On marathons

We could see our breath, my sister and I, and the breath of dozens of others around us, all standing anxiously behind the rope and orange cones dividing us from the runners.

I made a note to self: Logan in September equals winter. I’d come to my parents for the weekend dressed in flip-flops and a t-shirt, so I was awkwardly dressed in an old brown sweater my mom bought in London in the ‘60s, a pair of oversized blue socks, and some moccasin-like slippers, two sizes too big. My stomach grumbled and I understood what it was telling me: “Me want more than poppyseed muffin for BREAKFAAAAST! RARRRRR!” I checked my watch. We had been standing near the finish line for the Top of Utah marathon for five long minutes, watching for Dad to come tearing heroically past us.

I started watching the runners. Some sprinted in with large grins on their faces, glowing rather than sweating, looking victorious and fit and ready to run ten more miles. Others looked pale and sick, limping across the finish line soaking with tears and sweat, tapping into their very last deeply embedded molecule of energy with every agonizing step. Another group fit somewhere in the middle: they looked somewhat happy to be finished, but were trying to conceal pain and emotion behind a smile or a tough face.

As I watched this sweaty parade jog, dash, and hobble past me, I made a goal to cheer for every person that went by until Dad appeared. Cari joined me: “Go pink lady!” “You look awesome, Nike!” “Nice finish, Michigan State!” My cheers got louder when we got an old person, a limper, or anyone that looked like living death. My voice got hoarser and hoarser, and I started warming up. In fact, when someone made eye contact and smiled because I was cheering for them, my heart turned into a giant furnace capable of powering the Boeing factory.

But I wasn’t the only one cheering. Everyone around me seemed to feel the same sense of compassion for these runners. Small old ladies were cheering for young shirtless men with long beards and dreadlocks. Children were rooting for other people’s grandmas and grandpas. Occasionally family members –including those just learning to walk – would step out from behind the rope to run the last leg with their loved ones. Race, age, class, religion, and appearances became meaningless against everyone’s desire to help each person survive to the end with kind words of encouragement. Everyday labels were replaced with uniform runner’s numbers on the back of everyone’s shirts. We became a family, all of us huddled behind the orange cones, and all of those persistent souls flocking their way to the sign that meant everything in that moment: “FINISH.”

We were complete strangers. But for a moment, it occurred to me that maybe we don’t have to be. In the marathon of life, why aren’t we screaming ourselves hoarse for each other? Do we not all deserve help in crossing our own personal finish lines, whatever those may be? Does not every hand deserve another’s – even a stranger’s – to be a guide and a strength for the last leg? If I learned nothing else from this run-down, soaking group of finishers, it’s that cheering for strangers of all shapes and sizes is cool. And pretty dang inspiring. And a great way to drown out a whiney stomach.

Oh, and my dad finished at around 4 hours with bronchitis, a strained Achilles tendon, and extra gray hairs. Everyone cheered real loud as he hobbled to his own personal victory.