Race for the Roses

This morning, since I did not roll out of bed and onto the laptop, I noticed odd sunbeams penetrating pewter skies and casting a sheen on wet streets, and I was drawn out of my apartment by flickering, unpredictable light. I headed for the river and ran smack into a five-thousand-person race-run-walk for a deserving agency concerned with mental health.

I didn't join the race, but I walked along beside it, shooting pictures till I was so cold that my fingers and hands were numb and I could no longer tell if I was pressing the camera button. Home, I looked through over 200 pictures, enjoying the faces in the crowd. What I saw most clearly is that every person was running their own race. Some were straining and suffering. Some were ambling along, laughing or munching breakfast. Some were plugged into music; others talked with their friends; some sucked on straws, obsessively hydrating themselves. Some were elated, others depressed; still others were fiercely competitive. What a microcosm, right there, laid bare for us all to see. Each person had to decide what mattered to them, why they were doing it, and what were the rules they were going to follow.