But we runners prefer to live life inside out. We embrace being in charge of our performances, and we understand that whether our name is Ryan Hall or Joe Shlabotnik, no one else is going to cover the distance for us. How curious it is, then, that while we’re in the throes of a marathon—and the air, blood, and emotions are coursing through our bodies—we often find ourselves sharing the powerful experience with complete strangers.

My plan going into the race had been to run within myself through 19 miles, attack the last long hill that loomed in the recesses of my memory from the first time I had tackled the course, and then work the final 10K with whatever I had left. The fields with the neatly spaced rows of leafless grapevines and the vibrant yellow patches of mustard plants, the warmth of the morning sun as the sky continued to fill with light, the camber of the roadway as it snaked past centuries-old oak groves, the cheers of the shivering onlookers, and the jingle of their cowbells . .. Our group was soaking it all up as one—as one.

And then, before I knew it, we were there—at my moment of truth. Just past Yountville, as the road began to slope up, I took the initiative. | was more than happy to do my share of the pulling for a change. Up, up we climbed. But the hill seemed longer than I remembered, and by the time I had crested the summit and begun to drop down the backside, my quads were already beginning to falter.

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© Arturo Ramos

As any notions of a negative split began to dissipate with the strength in my legs and my pace slowed despite my best efforts, I braced myself for the group to push past me like a heavy gust. I could still fee/ them behind me, and a mile later Joe sidled up just off my right shoulder and asked, “Think we’re gonna make it?” And it occurred to me only then that he must have been gunning for a Boston qualifier.

“T don’t know,” I replied. “My legs are pretty shot.”

He ran there with me for a bit, and I assumed that Kate and the others were nearby also. The fatigue slowly enveloped me, and I continued to wait for the wind of my comrades to blow me into oblivion.

But, surprisingly, no one made a move. I heard an “Uh, oh” from nearby—was it from Joe?—and it occurred to me after another quarter mile, when neither he nor Kate nor anyone else assumed the lead, that they were all suffering much the same way I was. It would be a struggle from here on out for the entire lot of us.

It has often been said that by the time a pair of boxers reach the championship rounds of a prizefight, the shared experience that they have both endured transforms them from fierce rivals to good friends to loved ones. And so it is also, to a lesser degree, with marathon running. It is impossible not to feel an attachment with the intimate strangers who have battled alongside you for hours. Eventually you have come to share the same air. Your hearts have begun to almost sync as one. And you can’t help but take a genuine interest in their well-being.

But as we pushed forward and our group continued to crack under the strain of the running, it was with a certain amount of regret that I turned my focus more

onto my own fortunes and less on the fortunes of the others.