Training for the marathon.

Angels can lift your heart. That’s why they have wings. —the author

t’s 6:00 a.m. I’m running down a frontage road in a rural area of San Diego. A

breeze flows gentle and clean. Vehicles carrying folks to work and cabbages

to market stream down Interstate 15 off to my left. Beyond the freeway lie hundreds of acres of open fields framed by low, rolling hills. I’ve run this frontage road many times (it’s my marathon-training ground) but have never tried to get into those fields. Today, I will. The sun, still yawning, stretches its arms over the crest of the mountains behind the fields and beckons—come on in.

The fields are fenced, but there is an abandoned freeway overpass just down the road that leads in. I’ve run by it many times, but this time I stop. The gate looks pretty secure. I yank the chain that wraps it to an iron post and pull on the brass lock that holds the chain from being loosened and try to push myself under the fence.

I look up to see if I can climb over the fence, but there is a loop of razor wire strung along the top. The bottom of the gate has slack enough and is separated from the post by several inches. I lie on my back, prop my shoulder against the post, and push on the gate with my hands. Voila—a little scratched and dirty— but I’m in.

I’m running again, sprinting across the fields. I feel exuberant—you know— free from the world’s trifles, no worries. Ah, what a feeling, and I can run even faster. I’ll train at marathon pace today. Pick it up… pick it up … now I’m doing at least 40, maybe even 50. Whoops, my toe just hit something. I fell hard. The heavens fill with stars; I see a rainbow and hear harps, glissandos, notes shower down on me—it’s a sweet sound.

“You, there,” a gentle voice speaks.

“Me?” I respond, my face smashed into the dirt.

“Yes. You.”

“What do you want? Who are you?” I asked. “Where are you?”

She answers calmly: “Do you believe in heaven?”

“Well, yes, I think so,” I answer, just to be on the safe side.

“You don’t sound all that sure,” she says.

“Well, actually,” I tell her, “I really don’t know much about that kind of thing.”

“You needn’t be embarrassed,” she says. Her voice is musical. “No one is sure about such things, but I appreciate your honesty. Did you know that you must be an honest person to get into my heaven?”

“Your heaven?”

“Yes—and you are eligible.”

“Eligible? What do you mean eligible?” Why am I having this conversation?

“T’ve been watching over you… Imean, I’ve watched you for years. Remember your last marathon? How you started too fast and I told you to be patient and slow down? And, then, when you hit The Wall at 18 miles, I was the one that told you to run to the next stoplight, to the next telephone pole—to ignore that knee and the cramp in your back and stay on track. I told you that a marathon is like life, full of strife, but you never quit, you stay strong and continue on. Remember?”

“That was you?”

“Yes, it was. Where do you think hope, courage, and perseverance come from?”

I’m walking toward a small knoll now where a clump of trees shines effervescently in the glow of the rising sun. I find a shady spot and a tree to support my back while I stretch my legs and clear my head. The fields blaze with color. While I had lain stunned with my face in the dirt, someone splattered bright-yellow acrylic everywhere and dripped globules of purple sage all over the fields. Billions of California poppy petals are kissing each other and dancing and waving at me. I wave back. “Bravo, bravo!” I holler, and they all smile at me. A billion smiles.

“What do you think?” she asks. “It’s like heaven, isn’t it?” Her voice is sweet and innocent, and when she speaks I can hear her smile.

“Are you an angel?” I ask.

“Yes—I am your guardian angel.”

I want to ask her all kinds of questions but, for some uncharacteristic reason, am not able to get it out. But that’s OK. I’m with my guardian angel! And that, in itself, is enough.

The shade from the tree is comforting, but I feel an urge to return to the real world. I push from the tree and rise, pull my running cap tight against the increasing brightness of the rising sun, and step into a sea of giggling yellow-poppy girls who laugh with me, make a path for me, and wave adoringly as I speed by.

Suddenly, my attention is drawn to the sky. I need to slow down. Whoa—35 …15…ah, that’s good. I shield my eyes and look up. Two hawks whirl through a crystal sky, screeching, diving, swooping, cartwheeling. Are they playing a game, fighting—or what? What are they doing? They remind me of World War I fighter planes in a dogfight: a Fokker Triplane against an RAF Sopwith Camel. The Sopwith’s Le Rhone rotary engine spews the pleasant odor of burning castor oil used to lubricate that old contraption of an engine. I can smell it, and I can hear the slow rat-a-tat-tat of twin Vickers machine guns.

The hawks continue their aerial ballet.

“Do you know what they’re doing?” my angel asks.

“Not really,” I admit.

“They’re mating,” she tells me. “They’re making baby hawks.”

Of course, of course—I knew that.

“Soon,” she goes on to say, “there will be eggs, a nest hidden somewhere, and the chatter of tiny beaks stretched as wide as the Grand Canyon. Did you know, too,” she adds, “that if you look closely into a baby-bird beak, you can see clear through to their tiny tail feathers at the other end?”

I watch the hawks spin through the sky and wonder: How many eggs do hawks lay (three, my angel says), who sits on them (they both do), and what is their average life span (10 to 15 years)? I wonder, too, whether they mate for life. (Oh, yes, she says, they are very faithful.)

“You like hawks, huh?” the sweet voice says.

“Yes—I like birds—but when do I get to see you?”

“Are you ready to enter heaven?”

“What?” I exclaim, startled that the gentle voice would say such a thing. “No! I’m only 79; there are a lot more marathons I want to run. I’m way too young for heaven.”

“Well,” she says. “I’ll be here when you’re ready. You’ll see me then. Now, I just want you to know that you are eligible for runner’s heaven.”

“Runner’s heaven! You mean there’s a special heaven for runners?”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “I thought I made that clear. It’s the most elite heaven in the universe. You are privileged. Every year thousands of your fellow runners learn that there are no shortcuts, no way to cheat, and no way to boast or be untruthful—because they either do it or they don’t—and we here at runner’s heaven know who they are. There is no middle ground, you know.” And now her voice warms and becomes animated. “And it’s not just the marathon—or even beyond,” she says. “This applies to all aspiration, any endeavor, any dream. Think about it. Competitive running, whether against someone else or against yourself—is that not a metaphor for life itself?”

“T have thought about it,” I tell her. “That’s why I like to run marathons. It takes a lot of preparation and perseverance—being adventuresome, having a goal and maintaining a healthy lifestyle, and discipline, not to mention courage and resolve.” The voice does not respond.

“Did you hear me?” I call, pulling my face from where I had fallen and spitting dirt from my mouth. Why is she not answering? I’m stunned and dizzy and don’t feel well. I push to my knees. My hands are skinned, there is a nasty gash at the root of my little finger that’s dripping blood, and my front tooth is loose. I had fallen hard—one of the dangers of running 60 mph.

Irise to my feet and look around. Where are the hawks? Where did the poppy girls go?

Where is my angel?

I walk back to the gate, squeeze under, and walk to the frontage road. It’s a little over a mile to my car. When I get there, I feel weak and shaken and sit down on the curb. I can see my reflection in my car door. He doesn’t look ready for a marathon. He looks really forlorn. What a morning!

But, you know, it was a wonderful morning. My

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