself that anyone I passed, I had to hold off through my checkpoint. This guy looked the competitive part in his compression socks and matching metro outfit…. then I saw his crew, though it was not initially apparent they belonged together.

Ahead, I saw a guy lying on his side, sprawled out in the middle of the bike path on one hip and bent elbow, cheek resting in his hand. Initially, I thought it was a man down, heatstroke, perhaps, but the closer I closed in on Compression Socks, I realized there were four other guys with man down, whistling and hollering, catcalling to Compression Guy, waiting on him with water bottle in hand.  The best part was they all fell into perfect hydration formation as their guy came closer, like synchronized swimmers, in the water bottle handoff. They practically molested their runner, dry humping him with thrusting hips and exhibiting other crude acts as he passed through, dying laughing.  I already had a side stich, but it didn’t prevent me from laughing deep belly laughs at the absurdity of it all.

With all of their pomp and circumstance, I was feeling a little left out, so I said as I nonchalantly passed their teammate, “Why didn’t I get any of that?” I ignored their crude commentary as they ran after me. In fact, it only propelled my legs and stoked the fire in my chest to really put some distance between us. This is Ragnar. I made it to my exchange having passed more than 20 runners. I had lost count. In the Ragnar world, we learned these are called “kills” and teams use tally marks on the side of their van windows to keep track.

Van 1 was back in the game. I handed the slimy slap bracelet off to Boy Chris again. By now, the plastic was ratty and peeling from perspiration. Was I the only one who found this exceedingly unsanitary? Thank goodness we [mostly] know each other and are close enough to swap sweat like that. A lost slap bracelet is grounds for immediate disqualification, so there was no negotiation over wearing it. Boy Chris was still drunk with 3.0 “easy” miles before him; their van was slated to run a total of 33.4 for their final leg of the race.

We knew Jason was up next for The Seven Mile Bridge, which was really a total of 9.1 “very hard” miles. It was poetic to think about running that stretch. The Seven Mile Bridge is such an infamous part of the Key West experience, maybe because it parallels the original dilapidated bridge, or maybe because it was originally one of the longest bridges built back in its day. I especially enjoyed the idea of it with the haze and fog hanging so thick that day that, when our van drove over it, gave the illusion we were disappearing into the abyss. I think we all secretly envied Jason for that romantic leg, though perhaps he would have taken a shorter distance after his long night romancing moonshine.

Our van departed on a venture to find showers and food. We calculated about three hours before our last go time. Van 1 was feeling groovy and on the move, heat never ceasing. This is Florida, after all, and the further South we went, the hotter it got, indeed. Van 2 found ourselves at a state park, per Teri’s brilliant suggestion. Wise was she to educate us on park etiquette. We were not to tell the admitting ranger we were just there to shower or he would turn us away. Apparently, the facilities are only for those who are committed to camping.

Margie informed us we would enjoy her dankness for the balance of the race because a shower, in her mind, signified being done working out, therefore, it would be with great difficulty to get running her third and final leg. I was on the fence about washing my hair, but once in that shower, I had no self-control. I not only washed my hair. I deep conditioned, loofaed, lathered, and dare say would have masked if I had more products. When I finally emerged from my stall and back to the car, I was told we had been nailed by a ranger and were being kicked out. Craig and Margie had not even made it to the facilities. Only Carlo, Mark, Teri and I were lucky enough to have slipped in undetected. I, however, was reprimanded for turning it into a spa experience for the amount of time I had disappeared. Craig was kind enough to brownnose Ranger Gestapo until I got out and we were on the road again.

Depleted, dehydrated, and a little disheartened, we needed fuel. Real food. Traffic was becoming more congested and our resources were thinning as the hours wore on. Runner cannot live on Luna Bars alone. We knew it was time to stop and eat a meal. “Mamma Mangroves” was just off the beaten path, and close to our next exchange. Mark made a mad dash for the restroom and we settled into a table. There were several other Ragnar people seated. Breakfast smelled divine and I was ready to eat a whole stack of pancakes. Truly, I would have eaten nearly anything edible, I was so ravenous by that time.

