The yearly Marathon in my town usually happened
during a heat wave. My job was to follow behind the runners in an ambulance
1 any of them needed medical
attention. "We’re supposed to stay behind the 2 runner, so take it slowly," I said to the
driver, Doug, as the race started. The front-runners started to 3 and then my eyes were
4 to the woman in blue silk running shorts and a loose
white T-shirt. We knew we were already watching our "last
runner." Her 5 were so crippled that it
seemed almost impossible for her to be able to walk, 6
alone run a marathon. Doug and I 7 in silence as she slowly moved forward.
8 , she was the only runner left in
sight. Tears streamed down my face when I watched with respect 9 she pushed forward with great 10 through the last miles. When
the finish line came into sight, rubbish lay everywhere and the 11 crowds had long gone home.
12 , standing straight and ever so proud 13 a lone man. He was
14 one end of a ribbon of crepe paper
15 to a post. She slowly crossed through, leaving both ends
of the paper fluttering behind her. I do not know this woman’s
name, but that day she became a part of my 16
—a part I often depend on. For her, it wasn’t about 17 the other runners or winning a prize, but
about 18 what she had set out to do, no
matter 19 . When I think things are too
difficult or I get those "I-just-can’t-do-it," I think of the last runner. Then
I realize how 20 the task before me
really is.