Chapter 8
CHARLIE
BIG SKY, BIG MILES, BIG SMILES!
The sign over the finish-line arch for our weekend of races in Kalispell, Montana, is cheesy and dorky – and absolutely perfect.
It’s a whole weekend of events. The marquee event is today, fifty miles. Tomorrow, on Sunday, the marathon and the half start bright and early, then we pack up and leave town.
The shorter distances are new this year. FIRE already paid to shut down the roads in and out of town, so we got our permits extended and added two more distances to maximize the number of participants (and race entry fees).
“I’m going on a coffee run; you want anything?” Ana asks. We both had to get up before dawn and we look it.
“Yes!” I yawn out and hand her some cash before relaying my very specific order. “Half-caf, iced latte with almond milk.”
“No syrups, no sugars?” Ana asks, not even batting an eye.
“Nope,” I respond, once again surprised that the small details of my life that are so specific and altered by my condition aren’t as big of a deal to others. I’ve been building it up too much in my own mind.
We arrived on site an hour before the fifty-mile ultra-marathon began.
The start of a race always feels ritualistic.
The different elements of the religious ceremony that is a run of this length.
Praise for the earth and the joints. Also questioning why.
Why do this? Why am I putting myself through this?
Who am I trying to prove it to? And then the triumphant celebration, the dopamine hit to end all others, the crash and then: when is the next one?
My pangs of longing, of missing the thrill of a finish-line chute, were quickly erased by the long list of tasks to handle while the race was underway.
I’ve been Oliver’s shadow all day. Snapping photos of him doing the iconic start-line speech and sending them to our social media manager back in Tampa.
Meeting with local officials for the city and state, reconnecting with top run coaches.
“Oh, you’re Tom’s daughter,” most of them said as they shook my hand, eyeing my feet, confirming I am indeed wearing shoes and not barefoot like my father is famous for. Oliver was quick to jump in and sing my praises, even though I’ve only been on the team for two weeks.
I’m proud to be Tom Ross’s daughter. I was his assistant coach for four years. But I want to be my own person too.
The finish line is anything but quiet as the runners are out on the fifty-mile ultra-marathon course.
Most won’t finish for several hours, but family and friends are camped out with signs for their loved ones, huddled close to the Wi-Fi router to be able to track their runner on our app.
It’s the same scene at every race. Someone finds reliable Wi-Fi and everyone gloms on.
Ana returns with our coffees and I find a table to lean against in the merchandise tent.
Some of our coworkers are milling around here and throughout the race expo area.
A few of the other team members from merchandise, expo, and operations are doing a relay for the half-marathon.
Trey from travel is on site this weekend too, which seems a little odd.
Apparently, before his days working a desk job, he used to haul the frames and arches and set up the expo.
He’s chatting with Ahmed, who is a six-foot wall of muscle.
If he didn’t have an infectious laugh and smile, he would be super intimidating.
They’re chatting nearby, trying to come up with a punny team name.
“Are you doing the relay tomorrow?” Ana asks while checking her phone.
“Nah, I’ve got to shadow Oliver,” I reply, happy for the excuse that has nothing to do with my condition.
“I’m sure he can spare you for thirty minutes,” Ahmed says, clearly eavesdropping. He’s younger than me and fit and muscular. He definitely looks like a guy who can lift two pop tents and haul them to the box trucks without breaking a sweat.
“Nope. Besides, I just got these sneakers.” I point to my fresh shoes.
I was told I needed to wear the brand that sponsors our events.
“If I ran in these, it would be blister city.” There, now I have two solid reasons that can’t be resolved.
I’m grateful that none of my coworkers know about my condition, but I also wish they knew not to ask at all.
It’s not that I hate running. I love it.
Loved it. Too much. “Maybe next time.” I shrug and turn my attention back to Ana.
Trey and Ahmed refocus their attention on which team name will be the most “epic.” “The kids’ race goes off in thirty minutes.
I have five minutes before I need to round up the emcee and PR so they can get the images they need to promote it,” I remind her.
“Oh my goodness! The kids are so cute. The parents are so . . . insufferable. Like, it’s a two-hundred-meter dash, calm down.” Ana rolls her eyes.
I know exactly what she is talking about.
It will be approximately three minutes of cute overload as kids from two to seven run in oversized FIRE Kalispell T-shirts and do their own variation of celebration dances when they cross the finish line.
The only thing possibly cuter will be the doggy-dash during tomorrow’s races.
“I’ve got to fetch Celine,” I say with a sigh.
“She’s supposed to gather the local press for the dash, but she’s been hanging with Raj, our ‘celebrity guest’ all day.
” Most runners doing the fifty-miler will tackle it solo.
But we have an option for a team relay. Three to four friends can all switch off and conquer the course together.
Raj Reddy, Mr. 300 Million YouTube Subscribers, also known as King Cool, is running our event with his friends.
And recording a video for the channel. This is a big win for Celine. I have to give it to her.
“Ugh, of course she is. I get that she’s PR, but she acts so superior because she works directly with ‘celebrities’.” Ana sneers as she says this.
I agree. Raj is mega famous, yes. But he’s also just a guy.
“Better than the third-place finisher on last season’s Bachelorette who did the ultra-tri in Wisconsin and threw a diva fit in transition and stormed off course. At least Raj seems nice.”
