The Dakar Marathon 2016 Saga - Part 1: The Prologue
The emotional roller coaster leading up to the day of the big race served to prepare me for the event itself. The challenge of attaining my bib number was something you'd have to live in the developing world to understand. Because the organizers had allowed people to sign up until two days before the races, they were way behind in assigning bib numbers. Despite every effort to secure mine, I was still bereft of the required number, so we made our way as a family to the site of the race Saturday afternoon.
As I handed my receipt and ID to the woman behind the table, I prepared myself for the worst. Sure enough, after thumbing through several files, as well as going to the back to check the computer, the kind French lady informed me that my file was incomplete and indicated that I had not paid. I politely replied, "Madame, how could I not have paid if I have a receipt right here?" Hot tears of sadness and disappointment filled my eyes as I implored her to find a solution. Although we were surrounded by a crowd of people (in no particular line or order) also requiring assistance, and even though I had three more bib numbers to pick up for friends from church, she told me she'd see what she could do.
While waiting for resolution for my own problem, I prayed none more would arise regarding my friends' bib numbers. A few minutes later, she returned with one bib in hand, but added that the other two friends weren't even in the database. They simply didn't exist. She tried to hand me their IDs back and move on to the next person, but I kept my hands behind my back and once again made my case, "Madame, I don't know whose mistake this is, but it's not ours. We all paid, and we all have receipts to prove it. How can I go back to my friends and tell them they can't run their race?" Once again, she patiently replied that she would see what she could do.
The young Senegalese guy behind the set of tables was there more for crowd control than to a
help Distribute bib numbers. He informed me they were getting ready to close for the night and that we needed to clear the hall. With candor and a smile, I firmly declared, in Wolof, "I'm not going home without my bib number. I'll sleep right on this table if I have to!"
From some unseen office, the French lady emerged with two more bibs for my friends. Mine was still nowhere to be found. My new friend behind the table took pity on me and discreetly handed me two runners packs (a bag with pen, water bottle, and hat, all bearing the logos of the marathon sponsors) - even though they'd long ago announced that they'd run out.
Finally, after roughly an hour of waiting and pleading, my bib number somehow materialized. I was among the last to leave. My heart filled with joy and gratitude. Then it hit me. This is for real. I'm running this marathon. Now I can stop being nervous about whether or not I'm going to get to run my race and start getting nervous that I have to run 26.2 miles tomorrow morning!
(Click here to read about the early morning the day of the race and here to read about the thrill of the race itself).
As I handed my receipt and ID to the woman behind the table, I prepared myself for the worst. Sure enough, after thumbing through several files, as well as going to the back to check the computer, the kind French lady informed me that my file was incomplete and indicated that I had not paid. I politely replied, "Madame, how could I not have paid if I have a receipt right here?" Hot tears of sadness and disappointment filled my eyes as I implored her to find a solution. Although we were surrounded by a crowd of people (in no particular line or order) also requiring assistance, and even though I had three more bib numbers to pick up for friends from church, she told me she'd see what she could do.
While waiting for resolution for my own problem, I prayed none more would arise regarding my friends' bib numbers. A few minutes later, she returned with one bib in hand, but added that the other two friends weren't even in the database. They simply didn't exist. She tried to hand me their IDs back and move on to the next person, but I kept my hands behind my back and once again made my case, "Madame, I don't know whose mistake this is, but it's not ours. We all paid, and we all have receipts to prove it. How can I go back to my friends and tell them they can't run their race?" Once again, she patiently replied that she would see what she could do.
The young Senegalese guy behind the set of tables was there more for crowd control than to a
help Distribute bib numbers. He informed me they were getting ready to close for the night and that we needed to clear the hall. With candor and a smile, I firmly declared, in Wolof, "I'm not going home without my bib number. I'll sleep right on this table if I have to!"
From some unseen office, the French lady emerged with two more bibs for my friends. Mine was still nowhere to be found. My new friend behind the table took pity on me and discreetly handed me two runners packs (a bag with pen, water bottle, and hat, all bearing the logos of the marathon sponsors) - even though they'd long ago announced that they'd run out.
Finally, after roughly an hour of waiting and pleading, my bib number somehow materialized. I was among the last to leave. My heart filled with joy and gratitude. Then it hit me. This is for real. I'm running this marathon. Now I can stop being nervous about whether or not I'm going to get to run my race and start getting nervous that I have to run 26.2 miles tomorrow morning!
(Click here to read about the early morning the day of the race and here to read about the thrill of the race itself).
Comments
Post a Comment