Gotcha, didn’t I? You thought I was going to write about Nicholas Sparks’ novel. Nah. I am really writing about my love of notebooks and the particular one I am in love with right now.

The first thing you need to know is that I have always LOVED notebooks. I have had notebooks as long as I can remember, probably since I went with my grandmother to her third grade class at East Flat Rock elementary school. When I go in Rite Aid or Staples or Target, I am drawn to notebooks. I never leave without looking to see what’s on the shelves: small memo books, 5 x 9s, 5-subject notebooks. I adore them all.

When I recently moved my office, I had to pack up and move the stacks of notebooks I have kept at work for the last ten years. They have my daily to do lists, phone messages, notes from meetings, and little reminders that come up during a workday. Here are a few of them:

And they are just the tip of the iceberg. I have many more notebooks at home, stashed under my bed, in the closet, and packed in storage boxes.

But now I need to tell you something. I had no idea what I was missing until I discovered the Moleskine Cahier Extra Large journal. It costs $18.95 for three of them….and to me, a notebook aficionado, they are worth every single penny. I love the sensuous experience of opening a Moleskine, running my fingertips across the smooth, acid-free paper, and starting to write. I have been using them the past three months while taking my MOOC through Penn State, writing my blog post drafts, and brainstorming with my assistant, Allison. I have never been happier while writing, and I am beginning to think that because I am using Moleskines, the ideas in them may just be my best ideas ever.

Or not. It doesn’t really matter. I am writing again and loving the experience. That’s what’s important, right? (Does that mean I am comfortable in my own “Moleskine”?)

Have you ever run a marathon? If you have, did you think about the people around you, how a marathon is a microcosm of the human journey? (Or were you just trying to survive after “hitting the wall” at mile 20?)

This weekend, I was a course monitor for Raleigh’s City of Oaks Marathon. It was my job to stand in 39-degree weather at the corner of Boylan Avenue and McCullouch Street and keep vehicles from driving on the course until the field had passed. That’s it. So, since I only had to turn back a panicked Vet School technician and a sleepy man trying to get to his job downtown, I had a great opportunity to watch people as they went by.

First came the elites, the handful of racers who are so good at this. They were fluid and smooth, and you barely heard them breathe. Their foot strike was light, and they moved with grace and power. I marveled at their ability, secretly wishing I could be that gifted.

Then came the next pack, some of whom probably ran cross country in college. They ran deliberately, their faces solemn, their eyes focused. While they aren’t gifted as the elites, I knew they would finish fairly well because they have been doing this such a long time. It is second nature to them.

After that, I began to see groups. Many had a pacer, the person who keeps them on track to finish when they want to. Without the pacer, they might lag, or lose their focus. As long as they stay with their group, most will finish and earn a personal best. But within the groups, I could see some people already struggling, even at mile 4.7. My post was at the top of a hill, so by the time they got to me, the runners who had not trained on hills were laboring, breathing heavily. Their pacer was calling out to them, encouraging them, letting them know, ‘you made it, you’re at the top, it flattens out now.’ One woman called out to me, “I didn’t train on any hills – there aren’t any where I live….” She seemed surprised by the difficulty of the course and what it was going to take to finish.

Around the groups were the individuals. Some were with friends or family, chatting like they were strolling in the park, talking about children and work and plans for the rest of the day. Some were in their own world, listening to their iPods, maintaining a steady pace. Some walked a bit then ran a bit then walked a bit. Some were obviously thinking, ‘I’m not sure why this seemed to be a good idea 6 months ago,’ as they trudged along. Some stopped to stretch tight muscles, take off gloves and hats, or drink from their PowerAde supply. Threaded throughout were EMTs on bikes, a reassuring presence in case someone had a serious medical emergency.

A few of the runners took a minute to say to me, “Thank you for volunteering”…”Thank you for coming out”….”Thanks for supporting us.” They knew that the race would not happen without hundreds of people like me getting out of bed on a cold morning and standing in the street to protect them. They understood that, without us, this race could be dangerous.

At the end of the full cadre of runners came the trail car, the police car that follows the very last participant. On this day, it was a walker determined to finish every last mile of the 26.2. He was not alone, even if he felt like it. There were people there to watch over him, to be sure he was all right.

Honestly, I was in awe. I had the feeling I was watching all of humanity: young, old, male, female, Caucasian, African American, Hispanic, fast, slow, effortless, struggling…with even more people gathered around to support them in their journey, no matter how long it took.

I’m glad I got out of bed at 5:00 am.