Forty-two kilometres … a hero’s journey for women and men.  Five thousand people are putting foot to tarmac as I tap.  One of them is my friend Petra.

I’ve been standing on a grassy knoll, waiting for the moment of yelling “Petra!”  So many souls passed my way.  Searching every female face has been exhausting, especially when a big pack of runners floats by.  But I was not going to miss her!

And then …

Light blue jacket

Big smile turned to me

Waving like crazy

“Petra!”

The photo shows the flow of marathoners coming this way.  There was a dad pushing his little one in a stroller.  An old man wearing a Superman costume.  A young woman limping.  Running clubs with their members all glommed together.

Just like yesterday’s post about all of us being cellists regardless of ability, today all these fine human beings are athletes regardless of speed or even if they finish the race.

On the left side of the photo, the race returns to Sint-Jacob’s Church from the other direction.  You can see a runner in a red t-shirt.  Now there’s a flood of participants just a few metres away.  The crowd are cheering their loved ones.  All is right with the world.

I await Petra

***

Oi!  I miscalculated the time that Petra would come by Sint-Jacob’s again.  I was blissfully tapping out this post.  What I saw as I waited for my dearly departed friend was a continually dancing man on the sidewalk and four young women who cheered every single runner who plodded by.

And … there was a boy, maybe 8-years-old, who held out his hand, hoping for high fives from the athletes.  I bet five hundred of them passed his spot while I watched … and only five gave him their hand.  Before I sought a good spot for watching the speedy Petra, I walked over to the kid and slapped his hand.  Child and dad smiled.

***

I was blessed by the morning hours

And especially by one light blue moment