Forty minutes later, a server had not even visited our table to take a drink order. Now I was ready to eat the table. We were all crashing, flat lining for lack of glucose, and had few words for each other. Two more trips to the bathroom earned Mark his Portuguese name, “Cagao”, or “Big Poo”.  Margie went outside to call her husband and check in with her little girls back in Orlando. It wasn’t long before she had returned to the table, and she started to laugh uncontrollably. Her whole body was convulsing. Tears welled up in her bright green eyes.

“Oh, no. Here it comes. I’ve seen this before. It’s the hyperactivity before the breakdown,” Carlo informed us of Margie’s erratic behavior. I am not sure if it was the sludge they had finally brought her out when she ordered coffee or the fact that now more than an hour at our table we still didn’t have food, but Margie came undone. Alternating between tears and giggles, she agreed that she was at her limit. This sort of gave me license to lose it, as well, and I came forward with all of my absolutes about how much I detest The Keys and couldn’t wait to get out of there. I really fell apart.

There was some discussion about whether we would stay and wait out the food, or if now we were pushing digestion time. Mark was in the bathroom again, so Cagao didn’t get a vote until he returned. He was the first runner up again, so we decided he had final say about staying or bailing, and his word was wait for the food. We asked the owner if we could at least have some toast while we waited, to which he gave us a weak excuse as to why we could not. Mark asked if we could just have the loaf of bread, then, if he couldn’t be bothered to toast it for us and “upset” all the other orders. The answer was still no.

When the food finally did arrive, the meal was mediocre at best, and a unanimous decision was made to only allow ourselves to eat half of whatever was in front of us to prevent stomach issues while running. For me, that meant half of a scrambled egg and one half of a pancake. I was miserable and the owner standing over us still making ridiculous excuses for the service only added to my annoyance. I was over Ragnar.

We asked for the check after suffering through five more minutes of a half-hearted apology from the owner and then raced to the car to get Mark to the next checkpoint: a high school where we were due shortly. Upon arriving at the school, a few of us walked up to the bathroom facility, including Mark, now clearly in full GI distress. I found it endearing how Carlo spoke of he and his brother as one entity. When I asked Carlo if Mark was really okay, his response was, “Yeah, we’re just having stomach problems. We aren’t used to eating so late, eating this kind of food, and not sleeping,” as though it was understood they both were suffering equally and with symmetrical symptoms. Maybe Carlo was having phantom pain for his brother. In any event, neither brother complained and simply soldiered on.

I waited in line for a stall to open up at yet another public restroom. This was truly my undoing. The smell coming from the restroom was putrid and I dreaded even going into the stifling hot facility. It was barely a step up from a porta potty. Margie was a few bodies behind me in line, yet somehow she managed to enter the stall next to me, as they opened at the same time. Imagine my horror when I closed the door behind me and was greeted by the sanitary disposal box busted off the wall burst open on the floor, and the entirety of its contents strewn everywhere. More used pads and tampons to navigate. This is Ragnar.

In that moment, I wasn’t sure if I was going to vomit or cry, and then I heard her voice from next door. “Elaine? Is that you beside me? I recognize your shoes. Of all the stalls you could have walked into…” Margie dissolved into a fit of laughter, her words no longer auditable, she was so completely hysterical. I decided laughing was better than vomiting or crying, so I joined in her lunacy. She told me she was going to make me feminine hygiene earrings to wear to always remember the occasion. I am just wondering what the Portuguese word is for tampon, because I am certain that name belongs to me.

While Van 1 runners were still in transit to us, we received word from Vinnie via text that they had missed their exchange. Vin had run 9.7 “very hard” miles with “No van support”, only to arrive at his checkpoint without a runner waiting for him. Runner of the Year Award goes to Vin for figuring out to borrow a mobile phone, call his own in their van (he didn’t know anyone else’s number by heart), and calmly inquire where they were.

