Dear friends and co-runners,
In July 2002, our family moved from Salt Lake City, Utah to Reston. One of the first things my son Jon Geurts and I did was join the Reston Runners. In October 2004, we moved from Reston to Missoula, Montana. One of the things we missed most was the Reston Runners. Your friendly and supportive companionship on Sunday mornings was a memorable component of our brief and enjoyable stay in northern Virginia. I wanted to make a point of telling you so.
For Jon, the move to Virginia took place between high school and college. He did not have friends in Virginia, and had little chance to develop friendships in a few short months. The Reston Runners served as his primary connection with people outside the family during those months he was home on breaks and in the summer.
Jon wasn’t always a runner; his first love is cross-country skiing. However, you just don’t get snow all year round, so he began to run…and was inspired by you to keep it up. Listening to folks talk over bagels about marathons and ultras triggered new goals. Jon is studying in Scotland this year. His second weekend in the UK, he ran the Loch Ness Marathon—his first. The following is taken from his e-mail the day afterward:
I not only finished the marathon, but I also finished it well. The actual run was as hilly as it was scenic. Most of the significant hills were in the first four miles, but one (“the monster,” as I now refer to it) was crested by the 18-mile marker. I could see that hill was the material manifestation of many runners’ walls. I lived my mantra (“charge the hills”) by jetting up each and every incline as if it were my close friend. In fact, I breathed more easily while moving uphill than on the flats. Go figure. I guess the Mile 18 hill was my last rest break.
I had two good talks with four people: Stephan from Paris, Lucille (who was covered with face paint that her little boys had applied), and two runners my age who were also going to college. I ran easily and almost carelessly in the 60-degree sunny air until Mile 22 when I started to feel the strain. At Mile 24 the good scenery left, and the runners became seriously strung out. Large groups of defeated runners walked to the finish line.
Meanwhile, I followed my Swede. I knew he was Swedish because he wore a Swedish flag on his shoulders. I am from St. Olaf, I thought. I’m wearing my St. Olaf hat, by God. I’ll be damned if I’ll let any Swedish man reach the finish line first.
A basic competitiveness set in, and we both increased our speed, consciously racing shoulder-to-shoulder over the backstretch of the course. The route took a sharp, unexpected turn into the stadium, and I, overwhelmed with emotion, sped ahead and raised my hands in triumph. I beat the Swede. My time, uncorrected, was 3:51. My second half split was only two minutes slower than my first-half split. The race was a complete, unadulterated victory.
The account goes on to include a post-race feed of haggis and a long, cold bath. Jon wore his finishers medal to classes that Monday. What a momentous way to initiate a year of study abroad.
Please thank everyone in the club who extended us a hand of friendship. I keep you fondly in mind, as I keep the Reston Runners license plate holder on my car. Montana is a wonderful place to visit—and to run. Please let me know if you come our way (address and e-mail above).
Happy Holidays,
Pam Gardiner