The Marathon

I ran my first marathon about a month ago.  Twenty (freaking) six point two miles through the heart of Philadelphia.  It was everything they said it would be.

The thing that sticks with me was the spectators:  Thousands upon thousands of friends and family and strangers lining the streets of the city to watch and root us on.

They clapped.
They cheered.
They rang bells.
They offered encouragement.
They offered water and juice.
One guy offered me beer (I love you, dude).
They made me laugh.  My favorite sign read, “Hurry up!  The Kenyans are drinking all the beer!”

What they didn’t offer was pity.  They didn’t express their condolences for the pain we were enduring.  They didn’t whisper, “I just don’t know how you do it”.  They didn’t cry for us:  the thousands of runners who were enduring a great challenge for a thousand different personal reasons and goals because they knew, when we crossed that finish line all those miles in the distance, there would be triumph; we would be better.

They just offered tiny gestures of support.  And, it was perfect.