George Kovac

Ten years ago my sons Mike (26) and Justin (23) flew in from New York and California for the Miami half marathon, and recruited their old man (59) to run with them. Upon crossing the finish line, we each received an enormous medal on a wide ribbon. All these years later, mine still hangs in my closet, on the tie rack I no longer need, where I see it every morning.

The race started at 6:15 A.M., on the bayfront in Miami, when it was still night-dark. Brisk January weather, perfect for running. In an otherwise starless sky, the moon hung low, a coruscating crescent, with Jupiter burning brilliantly above it—a perfect display of the ancient symbol that enthralled the Moabites, then Byzantium and ultimately Islam. The pre-dawn air was crisp, and the boulevard filled with twenty thousand expectant runners, bathed in floodlights. In this famously frivolous city, they gathered for Nike, not Dionysus.

With the burst of the starter’s flare overhead, the race was on, past the Miami Heat’s basketball arena, so incongruously illuminated at this godly hour. The course immediately veered hard right, onto the long, palm-lined causeway over Biscayne Bay toward Miami Beach, three miles to the east.  Halfway across the causeway, the horizon lightened, purples and oranges separating in the distance. By the time we were running along Ocean Drive parallel to the beach, six miles into the run, the sun was in the offing, framed by palms and sea grapes. Seven more miles, another causeway, and the three of us were back to where we started, then regrouped and breakfasted heartily at a sidewalk cafe in Coconut Grove. 

It’s early in the morning,

and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.

The sky is taking on light,

though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute

death and ambition, even love,

doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on

unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,

any early morning talk about it.

  —Raymond Carver “Happiness”