Columns

Midnight musings: Memories racing by

JO ANN KIRKLAND

Now that the weekend is over, memories of the 10K linger.

Some were captured by my camera. I watched these small dramas unfold before my eyes and my camera lens. Trying to catch people unaware, before they could pose with their camera-ready smiles.

On Friday afternoon, Flag Day, I watched as middle and high school kids placed 1,000 flags along “Joey’s Mile,” the last mile of the race. One boy dug a hole in the ground, another boy placed the flag, and on to the next, their red “We remember Joey” shirts moving slowly down Midway Road. It seemed like they’d never finish, probably like the racers would feel the next day: one more step, one more and home.

Here are a few of my mental snapshots.

The seven-year-old son of an Ethiopian racer, far from home, sharing a giggle and a Coke with a friend’s father at the pasta dinner.

Five or six elite runners lazing under a shady tree in the parking lot outside the school gym on Saturday morning, all long, lean muscles and coiled energy.

The young woman who sang the National Anthem before the race, faltering towards the end; the crowd started singing the words until she could make her way back into the song.

The Bucks baseball players handed out medals to the exhausted runners and walkers. One Buck reached out to a kid, “Good job, little man, want a medal?” These guys, of anyone on the field, knew what it was like to try their best, to win and to lose.

There was the former Olympian who crossed the line with a young boy, patting him on the back and offering encouragement.

The wheelchair racer, red-faced and bathed in sweat at the finish line, answered questions from a group of children clustered around him.

And the grace between the two wheelchair racers, competitors and friends, friendship winning out.

The row of policemen stationed at the end of Bateman Road, just before the runners entered Fiske Field, their cars lined up behind them. Their presence assured the runners they were safe.

The nurse at the finish line, who watched every runner and walker pass by, visually scanning them, her eyes intent and focused, making sure they were OK and didn’t need medical attention. She’s done this at every race for as long as anyone can remember.

The volunteers at the water station who filled hundreds of cups for grab-and-gulp hydration, then raked the sea of squashed cups off the road after. The runners there and gone so fast, just a blur.

One pre-teen girl who ran with her dad and stumbled. He asked us if there was an ambulance nearby — she’d recently undergone a kidney transplant. But the girl said no, determined to finish the race. I hope she did.

At the party afterwards, the girl singer of a New Orleans-style band, in a short, hot pink skirt danced, singing a bluesy song about loving her man to the rapt attention of a little girl clutching her American Girl doll.

Three generations of a family, including a small boy and girl, helping their dad and grandpa untangle lights and stringing them up against the oncoming darkness

Because I was wearing a 10K volunteer shirt marked “STAFF” and had a camera, people assumed I was working for the Reporter. They asked, “Will my picture be in the paper?” I thought of the hundreds of photos we’d weed through Monday morning, trying to cull them down to the dozen or so we’d have room for. I smiled and made no promises.

All these moments, they’re here. I remember you.