A View from the Finish Line

Yesterday morning, the Pride Run took place in Central Park. Because of the injury to my leg (which is coming along nicely), I couldn't run along with my friends from the running group. But, even though I couldn't do the race, I wanted to be there to show support for the group who had all worked so hard to be ready for this 5-mile run. So early yesterday morning, I headed to Central Park to meet up with everyone. It was great to see S, E, S and E, along with Coach J, all decked out in their red shirts and ready to go.

As 9:00 approached, the group headed to take their places and I settled myself near the finish line so I could applaud each of them as they crossed. It was hard to not think about how this was not where I wanted to be. I would have much preferred to be in that crowd of runners, a member of the group, waiting to begin. Instead, I sat on the grass, listened to the announcements, cursed my leg a few times and waited.

As the race started, I thought about the gay and lesbian runners who were out on that course and wondered how many had spent too much of their lives feeling like outsiders. How many had grown up, trying to hide who they are, afraid of being found out? How many as teenagers went to high school dances and proms they had no interest in, just because they were concerned about not looking like everybody else? How many out on that track had been like me as a teenager, confused, awkward and sports-deficient? How many were running today as a way to continue putting all of that behind them, an attempt to simply declare this is who I am, so deal with it. There was no way to not root for all of them to reach the finish line.

It didn't take very long for the first runners to complete the five miles. Somewhere around 23 minutes after the start, the winner crossed the finish line. I expected jubilance. I expected celebration. I expected tears and laughter and unbridled euphoria. Instead, as he crossed over the line, he calmly looked at his watch, slowed down and walked over to someone with a clipboard to give his name. The second place runner did exactly the same thing. As did the third, the fourth and the fifth. I assumed it would be different for the first woman who crossed, but I was wrong. Just like the men before her, she completed her run, calmly looked at her watch, slowed down and walked over to the clipboard holder.

It was pretty obvious these were the professionals; the men and women who toured the country, and probably the world, running marathons. Most likely they were here to make sure they completed one more race to qualify for the New York marathon. For them, five miles was most likely more of a warm-up. But, this was the Pride Run and my gaydar (which I like to think of as a finely-tuned machine) wasn't indicating that any of the people who crossed first were gay. They had won fair and square, but it felt wrong somehow. I hoped that I was mistaken, that at least one of the first to finish was here because of what the race represented.

But then, more runners, clearly the gay men and lesbians who had come specifically because it was the Pride Run, their run, were crossing the finish line. You could feel exhilaration coming off them in waves. There were fists pumped into the air, smiles a mile wide and shout-outs of "Yes!" as people finished. Runners embraced friends and relatives. People hugged, danced or quietly smiled to themselves that they had done it. It came as no surprise to me that my friends, all of them, managed to complete the race and cross the finish line. I think I was as proud of all of them as they were of themselves. They worked hard to get there, and they all deserved that moment of feeling like champions.

Before we walked away, I saw a man and woman cross the finish line together. They stopped near where I was standing and clasped hands. The man was clearly exhausted. Between gasps of air, I heard him say to her "I could never have done that without you. Thank you." The woman smiled and they hugged. I assumed they were friends, but after that short exchange, they parted ways. They were strangers who had met along the route when he was struggling, and somehow, she helped him get to the finish line. It was a moment I'll remember for a long time.

After that, I didn't think about who won the race and if they were gay or not gay anymore. None of it mattered. If these men and women had once been awkward outsiders, there was no way of telling it now. Instead, in the time it took to run five miles, they had joined together to show the world exactly who they were and what they were capable of doing. And that's a hell of a lot to be proud of.