Runners exalt the marathon as a public test of private will, when months or years of solitary training, early mornings, lost weekends, rain and pain mature into triumph or surrender. That’s one reason the race-day crowds matter, the friends who come to cheer and stomp and flap their signs and push the runners on.
If we see a sad rain, it doesn’t mean the rain is sad, but it means we see it. That’s an easily dismissible kind of projection. But what I’m struggling to say, is that we take that rain in through our own hearts and emotions and senses and skin, and all those filters have an impact.
