The line trickles forward, their long stringy muscles powering legs on and on through fog of 45 degree November morning. Sweater-clad volunteers offer up paper cups of water and “you’re doing great” encouragement…and the sun inches higher.
A soft tap tap of airy footsteps echoes, proclaiming their presence. Sweat beads up on grimacing faces; eyes squint out the bright reflections from the dew-speckled landscape. They move along, driven by dogged determination…and the sun inches higher.
One by one they pass me as I wait quietly, warm and reflecting in my four-door Grand Marquis. I can hear their numbers flap, taped loosely to the front of light-as-a-feather tank tops. Almost out of sight now, I drive away, envious…and the sun inches higher.
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