A Stoic Recap of NIRCA Outdoor Nationals
A long time ago, the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius wrote a very nonsensical thing."It is in our power to have no opinion about a thing, and not to be disturbed in our soul; for things themselves have no natural power to form judgments."This makes no sense. Marcus' lofty ideal of Stoic dispassion, pioneered by Marcus and other extremely repressed ancient dudes, is only humanly possible if you are:a. a Vulcanb. a particular unscrupulous lawyerc. a really good distance runnerI've always thought, out of all the identities and affiliations throughout the chain of time, the truly dedicated long distance runner best embodies the absurdly draconian philosophy of classical Stoicism. Running for large amounts of time is the prime strength of the human body, evolutionarily. Running is the purest form of self-inflicted human suffering (and growth?!!). Considering the Stoics love simple pursuits and meditation, I don't see how distance running would not immediately check all the boxes as the prime Stoic activity.Of course, Marcus Aurelius also disdained awards and the trappings of luxury, so, by definition, the most Stoic of all levels of running must be...the National Intercollegiate Running Club Association. That's right, folks, we're back to NIRCA embodying the whole point of doing anything in life. That's why you're here, right?This weekend I went to the NIRCA Outdoor Nationals Meet in Shelbyville, Indiana. Where's Shelbyville? That's a great question. Shelbyville is somewhat near Indianapolis. Why is NIRCA Outdoor Nats in Shelbyville, a town with less than 20,000 people with no universities in sight? Well, after Indiana unceremoniously canceled on NIRCA in Bloomington, we ended up at the friendly confines of Shelbyville High School. Go Golden Grizzlies.Shelbyville, Indiana is a place that can only exist in the Midwest. In the great list of locales that NUTC has visited (Dixon, Bourbonnais, Whitewater, etc.), Shelbyville is high on the list in obscurity and desolation. However, the high school athletic facilities were really nice. Go figure. I cannot find a real photo of the Shelbyville track on Google Images, but here is a pleasant 3D rendering of the high school facilities.
Because the meet itself wasn't that bad, it's hard to complain about anything running-related. Instead, let's complain about NIRCA and the organizers of the Hoosier Half in Bloomington.
Dear Hoosier Half organizers,
YOU COULD'VE HAD THE HALF MARATHON! WHY DID YOU CANCEL IT? THIS WAS A DAMN SCAM! BOOOOOO!!!Here is archived footage of the Hoosier Half organizers' previous occupation:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6ivzRg9UVkI feel truly bad for everyone who traveled on Friday night to run the half marathon, only to find that it had been canceled in the morning. The layman may think running is a burden and any late cancellation is the lifting of a millstone. That may be true on a surface level, but since we all equally value suffering as much as pleasure, the cancellation of any event is a crushing blow to the psyche. It's like the famous Dostoevsky fake execution story--the reprieve is as torturous as the event itself.The officials in Bloomington, waiting for a serious gaggle of thunderstorms that would never actually come, canceled the half marathon early in the morning. The runners had gone to bed and awoken at 5 AM to await the pain and fiery glory of the half. Instead, they were greeted by a notification that they could pick up their free shirts and medals without running a meter. The bitter irony was evident throughout the meet as a crowd of runners donned purple half marathon shirts as if they'd actually run[note]baby shoes, never worn[/note]. It was not to be. The lame compromise of a "NIRCA Half Re-do" seven days later and thousands of miles away on the JERSEY SHORE did no one any favors. It sucked. Let's all go to the Jersey Shore!
Dear NIRCA,
Can someone explain how you got the 1500m startline wrong by 20 METERS??! And what about the buffet?! Let's talk about the buffet.The Day Two Crew signed up for a NIRCA Grand Buffet. At the cost of $13 and with no other eateries not named Applebee's or Wendy's, it seemed like a good bet. Who wouldn't want to hang out with other club runners and munch on vegetarian-friendly cobbler? The only details we had on the Grand Buffet was that it was in the Indiana Grand Casino, supposedly the only place that could seat this many people at one time.To say the Indiana Grand Casino sticks out like a sore thumb is an insult to pain responses everywhere. It is apparently the closest casino to Indianapolis, a massive Vegas-style complex that rises up from nowhere and commands the surrounding strip mall and highway. Driving through miles of endless farmland only to find the Indiana Grand is like walking through Central Park and finding a giant bomb crater...a giant, 21-and-over only crater that supposedly has a GRAND BUFFET. Once again, the graphics team has provided another cheap 3D rendering of the casino.
