Half Marathon

You could tell them by their sapphire jerseys, wandering the city after the big race. Some even wore their medals, an impressive weight on a ribbon picturing bridges. These were the finishers of the Pittsburgh Marathon and Half Marathon. We were among them, my son and I.

We had followed a training schedule for three months, rarely together, but sharing our progress each day via e-mail.

"Speed work tomorrow," I'd say, figuratively. "Hour run for me with striders," he'd say. We'd wish each other well. The winter sped by. Then there we were, pinning our bib numbers to our shirts in a downtown hotel room at 6 a.m., ready.

There were so many people in the race 10 minutes passed after the gun before we could move, a shuffle at first, then a walk, then a slow jog, then an easy run as the crowd yelled. It was great fun.

We crossed three rivers and five bridges. We turned our faces up into the cooling rain. We heard the bands and the cheering squads and the encouraging neighborhood folk along the way. Before the final two miles, I passed a group of young women runners reciting Hail Marys. There was a need: 20 runners would be hospitalized. But we are fine, and thanks for asking. A restless night last, perhaps, joints aching. And stiff muscles today. But recovering fast.

At one point it was a thrill to look across the Ohio at the stream of runners headed back toward the center of the city, my son among them. No, he did not juggle.

I have read there was a problem later at the finish. Something about a suspicious microwave hauled away by the police, x-rayed, and blown up out of harm's way. The explosion left a residue of Styrofoam and ravioli.

We live in a cautious time.

Back in the mountains, we pulled into my son's driveway to return him to his proud family, his children in the window. That was our finish line.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved