The Race

They arrive at foggy dawn. Wind dusts them with salt from the Bay; tents and a makeshift stage wobble but stand firm. The runners retrieve their numbers from genial volunteers and proudly pin them to their shirts. Some stand and chat, some listen to the jazz band playing bravely at such an impossible time and place for a gig, urging upbeat music out of stumbling, cold digits. The running pros are easily distinguished by their above-average stature and ropy limbs. As the starting time approaches, the participants begin their warmup jogs up and down the street. Some are ginger, tentatively using knees packaged in polypropylene wraps, calves in compression stockings, ankles taped into stiffness. Ten minutes before the start, the line to the Portapotties grows long and fidgety. Too many five a.m. coffees are now having their effect...

"Please make your way to the starting line," says the announcer. Toeing the white chalk on the asphalt are hopefuls wearing skimpy singlets and shorts, oblivious to the cold, janglingly loose and eager. As if in a demonstration of human evolution, the crowd gradually changes in composition as it congregates behind the line, becoming shorter, rounder, older and more heavily dressed the farther back it goes. Some are fully wired for sound, plugged in to iPods and zoned out behind dark glasses; only a few are packing belts full of water and nutrition bars--after all, this is only a 10K.

A white-haired cowboy on a flatbed truck fires the starting pistol and they're off--some with a dash, but most with a gentle jog.

After the first mile, rhythm settles in and it appears that not one of the 350 competitors is unprepared. Miles two and three pass easily. Eighty-year-olds hold pace with those who are thirty years younger, and even a 10-year-old boy is unfazed, his awkward gait not unlike that of an elderly man.

The runners are spread out now on the empty streets. The silence is beautiful. An occasional hoot of support comes from an apartment window or a coffee-drinker in a bathrobe watching from the front lawn. Some drivers are annoyed at the route change, gunning their engines through U-turns.

The race is completely flat, making pacing the most important consideration--can runners hold their starting pace or, better, run the second half of the race faster than the first? It's not until mile five of the six-and-a-quarter mile race that dramatic passing occurs, with some putting on surprising speed. Of course, the pros have long since clocked in at around 35 minutes, but the middle and back of the pack still hope for a different sort of victory: Accomplishment. Completion. Perhaps a personal record. Perhaps a pretty good time considering their age or injuries or lack of consistent training. Perhaps only the knowledge that they can still wake at dawn and meet a group of similar optimists for a ritual few will understand.

As they pass the finish line, running, limping or even speed-walking through the chute to cheers and applause, pain is forgotten. Thighs are glorious and powerful. Feet are sure. Breath calms wildly beating hearts. Hands are shook and backs slapped in congratulations. The finishers turn to root for those who continue to arrive. Their tired smiles say it plainly: How great it feels to win.