WHAT LIFE IS REALLY ALL ABOUT

I downloaded the following story from this morning's New York Times. The story is entitled, "Born to Run the Marathon?" by Christopher McDougall. My attention was directed to the final paragraphs of the article. The story is touching and made me think of the life well lived. Here it is:

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But when I looked at today’s marathoners, I didn’t see a pack of brothers and sisters pulling together. I didn’t see communal spirit. I saw isolated, iPod-ed individualists more interested in their Garmins than each other. I saw commercial greed and egotistical obsessions over fractions of a minute.

And then I saw Derartu Tulu.

When she entered last year’s New York City marathon, Ms. Tulu was a 37-year-old has-been from Ethiopia who hadn’t won a marathon in eight years. Months earlier, she’d decided to retire. She hadn’t competed for two years after nearly dying in childbirth and was coming to realize she’d never regain the form that sped her to an Olympic gold medal nearly two decades before. But the limits of her aging body were complicated by the demands of a tender heart; in addition to her own two children, she’d adopted four orphans, and one last payday could guarantee her family’s security for a long time. She decided to go for it.

Unfortunately, so did the most formidable female marathoner in history: Paula Radcliffe, the world-record holder and three-time New York City champion. “Lean and mean,” the race announcers said in awe as they watched Ms. Radcliffe rocket off the starting line. “All the other athletes are so intimidated by this great champion. She’s the sharp end of this spear.”

But at mile 22 something strange happened, followed by something even stranger. Ms. Radcliffe grimaced and fell back. Her left hamstring had seized. It was the chance of a lifetime for Ms. Tulu — and she blew it. Instead of blazing toward the finish, she let the lead pack pass while she stopped and waited for Ms. Radcliffe.

“Come on,” she urged the lean, mean spear tip. “We can do it.”

Ms. Radcliffe tried, but her hamstring wouldn’t release. Ms. Tulu finally set off on her own. Somehow, she caught back up with the lead back, and then the under-underdog blew past in the final quarter-mile to snap the tape. It’s among the most awe-inspiring performances I’ve ever seen, and to this day, I still don’t understand exactly what happened.

The best I can come up with is this: Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that one of the most compassionate people on the streets that day was also the most competitive. The greatness of spirit which urged her to watch for every faltering orphan, to keep the pack together, also gave her the strength to lead it. At its finest and most time-tested, after all, running was never a solitary pursuit. The Tarahumara don’t compete individually, preferring instead to kick-flip a small wooden ball from teammate to teammate, maintaining a constellation of flowing bodies. The Hopi believed running was a form of prayer; before setting off on a long run from Arizona to the Pacific, they’d offer their effort on behalf of loved ones in need of help. “I’m offering my strength to them,” the runner would murmur to their god, the Great Mystery, “and in return I ask for some of yours.”