Cowbells and Whistles

Five days have passed and I am slowly recovering from the punishing physical effects of the Chicago Marathon.

At mile twelve I felt just as exhilarated as I had at mile three. By mile twenty-six, had it not been for the pressure of the cheering crowd, I might have thrown in the towel. My young friend and I had pushed through, gotten as close to the finish line as security would allow. It was grueling, but we had somehow managed to wedge ourselves into the front row, and we couldn't move, even if we wanted to. We were in it for the long haul.

Watching my daughters run their first -- and, they both claim, last -- marathon was exhausting. Exhausting and priceless. Personal space be damned, we were so close to our fellow spectators, as one woman put it, she thinks she might have had sex with at least one stranger. I told her I hoped she enjoyed it, although I certainly hoped it had not been with me. The physical intimacy drew us close emotionally. We traded runners' names, adjusted our positions based upon projected finish times, and promised to cheer loudly for each other's loved ones. We guarded our positions jealously, glaring at anyone who dared to encroach, elbowing latecomers who attempted to seep through the cracks. Bonding made the wait so much less excruciating.

At mile three, my daughters seemed to be floating on air, waving when they heard us, mugging for our cell phone cameras. At mile twelve, they looked just as strong, just as happy. Well, almost, anyway. We felt pretty good too, having just replenished our depleted reserves with a greasy breakfast sandwich and more coffee. We felt a twinge of guilt, snarfing down food even though our path from mile three to mile twelve, as the crow flies, was no more than a few blocks. It could have been worse, though. Some cops had directed us to "the best—you guessed it -- donut shop in the world," but we thought that would be unseemly. Well, it would be unseemly and the line was way too long.

When I began running over thirty years ago (yipes), I was sure I would one day run a marathon. Some combination of joint pain, muscle aches, and a pitifully short attention span has proved me wrong. I have yet to run that marathon, and it seems highly improbable that I ever will. Accompanying my daughters as they picked up their registration packets, I contented myself with the vicarious thrill of their excitement, feeling a bit mopey about not joining them. I chastised myself, as I trudged through the maze of the registration site, soaked from overdressing and an ill timed hot flash, for settling for a cowbell while others collected numbered race bibs with computer chips. I am not good at vicarious.

I am, however, good at being thrilled. In fact, I am really good. When I watched my daughters run by, close enough to be hand in hand, from start to finish, there was nothing vicarious about my joy and pride. They were doing it, they had done it; my children had accomplished something that to me, and many others, seems unattainable. Yahoo! Yay for them! So incredibly cool!

It's a feeling I have experienced often as I have watched my three children grow and navigate the world in ways I never would have dreamed possible. The thrill of being in the stands, doing little more than shrieking encouragement and shaking a cowbell, has been anything but vicarious. The journey – whether I go the long way or cut through as the crow flies – remains exhausting but priceless.

After a few days of walking backwards down stairs, both daughters have recovered from the punishing physical effects of twenty-six miles of pounding. I am still a bit achy; these days, it takes me a long time to bounce back. Blissfully, though, the exhilaration lingers.