Social contract

by Amy White
April 9, 2002
(www.slowtwitch.com)

It all started with a Girl Scout cookie.

Well, with the delivery of the Girl Scout cookies. We usually buy lots of them, both to support the girls and because my husband cannot resist the Do-Si-Dos.

So this charming Girl Scout showed up at my office not long ago to make her delivery, and we were talking about the good things her troop does—like every year helping hand out water at the race I direct. Then I saw her mom, and shared a few words with her about how cool her daughters are.

As I walked away, it occurred to me that this woman has helped round up girls to work at our race for five years. Five years of phone calls, driving arrangements, vanpooling, girl-corraling. And I bet when the alarm rings on the Saturday morning of my race, that even fantastic people like this mom might just curse their generosity as they roll out of bed.

It's early, there's a good bit of work ahead, it's the weekend. What's to like in that scenario, really? At least on the first blush of it, at the alarm-ringing moment?

But they show up, every year, and the girls have a good time. I think their parents do, too. I hope so. The runners just love them. Love seeing them, hearing their excited cheers, taking their little cups of water.

And it occurred to me that this mother helping round up these girls each year is doing what we all do—or maybe, if I can be so bold, what we all need to do more of. She's fulfilling the social contract.

It's the bargain we all make when we go to an event, or so it seems to me. In essence, it's this: You'll be there for me, someday I'll be there for you. In order for us to keep our sport—and, on a global scale, our daily lives—going, we need to help each other out. That is the spirit of the contract. These girls show up every year. So, I ask you, what's a dozen boxes of cookies between friends? And I'll show up somewhere else, just to even out the karmic balance.

Every year, a small army of volunteers makes possible all of the races we do. And that doesn't even count the volunteers behind the volunteers: If a passel of kids show up to work a race, and aren't old enough to drive, how do you think they got there? Phone calls, carpools, organizing. All for you. And me.

A policeman controlling an intersection in Kona last year cheerfully informed me that it was going to be a 17-hour day for him—in a dark-colored uniform that so greedily soaked up all the sun's heat. Sure, he probably got paid, but he was there for you. And for me. And he was happy about it, even if he probably cursed ever-so-slightly under his breath when the alarm went off.

I guess that's my point: The beauty of the social contract, if you're to be honest about it, is that there are plenty of times you do the thing that is inconvenient because you said you would. Because your word means something, or because you really believe your help is needed. The beauty of it is that it's OK to feel that way. As long as you suck it up and show up, your mood will be lifted and your efforts rewarded a thousandfold. I can practically guarantee it.

Tell you a little story: There was a big race in my town the weekend after the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks: The Triathlon at Pacific Grove. Race director Terry Davis had decided to go forward, a decision he'd reached after great consideration and conversation within his organization.

Well before this, our triathlon club had said yes to Terry's request to staff an aid station on the run course. It's a multi-loop course so you see the athletes a lot, which is great from a volunteer perspective because it means you're not far away from the finish and, if your friends are racing, you have lots of opportunities to abuse them as they go by.

But in those early days after Sept. 11, nobody wanted to tease anybody about anything. The day before the race I was thinking Terry had made the right decision. But when my alarm went off the next morning (super-early so I could get a run in before the race), I discovered that my mood had plummeted. I had become worn down by the grief of the week. I'd been to a funeral for one of the victims the night before, and I was now in no mood to do much of anything except watch the news obsessively.

I hauled my carcass out of bed, reminded myself that I'd PROMISED to be there, went off for a run with my husband, and then on to the race. I walked to the race glumly, just sure that my foul mood was not mine alone. I wagered that the athletes would be sad, too.

How wrong I was. I got to the aid station, staffed by my friends, and saw other friends go running by. One, in the Air Force, was carrying a small flag as he ran. Carrying it, ramrod-straight and steady. Others were wearing flags, or flag-motif clothing. They were smiling, they were proud, they were defiant. It was one of the most uplifting days I've seen in triathlon, and proved to me the power of sport to lift people's spirits. But that's an essay for another day.

The thing was, I'd given my word, and I'd met my obligation. And in spite of myself, I had a great day. I was actually saddened when it was time for me to get back into my car and return to the new world order—the news on the radio, the grieving, the terror, all of it.

As the racing season gets underway here, give a thought to the contract. Make sure you're holding up your end of the bargain. Don't just show up for a race, show up to help a time or two. I promise you'll get back so much more in return.

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