Finishing Kick: No Divas of the Dirt

Every race is a reunion in the close-knit ultra community

Burgers sizzled on the grill. Bags of chips were passed, and people sat on coolers filled with beer. Old friends were reunited, new ones were introduced. It was like going to a backyard barbecue. It was a regular weekend afternoon at the end of summer.

Except that we had all just run 31 miles.

I love going to races. I love the energy before a big marathon. I even love waiting in long porta-potty lines because I often have great conversations there. I look forward to seeing the variety of race shirts and checking out innovative ways of carrying gel packets. I think it's fun to watch people slather Vaseline on their private parts in public.

But what I love more than anything is going to ultras. Even the big ones have the feel of a reunion. It's been a long time since I've gone to a long trail race and not run into someone I know. Race directors are often avuncular, sometimes cranky, and many of them have a bear hug for friends and strangers. They can also be inadvertent matchmakers: A few years ago, at the wedding of Mo Bartley and Brian Hacker, longtime race director Norm Klein gave a toast to the third couple (that he knew of) who had met at one of his races.

Tim Twietmeyer, a man who has run the Western States 100-mile race 25 times (and won it five), once told me that the thing he liked most about ultras is that, unlike in most sports, the regular Joes get to toe the line with the people who are going to win the race. He started out as a midpacker and made his way to the front. He still talks to everyone at races. There's no elite division in ultras. There are no divas of the dirt.

Nikki Kimball, whose dominance in ultrarunning is undisputed, will often finish a race and then go look for people to congratulate. She likes to start slowly, often running with women who will finish hours after her. She talks to them and offers encouragement, kind of like an on-the-run ambassador for the sport.

A friend of mine likes to say he hates runners. He volunteered a few times at local 5K races, and that was enough to put him off. The runners were rude, narcissistic, and demanding. My own theory is that the longer the race, the nicer the runners. Ultrarunners know we couldn't do what we do without the army of volunteers at every race. Not just the obvious people who give us sustenance, but also the less visible -- the radio operators, the medical staff, the search and rescue teams -- who make it possible for us to do what we love.

Whenever I have volunteered at a long race, I am always struck by how gracious the entrants are. They stop to thank the volunteers for waking early to spend a weekend morning (and often afternoon, and sometimes night) hanging around and catering to them. They don't get impatient if it takes a few extra seconds for neophyte workers to fill water bottles. Many times, these aid station staffers are not even runners. They think, and sometimes say, that we're crazy for doing this, for being out here, but here they are as well, helping us to do it.

There's something else that makes ultras different. The middle and back of the pack are filled with people who are chatting away the miles, chowing down during what can feel more like a catered hike than a race. But the front of the pack is just as companionable. Even when you're racing against someone to win, because the pace is not usually blistering, there's opportunity to make friends.

I am particularly fond of the women I've met -- and who have beaten me -- at ultras. We're willing to drive long distances, camp out in primitive conditions, take a post-race bath in a freezing cold stream, pee, poop, and sometimes puke on the trail, and then hang out afterward drinking beer and eating cookies. We are not afraid of dirt. We burp and fart when our bodies tell us to. We don't pretend that we aren't our bodies. You don't see that many outfits at ultras. Instead, you see a lot of muddy shoes, ripped and ratty old clothes, and legs with scars and bruises from long training runs. You see a lot of bulky, unfeminine water bottle belts and boob-smushing packs.

I often go to races alone. But what I know is that I won't be alone for long, especially not at the longer races. We ultrachicks find each other.

Rachel Toor teaches writing  at Eastern Washington University in Spokane. Her next book, Personal Record: A Love Affair with Running, will be published in the fall.