2013-10-12 - 11:13 a.m.
Just now, walking to the mailbox, manilla envelope in hand, and I look up and there, on St. Paul, is a stream of people, walking, shuffling, running. Hundreds of them, thousands, a confetti stream of bright yellow and pink and sleek black bottoms, baseball hats, thin white cords snaking from ears, arms chugging, legs chugging.
So I slipped the envelope in the mail and leaned against the box and, for a few minutes, watched the marathon go by. Some laughed, some bobbed their heads, many grimaced. Cops at intersections clapped. The chipper ones, the polite runners, said thanks. A homeless man in an Orioles hat said: "Y'all are doing good. Y'all are doing real good."
I did not clap nor say anything but instead only watched. And the overwhelming feeling was, for me: Out of all the things in the world to do or to not do, those people are most certainly running 26 miles while I am not.
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