Broad Street Run 2013: Number Four.

Let the beauty we love be what we do. *Rumi

In the backyard, in a circle we read them.  The goals for the next day, written in marker and plucked one by one from a pink bowl, out of the mouths of young teammates on the verge of something huge.  

"To run the entire race without stopping."

"To get 40 high fives!"

"To beat 90 minutes."

"No walking at all!"

"To beat Mrs. Tilli!"  

"To do better than I did last year." 

And my own thought for the next day, "To run with a smile on my face."

With all of our hands falling in the middle and voices raised up together one last time, we set out confidently in the direction of the Broad Street Run with our red socks and butterflies.

And then, just like that, I was back in a familiar routine - waking up with a house full of my sleepy friends, plain bagels and blackberry jam, and listening to Father Esmilla give the Runner's Mass at Our Lady of Hope.

Standing in the yellow corral, watching our students' faces and bright blue shirts float in a sea of strangers, I watched as this team rallied, smiled, cheered, climbed, jumped and, finally, settled into the task with all eyes on the Start Line.  Huddled together, out of cold and nerves, it occurred to me that this wasn't Hoosiers' big speech time. We were way past that.  It was eyes-down-small-prayer-deep-breath time.  It was watch sync-ing, satellite-finding, sock adjusting time.  It was lock down, goal setting, fire-me-from-a-cannon time. It was time to get rid of the fleece lined sweatshirt with the holes at the elbows that had been my go-to, trustworthy, wonderfully warm companion for more than a decade.  It was time to move up, get low and weave my way through thousands of people for miles upon miles.  And so, when the yellow corral finally crossed the start line, 25 minutes after the race began, and an entirely new experience unfolded my fourth Broad Street Run out before me like an old map, I took off after someone else's goal: 80 Minutes.  

And for the next 10 miles, I watched two kids watch the crowd.  I watched them watch me.  I watched them  decide to skip crowded water stations.  I watched them thank volunteers.  I watched them light up when they saw their parents and laugh at the ridiculous signs lining Broad Street.  I watched them abandon their iPods and embrace the chaos around them.  I watched them grow tired and find another wind.  I watched them smile when they passed people.  I watched them be courteous and respectful of the event and their fellow runners.  I watched them fall in line between strangers.  I watched them understand that, for this moment, they were in control.  I watched them cheer on the other blue shirts - sometimes subtly, sometimes a pat on the back, and sometimes a scream - and I watched them raise up other kids.  I watched them react to spectators cheering for Students Run and I saw pride in their faces then.  And then, at mile 9.7, they watched me, waiting to fly, and off we went strong to the finish.  I watched them as they passed hundreds of people.  I watched them dodge walkers and weave in and out of imaginary lanes, eyes straight ahead.  I saw their focus and that's when I watched them cross the line and meet their goal.  80 minutes on the nose. 

Who are we? Students!

What do we do?  Run!

How do we do it?  Philly Style!