Apparently, Van 1 was waiting at exchange 28, instead of 27, so Vin had to pull it together and run another 3.5 “easy” miles. I will tell you once one has already blown it up and given 110% for the miles he had put his heard around, another 3.5 miles, no matter how easy, is enough to make him want to cry. There was no other option. Van 1 would never make it back in time to make the switch while fighting through the traffic. Vin had to continue south, and Lisa was forced to skip her leg.

Always a team player, however, Lisa joined Girl Chris for her 3.9 “easy” stretch, and we were back on track. We even came out ahead by a few minutes, so all was right in the Ragnar world again. Kimmie nailed her 4.1 “moderate” miles and then our boy, Mark, was on his way. Happy was he to have only 4.1 “moderate” miles with his stomach in the condition it was.

Time stood still. The heat and humidity were staggering. Mark came in fast and off went Craig for 2.1 “easy” miles, but not before I took his picture in front of The Adult Superstore. We couldn’t resist with his stripper, I mean prom, attire on. Perfect. Bowtie and cuffs, Craig tore it up.

Margie was off for her 2.7 of “easy” and then Carlo for 2.0 miles of more “easy”. I wondered if our runners might contest just how “easy” these miles were in that kind of stupid humidity, but mostly, they seemed content to be finished. They were singing the praises of Ragnar, now done running, and talking about eating Combos as they slipped into the gas station. I had no idea what that was, but didn’t ask because I was so distracted thinking about how I might actually finish my final leg to bring us home.

Teri was without van support, yet her 3.5 miles were dubbed “easy”, as well. Though I know she ran strong and made great time, waiting for the exchange were the longest minutes of my life. I really began to question if I could pull it off. Just how deep would I have to dig to muster up the courage to begin my 5.8 “moderate” miles at 2:00 pm in the high heat of the day? I wasn’t convinced I could do it, and what were the rules in this game, anyway? If I went down, could a teammate step over me and take our relay to the finish? The pressure was enough to crush me. Then Teri appeared. I had to run.

For a “moderate” run, I will tell you that was one of the most difficult just- under-six-mile stretches I have done to date. I felt like goo on the pavement. I was pretty sure my legs had gone to putty. In my delirium of the heat, I saw a guy ahead of me. He was thick—muscular—and I laughed to think of an earlier comment that had come from Mark back in Miami when we saw another muscle head walking down the street. Like this runner in front of me, that guy had his arms wide out beside him. Mark had said to me out of the corner of his mouth, “I dare you to ask that guy how difficult it is for him to keep his arms down.”

How was that comment only a day before? It felt as though at least two weeks had passed and we were still running. I laughed, though, to think of the silliness of our group. Chin up, I caught the guy in a crosswalk and made my way down the main waterfront sidewalk, blinding from the reflection of the sun. Against advice given to me, I carried with me only half a bottle of water. Now I was regretting the half-full perspective because I had less than a sip of backwash left in the Zephyrhills plastic lifeline in my hand. I clutched it like a safety net, desperate for a water station.

The thing about Ragnar is they cannot possibly mark every mile along the course. Runners only see a sign that reads, “One Mile to Go” before their next exchange, and that is really all we have to rely on, apart from watches and GPS. Because I am still one of those purists who has resisted the Garmin movement, some of those miles were really quite blind to me. I was going on time, but I knew my pace had slowed considerably in the heat. I was living for that “One Mile to Go”.

Then, like a beacon of hope in the distance, I saw the table of Dixie cups. I was so grumpy, I felt like I might die. A volunteer stood at the table with a hose, misting participants off as they ran by. All the extra energy I could find went into one auditable word, “NO”. I put my hand up and refused his mercy act because my phone was in my sports bra and I didn’t want to destroy it with water that would have otherwise been welcome.

“NO?” he asked me, completely puzzled. I ran to the end of the table and put a soggy noodle of an arm out to take a full, fresh water bottle, bypassing the cups altogether. I missed. You know those scenes in movies where the lead character is made fun of in an unfortunate scenario by moving to slow motion? That was the water bottle falling. It felt like slow motion, but I was like a wet towel in forward motion: damp, heavy, and unable to change my course to even go back for the bottle.

