WE WERE 88,000 feet, walking for a good cause. Most of the colleagues in my group were under 12 years old. This had been their idea, though they had no conception of what 20 miles meant. They carried modest amounts of water, spectacular amounts of chocolate in Life Is Good backpacks, and wore their sneakers unlaced. Our pace to the registration desk was no-nonsense.
Handmade signs, delirious with encouragement, were hung every few yards. They began before the route did: 19 1/2 MILES TO GO!! HANG IN THERE!! WALK THE WORLD TO A BETTER PLACE!! HAPPY FEET!!
Encouragement seemed unnecessary. We were already motivated - in general, by the cause, and in specific, by ice cream bars from the canny vendor who had parked his cart at the start of the walk. It was 8 a.m.; every specialty bar was still available. Life was good.
Three miles, 5 miles, 8 miles. There are only so many original phrases of encouragement before repetition sets in. The signs began to recycle. HANG IN THERE. HAPPY FEET!! HAPPY FEET!! All this emphasis on feet seemed a little foreboding.
Twelve miles, 14 miles. The chocolate was gone, the sun was high, and my colleagues were feeling less enthused. They were wishing they had gone to soccer practice instead. I looked for signs with quotes about perseverance, and found signs with kidney beans for heels and dots for toes. HAPPY FEET!! HAPPY FEET!!
By mile 16, the phrase had become oxymoronic. No feet were happy at this point. Any good intentions that feet had started with were 8 miles back, taking their own shoes off.
A row of buses driving tired walkers from the halfway point back to the starting line passed us. These were honest soldiers, heading home. I thought I heard someone yelling from inside - he seemed to be shouting two words with three syllables - but that could have been an orthopedic hallucination. My colleagues dragged themselves along.
When we limped across the last checkpoint, the girls were flushed with purpose again. They actually threw their shoes off and tried to run.
The metaphor came home then. We stand in the world on our own two feet - by ourselves and for ourselves.
Yet now the Boston Common was filled with thousands of feet that stood together: exhilarated feet, blistering feet, feet crying for a soak in Epsom salts, feet that would be limping for weeks, feet tripping over each other, feet in pain, feet unknown to their neighboring feet. They were all as distressed as feet could be. (One of mine, it turned out, was fractured.)
But the signs had been prescient. In the name of a good cause, every hurting foot was smiling.
Elissa Ely is a psychiatrist. 
