Why I keep race directing when it would be easier to stop
Photo credits: Norm Fortin
“I don’t know how you do it.”
That was the reply I received after congratulating a fellow runner on her first time directing a race.
I didn’t respond. It felt like a closing line. One of those polite statements that doesn’t actually need an answer.
But the longer I sat with it, the more I realized it wasn’t quite right.
It’s not how I do it.
It’s always been about why.
If I’m being honest, I don’t even know how I got into all of this. I just wanted to keep the Russell Run alive back in 2019.
Six year later, in 2025, I directed four races. On paper, they couldn’t have been more different: a winter snowshoe race, a sunrise-to-sunset track ultra, a point-to-point trail race across counties, and a community road race designed to showcase our town.
Each came with its own problems. Weather. Logistics. Volunteers. Timing. Money. The constant low-grade stress that lives in the background for months.
Even the so-called plug-and-play event, the Russell Run, now in its 14th year, showed up with new challenges. We’d become more popular, but we were still operating like a bare-bones community event.
It’s a lot of work. A lot of stress. A lot of money. I’ve barely broken even, and any surplus goes straight back into equipment, supplies for the next event, or giving back to the volunteers and supporters who make these races possible.
To quote Dave Ramsey, “It’s an expensive hobby.” For me, the real currency is time.
After the 2025 season wrapped up and I finally had space to breathe.
I wanted out. I was done. I wanted my old life back. Training. Hobbies. Quiet. Rest.
The emails rolled in. Thank-you. We were impressed. The volunteers were great. I hit my goal. Can’t wait until next year. And this:
“I know I wouldn’t have dreamed of these distances 2 years ago but you make it approachable and fun”
So the save-the-dates went out.
Before I even packed up the equipment, people were already registering for next year.
I was in. No clean exit. No graceful way to back down.
Still, I wasn’t convinced.
A few weeks ago, I was sitting at a table at Homestead Pub with a group of runners, half-heartedly eating nachos, sipping a Coke, wanting to disappear. I was tired. Socially tapped out. Still carrying that low-grade burnout.
Then the conversation shifted.
The Prescott-Russell Recreational Trail Challenge. The Chase the Sun Track Ultra. Can we do a 1/2 marathon distance at the Russell Run?
I listened as people talked about their goals. Their nerves. The things they hadn’t said out loud before. Shared with me in confidence. One mentioned the disappointment of a family commitment clashing with race day.
I perked up and shared what I was changing. What I was fixing. What I’d learned.
And instead of rehashing what went wrong last year, they were excited. Genuinely excited. About smoother logistics. New routes. Clearer flow. Better support.
That was the crack.
Then, just this past weekend at the Sports Dome, another moment. A personal challenge on a meaningful day. Looking for ways for friends to show support.
Another person sparked an idea. Two emergency service organizations going head-to-head, of course against the Russell Run Club. Friendly competition. Racking up as many miles as possible around the track.
And suddenly, the fog started to lift, not because things were easier, but because they felt possible again.
The burnout loosened its grip. The self-doubt softened.
Ideas began pouring in. Reels I could make. The course set up. Sponsors and community partners to reach out to. Ways to make it playful again. More connected. More alive.
Homestead reminded me that people cared. The Dome reminded me that I still did.
The days felt precious again, because June is fast approaching and will turn into September just as quickly as 2025 disappeared.
And I had to remind myself: there is more to me than race directing, and that matters if I want to stay whole.
And that’s when it clicked.
I race direct because I want to create an environment where people can do epic shit.
Not just fast people.
Not just long distances.
Not just podium chasers.
Epic can be a first 5K.
Epic can be running in circles on a track from sunrise to sunset, headphones in, alone in your own space.
Epic can be showing up terrified and finishing proud.
And the volunteers, family, and friends don’t miss out either.
They see the excitement at the start turn into nervous energy. They witness the doubt. Then they watch it melt away as a runner approaches an aid station.
The runner lights up at the sight of them. Volunteers rally. They tell them how well they’re doing. How proud they are. They fuel them, fix blisters, offer a hug or a steady hand on the shoulder.
The runner leaves with a little more spark, a little more belief, and heads back out toward the finish line. The place where dreams come true.
Distance and time are just details.
What matters is fun. Being challenged. Being supported. Feeling like you belong in the middle of something that matters, even if you can’t quite name it yet. You’ll figure it out at the finish line.
What I’ve learned is that race directing isn’t clean. It isn’t perfect. And I’m not perfect at it.
But every year, we get a little better.
We learn. We adjust. We fix what didn’t work. We try again.
And every year, I’m reminded that the point was never to run flawless events.
The point was to build a space where people could show up, take a risk, and surprise themselves.
That’s why I do it.
