I am not a runner. Never have been; never will be. But I love to walk, logging several miles daily. A few years ago a friend of mine walked a half-marathon and my interest was piqued. “I could do that,” I thought to myself. Soon after I signed up for a 13-miler and enjoyed it so much I vowed to do another.

That opportunity presented itself last month when I walked the Whiterock Ultra in Coon Rapids, Iowa. The impetus for this walk occurred a year ago when I spent a weekend at Whiterock Conservancy when the same race also happened to be taking place. I was there with my closest friend, Jen, along with her husband and another of her best friends, named Lucy. Jen had been diagnosed with inoperable pancreatic cancer. We knew her time was limited so the weekend was especially precious. The morning of the race, she had a strong desire to go over to the course and watch the runners. It was a lovely sunny day, and, although ill, Jen was in good spirits. We didn’t know anyone competing, but we cheered the athletes on. Jen clapped and shouted “Woo hoo!” as each runner crossed the finish line. 

At some point, Lucy turned to me and said, “We should come back and do this next year.” Of course, we knew Jen would be gone. We’d do the race in her memory.

So when registration opened, Lucy, her husband, Mark, and I signed up. We all planned to walk – not run – and none of us intended to do the 50-mile or 50-kilometer options. My plan was to walk a half-marathon, and Mark and Lucy had not decided on a distance. The course packet clearly stated that participants must finish the entire race to receive a medal, but that did not bother me in the least. 

We arrived at the course bright and early. Tents and registration tables were set up at Whiterock’s River House along the Raccoon River. The 50-mile runners had started at midnight, wearing headlamps to illuminate the trails. The 50K runners were arriving with family and friends in tow, toting lawn chairs and coolers, looking like they’d done this before. 

The course consisted of several loops through Whiterock’s 5,500 acres of meadow, pasture and timber. Each loop brought the runner back to River House to cross a finish line and then start out on the next loop. The day promised to be clear and bright, hot and humid. 

The 50K group set off on a dirt road by the river. The runners spread out quickly and Mark pulled ahead; soon it was just Lucy and me walking together. The road turned into a trail, river on one side, white oaks all around. We walked past several ponds, up some steep hills, following the flags that marked our route, grateful for the slight breeze as the sun climbed. Squirrels jumped up trees, and the sound of sparrows and blue jays accompanied us. 

We went through a meadow thick with blooming prairie flowers and then into timber, where we came upon a bramble of ripe wild raspberries, which we stopped to pick and eat by the handfuls. From the woods, we headed across a grassy field where some cows and calves were grazing, past a campground and onto a gravel road to a trail where majestic vistas of the river valley opened up. Over and down we went, in awe of the wildflowers, taking in the smell of grass and woods. The heat picked up, but we followed the flags until we walked across the finish line for the first loop. 

We’d done seven and a half miles. Lucy was content to end there. I consulted with a volunteer about the best path to get to my half-marathon goal. She suggested I do a longer loop, maybe even the entire route. “You can do it!” she said. “I know you could do the whole race!” Despite her confidence, I had no desire to walk 50K, which is 31 miles. But several other strangers chimed in, encouraging me to go the whole way.

For a moment, I thought, “Well, I could probably do it.” My competitive spirit reared its head. But then I reminded myself the entire point had been to walk in Jen’s memory and my goal had been to do 13 miles. I decided to stick to my original plan.

So I filled up my water bottles and made my own path. I enjoyed walking alone, stopping to take pictures of the sun reflecting on the ponds, the light on the river, the bur oaks dotting the meadows. After climbing one particularly steep hill, I sat under a shade tree to catch my breath and watched a red-tailed hawk soaring in the sky. 

I walked on, chatting with some mountain bikers, passing more calves, taking in corn fields, traversing a gravel road, heading down the valley. I encountered some 50-mile runners who had started in the dark. Sweat ran down their faces in the heat, but they strode deliberately. I marveled at their endurance. 

As I neared my 13th mile, I turned a corner out of the woods and came upon an entire meadow of bee balm. Millions of fragrant lavender blossoms stretched out before me. The heat had become overwhelming, so I stopped in the shade to take in the beauty of the flowers and drink some water. 

Not long after, I arrived back at the River House and walked over the finish line. Spectators clapped and yelled, “Way to go!” Lucy and Jen’s husband were waiting in a cool spot on the lawn. Soon Mark arrived and then headed out again on his next loop. 

While I had not completed the Ultra marathon, I had met my own goal. I had not cared about time, or about receiving a medal. I didn’t worry that the race officials or other runners would judge or criticize me for not doing the entire course, or for walking. As far as I was concerned, this was my own race and I had enjoyed every minute of it. 

As I headed home, I reflected that each of us is on our own path. You may not care about others’ rules or their desires for how you should fulfill their expectations. Sometimes you may want recognition for your efforts, and other times you may not care about what may be important to other people. Our job as leaders, colleagues, loved ones and friends is to support each person in meeting their own personal goals. They’ll do it in their own way, and that is OK. And our job for ourselves is to decide how we show up and how we approach our journey.

Jen was walking her own path last year. Perhaps that is why she found such joy in cheering for the runners that day. She had been an adventurer, and she had always savored the ride. Sometimes, it is not about where you end. Sometimes, where you end is really just the beginning. And sometimes, the finish line is only part of your story.

For more information about Whiterock, go to www.whiterockconservancy.org. For more information about the Whiterock Ultra, go to whiterockultra.com.