I have had a pretty incredible week for weight loss — in fact, a run of weeks in a row that I’ve steadily lost weight, and this far into my journey, any time I lose any weight at all is a time for rejoicing. Right now? I’m positively giddy to be very close to my next short goal, one I honestly thought might be as far away as year’s end, considering my previous loss statistics.

I did make some small adjustments, and they were apparently the right ones. (And no, I won’t say what I did, because — as always — what my body requires is likely not what your body requires, and we all have to find our own successes.) I am well aware that future tweaks may yet be required, but for now, I’m very happy and confident, going into an important follow-up appointment for knee surgery next week.

But that’s not really what I’m here to write about.

I’m a member of a club that volunteers annually for a large marathon; they man a station that serves two points in the race, the last station marathon runners and walkers see before the finish line. The station sits at the 18 and 24 mile markers; marathoners turn and come back. About 30 folks come out very early on the first Sunday morning in March, which is typically a weather crapshoot here, and work until the last walker comes through in the mid-afternoon.

This was my first year volunteering since previously, I felt I was not physically up to the task. This year, I was, although I was on the verge of becoming sick and didn’t know it at the time, so wasn’t fully up to the day’s demands.

I spent some of my time out by the street and cheering on folks who were coming through. Later, I stood and handed out Gatorade to passing participants. Late in the day, my knees and head both hurt enough that I was sitting at a distance, watching, when the last of them came through.

Perhaps it’s natural to compare yourself to those in the race. I honestly thought that every participant would be much like the early runners; fit, determined, ultra-focused passing those late markers. Despite a chilly day’s start in the low 40’s, early runners were barely clothed, having likely dispensed of clothing along the way.

As time went on, the nature of each participant changed to span a much wider gap (and, might I add, more clothing!). Sure, there were the young and fit, and the ones who came from out of state to participate and proudly wore something identifying where they were from. But then there were those who didn’t fit the norm; a paraplegic on a special recumbent bike that required pedaling by hand. A sight-impaired man with an escort. Another with running with a service dog. People who must be well into their 80’s or beyond.

Some I recognized as people who have lost weight; the signs are there for those of us who have been through it. And while far from what is accepted as “fit”, many much heavier than I am currently, they were still running at the 18 mile mark. The farthest I have ever walked was 6 miles, and that’s been a decade ago; these folks tripled that and were still on their way. Bravery comes in a lot of different forms; they have my respect.

Some were clearly determined; some appeared to be in pain. Some were lighthearted and responded to our group cheering them on; we weren’t just there with refreshments. We were there with cheerful music blasting away, smiles on our faces, telling them we had faith that they were going to keep doing a great job. And, of course, some looked at us like we were crazy. No doubt, we are, but that’s the nature of the club.

Later came the walkers, and while some were still alternating with running, a day that had promised 60’s and sunshine instead dumped quick, hard, cold rain on the runners and volunteers alike, and nearby lightning threatened to end the race early. They soldiered on, the rain and threat of lightning left, and by then, it was plainly evident some of these folks were truly suffering. Wet clothing, wet socks and shoes. Garbage bags over their clothes in case it should rain, again.

Men bled from their nipples. People stopped at the medical tent next to us; one woman, who limped in with one shoe removed, I just knew was done. People of all shapes and ages kept walking, kept going, some smiling, many not.

But they all kept going. They all made the turn and we saw them on the reverse side at the 24 mile marker, closing in on the finish line.

Finally, the police and race officials confirmed that the last of the marathoners were just down the road. I’ve heard that many stations shut down before the stragglers come through; my club — and I’m damned proud of them for this — does not. They stayed.

And when they knew the last of the marathoners were approaching, they met them and walked with them, cheering them on. Telling them that they were close, just keep moving, that they had the faith in them to accomplish their goals. And they made sure, later, that they knew who had crossed that finish line.

I’ve only done one race in my life; I walked a 5K that was a local fundraiser. While they welcomed walkers, I was the only one who signed up, and that made me dead last. And I was not a fast walker to begin with. I tell you, I was mortified. They kept sending around an ATV to check on where I was and if I was still in the race at all.

But when I finally crossed the finish line, there was a crowd of women there to meet me and cheer me on.

I have been last. And I know what it means to have not been forgotten, not marked off the list. To have achieved, anyway.

It’s one of those big life lessons you have to always carry with you: being last, being the slowest, does not mean failure. It means you finished — on your own terms. Those who are there to see you over that finish line are the ones who know that life lesson. And those who are struggling to make it over that line want them to know how very much they are appreciated, because support matters. Cheering them on matters.

Finishing despite the struggle matters most of all.