Her powerful and provocative artistry fails to capture the hearts of those who don't quite understand her message. Often overlooked in the art world, Beyoncé has struggled for years to gain the respect of her peers. That all changes when she meets A...
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I leaned forward against the cool metal barricade, the remnants of yesterday's rain lending a crisp freshness to the air that carried the salt tang of the ocean.
Overhead, a ceiling of gray clouds promised more rain but held off for now, as if in silent agreement to let the marathon unfold unspoiled. The breeze was a runner's ally today, fluttering through the banners and flags that lined the streets, each one snapping aimlessly like a sail at sea.
Around me, the crowd was a mosaic of excitement, spectators of all ages and backgrounds converging with a single purpose—to cheer on the sea of determination and spandex flowing down the street. A sprinkling of world-class runners, each lost in their own rhythmic world of breath and stride, passed by in a blur of numbers and neon colors.
"I wonder if it's true."
I looked at Mr. Rowland, who stood next to me holding his DSLR camera and its telephoto lens. He'd brought the equipment along, hoping to get some good shots of Kelly to add to the family mementos.
"That you can get sick after running a marathon," he continued. "You're so tired afterward that some random virus can just come right in and fuck all your shit up."
"It's only temporary, and it's not like it'll happen automatically. You're just more susceptible to catching somethin'. Runnin' a marathon increases levels of stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline. These hormones help mobilize energy stores, and since your body is in a fight-or-flight mode, your immune system goes on standby as you recover from the runnin'."
Mr. Rowland looked impressed. "I thought you were an expert on color theory, not physiology."
I shrugged. "My major in college was biophysics. Tacked on environmental studies as a minor, then completely changed my mind halfway through and switched to art. At least somethin' good came out of it."
We watched as Robyn approached. She was in her element, the power in her long, lean legs carrying her effortlessly past the final marker. Her arms swung in a strong, measured rhythm, and her face relaxed into a serene mask of concentration. I couldn't tell if she was running or floating.
She had chosen her marathon outfit with a special strategy in mind: to bring smiles and a bit of lighthearted distraction to her rivals. The crowd seemed to love it, their cheers growing louder as she got closer.
The swishing tail attached to the back of her running shorts matched the black ears atop her head, and her fitted white T-shirt hugged her body, the back of it emblazoned with a message printed in large font: 'Cat got your tongue, slow poke?'
Her competition wasn't too far behind, but an eternity of distance lay between them.
"Is she always like this?" asked Mrs. Rowland, who had returned from purchasing coffee in the small vendor area nearby. It was clear from her tone that while she found the spectacle entertaining, she also pondered the appropriateness of such flamboyance at a serious athletic event. Mr. Rowland waved back at Robyn as she flew by with a quick salute and moved her purple-tinted Oakley glasses on top of her head. His camera flashed with a succession of rapid clicks. "I don't think I've ever come across someone so...hmm...confident."
