We Are Not Worthy
“I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.” — Saturday Night Live character Stuart Smalley
I joined a beginning trail-running group this fall.
Since I moved to Montana nearly six months ago, I’ve been slowly integrating into my new community.
Very slowly.
I make very good friends, but it takes me a while. So I spend my days at the library, where I see some of the same people regularly enough to nod a greeting. And I venture out once a week or so to a couple of coffee shops, the community movie theater, and, of course, my gym. I’ve volunteered at three running events, and I take a clay class that meets once a week. I now recognize a few people here and there, but I haven’t had more than a handful of conversations in my new hometown since April, and all of them have been superficial.
So I decided to join a fall trail-running group organized by the local running club.
I missed the first of the eight sessions because I was out of town, tending to my business in the Bay Area. The second was canceled because steady rain made the trails treacherous. So last Friday was my first time with the new group.
I didn’t find it hard to wake up in time for the 6am run. Though I can stay awake far into the night on a regular basis, I can also rouse myself at whatever time I need to get going in the morning. Not that I needed to rouse myself. I had awakened repeatedly during the night to make sure I wasn’t missing the alarm. And yes, that’s normal — I do feel anxious when I have to do something new or to do something with people I haven’t yet met.
It gets colder far sooner in Montana than I’m used to. And the sun that rose a little after 5am in the summer now peeks over the mountains about 7:30. So it was 38 degrees and very dark when I found the trailhead about ten minutes before we were due to step off.
Five people were already waiting.
I introduced myself to the group, and in return, I got the names of my fellow runners. I forgot them quickly. I’m lousy with names, and especially so when I’m anxious. We were all dressed in long sleeves, and most of us had vests. A couple of the younger guys were wearing shorts (it turns out one “younger” guy was in his late 40s!), but the rest of us were in track pants or tights. I was wearing my trail-running shoes with lock laces pulled so tight that I couldn’t tuck in the long ends; no way was I going to turn an ankle from loose shoes on my first run with this group.
As a couple more runners showed up, I did a quick assessment. I learned in my very first marathon that you really can’t tell a person’s speed from appearances, but it never stops me from doing it anyway. We were evenly split women to men at 4 each, and I was likely the oldest at 63. The group leader was also gray, but everyone else looked to range from late 20s to early 40s. Everyone’s gear looked appropriate, so no neophytes here. My overriding concern was that I would be embarrassingly slow. I know it’s common for runners to fear slowing others down, and I would feel the shame powerfully should it prove true.
I don’t know why I think other runners will be annoyed by my pace. I have never once begrudged a slower runner; in fact, I happily accommodate them. As a group, runners are among the most generous people I have found. Light on judgment too. Virtually every other runner I’ve met is encouraging, supportive, helpful, and they share their knowledge, equipment, water, and fuel without a second thought.
So why am I so worried that I can’t keep up? Why can’t I sleep before a first run? Why do I babble on when I first meet other runners?
I guess it’s human nature to resist putting yourself at the mercy of strangers, particularly if you feel a tad unworthy. Which, to be honest, might be more than a little true for me. But I’ve never had a bad running experience caused by another. (Well, except for the elbow to the chest that I took for some perceived infraction in my very first half-marathon twenty years ago — but it’s the exception that’s proved the rule since.)
And these runners were no exceptions. In fact, Darren, the group leader, is probably the most welcoming runner I’ve encountered. We talked all the way up the mountain, nearly 1700 feet of elevation gain, stopping only a couple times to gather the group. I wasn’t winded too badly during the ascent. We turned around to go back down, and I took three steps on a clean single-track before falling face-first to the trail.
Those long ends of my lock-laces that I couldn’t tuck in? I stepped on one. It’s impossible to lift your leg when standing on your own shoelace. And the effort to try yanked my hamstring but good. Fortunately, the realization that I was going down hit just before I did, so I was able to roll away from more punishment. But my humiliation in front of my new acquaintances was, in fact, total. I had completely realized my deepest fear: being unworthy of my company. Only the dark obscured my utter mortification.
But my fellows picked up my headlamp and the keys that had flown from my pocket, fussed over my well-being, and then Darren escorted me (slowly) down the hill, talking good-naturedly to me the whole way. Four of the people waited at the bottom of the hill to make sure I was okay. And Darren texted the next day to see if I wanted to meet for a beer.
Like I said, runners are good people. I’ll probably still be nervous next time I run with a new group, but I hope I can get out again soon with this group.
Oh, and I will never leave my laces untucked again.
