Everybody gathers to watch THE VERY BEGINNING. The starter pistol blasts, and my running partner and I take off. Those fresh first steps—larger than life—garner admiration. It’s really a significant something to start the long race—to commit to doing it in the first place. Heavy preparation leads up to it: hours of training, instructional books, needed counsel, planned attire.
The crowd applauds and shouts encouragement, but early on, they go home. No one waits around for the end. They have their own lives, see.
And still, we run.
We grab energy gel packs here or there, squeeze them into our mouths, gulp some water, and keep moving. At mile seven, a kid jumps into the race with us, and it’s harder to pay full attention to my running partner, but he’s there.
At miles nine and twelve, two more kids join us. Along the route, the second two do things with the first one—things like squirm and dash and whine—and I wonder if they’ll make it. But yes, they will, and out of the corner of my eye, there’s my partner, still matching my stride.
I look at my watch. The young ones hamper our pace, but I’m happy for the slowing. We’ve got a long way to go. Does speed even matter? The distraction of them brings humor, light, and more purpose to our run.
But where are the onlookers? No one waits around for the end. They have their own lives, see.
And still, we run.
There’s a wall at nineteen miles, they say. A mental wall. Some people give in to the difficulty, collapse under the pressure. Some make it through, of course, while others drop out earlier. There are always reasons—reasons I can’t judge because I don’t know. And I struggle to breathe too sometimes, but I don’t want to stop.
Today we’re at the thirty-two-mile mark, and the crowds are far away. And what of our three little running companions? They’re big, strong, able-bodied, and efficient. They still log steps with us sometimes, but mostly, they race on their own.
I smile at my running partner, our worn shoes, our methodical strides, our similar pace. The unnecessary has dropped away, and though long, our run together has gotten smoother, sweeter, softer.
People are aware we’re still running, but no one waits around for the end. They have their own lives, see.
And still, we run.
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*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.