Hi.  My name is Katy.  I ring cowbells.  And, as a cowbell ringer, I get asked two questions on a pretty regular basis.

Question number 1:  Where in the world do you buy cowbells? 

Answer:  My current set came from the dollar bins at Target, plus one that came from cheering my brother on at the Boston Marathon and another came from my Grandma.  There’s also a couple of bear bells in my bag just in case.

Question number 2:  Why?  Why do you ring cowbells?

Answer:  Because I have to.

You see, I come from a long line of cowbell ringers.  We didn’t always ring cowbells.  It started with air horns, those obnoxious, loud danger-alerting canisters with a button and a bull horn designed to call attention to sinking ships.  We used those at my brother’s junior league football games.  My family adopted cowbells when my brother turned in his football helmet for bike cleats and we realized blasting a cacophonous honk 12 inches from a passing triathlete was not a good idea.  Or welcomed.    At all.

In the past four decades, I have rung cowbells at 5ks, 10ks, half-marathons, marathons, triathlons and two Ironmans.  So when my son came home in third grade and announced he wanted to join the cross country team, my mom asking, “Do you want me to send the cowbells?” made perfect sense.

Except I had never been to a cross country meet before, let alone rung cowbells at one.  Cross country always struck me as a golf volume sport not a football volume sport.  But maybe I was wrong.  In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized this new territory, possibly a whole new world of bell ringing needed investigating.  No dedicated cowbell ringer ever passed up the opportunity to ring!

I emailed the PE teacher.  Could I ring?  She gave my proposal two thumbs up with one condition:  Ring for one, ring for all.  Well, of course!  “No problem, I can do that!” I told her.  And thus, unwittingly, I signed up for my own version of an endurance sport.  You see, in elementary school cross country meets, runners are split not only by grade, but by sex.  6^th grade girls run first, 6^th grade boys next, then 5^th grade girls, 5^th grade boys, and so on until last, but not least, the 3^rd grade boys run.  Ring for one, ring for all.  And I did.

I’d like to think I started a trend of sorts.  That first year, I was the only cowbell ringer on the course.  Actually, on any course.  I got weird looks, confused looks, wrinkled brows, scrunched up noses, and a few fingers in ears from spectators and runners alike.  But I didn’t care, because I discovered another look, the best look of the lot.  This one was from the runners who, after traveling longer than their elementary school legs had ever gone before, rounded the last corner and heard me first, then saw me standing there, ringing like the madwoman I am, and they smiled because they couldn’t help themselves.

Over the year, many of them, upon crossing the finish line, would come stand by me for the younger grades, asking if they too could ring.  Many a meet, I’d find myself cowbell-less, having given them all out to student runners who wanted to take up the call.  Ring for one, ring for all, I’d tell them.  And they did.

Why do I ring?  Because I run – slowly.

Yesterday was my daughter’s first junior high cross country meet.  Anna didn’t run.  She sprained her ankle on Monday and was still recovering.  Dressed in a bright orange volunteer vest, she headed out somewhere on the course to direct traffic.  I took up my post at the top of the hill, bells out, ready to ring and direct kids around the cone to the finish line.  Girls lined up first, mixed 7^th and 8^th graders, the whistle blew, and I started ringing.  I’m pretty sure a few parents jumped.  The whistle they expected.  The loud, discord clanging and “Woohoo”-ing from the crazy lady by the orange pylon, not so much.  As the girls disappeared around the school and into the woods, I stopped and waited.  At the first sign of lead runner again, I rang again – and kept ringing until the last runner came out and ran by me.

There are several differences between elementary school and junior high cross country meets.  For starters, the course is 2 miles, not a ½.  Secondly, all the girls run at once, then all the boys, pitting stronger, taller, more athletic older kids against younger.  Lastly, there is a time keeper keeping track of just how fast or just how slow you run, and everybody is looking at you and everybody knows.  Success is awesome, but failure on the junior high stage can be devastatingly public.

Around mile 2 of my first marathon, my brother who was running it with me, turned to me and said, “You know, Katy, you only have to run one marathon to call yourself a marathoner.”  Marathoners have a certain understanding of what it takes to commit to running 26.2 miles, much like runners attempting their first 5K or half or dealing with a pulled IT band or frustration of a sprained ankle.  Running is an odd sport.  It’s one of those things that when you talk to a fellow runner, they are genuinely thrilled you run.  Who cares how fast?  Who cares how long?  You run!  You’re a runner!  High Five!  But this isn’t something you necessarily understand at the age of 12 or 13, and that can make being the last kid out of the woods hard.

I ring for all.  I ring for the kids who come in first, who breeze by me and don’t even look like they’re breathing hard.  They have a spring in their step, as if they aren’t so much running as bouncing toward the end.  These kids were born to run and beautiful to watch.

I ring for the kids in the middle of the pack.  These kids are strong, steady, determined.  These are the kids who will be lifelong runners because they love this sport.  Some run to get in shape for other sports; some are meant for longer distances and 2 miles is just too short to show off what they’re capable of.  But they run because they can.

But, in all honesty, I ring more for the kids in the back, the ones with the red faces, breathing hard, determined, stubborn.  These are the focused kids, the ones who know exactly how long they’ve run and how much farther they have to go and still, they keep going.  These are the kids who have mantras running through their heads.  One more step.  One more step.  Run to the tree.  Run to the next tree.  These are my peeps, and I ring because when I run, I want people to ring for me.

Yesterday, I stood next to a mom who borrowed one of my cowbells and very gamely rang right along with me.  As we rang, I noticed the spectators cheering, clapping.  I saw teammates who had finished go back to run alongside those who were still on the course.  I heard the daughter of the mom next to me come up and exclaim, “I cut 8 minutes off my time, Mom!  8 minutes!”

This is running.  It’s a sport for the fast, for the slow, for everyone in between.  I ring because that bell makes people smile.  It’s beacon calls to runners, ‘This way.  Way to go.  One more lap, one more step, one more.  You can do it!  I’m ringing for you.’

I ring for all the kids who toe the line and have the courage to keep going until they cross it.   No one leads them to that point except themselves.  They may not know it now, but that strength, that determination is what will help them lead and ultimately succeed one step at a time.  They are runners.  And I ring for them all.