Tears II: Beyond Sweat

I say I don’t cry often, but then I think about the times I do cry, and it’s mostly when I’m moved by something, not sad about something, and then I think to myself, I actually cry a lot. And in that context, I love crying.

This past Sunday, a friend I’ll call Joan and I ran the 10K race that was part of the Marine Corps Marathon. We weren’t into putting a lot of pressure on ourselves (at least not overtly — that would ruin the “fun”), so therefore hadn’t talked much about the race until that week. We casually agreed that after we finished the race we would find our friend who was running the marathon for the first time and cheer her on.

But I confess that at the end of the 10K, which started on the Mall and ended in Arlington, I was mostly thinking about going home. Not only was I sweaty and getting cold, but it was also my son’s 13th birthday. I was feeling a bit guilty for not being there. Furthermore, how were we going to find our friend along that 26.2-mile route that extended up into Virginia? How would we get there? Once there, how long would we have to wait to see her? Did I mention I was cold? And that I’d ditched my hat before walking out of the house?

Then there was the issue of ultimately getting home. Most of the surrounding streets were closed because of the marathon, and I live more than a few blocks from a metro station. I’d just run 6.2 miles, after all. Instead of shrugging at the idea of more walking, I was balking.

Fortunately there was a Starbucks near the 10K finish line, which is practically where the line to order started. As we waited for a precious latte from surely the most profitable Starbucks on the planet that day, Joan repeatedly dialed our friend’s husband, who wasn’t answering.

Finally, as we started slurping down our hard-won hot drinks, he called. We should go back down to the Mall and catch her around mile 18. Easy, we thought. The Metro was across the street.

Except I was reliving memories from two years ago of large masses of people crowding the Metro entrance. It had been so menacing that my friends and I immediately retreated and started walking across Key Bridge. As Joan and I approached the turnstiles and joined the blob moving slowly down the escalators, I started to sweat again. “Um, I don’t like this,” I murmured, and Joan shot me a serious look. “Are you claustrophobic?”

“Um, uh, just a little…. I’ll be fine.” I forced myself to keep going, to push down dark thoughts of trampling crowds and being trapped underground and just shuffle forward. Once we reached the platform, the crowds thinned and I breathed a bit easier. But then the train arrived, and the blob moved toward the small opening of the doors, and I had this panicky sense of flowing over the top of the funnel — we’re not going to make it! I tried to draft off Joan, who subtly but deliberately pushed her way forward and around others simultaneously. Suddenly, we’d stepped through the doors. We were on the train.

“Wow, that was impressive,” I said.

“I lived in New York. I’ve learned a few tricks.”

On the train we miraculously found ourselves standing right next to one of only two other 10K runners on our “team” — I spied his t-shirt sporting “Team Swab-a-Cheek,”  a nonprofit which helps find matches for bone marrow donation.  We introduced ourselves and laughed in amazement that among 30,000 runners, we ended up right next to each other on the Metro. [Plug: Go get your cheek swabbed and possibly save a life. It’s simple: http://www.swabacheek.org]

In a few short stops, we found ourselves at the Smithsonian. We made our way to a spot along the route at the Mall, and waited for the husband somewhere in front of us to alert us to our friend’s impending arrival.

In the meantime, we watched. I realized I was not prepared for the show that was playing right before me, for the sheer humanness that was parading by. For the sweat and determination on the faces, the ease with which so many seemed to run, as though they had just begun and hadn’t covered 17 miles, 9.2 more to go…. For the costumes, the clown wig, the full-body green suit. For the signs, the flags, the strollers — a marathoner pushing a child in a stroller! For the cheers of the crowd, the urging on, the “you can do it!” screams around us.

I was not prepared for show of heart. Most moving were those who’d lost a limb or were disabled in some way. The amputee hand-cycling on the recumbent bike flew past me so quickly I barely had time to register what I saw. Fallen comrades’ and lost loved ones’ photos were plastered on passing t-shirts. Panting, out-of-shape runners with causes scribbled on their faces trotted by.

Eventually, we spied our friend approaching, looking energetic with her earbuds in, as we waved and yelled loudly. Suddenly she turned toward us, arms rising up overhead, a wide smile brightening her face. She later said seeing us for that fleeting moment got her through the rest of the race.

The whole scene got to me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Being there amid that crowd of marathoners and cheerleaders, inspired by their strength, will and determination  — it was beyond words. Tears would have to do.

 

Music Extra!  Great and not-obvious song from my running playlist (“tears” in lyrics!):

“Engine to Turn,” by Tift Merritt. Check it out, below.