Walking Against the Wind
Barb and I participated in the Richmond Marathon Saturday, only we were going backwards, walking and stopped after three or so miles.
Each year on
Marathon day we try to get out on the streets of our neighborhood for a while and cheer the runners on. If you’ve never tried it, you’d be surprised at how much fun being a spectator at a marathon is. There’s a lot to see because the whole world passes you by—all races and nationalities, all ages, all manner of garb, all levels of fitness (or unfitness, as the case may be), a wide range of attitudes and commitment, not to mention a wide range of coordination, too.
We saw folks well back in the pack as graceful as the folks on “Dancing with the Stars”—not too speedy perhaps, but great form. Then there were some lankies that looked to trip over their feet any minute—but clearly appearances were deceiving because some of these were way ahead of the crowd.
Barb and I watched for awhile and then, almost without thinking about it, we headed off down Brook Road going the opposite way from the runners, heading north as west as they moved toward the homestretch going south and east, facing us.
The neighborhoods of Northside were out in force, with their radios booming out good running music, the water and power-ade contingents manning almost every third or fourth corner, and folks in lawn chairs clapping, whistling and yelling words of encouragement as the tail end of the runners loped past.
Barb and I stopped walking and joined in the applause each time we saw someone close to our age group (that would be those near death) or someone who was still hauling it despite being way back in the rankings.I hoped that the runners were taking time to realize how beautiful the neighborhoods of Northside Richmond were as they passed.
Laburnum Park, where we began our stroll, has wide streets with wide medians, and a pleasing contradiction of good family houses large and small; Ginter Park, the next neighborhood over, is straight out of Ozzie and Harriet—big old strong houses with wide yards and late-blooming flowers and front porches. The neat cottages of Bellevue are a Hollywood-perfect scene, with the profusion of trees along the streets still holding on to their last blanket of red and yellow leaves.
The day was perfect unless, I guess, you were running a marathon. For Barb and me, it was a just-warm-enough Indian Summer day, with a cooling breeze and the sweet sound of fall leaves crunching under our feet—and because the residents were partying for the occasion, the smell of something good here and there from a grill. It was so nice to be out, to be moving. Between my new teaching job this year and all the paper work involved with turning 65 and retiring from my old job, I seem to spend most of my days at the computer. Recently I’m been going back, too, through the 350-some letters and e-mails I have gotten since the newspaper cancelled my column, trying to answer all the folks who were nice enough to contact me.
If I have missed you, I apologize, but you’ll probably be hearing from me this week. My goal was to get everybody answered before Thanksgiving—which explains why I haven’t had a column in a while. Each time I sit down at the computer, I go to class preparations or the letters instead. I know it sounds corny, but I feel as though these are letters from friends that need to be answered—and they can be put off no longer.
Today, Sunday, we awoke to a different place, a different season. The rains had poured down during the night, the basement had little rivers of water running here and there, and cat let us know it was too cold to stay out more than a few minutes. No walks today.
But all those folks who ran the marathon yesterday, I bet they got up feeling pretty darn good about themselves. Not a small thing a marathon. Not a small thing sticking with it and finishing. Not a small thing to watch the determined faces of those who knew they were going to make it, because believing would make it so.
In fact, it was a pretty great way to spend a Saturday afternoon.
