I Only Cried A Little

This morning, I volunteered at a 10K race here in Columbus.  My job was to set up and work at an aid station, which is a pretty simple thing.

If you've never run a race before, an aid station is a spot where some tables get set up and covered in disposable cups filled with water.  People stand around in front of the tables and hand out water to the folks in the race.  On a basic level, the job is that of a very stationary waiter.

Today started out in a disappointing way.  When I showed up, the tables, water, and other supplies weren't even delivered yet.  The person officially in charge of the aid station hadn't been given any additional information beyond what the rest of us volunteers had.  We weren't even sure if we were in the right place until the guys in charge of the race showed up 20-30 minutes late to drop off our aid station supplies.

Not a great start to an experience, particularly when you're someone who likes to have things organized and running efficiently.  You know, like a crazy type A lawyer nutjob sort of person.  Like me.

But we get everything set up and eventually the folks in the race start coming through.  The first few people are going so fast I couldn't tell you what they looked like.  Five minute miles will get you through an aid station in less than 5 seconds.  I sure can't run that fast, but the folks I saw putting out that kind of speed were there and gone in a flash.

As the pace of the racer got slower, their smiles seem to get bigger.  They just had more of an opportunity to interact with us, and everyone at my aid station was going above and beyond to make sure the runners got a great morale boost going into the last mile of the race.  We were cheering.  We were dancing.  We were hollering so loud one guy said he could hear us from at least half a mile away.  More than one person told me we were the best aid station in the whole race.  I want to say, "Of course we are!  This is MRTT and we know how to do happy running!!" Instead, I tell him we're just doing our job, and that he should take a cup of water from me because mine are the best.

The last group of people I saw come through was a family, and in particular I noticed a young woman walking with the group.  Her gait was awkward, and her head was turned partly to the side, as though she were continually interested in something just to the left of the race course.  I noted it, but didn't in any way alter my normal routine of hollering encouragement from about a quarter of a mile away, and dancing and cheering the group through the aid station.  Oh, right, and giving them water.

When they were mostly through the aid station, a woman in the group who was maybe in her late thirties or early forties slipped back to thank me and a couple of other folks for what we had done.  As she was talking, she gestured to the young woman.  The one who was maybe in her early teens.  The one who I had pegged as probably somewhere in high school, most likely her first or second year.

"Thank you so much.  You don't know how much it means to her.  She's a brain cancer survivor and this was her Wish."

It was me and two other moms that heard those words.  None of us could talk well enough after that to say anything.

I only cried a little.