The other day, I wasn’t quite sure how to make sense of the box of goodies that had been left behind at the 30km mark—the first table we supported at during Comrades. We had sport gels, empty packets, running kit—some clean, some very much not—that needed to be sorted and cleaned. These items might only make their way back to their owners in a week or two, and I certainly didn’t want anyone receiving two-week-old sweaty clothes.

The problem? Not everything was marked. I wanted to make sure that when I washed the items, I could place them back into the correct packet afterwards. So I took photos of each bag and its contents. Great plan—until I noticed that two runners had identical-looking gloves. The only difference? One pair was slightly thicker than the other.

So I sent myself a WhatsApp message to keep track: “Dash’s gloves are thicker.”

I do not often message myself, and because I’ve left WhatsApp Web open on my desktop and it’s pinned under my name (otherwise I miss notifications on my phone for other contacts), that little note became the first thing I read most mornings this past week: “Dash’s gloves are thicker.”

It made me smile every time. And not just because of the slightly absurd nature of the message. It reminded me—quietly and beautifully—of the kind of running community I get to be part of. One where we care enough to make plans like this. To send ourselves notes about gloves. To ensure that the right things make their way back to the right people.

And the thing is, it’s not one-sided. I know these are the same people who would do the same for me. People who show up. Who remembers. Who make mental notes, take photos, and send silly messages—because they care.

Running teaches us about endurance, sure. But sometimes it also teaches us about tenderness. That behind the big finish lines and the loud cheers are smaller moments of unseen effort. Acts of care. The kind that no one claps for, but that hold everything together.

That’s what support looks like. Not just the loud encouragement, but the quiet organising. The kit-washing. The glove-sorting. The funny little reminder that someone is looking out for you, even if it’s just through a message that says your gloves are the thicker ones.

Much of who I am and what I do, I can only do—or be—because of others who support me along the way. Who do invisible work and care in ways I might never notice.

Who knows that your gloves are thicker? If no one, is it not time you find yourself such a community?