Be not afraid of going slowly,

Be afraid only of standing still.

– Chinese Proverb

Name any race–whether it be a grueling marathon or a beginners’ 5K– and you’ll find that the race is surrounded by intensely personal stories about the individuals who run them. The most poignant and often, overlooked stories aren’t about the contenders who cross the finish line in record time, although their stories are certainly worth telling.  The most poignant ones are the stories of ordinary people who cross the finish line just before it’s dismantled, the runners who lurch past water stations while the crew is cleaning up to go home, the runners who, like Rocky Balboa, have only one goal—not to win, but to “go the distance.”

The Boilermaker Road Race in Utica, New York has attracted these first-time runners for over thirty-five years.   I call them the gray-chute runners.

Runners are assigned a place to begin the race based on their experience and previous finishing times.  The elite runners cross the starting line first and all the others follow behind them. First-timer runners and people who aren’t terribly fast begin the race from an area called the gray chute, where they wait patiently to advance forward once the race starts. With computerized chips firmly affixed to their sneakers, they cross the starting line a full seven to eight minutes after the elite runners have crossed.  By that time, the elite runners are well into their second mile.

Gray chute runners–many of whom begin to slow up and become winded by the first mile marker–know they aren’t contenders.  They’re the ones who have silent conversations with God that end with, “Please just help me finish.” Many of them carry stories of sorrow, disappointment, and loss within their hearts.  I imagine them running away from their broken selves, and toward the promise of wholeness. As I wait for the race to begin, I wonder if this is what I am doing.

It is 7:45 a.m. on the second Sunday of July, 2009. The race will begin in fifteen minutes.  We are standing amid a silent sea of 12,000 people with heads bowed and hands over hearts.  The national anthem is playing.  A priest blesses the crowd.  The mayor speaks.  The unseasonable air chills our arms and legs, while a different kind of chill works its way inward to deep and secret insecurities.

I am surprised by the feelings that well up inside of me as I stand in the gray chute waiting for the crowd to advance.  I feel emotional and alone.  I am not prepared to feel this way.  It surprises me. I am here with these thousands of people, amid a throng of runners, surrounded by a mass of humanity, and yet, the memory of one single loss wraps around my heart to define the moment.

I try not to cry.

Right ahead of me is a young woman who has decorated the back of her shirt with a memorial.  She has taped a picture of a man–probably her father–to her shirt.  Three words, written in black marker, stand out boldly above the picture: I miss you.

Tears come, unabated.

I am thankful to be alive, to be able to run and breathe and feel my feet hitting the pavement, but I still feel great sorrow.   I ask my husband’s spirit to be with me while I run, and I pledge to take his memory to the finish line.  I am alive. I can run. He is not. He cannot.  “This race is for you,” I say quietly to him.  “Stay with me.  Help me.”

The starter pistol sounds; the race begins, but we stand still for several minutes.  Slowly the gray chute runners begin to walk forward.  The race begins for us when our chip crosses the starting line.  Our personal journey begins at that moment.

The first mile is the toughest for everyone, and I am no exception. By the second mile of the race, I find a comfortable pace.  I fall into step with a young man and woman.  He is clearly a runner.  He has a runner’s physique: Tall. Thin. Long, taut legs.   Her build is more like my own.  She is not a runner and like me, she struggles.  I surmise that this is probably her first race.  They are running it together.

We keep pace with one another for several miles, but do not speak.  I do not want to interfere with the gentle interplay between them.  He coaxes her along with each step.  “Take it easy.  You are doing just fine.”

I feel encouraged.  It’s as if those words are being spoken to me.  She plods along.  We have the same pace, a similar gait.  He runs backwards, facing her, for long stretches.  He talks gently to her along the way.

“You are doing fine.”

“You look good.”

“How do you feel?”

“Pace yourself.”

“Do you need water? A water station is up ahead.”

He smiles at her all the while.  His love for her is in that smile, in his words, in the way he runs backwards so he can face her and encourage her as she advances.

I lose track of the young couple by mile six.  I come upon another woman with a personal message on the back of her shirt.  It, too, has a picture of a man on it.  “Running in memory of my husband,” it says.  So many stories propel themselves past me.  Each story pushes itself toward the finish line.

Once the race is over, the party begins.  Bands play, beer flows. There is hugging and laughter. I wonder about the young couple.  Did they finish the race? I had lost track of them, but it was important to me to know that they had finished the race.  I checked the results later that day.

Sure enough.

Two runners with the same last name from Rome, New York, finished together well before I did.  Their times were just one second apart.  Her time was listed before his. I smiled at the image: he had let her step over the finish line just ahead of him.

“True love,” I whispered to no one in particular.  “That is true love.”

For those who run knowing they have no hope of winning, there is honor in every step they take. There is hope in each ragged breath.  And in the case of the young couple, that one single second between them contains enough love to last a lifetime.

(Note: I still dream of running the Boilermaker again.)