We arrived at the Indiana Grand with no semblance of a direction or idea of what to do. There were no runners to be found. In social situations, runners are like gazelles[note]in running situations, runners are simply the gangly, slow, but methodical homo sapiens nature intended for us[/note]. We work in packs to avoid getting hunted. When we are separated from the pack, confusion reigns. Where were the signs? Where was the food? We have three members under 21! This is bad! Panic!? Let's panic! As the Millennial Code of Conduct requires, we all stood around trying to contact someone or find information on our phones rather than stroll through the tinted windows of the front entrance and find someone to demand answers. However, with Facebook and Twitter bereft of any knowledge, we resorted to Plan X.But asking someone immediately, right that second was out of the question. The five NUTC members remaining in Shelbyville moped around, looked for side entrances, climbed four flights of stairs in a cigarette-infused parking garage, and then finally asked a bouncer for directions. Well, "the five of us" did not ask. John and I were offered as sacrifices.
Walking into the side entrance of the Indiana Grand Casino clad in sweatpants and a t-shirt was easily worse than any track event I'd ever subjected myself to. And I'm a steeplechaser. The discussion went as follows:
"Hi, we're part of a running club and we were wondering if you knew--""Are you over 21?"[note]Hey, I am over 21, just so you know, Mr. Bouncer Man[/note]"Hi, sorry, we're not trying to gamble, we just were wondering if you knew where we could find the NIRCA club running dinner? Like, in the buffet?""What?""For the NIRCA meet?""Can I see an ID?""Never mind, we're leaving, thank you very much for your time."So yeah NIRCA, good job directing us on the buffet! What the hell?
Anyway, as Marcus Aurelius also said: "Everything you see will soon alter and cease to exist."Hopefully the Indiana Grand disappears into a pile of dust. As for the meet itself, everything went great. The women's 4x800 team (Izzeh, Sophia, Jazmine and Megan) finished 8th out of 22 teams and made the All-American podium. It was awesome. The 4x800 team made a habit of coming back from every setback and deficit imaginable. 22 teams on the track at once? No problem. Race official doesn't believe you're in the only heat? Resolved. They must've changed places with the 7-10 teams at least 4 times throughout the race, but in the end NUTC prevailed. The next day, Jazmine and Megan both ran great 5K times, with Jazmine finishing 5th overall and earning All-American status. Megan finished in 9th. Both battled through a hellacious rainfall on the Sunday session to achieve a great result.John, after failing to run the half marathon, was left with his joke event, the long jump. Having never long jumped before, he toed the line nervously, but with his cover still intact he charged down and jumped...good enough for not last. That's good!The Third Earl of Transport won his heat of the 800m run and the 1500m run. When Adam starts to kick in a race, you want to imagine his ears folding back in the wind like a sprinting horse. Sadly, the only thing folding back are his opponents. Robby Winter survived the trip down to Indiana intact and ran a solid 5K. He did not wear socks on his hands to protect himself from the wind because it was 70 degrees when his heat ran. Of course, when I ran 20 minutes later, a huge windstorm picked up at the two-mile mark.Can't make any excuses though. I can only wish I'd been more aerodynamic, I guess. I do a lot of writing about the club, but I haven't actually given an update on my performances since the marathon
That being said, whenever I race, my stomach always feels extremely jittery and I get very nervous. But since the 400m hurdles and the 1500m were back-to-back, I didn't have any time to start fretting. With the rain pelting my jersey, I walked from the end of my very slow hurdle fiasco to the tent to pick up my number for the next race. Before I knew it, it was the start of the race.
As the water blew ferociously across the duct-tape startline, my legs began to uncontrollably tremble. But it was not the fear and trembling that usually sends my stomach and gag reflex into a carnivalesque pile of misery. I merely trembled to stay warm. My sweats were being carted away, but I was calm. The wind picked up again, but each pinprick of cold on my legs and my arms filled me with an unbridled gaiety. It was as if the Shelbyville HS volunteer was taking all the excuses and protections of a lifetime spent hoping for divinity, three years hoping for every race to be the best one, arrogantly believing every spark of sustenance at the line would be the harbinger of achievement. Another near-horizontal burst of rain. A race. Clarity. It is in my power to have no opinion of a thing and not be disturbed in my soul. It is in my power.The others were there too. They'd all been there, at some point in the weekend. They were watching me now, overjoyed that I'd also reached the windswept but still pearly gates of purpose. Clarity, at long last, clarity; there with the reddish-velvet aura which I'd seen in Jazmine's eyes as she finished meter No. 3200, witnessed in Megan's demeanor as she rounded the turn on Lap 10 and fell into the pristine apex of the curve (and the mind), observed in Adam's determined sprint to the finish, and joyously proclaimed by countless other club athletes over the weekend, united in the simple miasma of racing that destroys our legs but keeps our souls intact.
