Keeping Pace

A very specific pace, while holding a little sign.

Next weekend I’ll be running a half marathon, but not in the way you might think.

I won’t be racing. I won’t be chasing a personal best. I’ll be pacing.

Specifically, I’ll be the 3-hour pacer for the Run Madtown Half Marathon. My job is to cross the finish line in exactly three hours, and to bring as many runners as possible with me. I’ll be holding a little pace sign, calling out mile splits, and offering an endless stream of encouragement (and bad jokes) for 13.1 miles.

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Why I Pace the Back

I only pace the back of the pack. They are my people.

The people who show up for a 3-hour finish aren’t there for bragging rights. They’re there because they want to see if they can do it. Maybe it’s their first race. Maybe they’re coming back from something hard like an injury, a loss, or a long time away. Maybe they’ve been told, directly or indirectly, that they don’t belong in this space. Unfortunately, some runners are really good at making slower runners feel excluded, and I have made it my mission to correct that every chance I get.

What people may not realize is that the back of the pack is where the biggest celebrations happen, not because of a fast time, but because of the finish line itself.

And there’s something extra beautiful about seeing someone surprise themselves. About being there in mile 7 when they think they can’t, and then again in mile 12 when they realize: they are.

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The Detour I Didn’t Want

I haven’t paced a race in a while. I had to skip my last two pacing gigs due to injury, which is not something I say lightly. I’m usually one of those obnoxious people who’s never injured. I cross-train. I strength train. I eat my vegetables. I try not to run like a broken shopping cart. I finished my 62 mile race in March without so much as a single blister.

But this winter, my body had other plans. And I had to sit on the sidelines and watch races I’d trained for come and go.

It rattled me. I missed the rhythm of race day - the early morning porta-potty lines, the shaky hands at the starting line, the strangers who become friends by mile 4. But more than that, I missed being useful out there. I missed giving back to the running community in the way I love most: by literally walking (and running) beside people.

So yes, I’m nervous for next weekend. I’m not worried about the distance. I know I can go 13.1 miles. But I am worried about doing it with precision and without pain. A 3-hour pacer needs to hit an average pace of 13:44 per mile, every mile. No faster, no slower. If my foot pain returns, I can’t take a minute to fix it - I either keep going or I have failed. I’ve set a high bar for myself - I always, always come in with a perfect pace. I have to be a metronome, not a rocket, and that’s what I do best. It’s a different kind of endurance, and one that I love flexing.

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What I Carry

When I pace, I carry snacks, a pace chart, a GPS watch, and a sign that says “3:00.” But I also carry stories.

Two hours into a race, sometimes people just need a distraction. They don’t want to think about running. They don’t want to think about their pace, how much their feet hurt, and how ready they are to be done. Sometimes, they just want to listen. And over the years, I’ve accumulated some great stories to share.

I love to talk about the runner at the Milwaukee Lakefront Marathon who stuck with me, right by my side, for the entire race without saying a word, only to profusely thank me again and again at the end. The whole time I thought she was probably sick to death of hearing me yammer on.

Or the father and son who were running the Brewers Mini Marathon together to celebrate dad’s comeback after a major heart surgery. They did great, and the dad had even better bad jokes than I did.

Or - a personal favorite: my pack of marathon runners who were shambling on like zombies when the 26.2 finish line came into sight. We were working toward a 5 1/2 hour finish time, and I told them we were so close to our goal pace that if they picked up their feet just a little, they’d come in just under 5 1/2 hours. Every single one of them took off in a sprint when I said that, and crossed the finish line at a pace I hadn’t seen in the 26.1 miles preceding it. It was amazing.

Photo: the 2019 Milwaukee Lakefront Marathon, watching as all of my runners took off ahead of me when they saw the finish line. One of my favorite race memories.

I share their joy. Their struggle. Their pride. I carry all of that with me, and when the time is right, I share it with others when I feel like its what they need to hear in the moment.

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What I Love About This Work

I love when someone sidles up to me at the start line and says, “I don’t know if I can finish.” And I get to say, “You don’t have to know yet. Just start.”

I love when someone apologizes for being slow, and I get to look them in the eye and say, “You’re here. You’re doing it. That’s everything.”

I love when the finish line announcer calls out, “And here comes the 3-hour pace group!” and it’s not just me. It’s a whole crew of people who didn’t know they had it in them. But they did.

And maybe they always did. They just needed a steady voice beside them to remind them.

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If You’re New Here…

Welcome. I’m Jenn. I used to be a lawyer. Now I run, make weird forest-themed art, and write about the outdoors, endurance, and all the ways we keep going even when it’s hard.

This newsletter isn’t about racing to the top. It’s about taking your time and finding your way. Moving forward. Trusting your legs and betting on yourself.

Whether you’re chasing a finish line or just trying to make it through the week, you’ve got this. I’ll be cheering for you the whole way.

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See You Out There

If you’re at Run Madtown this weekend and you see someone holding a 3-hour pace sign and yelling things like, “You are a majestic beast!” that’s probably me.

Come say hi. I’ll have snacks.

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See You On The Trail is always free to read, but I always appreciate when a reader buys me a coffee: