Until recently, I could count the times I've volunteered at races on the finger of one finger. I must have run 100-plus events, each one impossible without the magical army of selfless do-gooders who make the running world so special. To my shame, I’ve amassed quite a debt.
You see, I’d always been, well, er, much too busy to chip in myself. But when Corsham Running Club emailed an urgent plea for volunteers for their 8km multi-terrain race, the Hazelbury Hurrah!, it happened I wasn’t busy that summer evening and it was only walking distance away. I was out of excuses.
The downside was that I couldn’t run this local race myself. But I figured I’d feel better by ‘selflessly’ volunteering. Pointing a bit and cheering would presumably earn me a hit of self-satisfaction. Of course, it wasn’t that simple.
First there was the email packed with instructions and links to three more documents, including a colour-coded spreadsheet overflowing with phone numbers, timings and grid references. There was also a map of an area I run almost every day – but it looked unrecognisable – and a WhatsApp group. Instructions included (I paraphrase), ‘Remain alert, encourage the runners, warn the runners, pick up litter, pick up course markings, don’t stop traffic, if a runner looks tired please call the fire brigade and switch on the bat signal.’
There seemed a lot that could go wrong. My biggest fear was sending all the runners the wrong way. This fear was not totally without foundation, as at school I once did exactly that to a whole cross-country race (while leading it).
I must have checked my marshalling position five times. On the big day, after a brisk briefing and receiving my all-important hi-vis vest, I ran to my marshalling point – the bottom of a cruel hill. Then I waited for 40 minutes, peering nervously up the road. Er, was this the right road?
Finally, the first runner appeared from the expected direction. He powered along silently. I pointed up the hill and said, ‘Well done.’ He didn’t acknowledge me, but he did run up the right hill. Phew.
Soon they were stampeding towards me. As my arm started to ache, my repertoire of encouraging phrases expanded to ‘Good luck!’, and as I became even more comfortable in my role, my cheerleading flourished: I began to include ‘Looking good!’, the notorious running lie. I also got a few calls of ‘Thank you, marshal!’– that gave me a buzz.
It was the first time I’d watched a race from front to back. The frontrunners were as serious as soldiers. The mid-pack brought a hum of chat, people running more together than against each other. Then the mostly older back runners – the real heroes –working hard, yet often full of smiles.
A few locals were spectating halfway up the hill, beers in hand. I heard, ‘I’m with you in spirit!’ several times. Running was a type of sadistic entertainment to them, like being at the Colosseum in the time of Nero.
I greatly enjoyed spectating –sorry, marshalling. It wasn’t as stressful as I’d feared, but while I got a warm feeling from my do-goodery, I’d rather run. I know I still have a large debt to pay back and it’s selfish, but nothing beats running.
