Monument Tour

(Administrative note: I wrote the following article shortly after a business trip in October. I planned on using it for a Monterey Herald article, but Mike and I had a couple of other topics we wanted to cover first, so this one just sat idle on my laptop for several weeks.

As it happens, our next column runs on Thanksgiving Day. This article wasn’t meant to be a standard-issue “giving thanks” type of column, but after looking it over a couple of times, it sort of fits the mold. The original version is posted below, and a modified (i.e. more Thanksgiving-y) version will appear in Thursday’s Herald.

With that said … happy reading, and have a nice Thanksgiving.)

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Thankfully, I haven’t been to a lot of memorial services.

Honoring the lives of those who have passed before us is generally somber business. Although we try to celebrate life, the overwhelming emotions are usually those of sadness and grief.

And to show our respect, we would never dream of showing up in sweat-soaked running clothes.

But with the passage of 100 years or so, the rules change a bit. Instead of memorial services, the lives of our predecessors are remembered in monuments, open for contemplation in whatever manner touches us the most profoundly.

I thought about this while running through Washington, D.C. last month.

My business day ended at 5:00 PM, leaving about 90 minutes of sunlight before night descended upon the city. I quickly changed clothes, laced up my shoes, and headed out the door of my Georgetown hotel.

I took pedestrian pathways towards downtown, and noticed that several tourist groups were still making their rounds in large buses which stopped at the major monuments. I decided to use my evening run for the same purpose.

My first stop was the Jefferson Memorial at the Tidal Basin. Approaching the 130’ structure, my first realization was how large these memorials really are. Everyone knows what D.C.’s landmarks look like from photographs, but until you’re standing at the base of one, it’s hard to fathom their imposing size.


I ran up the marble steps and into the portico, to gaze upon the 20’ statue of our third President. From such a vantage point, his inscribed words on the walls and in the dome overhead strike a profoundly noble chord.

I started this run seeking inspiration; less than 20 minutes in, I had found it.

My path led me around the Basin to the FDR Memorial. I slowed to walk through the waterfalls and reflecting pools. Contemplating scenes from the Great Depression alongside inscriptions such as Roosevelt’s Four Freedoms, I felt grateful for the talents and comforts I’ve known for my whole life.


One reason for that prosperity was the next stop on my tour: the World War II Memorial. On the west side of the plaza I stood at the Freedom Wall, taking the measure of over 4000 gold stars – each one representing 100 American deaths. Nearly all of them died younger than I am now. My evening run had taken a somber turn.

I resumed jogging along the reflecting pool toward the Lincoln Memorial. Again I was impressed by the sheer size of the monument (and I could be wrong, but it sure seemed like the steps got steeper towards the top) and the stature of the man it honors.


I also found that despite the crowds at the base of Lincoln’s chair, it was unusually silent here in the inner chamber. I could hear my own breathing as we stood in reverence of one of our country’s greatest leaders.

I descended the steps and drifted over to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. The black granite wall is simultaneously stark and sacred, and its aesthetic power was enough to stop me in my tracks.

Architect Maya Lin intended this to be a place of reflection. The granite is polished and glossy, reflecting the grass and trees and visitors that surround it. Images of life are reflected in the names of those who died, eternally connecting scenes from the present to the heroes of our troubled past.


Above all, this was a place of great sorrow. It seemed fitting that darkness was falling. I slowly walked the length of the wall, then continued onward, with just one stop remaining on my tour.

I ran through Constitution Gardens toward the city’s most recognizable structure. Approaching it, I saw that the lights of the Washington Monument had already been turned on, giving the towering obelisk a dusky hue against the orange and purple autumn sunset.

I ran up the sloping grass to the tower, and stood right against the monument, so the lights from the ground projected my shadow upward against the white marble and sandstone.

Standing at the base, it’s impossible to see the top of the monument. Even my larger-than-life-shadow projected up only a fraction of the tower’s 555’ height. The inherent message was simple: standing here, I was in the presence of giants.

Returning along the Potomac through the darkness, I considered the time I had just spent at these memorials. In particular, I remembered some signs I had seen along the way.

Many of the monuments have standard-issue “Quiet please - No smoking - No pets - No skateboarding” signs posted in common areas. But I was surprised to see that several of these signs also say “No running.”

Was this a simple liability issue? Or had I been disrespectful by showing up at these memorials with shorts, muddy running shoes and a sweaty Big Sur Marathon shirt? If so, I couldn’t really make sense of it.

Because whether they commemorate triumphs or sadness, the monuments inspire and challenge us. They force us to consider our own lives, our purposes, and how we influence the world around us.

In that regard, I thought it quite appropriate that I visited them in the midst of a run.

When I’m out running, I’m filled with inspiration and encouragement. And I’m never more introspective, more humble, or more contemplative than when I’m wearing shorts and running shoes. That night I was especially appreciative for my ability to run, and for freedom to do the activities I enjoy.

Running in the footsteps of giants, I was grateful to all of those who made it possible: the founders who established our great nation, and the generations who continually defend her ideals. Sharing my run with thoughts of such patriots is the best way I can think of to pay my respects.

And if I’m a little bit stinky and sweaty while doing so – well, hopefully Abe, George, and the others will understand.