On Sunday morning the LA marathoners passed my street at the start of the third mile. I don't know if I could have been any more emotional than if my own child had been in the race , but every time I calmed down and the tears became just a lump in my throat, I'd get hit again with a new wave. First came the wheelchair runners who had to climb a hill before rounding the corner down past Echo Park and on to Sunset. Watching them push themselves up the hill was hard enough but then when one guy (or gal!) reached the top, often they would turn and wait for the person behind them. (Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa). We were silent, waiting for the next round of runners and I had time to collect myself, but then I saw the headlights of a motorcade off in the distance and I started again. It was the Africans! Out in front! Surrounded by a motorcade (Waaaaaaa) Legs six feet long, running fast, magical, royal strides like kings. (Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa) They were so fast I didn't have time to take a photo. Blink and they were gone. Then came the rest: athletes, grandmas, grandpas, girlfriends, kids, chubbies, barefoot, shirtless, wearing costumes, wearing the Japanese flag. Oh my God, I ran into the house to get Harry and we stood out in the freezing rain high-fiving and cheering, not feeling a thing but utter joy.
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