Some stereotypical Key West guy rode up next to me on his beach cruiser. He seemed content to hang on my shoulder for a while, taking it all in. Barefoot, skin leathered from too many years of sun, and reeking of body odor, he said to me, “You have to pick it up.” I think he was stoned. Regardless, what did this guy know about “picking it up”? With that beer belly, he didn’t look the part of a man who had ever run a day in his life. Indignant, I spat two words at him, “Beat it.” He got the message and disappeared.

 I was losing count of how many people I had run by. I think I was at seven now. I passed another girl. Then I passed two girls running together. My head felt like it was going to explode. I came into the final turns, and there were several, but at least now I had shade between buildings. I saw a girl ahead of me running a strong pace, then I saw her walk. I passed another guy walking.

“Come on. We’ll get there,” I told him as I ran by. He yelled after me, still walking,

“Yeah, we’ll get there. You’ll just get there a little sooner than I will. “ Then, almost as an afterthought he yelled, “At least you look as bad as I do.”

Cool. It was official. I looked as bad as I felt. I heard the noise of the finish. I caught up to the strong girl now reduced to walking, and still no “One Mile to Go” sign. Where was I?

“Come on, girl, we got this, “ I said, trying to encourage her. She said nothing, scowled at me, and jumped on my shoulder. You know, I will go out of my way to be kind and helpful, but when a competitor doesn’t respond with words in kind, it’s game on. I picked up the pace. She did, too. We ran step-for-step for the next couple of blocks, so I picked it up again. She was fading. I dropped her.

Then I saw Margie with my prom dress in hand. The girls had opted to run in just sports bras and shorts because wearing polyester in those temperatures didn’t sound like a good idea anymore. Margie went to help me into the dress before I crossed the finish, but I said in desperation, “I can’t stop. There’s a little bitch chasing me.” I was in an all-out sprint now, afraid scowly girl was coming for me. I crossed the line triumphant to be done and walked directly over to an iron fence where I held on and bent over, feeling as though every fiber in my legs was torched.

My teammates, already suited up in costume, went wild. Margie helped me step into my dress once I could stand upright.  I stripped out of my wet sports bra in the middle of the mayhem, unconcerned with onlookers, because spaghetti bra straps with my strapless dress would have been so tacky. Everyone looked great as we stood in front of the Ragnar sign and had photos taken. I was sick and delirious, hair matted in my face, bubblegum pink prom dress stuck to me, but I was the happiest I had been in recent memory. We did it. We really finished.  We made it.

I have often heard it said that attitude is everything, but I think even more specifically, it is about depth of heart. More and more I am coming to understand that in order to rise to any occasion, we must choose not to be a victim of our circumstances. Sometimes we sign on for things and we simply cannot predict or anticipate the outcome. This is life. The mystery and uncertainty that follows is what cultivates adventure. However, the outcome largely depends on how we choose to conduct ourselves and with how much heart.

My heart has grown exponentially for the eleven people I spent those fifty four hours with because of the depth of their hearts, both in their acts of supportiveness to our team, and their outward kindness toward others racing. I always knew this group was one of very talented athletes, and I remain in awe of their ability to draw from the very depths of their hearts to reach the end goal. For me, Ragnar was a weekend of huge personal growth. Remembering to rely on others over and over again was challenging. I am a go-it-alone sort of girl, so depending on eleven other people to get me to the finish was a lesson in patience, as well as endurance. Ultimately, I think this drew us all closer together as friends. 

It was a weekend of many “firsts” for me. I had never been to Miami or Key West. I walked down Duval Street for the first time. I had never eaten conch before. I did draw the line at visiting a Waffle House and when my group wanted to stop for Combos again at a gas station on the drive home, I refused to eat what looked like a dog treat. Maybe someday I will experiment with “Nacho Cheese Pretzel”, but for now, I feel pretty accomplished having conquered that many public restrooms and completing Ragnar. We can wish for things or we can make them happen. My friends continue to inspire me to want to want to move mountains.

Oh, yeah, almost forgot to include that we won our submasters mixed division and that out of nearly 500 teams, we finished fourth overall. I can live with that.