About this time every year I get woken up on Sunday morning to the sound of music and cheers. I am initially confused, and then quickly realize, Ah. It must be Chicago marathon time...it runs right past my condo down Orleans Street every year (I think it's mile 16). It's a lot of fun to make some breakfast, and hey, even a Bloody Mary, why not, I'm not running...and gaze out the window and watch all the hard work being down below. There are stages to the marathon. First, the leaders run by, 3-5 of them. They are fast, steady, strong. A truck rides ahead of them filming for TV. Then some time passes. Eventually the middle pack shows up, and for hours, groups and groups of them run by...cheered on by friends, family, signs held up, it's nice. You watch people struggle, you see how proud some of them are, one gets carried off in an ambulance with a swollen ankle. There are some people completing the marathon on a bike powered by their arms...man, I feel for them, Orleans has a slight incline, it's not and easy street to get up this way. Also, mixed into this middle pack are some characters. Elvis, a running Chicken, groups dressed the same or painted. Then, After the majority of the pack has passed we get the stragglers for another hour. People you have to give credit for trying, but they have been walking for awhile now and they look like they wish they never started this thing. But, hey, as long as they finish, who am I to judge. I'm sitting in my window eating waffles!
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