Marathon!

Her bib was orange, signifying that she was running the ultramarathon, and she was laboring toward the finish line, rounding off her 31st mile. "STRONG FINISH!" shouted a well-meaning spectator and the woman grimaced, turning to the man running next to her. "There is no strong finish," she said. "There is only finish." She says it like a mantra, again, like she's reminding herself. "There is only finish." And on she runs.

**

"I could have been a runner," says my mother-in-law. "I could have run marathons. I really liked that kind of thing when I was younger." She stares thoughtfully at the runners huffing past us.

**

Near the finish line the crowd pushes against the gates, cheering wildly as runner after runner come bounding around the corner, end goal in sight. A sudden hush. A tall, thin man with ropey muscles is bent at a 90-degree angle, held up on either side by two men with grim faces. The bent man stares at the ground, pale, sweat pouring from his brow. His feet continue shuffling forward and when a medic comes in to intervene he lunges his body in such a way that pushes the medic away. And he continues shuffling on as the two men keep him upright, just so he can feel his feet cross that finish line. Oh. I still wonder about that man, wonder how much he trained for this, how many marathons he's run, what mechanism broke in his body so that it was only sheer force of will and the help of two others that kept him going. I wonder because it seems like a particular kind of madness to go, go, go. I wonder about that, the goal he had in mind and how tightly he held on, and how he refused to let it go.

**

We've been waiting for about an hour inside the exhibit hall near the starting line. The girls are making signs in support of their dad. "How do you spell love?" asks Madeleine, bent over the big white square of paper, black marker in hand. She writes carefully "L O V E" and underneath, "DAD GO," two words she knows how to spell on her own.

Violet arranges a mini-rainbow of markers next to her and squiggles out two butterflies on her poster board. She decorates them with multi-colored dots. "Dad will love this," she announces while she carefully fills in dot after dot. "Dad loves bugs, so he will love these butterflies!" She admires her work proudly. Later she stands near the finish line, encouraging runner after runner with her butterfly poster.

**

The winner of the ultramarathon bounds down the final stretch of the race, past half-marathoners who look tired and worn. He pumps his arm and fairly flies toward the finish line, encouraging everyone to cheer for him. They do. It's a thrilling sight to see someone so enjoying such exertion, so exulted by what a body can do when it rises to a daunting challenge.

**

Violet walks along the sidewalk near the 26 mile marker. Runners pass, eyes determined, faces forward, breathing labored. Red-faced, tired. She weeps loudly, inconsolably. "My HAIR," she sobs. "I don't want in my face!" She stops and drops her arms to her sides, refusing to move another inch for just a moment. "I'm just. so. TIIIIRED." She cries. People openly laugh, and I don't blame them at all.

**

Here he comes, the one we've been waiting for. Wayland rounds one of the last corners of the race and I shout, "There he is! It's your dad!" And Madeleine takes off running, thrilled, joining him on the course and falling in line next to him like it's the most natural thing in the world. He's smiling, but his normal fast pace has dwindled quite a bit. I call Wayland's dad, who is stationed much closer to the finish line. "He's coming!" I tell him. "Just a few minutes now!" I walk back to the finish line with Violet who is so not going to run anywhere, and I watch as Mad and her dad plod along ahead of us. Mad in her pink clothes, hair flying behind her, arms out from her sides like she expects to take flight. Wayland tall. They turn the final corner and I don't see them anymore. My mind follows, though, so thrilled and proud, gobsmacked by a powerful lesson. Sometimes you really can just DO something you want to do. Sometimes you just decide, and you act, and you find a reason to keep going even when it's hard.

Way to go, hubs. You rock.