Running and Flying                                            
                                                                        By Michael Parker

I was recently struggling through mile 23 of the St. George Marathon when I lifted my eyes off of the road to meet the bright eyes and smile of a young boy sitting in a high-tech wheelchair, a seeming sign that this wasn’t a temporary mode of transportation. As I approached him, he lifted his left arm out in front of him and opened his hand, palm facing toward me. It was thin and meek. He wanted me to give him a high-five. I immediately smiled, said “thank you,” and gently touched his hand as I ran by.

Quickly succumbing to the morning heat and feeling the pain of over-taxed muscles, I had been struggling to continue on. This little boy’s gesture was a boon to my drained spirit. His outreach to me touched and overwhelmed me with unexpected emotions. I will never forget that moment. Nor will I ever forget him.

I won’t pretend that I know how professional runners think or feel as they run those 26.2 miles. I don’t know if the race means anything more than an opportunity to best their previous time. As an amateur, however, I know what running means to me. Marathons are a celebration of good health and life. It is a race in which I pause and reflect on the obstacles I have overcome to reach the starting line.

I suggest that the marathon is even more than this. Having run nine marathons and numerous half-marathons, I have been witness to runners wearing pictures and names of loved ones who have passed on, who lost a long battle with a critical illness, who died in a tragic accident, or succumbed to suicide. To these thoughtful folks, the marathon is a time not only to recognize that individual’s life, but a way to mourn and cope with the great loss. It’s a way of keeping that spark of memory alive.

Consider these real life examples: In 2004, Phil Barker, a Mayor of Alpine City, Utah ran the St. George Marathon for his 28—month—old son, Seth, who has Down syndrome. In 2003, Jamie Vermeeren ran the same marathon in memory of his son who died of leukemia.

In 2001, Ralph Maerz (56) and his 27—year—old son Erich ran the New York City Marathon because his son Noell Maerz (29) was killed in the attacks on the World Trade Center. Noell, a bond trader with Euro Brokers on the 84th floor of Tower 2, had been training to run his first marathon. Ralph and Erich asked if they could run on his behalf. (Besides Maerz’, ten other people that year signed up to run the marathon to take the places of loved ones who died on Sept. 11.)

The home page for the Oklahoma City Memorial Marathon encapsulates these acts of remembrance best: “The...Marathon is not about running, it is about life, honoring the memory of life lost through tragedy, celebrating the gift of life given equally to each person, reaching forward into the future to life yet to be lived.”

I often consider how life is like a marathon. We all take our turns being the runners, who face the rigorous challenges and tragedies that life throws us. Some of us might be like the professional runners who require minimal aid or encouragement. And at times, we are like the amateur runners, who need help and moral support every three miles.

Most importantly, however, I like to think that we participate in the role of the volunteer, who hands out water, energy bars, and encouragement, who helps the runners carry on. As one of my blog friends, Mor Chang, pointed out: we can be encouragers. With this in mind, let me share with you a cherished experience:

Years ago, while I was running the St. George Half Marathon, I was passed by two men. As they passed to the left of the runners in our group, I realized that they were holding hands. The runner in front was guiding his blind friend through the group.

Now, I had seen blind runners before in the Hood to Coast relay and the St. George Marathon. In those races, the blind runner held fast to an elasticized rope that the lead runner held. And when they would reach a large pack of runners, the lead runner would yell out "Blind runner coming through." This lead runner never did that. They seemed the best of friends because of the way in the which they talked back and forth and in the unique way they obviously had trained. Let me explain.

While I was able to see them, I noticed that whenever they maneuvered through large packs of runners, the lead runner would grab hold of the other's hand and lead him through the thick of it, making sure that there was enough space for his blind friend to get through. When he had lead him through and into the open, the lead would bring him up to his side and they would run side by side until it was time to pass again. This was an amazing site as their shoulders and forearms touched so that they swung together. They were nearly one runner, keeping the same gait and pace.

Watching this display of friendship, I thought about the blind runner. I also imagined having to run being visually impaired. I thought about the obstacles he must have conquered to get out and run—courage, self-confidence, and probably most importantly, trust in his friend.

As I watched, the most amazing event occurred. When the path straightened, the lead runner turned to his friend, said something, and his blind friend slowly inched away until he was running unassisted.

As a child, I used to dream of flying. I used to leap off of anything tall, even if it was nothing more than a steep grassy hill or the stairs in my house, hoping to catch the air in my arms, defy gravity, and hang upon the wind like a bird. As I watched this blind runner running free from his friend, I was cognizant of this dream and suddenly imagined that I knew how he felt. Everything seemed suddenly new to me. I heard the sound of my feet on asphalt and pavement. I could hear the whisperings of the wind and the feel of it as I ran through its fingers. I felt the machine of my body, the workings of my legs and my heart working with the rhythm of my breaths. At that time, running was as good as flying.

This event gave me an appreciation of good friends. More importantly, it gave me cause to look inside, to analyze the type of friend I am. Do I raise my friends up to let them fly?

Michael Parker has been an expert hack for many years—though much of that hacking has been a result of phlegm coagulating in his mouth during fanatical running regimens (which are typically an ungodly number of miles in length). He’s completed eight marathons, too many half-marathons and 10k’s to count, and has participated in two Hood-to-Coast races (198 miles each) in the beautiful state of Oregon.

Michael has been an avid literature aficionado since his early university days. He B.S.'d his way through a B.A. in English at the school that shan't allow the use of the phrase "B.S."—Brigham Young University. (Due to his liberal views, the school now disavows any recollection of his attendance, and vice versa.) But to know Michael is to realize that his love is film, (especially analyzing them), a love that was grounded in his pre-teen years as he worked as a concession-stand/ticket selling employee at his family’s old-fashioned, one-screen movie theater.

Michael is also a fledgling artist. Three of his paintings grace the walls of friends’ homes; and two of his paintings “The Tree of Life” and “A Vision of Hades” hung in a local gallery. An excerpt of one his many angel paintings “The Departure,” sits atop the banner of his blogsite.

He has worked as a technical writer for over ten years, had his poetry and articles published in Utah Magazine (now defunct), MiPoesias Cafe Cafe, and The Daily Herald, and has been an avowed political/entertainment blog-o-holic for two years. (See Michael Parker’s Journal for details.) He’s currently working on a thriller, tentatively titled The All-Star.  He, his wife, their two sons and daughter, and Lucky the dog live in Utah.