One Team

Sunday was a beautiful day for the Los Angeles Marathon. Perfect running weather: cool and breezy, partly cloudy, no chance of rain.

I watched the elite runners on the televised coverage. The twenty-year-old who pulled away in the last half mile to win the men’s race was a picture of lungs and legs and power. Pure and breathtaking. The human spirit in motion.

What you might not see in that moment is the 20-mile training runs. In the dark, in the heat, in pain. But you know they’re there. You don’t cross the finish line without them.

Once the elite runners completed their races, I got out of my jammies and headed to Santa Monica to cheer my runner on for the last mile. I found my place along the route near a grandmother and her grandson, also looking for their runner. The grandma cheers especially for the women. I assume she’s acknowledging International Women’s Day, but maybe it is just heartfelt encouragement from one woman to another. The path is not easy as a woman. Living while female is not for the faint of heart.

They say if you have lost your faith in humanity, run a marathon. The good news is that you don’t actually have to run. Just watch. Choose a spot anywhere along the route, but if you can, find a vantage point somewhere past mile 20. There are people of every age and ability, bodies of every size, shape and color. I see those who appear to be lifelong friends racing the last mile together, smiling. Complete strangers limp forward together. Everybody cheers for everyone else. People run for all kinds of reasons, and many of those reasons are displayed in brightly colored shirts bearing slogans and acronyms. Even though I don’t know a single spectator along the route, and really only a few running the course, I am inspired. It displays our essential interconnectedness and our shared humanity. A reminder that everyone you see is running for the same team.

Eventually, the man that grandma and grandson have been waiting for runs toward us. “Run, Daddy!” the little boy shouts. His father answers, “I love you, buddy!” I am taken aback, because his voice and intonation sound uncannily like Sam’s. It reminds me of how Sam used to greet our little boys. I can hear the echoes of Sam saying the same thing to my boys — now young men — I love you, buddy! I wish they could hear him now.

“I love you, Daddy!” the chirpy young voice replies.

“I love you, buddy!” He stops running long enough to lift his little one into the air with a celebratory hug, even though there’s another mile to go.

This is the moment I notice that the charity displayed on the man’s shirt is the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. I’m grateful for sunglasses that hide tears. I ran my one and only half-marathon as a fundraiser for AFSP in honor of Sam. I wonder who this man might be running to honor… his own father? A dear friend? The little boy’s mother?

“I love you, buddy!” he says again as he lowers his boy gently and heads toward the finish line.

I turn my attention back toward the runners, still in the race, moving forward, one foot and then the next, at all paces, toward a common destination, until I see my runner. The love of my life greets me with a smile, stops for a hug and a kiss and then continues toward his goal. I turn down the block and race up a sidestreet to meet him at the finish line.

Most weekday afternoons, I see a young man walking together with his caregiver. He appears to be in his teens, tall and gawky, like many teens are. The young man wears a fluorescent yellow vest with black lettering: AUTISTIC. PLEASE BE KIND. I sometimes imagine all of us wearing the same team jersey with one message: LIFE IS HARD. PLEASE BE KIND.