Racing Trains / by Dave Rhody

Two clear images come to mind when I think about my early running days. Flying along the wooded trails surrounding the Missouri seminary I attended in the late 1960’s, free, alone, running as a satisfying form of prayer. And, racing the trains on the Indiana county roads south of Valparaiso University.

I enjoyed racing the trains much more than racing other college cross-country teams. Our coach followed the Arthur Lydiard ‘Long Slow Distance’ training concept (we loved referring to it as the LSD running program). It was based on lots of mileage. As a team we racked  up  100-mile weeks, in addition to the once-a-week speedwork on the track. The big miles were on the roads. The only way to access the county roads that crisscrossed the farmland around Valpo was to cross a double set of railroad tracks that bisected the edge of town.

Sixteen to twenty of us, seasoned runners in our taped up Puma and Adidas shoes (this was pre-Nike, pre-New Balance, pre-good running shoes), would head out of town in the late afternoon, our team captain plotting out a 10 or 15 mile route. We’d cruise through the first mile or mile-and-a-half across campus, three, four abreast, unconcerned with cars getting around us, bullshitting about the days classes or hot co-eds while we warmed up. Then, crossing U.S. 30 into the county side, headed south on a flat straight away, we’d lock in on the railroad arms and signals a quarter mile ahead. Everyone would go silent, ears perked for the long bleat of a freight train horn. Some days we reached the tracks, picking up the pace in anticipation, only to be unchallenged. A couple times a week the trains would oblige.

Hearing the far away horn, we'd cock our heads east or west until our eyes picked up the smoke and steel bound toward our crossing. No matter the initial estimates the pace went up another notch, front pack, middle and back, merging into single, fast team of young, skinny road runners. Our lungs and out legs were ready. Peripheral focus on the approaching train, eyes keen on avoiding missteps on the craggy blacktop and zeroed in on the tracks ahead, 300 yards, 200, 100. No one knew who made the final call. Can we make it? We all rushed toward the answer. The stars of the Valpo team, the sub-4 milers and the wannabes, would get 5 or 10 paces ahead of the pack, ready to dart. Our steps started matching the rhythm of the train whistles. In the last 30 seconds the front-runners pulled the pace for all of us. If the train could be beat, we all wanted to be part of it.

In the final 10 seconds, spread apart by five, ten or twenty paces, small sub-packs defined our capabilities. I was never in the front pack and watched over and over again as my talented teammates led the charge, thrilled when my pack made it, and in wonder if the lead pack hit the crossing with the train. At times, we had to wait until the full length of the train passed until we knew whether or not our best runners made it. I don't recall anyone stopping at the last minute to avoid collision and the closest call: one elite running claimed to have a shoe knocked off by a locomotive's wide 'cowcatcher'. My greatest thrill: being one of the packs that raced across the tracks seconds before the train.

The easy ones, slow trains, at least sparked us out of the L.S.D. mileage. The faster ones converted us into an elite squad of running warriors doing battle with mechanical giants. Since we were just ahead of the running boom, our classmates often asked why we weren't bored out of our minds running all those miles. We were wise enough to know our inability at explaining the intoxicating bliss of long distance running, trains or not, so we didn't bother mentioning the trains. I think we were also afraid that weak words would dispell the mystique.

When long distance running blossomed into the massive participation it enjoys today, I did begin to see some attempts at writing about the cause and effect, why we run and how it makes us feel. I made a few attempts myself. Today, however, when causes are discussed it's about the charities benefiting from organized races. Running's health benefits are the other focus. All good, practical topics. But, where's the love?

Maybe the enjoyment of running is a subtext to talking about money raised, marathons run, thick mileage logs and the latest injury prevention advice, but I do think that a good percentage of today's long distance runners are not really enjoying themselves. I hear of lot of talk about how good it feels afterward or about staying trim and ancillary social benefits of training and racing together.

After forty years the L.S.D. running (and I'm talking here again about the training method not other college adventures) caught up with my knees. Do I regret the high mileage? Absolutely not. When I was twenty, if someone had convinced me that long distance running would destroy my knees by the time I was sixty or even that it would shorten my life by a decade, I would have just smiled and kept racing toward the trains.

THE STARTING LINE

The post below was written by Race Director - Dave Rhody in May 1992 for City Sports Magazine - it still holds true today.               

