“The secret to a long life is knowing when it’s time to go,” Michelle Shocked sang about a million years ago (or, maybe, it was the 1990s). I’d link to a video of her singing it but one doesn’t seem to exist. Because, again, this was a million years ago.

The older I get, the more I understand the song. The secret to a contented life, if not a long one, is knowing when what you are doing isn’t serving you anymore. Sometimes, you have to close a door so that the next one opens.

Which is how I went into last month’s Seneca 7, a 77.7 mile team relay around Seneca Lake in Central New York.

It’s a race that team Chafing Like a Flockstar has done twice before. We were set to run it again in 2020 but, well, you know how that turned out. Ditto 2021. Last year was going to be our return to glory. Life had other plans.

Our team is known for moxie and blind optimism. We made plans. We found a rental in Geneva. A van was acquired. We packed tutus and Flo the Inflatable Flamingo. We held our breath until 6:15 a.m. on Sunday when Lisa, runner number one, left the starting line. Like a well-oiled machine, we breezed through checkpoints and knew where everything was in the van and won the damn thing.

A runner in a pink tutu against a blue sky.

This is what winning looks like. 

I’m kidding. We were late to pick up Phoebe twice and Lisa once. An extra-dimensional portal in the van ate earbuds and jackets and hats. But in our books, “winning” = “finishing before we were timed-out.” We 100% won.

Plus, we had some serious Type 2 fun, especially once the sun gave up and the hail started. Comically heavy rain followed the hail. It looked like there was a stagehand with firehose on the back half of the course simply spraying runners in the face. Once we were all good and wet, it got good and cold. Nevertheless, we persisted — and I realized yet again that doing silly things with a squad of BAMRs is the absolute best, even if moments of it are awful.

Through a van window, you see a runner in an orange jacket checking off a list.

This was before the rain really started and washed our checklist clean off.

That’s at the crux of closing my Seneca 7 career with this race. I want to do new silly awful things with this crew and not have to schedule them around this particular weekend in April, which has always been a challenge for those in academia.

We will find other running-related hijinks and shenanigans. There was talk of a Jello-themed 7K because it would be an instant PR. There are mumblings of the Rim-to-Rim deal that Dimity and others have done. Heck, we even considered going to a race and just cheering because we have more than enough cowbell and enthusiasm.

Seven runners in front of the lake. There is an inflatable flamingo.

Frozen, soaked, and VICTORIOUS.

And that, dear readers, was the sound of another door opening. Besides, our bowing out allows another team to step in. If nothing else, we want someone else to run through whatever weather Upstate New York has to throw at you. We are givers.

Knowing this was my swan song propelled my legs to bust out splits I haven’t seen in quite some time. I did not expect to look at my Coros and see an 11 as the first number. It was fire, as the kids say.

My last and longest run was, at best, a mild smolder. By then, we were pretty sure we’d make the final cut-off point with a good 40 minutes to spare. I knew I could amble a bit and really take one of the few the trail sections on the course. It was quiet in those woods and soothing, especially after the better part of the day spent in careening from checkpoint to checkpoint. To say nothing of the previous week spent scrambling to get all of the gear and snacks together to get to the race start in the first place.

A light-up flamingo on a dashboard against a dark gray sky.

When all else fails, find the van with the neon flamingo.

Somewhere in those woods, after the snowplow but before the decaying hospital, I knew my decision was the right one for me. It’s time to go and to see what else there is.