That in spirit I am a runner, not a racer. My time, 3:50:31, or 760th of 2,166 finishers, is something to be proud of. And I am. But there is something more.
At the end of the marathon, after a street food Philly cheesesteak, a shower in the Catholic high school boys locker room, and before hazarding the drive home in which, I thank my lucky stars I didn’t cramp up on the three-hour journey back to Brooklyn, I went to watch runners coming in at the finish line. The 5-hour-plus runners were nearing the end of their race. Here, I saw a dad runner, cradling one infant boy, the other is walking beside him. (The boys likely entered the course only a few yards before I saw them.) This man had done what I had just done, run a marathon. I turned to go to the car thinking a photo finish will be taken of the three of them.
These days the phrase one percenter has been co-opted by the class warriors. There are the wealthy, the one percenters, and the rest of us.
Then, there are the half of one-percenters. Those who have run a marathon.
Next: Running for Your Life: The Road Back