In the days and weeks that follow the production of a major event snapshot images of the event parade through my head waiting to be understood or at least to be recognized. The quick question/answer exchanges with participants, the short-lived satisfaction when the start banner is finally hung straight, and the glimpse of sunrise that stirs a small wish to stop and enjoy it. While these impressions are easily sorted and filed under "pre-start" in my event memories catalog, there is one recurring impression that raises too many questions to be filed away.

At nearly every event I've been involved over the years -- cycling events, running events, multi-sport events and walking events -- there is a moment just before the start when I'm on a scaffolding above the crowd of participants. Whether the crowd is 1,000 or 10,000 people, I always have a flash of amazement. "All these people here to do the same thing at the same time on the same course." And, then a sudden stream of questions:  "Who are these people? What are they? And, what do they want?"

The impatient faces in the starting line crowd waiting for me to say "go" stop me from any on-the-spot analysis, but the questions linger. In the office, between events, I find myself answering similar questions to the satisfaction of sponsors, permit authorities and the press.  Upscale demographics -- median income, education level, and occupations -- define the market that runners, cyclists, walkers, etc. represent for sponsors.  Behavioral generalizations -- neat, law-abiding, and responsible -- satisfy permit authorities. And, buzz-phrases like "fitness-conscious" people, the "running community" or "serious-minded cyclists" give the press the handles they want. But, like a glossy wrapping stamped with an oversimplified list of ingredients these references fail to tell us the true nature of the package's contents.

Off the starting line, out of the office and between events I do find a few additional and still incomplete answers. Event participants are, according to the simplest definitions, community. The more specific we are about the event the more it is true that the crowd is made up of "people with common interests living in a particular area."  As a group, event participants have parts of a lifestyle in common.  They share certain attitudes. They define their status with regard to their position in the group, i.e. 213th overall finisher, CAT-4 cyclist, or "top 5 in my age group."  And, while all this provides some common threads of the aggregate that event participants make-up, it still does not explain the end-result of coming together.

The deeper purpose that mystifies me at the start of an event -- "what do these people want?" -- escapes pigeon-holing and eludes social analysis.  Because it seems most concentrated at the starting line, I continue to look there. The mix of the crowd's pre-event adrenaline can almost be tasted in the air. An anxious silence blankets participants. I see people wide-eyed and almost holding their breath in anticipation. Is that it? The mutual rush of self-doubt. The shared gut-feeling of an impending challenge. The excitement/anxiety of facing a personal test among peers. If that is an answer, it only helps point to the bigger question of the relationship. What, if anything, does this instant community mean.

The question persists for me perhaps because so few event participants that I've talked with have expressed clear thoughts about this subject. I hear individual reasons for being a participant, but little big-picture perspective. It has occurred to me that the can't-see-the-forest-through-the-trees syndrome may apply. The woods are defined by the meadow that surround them. So, this community of like-minded participants might be seen most clearly by non-participants around them.

Though out-numbered 20 to 1 by participants the volunteer workers at events do, in a way, surround participants. They help prepare participants pre-race. They are at every turn in the road. They welcome athletes at the finish line.  And, they tend to participant's post-race needs. Yet they are technically not (at least during the event they're working on) participants. The Russians have a great word for such people, "poputchik."  A poputchik is "one who sympathizes with and often furthers the ideals and programs of organized groups without direct participation or membership."  Our closest english equivalent is "fellow traveler." 

In many cases event poputchiks are there for the sake of the event's cause. They are volunteers from the charity that benefits. But, over the years I have had the pleasure of getting to know hundreds of people who are ready and willing to work on any event. These poputchiks enjoy  associating with "the community" they witness at each event. From outside the forest they see the common bond of purpose, the unity of shared experience and the total energy that is larger than the sum of its parts. They see it. They support it. And, they keep coming back for more.

The event poputchiks help me confirm the sense I have had of a participant community. By seeing it, they let me know it's there, which leaves me wondering just one other thing. If you, as participants, can, with some additional prompting, see and feel a sense of community, what else can you do? If you can acknowledge a link between your lifestyle and that of your fellow participants, can you also agree to a mutually beneficial relationship?  I like that idea. And, I'll be thinking about it the next time I'm collecting impressions of you from the starting line.



-Dave Rhody