Yesterday morning, my friend Carolyn and I walked a few blocks from my house to watch some of the L.A. Marathon. Our vantage point was around mile 17 of the 26 mile competition, so the runners we cheered on were getting weary but were, for the most part, still pretty strong. They seemed appreciative of the huge crowds that turned out to line the streets, and even more appreciative of the volunteers handing out oranges and bottles of water.
It was a colorful, if sweaty crowd. There were a couple of folks in clown make-up and one wearing one of those full-face masks that Mexican wrestlers favor. There was one runner pushing a stroller containing an infant jogger-of-tomorrow. My unscientific survey of those who passed us showed a pretty hefty percentage of New Balance shoes, my footwear of choice. I did not spot animation expert Amid Amidi who, I see from his weblog, was somewhere among the 24,000 starters…but he may have passed us while I was studying running shoes. (Amid, you and all those who ran have my respect. I could barely make it down to watch you.)
The whole mood was very festive. There was a rock band playing near where we were, and they were good even if every third song was "Roll Over, Beethoven." Some spectators were dancing right in front of the bandstand and every so often, a runner would detour out of the lane to join them in a few steps. A lot of onlookers held up signs that read, "Go, [name of some runner]." On the way down, I spotted a lady who was walking away from the site with one that said, "Go, Donny!" Donny, apparently, had already passed so her work was done. A couple on their way to the route stopped her and apparently said, "Hey, we're going down to cheer on someone named Donny. Could we have your sign?" And she gladly handed it over. I don't know why but I liked that. I liked the whole brief trip to watch the runners. Especially because I wasn't one.