Why do we do it?

For the record: I am not a runner. 

I do not run an insane number of miles a week. 

I do not sprint--or do distance. 

I don't find joy in 8 mile training runs. 

And I especially don't look forward to a nice ice-bath after a grueling race. 

With all that in the open however, I am a Ragnar addict. I look forward to the third weekend in June more than I look forward to my own birthday. 

To an outsider, it doesn't look enjoyable, at all. 

You pack 12 runners into two vans of six; each assigned a set of three "legs" varying in distance from three to 10 miles. 

You start at a ridiculous hour, run three times in just over 24 hours...all for a sticker that looks like a butterfly, a medal, and a t-shirt [though I have had friends try to buy all three of those items off me].

For some reason, those 30 hours change who you are. There's just something about those 198.3 miles that tests every possible limit you could have...and still leaves you wanting more. 

The first year I ran the Wasatch Back, I had begged my dad to let me do it. He wouldn't let me sign up by myself, so we joined my uncle's team together. 

I was runner 12 that year, which meant I got to finish the whole race for my team. My last leg was from the Park City ski resort to the Canyons resort...and I think they were the longest five miles of my life. I could hear the finish line from a mile away--literally--and felt like I was never going to get there. I turned what I hoped was the final corner, and saw my dad waiting with his camera. We ran the last stretch together, and crossed the finish line with the 10 other members of our team. I couldn't walk the next day, but even as I laid on the ground, my dad said, "I just got a team for next year." And the tradition began. 

Our second year, my little sister ran with us. I decided I wanted a harder leg...and chose runner 10. I'd heard all sorts of horror stories about "Ragnar Hill" but didn't think it was anything I couldn't handle. 

Yeah, I was wrong. Those four miles were the hardest four miles of my life. But I finished. 

Last year wasn't very eventful. We ran, we slept, we finished. But I finally found the legs I loved, and actually enjoyed my runs. 

This year, I ran the same legs I did last year. It was the 10th year of Ragnar, and there were over 1,500 teams participating. It was a madhouse, and a brutal one at that. But once again, we finished. And I'll be back next year, and the next, and every one I can after that. 

People ask all the time why we do it. Why do we find any kind of enjoyment in running at all hours of the day, climbing mountains and hills, and sleeping in parking lots? I think my dad said it best. 

"One of the reasons I love doing Ragnar is to learn more about myself. I like seeing what my limits are and pushing myself beyond what I previously believed them to be. It doesn't take many Ragnars or Lotojas to realize that we are far more capable than we first thought. There occurs a special, almost sacred time during these experiences, you know what I'm talking about. It is an intensely personal moment. It happens sometime in the middle of the long night Ragnar run, or going up Ragnar hill in the heat of the day, or maybe on a bike halfway to Jackson. You are exhausted and hurting, you want more than anything to quit, to give up and walk away. It is then that you realize that you are not a quitter; that as much as you hurt at that moment it would hurt far more to quit. This newly discovered knowledge of yourself finds a permanent home in your soul and becomes who you are. You have uncovered a part of yourself that you didn't know about before. Your limits have been pushed back and away--there are now no limites to what you can do--as you will never give up once you start something. To many, running a Ragnar is a silly, crazy, endeavor--they think it a waste of time and energy. They think that Ragnar is about running. Those who have done it know the truth. That it was somewhere on that road the we came to understand who we are and what we are capable of. Before we did it the first time, we were afraid we would fail. We worried that we would ask the hard question of ourselves and be found lacking. We are now the lucky ones--we know. We ask the hardest questions--"Am I quitter?", "Can I do this?"; and we got the answer we wanted. We are the ones who know. [This year] there was no doubt in your mind that you would finish--but you knew that there would be pain in getting there. You already knew the answer this year, you started with the knowledge. 

Such is the rest of your life. What you now know about yourself is not about running. It is about you. You now know that if you want to do it, you will do it. If you start it, you will finish it. It might hurt, but you will never quit or give up, because that just isn't who you are."

Why do I run Ragnar? Maybe because I'm crazy. Maybe because I don't have a firm concept of pain yet. But mostly because I like proving to myself that I can do it. To me, Ragnar isn't just some 200 mile, overnight relay. It's a way to remind myself what I'm capable of, and to test and expand those limits every year. It's more than just a race. It's a way to show myself who I am. And I'll be back every year I'm able to prove it over and over. 

Plus, people do crazy things to get their hands on the coveted Ragnar sticker you can only get at the finish line.