/rɘ ˈzɪl yɘnts/ (n.) From Latin ‘resilire,’ meaning to jump back or to recoil. First used in physics since the 1600s, the ability for an object to snap or bounce back into its original shape after applying stress or pressure on it. For humans, the meaning to snap back or to recover after a setback, challenge, or change has been in use since the 1800’s.
I
Forward. That’s the only way to go, and right now we’re gonna need a little push, okay? On second thought, please make it as big a push as you can.
II
Here at West 123rd Street where runners turn the corner from Fifth Avenue, it’s mile 22. The hardest mile, so I’ve heard. The mind and body are tense. Nerves and anticipation, hope and elation, racing toward that finish line that is nowhere in sight, but it’s a whole lot closer than mile one. Here, it becomes a fight. Mental versus physical. Strength versus stamina. Weariness versus will. Fifty thousand runners, guides, partners, and allies. A throng of legs and sweat who take on this mile with the same goal. So we mustered up the strength in our lungs, a collective gust of go go go.
So we pushed. At first we followed the lead of an enthusiastic woman who was yelling and clapping so hard it sounded painful. “Stay strong, Stay strong, you got this!” She was in the front row, partially obscuring our view. “Is your person close? We can switch places when they get here.” She was there for Jonathan, but then cheered for Jamin and Magdalena when they found out who we were there for. I lost track of all the names we yelled out and cheered on.
III
To the man who slowed to a stop in the middle of the street, bent over in pain and sheer exhaustion but picked back up at a shuffle. To the woman whose legs suddenly stiffened like planks and forced her to snail to the sidelines but threw herself back into a steady jog ten minutes later. To the crew of five in wheelchairs, pushing in synchronized unison. To the runners pushing wheelchairs and their occupants. To the guides running beside their visually impaired partners. To the cancer survivors. To the diehards. To the runners on their nth marathon in a string of marathons. To the first-timers.
All of that shouting and whistling because we knew you could do it. You did.