“No way!” I shake my head in disbelief. I guess diva celebrities do exist. I thought it was a bad stereotype.
“Yup, I saw the whole thing. Almost posted about it but didn’t want to start a social media meltdown. Besides, Celine is playing nice with the network. I guess they want Oliver to do The Golden Bachelor,” Ana explains.
The thought of Uncle Ollie on a reality show to find a partner is hilarious to me. And also, ew, that’s my uncle. I don’t want to see that.
“OK, I need to go boil my brain to erase the thought of my boss dating a harem of women on national TV,” I say and pretend to retch before I set off for where Celine and Raj are standing near a line of trees on the relay path.
I try to politely interrupt her conversation with Raj and not appear starstruck.
“Hey, Celine, Oliver needs the local press for the children’s race,” I tell her.
Celine looks like she just stepped out of a catalog for running gear.
Her hair is in a perfect ponytail, no bumps or knots in sight.
Her black tights have mesh cutouts running down her legs, her sneakers don’t have a single scuff or smudge on them, and she is cover-worthy even without any makeup on.
Celine eyes me as if I am one of the many gnats buzzing around the park, mutters “Ah yes,” and walks away without introducing me to Raj.
I decide to say hello, because even though he is four years younger than me, he is kind of my hero. “Hi, Raj, I’m Charlie. I’m Oliver’s assistant. If you or your team need anything, let me know.”
Raj was once a rail-thin teenager with glasses and a smattering of acne on his face. He has evolved as much as his business has and now he has muscles and clear brown skin.
“I don’t want to be a fangirl, but I love your lo w-inflammation-diet-friendly snacks,” I tell him, because, in truth, his videos and his recipes saved me from the dark spiral I was in a few years ago.
Raj shakes my hand. “That’s awesome. You a sickie too?” he asks, referring to the loving nickname he has given himself and other autoimmune sufferers.
“Yep,” I say, pretending my condition is a badge of honor.
Raj is outspoken about his experience with lupus and his recent second autoimmune diagnosis of psoriatic arthritis.
How he manages to run multiple YouTube channels, a snack company, and global philanthropy without going into a flare is so impressive.
“Oh yeah, what you got?” he asks, as one of his friends who is a regular on his channel runs by in a chicken costume.
Of course the hook for Raj’s relay video is that he is making his friends run it in ridiculous outfits.
One a chicken, another has $10,000 taped to his chest, a third is wearing beer-bottle-opener flip-flops.
Not recommended footwear, but Celine was willing to let it slide for the sake of the exposure we’ll get on his channel.
“Eosinophilic fasciitis,” I tell him, expecting his eyes to glaze over.
Instead, he smiles and gives me a nod of approval.
“Ooh, a rarity, aren’t we?” His sarcastic praise encourages me to do a twirl and bow.
In the few times I’ve interacted with other autoimmune suffers my age, we tend to commiserate by sharing diagnoses, medicines, and food restrictions like trading cards.
“Hey, I’ve got to go help with the kids’ race.
Want to come watch? I know so many of them are going to freak when they see you!
” It’s true. Raj is a hero to so many kids who started watching him play and review video games and fantasy chapter books.
Now he gives away money to schools and they view him as a real-life Batman or Superman.
Raj is excited and waves for one of his cameramen to follow him. The kids’ race start is about a quarter-mile from where we are standing, so I take my chance to keep chatting with Raj. I mean, how cool is this?!
“How was the trip out here?” I ask, assuming Raj took a private jet with his friends and equipment.
“Well, our bags got lost and my medicine was stolen off my front porch two days before we had to leave, so I had to have an emergency prescription called in.” I’m shocked by all of this.
That Raj flies commercial even with his vast wealth.
And, also, the audacity of someone stealing medicine.
I’ve avoided going back on a prescription for three years now.
The damage my last medicine did to my liver was enough to convince me that diet and lifestyle management was my route to health.
I can’t imagine the stress of replacing (and re-paying for) medicine.
“That’s so horrible. I’m glad you found your bags and got your meds. And still, you’re here filming and tomorrow you’ll help others. It’s admirable that you’re doing it all.”
“I like helping people.” He shrugs. “I also hate that more people aren’t doing something.
The heads of these big tech companies or other billionaires, they don’t help.
If the richest one percent, or point one percent, are hoarding their wealth and doing the bare minimum or keeping things as is, then it’s time to shake it up.
To show what real wealth can and should do.
” Once again I’m inspired by him. I remind myself that in a small way I’m helping too.
By putting on events that bring out the best in people.
We get to the start line of the kids’ race.
Celine is at the finish line with Oliver and the local press.
The emcee for our race has a microphone in hand and is ready to count the kids down.
He spots Raj and gives him a big welcome.
The kids jump up and down and cheer for his camera.
Raj walks over to our emcee and asks to borrow the microphone.
“This is a fun and friendly competition. No pushing or shoving. Help each other out,” Raj says before adding an impromptu incentive. “Also, first to the finish line gets fifty thousand dollars for their college fund.”
The parents’ eyes go wide. The kids squeal with delight. And then our emcee counts down: “Three, two, one! Have fun!”
The cutest two hundred meters in sports goes off as expected. With smiles, stumbles, and at least two kids who stand at the start line unsure of what to do.