Burning Bridges

Buckman.  Fuller Warren.  Acosta.  Dames Point.  Mathews.  These are the names of a few of the many bridges you’ll find in Jacksonville, Florida. 

If you want to visit Jacksonville you’re inevitably going to cross the St. Johns River. 

Main Street.  Hart.  If you’re going to run in Jacksonville’s top running event, the Gate River Run, you’ll be crossing the river via these two bridges.  On foot, of course.

I’ve run the race 10 times.  I ran my first 15K at the River Run.  I ran my fastest 15K  there, arguably the best race I’ve ever run.  At one time it was my favorite race.

I’ve also been to Jacksonville to run the marathon no less than nine times.  At one time the race finished in downtown Jacksonville; the route included the crossing of two bridges; one early in the race and one late in the race.  I ran my first Boston qualifier in Jacksonville.  I’ve run my personal best there as well.

The current route of the Jacksonville Marathon doesn’t include any bridges.  The course is as flat as week old road kill.  I ran this year’s race and was surprised to find myself red-faced, embarrassed and totally exhausted.  What’s even more surprising is that all of this happened 15 hours prior to the start of the race: At the packet pickup where I picked up my race bib (number).

Let me explain.

I signed up for the marathon back in June.  Early registration was $70, a relative bargain in today’s world of ever-increasing entry fees.  (In comparison this year’s New York City Marathon cost $255 to enter; $347 for non-U.S. residents.)  I sent my application and a personal check through the U.S. mail.  My friend Valerie--who entered the race on a whim at the last minute—well after I signed up--and I went to the 1^st Place Sports Running store on Baymeadows Road to pick up our race packets.  Incidentally, I’ve brought many a runner to the Jacksonville races over the years; I mention it because the significance of that comment will be apparent shortly. 

We checked the printed list of entrants in the store’s parking lot to find our corresponding race numbers so we could ask for our respective packets.  Val spotted her name immediately and had her number in hand while I was still scouring the list for mine.  It became evident after five or six minutes that my name simply was not on the list.

I was directed to the go inside the store where I was handed off to Jane Alred, who just so happens to be the wife of the marathon’s Race Director.  (I assure you I had no intention of using her name; however as you will soon understand why I told her I intended to write about this experience in the very near future and she subsequently handed me her business card so I could spell her name correctly.)   

Jane asked me if I had proof that I registered for the marathon.  Well, let’s see: I had the original application in hand that clearly shows I detached the mail-in application, I drove all the way down from Atlanta to participate and I’ve been running races in Jacksonville for well over 30 years.  Most of all—plain and simple-- I’m telling you that I did.

Sorry, not good enough.  Jane asked me if I had the canceled check for the entry fee.  I explained that my bank didn’t send canceled checks with the monthly statement and I really didn’t know.  ‘Well, here’s what you can do: You can pay the early entry fee again and once you prove you already registered I’ll refund your money.

Now it was my turn: ‘Sorry, not good enough.’  Val told me later she could tell how upset I was because my face was beet red (actually what she said was ‘as red as my chicken’s wattles and comb when they get mad’ but I have no idea what that meant).  Val added that anyone could tell I was being completely honest by the conviction in my voice and face.  Apparently anyone except Jane, that is. 

Jane went to the back room and returned with a cardboard box containing the applications that had been mailed in.  There couldn’t have been more than 50 in an event that encompassed thousands.  Mine wasn’t in there.  ‘The U.S. mail isn’t always perfect; maybe they returned your entry.’  I assured her they didn’t.  She assured me she didn’t receive my entry and didn’t ‘want my money twice,’ although earlier she asked for my money twice because I knew with absolute certainty I mailed my application and she already had my money once.    

I told her I was a Race Director myself and if the roles were reversed I would believe her without hesitation and grant her request in a heartbeat.  I told her I’ve always known runners to be the most honorable people in the world. 

She replied that she’d been taken advantage of—many times, in fact—over the years and it wasn’t going to happen again. 

Being the hothead I can be when I know I am absolutely right, I said ‘fine, I’ll just run without a number.’  Jane shrugged and walked off.   (I want to mention I did not have my checkbook with me and I wasn’t about to give her my credit card information that she promised to refund once she received proof of my ‘alleged’ earlier payment.  Seriously, if they lost/misplaced/whatever my application, what were the chances I would get my credit card refund?)

That’s when cooler heads prevailed.  Val asked me to call my wife Cindy and ask her to go online and check our bank statements.  I knew Cindy had a really busy weekend and wasn’t sure she would even have the password with her (she was working at her store at the time) but I called anyway.  Miracle of miracles: Cindy found the canceled check online (cashed on June 17), scanned a photo of it and sent it to my cell phone.  I in turn sent it to Val’s tablet which I took to Jane who in turn asked me to follow her outside where she hand wrote my information and gave me a number for the marathon…without the slightest hint of an apology.  I repeat: Without the slightest hint of an apology, although she continued to try and convince me she didn’t want to take my money twice and how some people can be so dishonest.   

Back story: Several years ago a friend of mine was running competitively for the Atlanta Track Club at the Gate River Run.  She called me the day before the race and explained that she was given a back-of-the-pack number rather than a seeded number (reserved for faster runners so they can start at the front of the race) and needed my help.  I wrote the Race Director (Jane’s husband, remember?) and vouched for my friend’s credentials as an established and talented runner.  He took me at my word and gave my friend a seeded number while I took comfort that my reputation in the world of running meant something.  Heck, a similar testimonial from the office of the Atlanta Track Club on my friend’s behalf moments earlier had fallen on deaf ears, thus the request to me.

After giving everything I possibly have to give to the sport of running for these past 36+ years I didn’t deserve to be treated the way I was at 1^st Place Sports.  Factoring in the absence of an apology only made matters worse.  Again, if the roles were reversed I would have offered her the sincerest of apologies once I was proven wrong.  Not only wrong, but dead wrong.    

It got me to thinking about a lot of things.  I woke up the next morning at 1:30 a.m. and spent the next four hours thinking about these very words you are reading right now.  What could possibly have made Jane treat me the way she did?  What triggered her comment about ‘being taken advantage’ of? 

Then I thought of something I’ve said (as well as written) many, many times: Runners are some of the finest people I’ve ever known.  Could I have been wrong all this time? 

Then this thought dawned on me: Road races—particularly marathons and ultras, are charging more and more money every year for the simple privilege of running in them.  I have a difficult time believing these costs are justifiable, yet here we are.  Why do the big-name and big-ticket events charge outrageous entry fees for their events?  I can’t help but think the answer is—plain and simple—because people will pay them.

Most people, that is.  It’s entirely possible that some runners have had to resort to fabricating stories about ‘lost applications’ to finagle their way into a race they desperately want to run: That special race charging an exorbitant entry fee, money that could be put to better use towards other things.  Food, clothing and shelter for example; things a little more important than a three-dollar finisher’s medal or a race shirt listing all of its sponsors on the back.

So perhaps the way Jane treated me wasn’t the reason I found myself red-faced, embarrassed and totally exhausted before the Jacksonville Marathon even began.  Maybe the real reason is something that has been bothering me for the last 10 years: Race Directors that are more interested in making a buck than taking care of their runners.

That’s why I’ve always been fond of the races in Jacksonville: Sensible entry fees and a passionate concern for the welfare of the runners.

That’s why it saddens me to say I won’t be returning to Jacksonville to run either the Jacksonville Marathon or the Gate River Run ever again.

Those bridges across the St. Johns are now in flames.