Race Day

Each year, as the weather begins to cool and the summer sun begins to wane, our tree-lined streets are barricaded. Groups of neighbors congregate on park strips and street corners and hug mugs of coffee or warm apple cider. Hand-drawn signs line the roadways, chalk messages sprawl across the street, and here and there a banner hangs over an intersection. It is one of my favorite days of the year: race day.

When we bought our home in this city, I had only a few requirements: character, a friendly neighborhood, and proximity to the racecourse. For the years before we owned a house, we loved this event. I wanted some small part in it, some ownership. I wanted to be as close to it as I could be.

I’m not a runner—in fact, I’m the farthest thing from it. I’m not a true competitor, either. But there is a magnetism to this event that is hard to define. It draws together neighbors who live parallel lives most of the year. For just one day, the whole city bustles with a beautiful kind of cooperative spirit. Race day brings out the best in us.

We met all three requirements in the charming 1940s home we purchased: it has character to spare, we are surrounded by neighbors we call friends, and we sit within 100 feet of the racecourse. And so, each autumn we gather our warm clothes, our camping chairs, and our hot drinks and we join our neighbors on the park strip behind our house.

There is a chill as we sit huddled together watching the far end of our street. We perch at the top of a small hill—so small, in fact, that its climb is barely perceptible by car. But I know from experience the burning muscles that it can elicit, especially in legs that are already tired. We sit at mile 3 for the 10 kilometer event, and mile 10 for the half-marathon. “Almost there!” we like to tell the runners, “It’s all downhill from here!” Which is only partly true, of course, but our stretch is the welcome downhill reprieve on the heels of a painful climb.

The conversations are hushed, everyone straining to watch for the first sign of a bobbing head cresting the hill. Soon enough, it appears. A dark silhouette loping slowly in the distance.

“Runner!” someone will shout. We all jump to our feet, ready to clap. Our street has already been prepared for this moment: the chalked messages of encouragement greet each step the runner takes. “We believe in you!” “You’ve made it this far—don’t quit now!” “Run, run, run!” Some were written by adults; many were scrawled by children. Each letter was written intentionally, as though it had the power to propel the runners forward. And perhaps it does.

The silhouette grows more distinct as it draws near. We begin to distinguish whether it is that of a man or a woman. We make out the strained look on their face, the pain, the exhaustion, the sweat that steams from their shirt in the cool morning.

The street erupts in cheers, wild clapping, honking horns. We call out, “You can do it!” “You’ve got this!” “Keep going!” “Finish strong!”

The first runners to pass by are fast—elite runners who have trained hard for this moment. They’ve committed to their craft, and this commitment shows. They fly past our little stretch of this city, barely deterred by the distance.

But as the morning stretches on, there are other runners. These are the participants I’ve especially come to cheer on. The mothers pushing strollers, the men in pink shirts, the soldier in full uniform and backpack, or the elderly man in a shirt commemorating a grandson lost to suicide. They are here to make a comeback: after delivering a baby, running for a wife who survived breast cancer, plodding out the miles in polished military boots to remember a fallen friend. For the most part, they are not athletes. They’ve never won medals and never competed at state or national levels. But today they run their victory lap. Each one has a story, a struggle, a triumph over their circumstances.

They run past us, some staggering and stumbling. They often look as though they aren’t sure they can take another step (as though they hadn’t taken far harder steps already). We jump to our feet and surround them, calling out words of encouragement and praise. We clap, willing the sound of our hands to infuse them with the strength to keep going. And somehow, it does.

Their stumbling steps grow steadier. Their strained looks soften, for just a moment. There’s a twinkle in their fixed eyes, and a look of renewed determination. Yes, I can do this. I can finish this. I am not alone.

It’s at this moment, each year, as predictable as the rising sun, that I shed my tears. I swallow the lump in my throat and fight to regain my voice to keep cheering. This is as it should be, I think to myself, this is as it always should be.

I imagine a world in which we line the streets of each other’s daily lives, perhaps somewhere at the top of a difficult hill. Where we wait, watching, to cheer one another on. Where our struggles are visible—just enough—to those around us, so that we can all share in the victories that have been won, and spur each other on to more. If only we lived in a world where neighbors could gather and together propel each other onward. “You can do this.” “Finish strong.” “I believe in you, you’re not alone.”

For one weekend each year, just outside the steps of my charming little home, I have the privilege of living in that world. And each year, I myself am motivated. Not to run the next mile. Not even to finish the race. But to carry this event with me into the rest of the year. To do the thing that makes this day so incredibly wonderful. I am reminded to stand on the sidelines every day and watch for those who need to be cheered on. To use my words to encourage. To celebrate wildly with strangers and friends alike, because a victory for one is a victory for all.

If only every day were race day.