The alarm went off at 6 a.m. this morning so that my husband could stumble down the stairs and prepare himself to race in the annual 5k that winds its way through our neighborhood. He's been training for weeks, somehow finding the strength to pull on his sneakers every night after the kids have finally gone to sleep. Most nights he runs in the dark at about 9 o'clock at night. While he grumbles from time to time, there can be no doubt that this man is committed and maybe just a tad obsessed.
Today, the kids and I waited anxiously on our front yard. It was a beautiful September morning. The layer of fog that had blanketed our neighborhood had just lifted and the sun was shining. It was a bit chilly and there was no wind. As the flashing blue lights of the police car made their way down our street, we drew closer to the road. The first runner was a tall man who effortlessly glided over the pavement in long, confident strides. He was probably in his thirties and was wearing a shirt from a marathon. By the time he passed our house, about a mile and a quarter into the race, he was about a quarter of a mile ahead of the second runner. I just watched him in awe. I didn't feel the need to clap; this guy didn't need my encouragement. He clearly had some serious genetic help.
The second runner was more frenzied than the first. He was trying to keep up with the gazelle that kept pulling further and further away from him. But he still was a very strong runner, who also didn't need my applause. He didn't look particularly friendly . . . just focused.
Then we spotted the red jersey that my husband was wearing and we erupted into cheers. This was someone who definitely needed our support. Nothing is effortless about my husband's running stride. You can tell that he is pushing himself to an uncomfortable point. But that man is nothing if not persistent. While he may not be genetically gifted, he trains hard and he's not afraid to push himself to the point of pain. He has overcome some unbelievable obstacles in his life and he's not someone who will ever quit and just start walking.
After he had passed, a large mass of runners went by who represented the middle of the pack. These were mostly dedicated runners who train pretty regularly. A lot of them were smiling and enjoying the race. Their infectious positive energy pulled us into the race and made us cheer louder. These runners knew that they were not going to win the race, but they didn't care. They were running for fun, because it feels good while you're doing it and feels even better when you're done.
As this group dwindled, there was a pause in the race and then came the last group. This final group was comprised of people who were struggling just to finish the race. Most of these people had looks of determination on their sweat-streaked, red faces. They were not smiling. They were not having fun. They were struggling to find a rhythm even as their lungs burned and their legs ached. We reserved our loudest cheers for this group. Although they were facing inevitable defeat and would still be running long after the first runner had finished, these people kept going . . . trying not to walk too often. My daughter and her friend launched into a cheer for this group of: "Go, runners, go! Go, runners, go!" This caused almost all of the people in this group to instantaneously break out into smiles and thank us for the encouragement. These people felt good about their accomplishment and we all felt proud that they had earned the right to be called "runners."
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