Young men in colored jerseys as brilliant as Maine maple trees in October assemble at the starting line. Colors pop against the backdrop of a gray, drizzly morning. The misty morning air is perfect for running.

This is the annual Belfast Festival of Champions. As two national anthems are sung, high school cross-country teams from all over Maine, New England, and Canada line up for the start of the first boys race – over 400 strong. Teams huddle, cheers erupt. Spirits and testosterone are running high.

At the sound of the gun, it is as if a herd of buffalo is running at us, then by us. The ground shakes, colors blur as arms pump and runners bolt past, then funnel in to a narrow path and disappear over a knoll and into the woods.

All eyes follow the pack, and then as we turn, without fanfare, comes the last runner. The sight of him catches me up short, stops me in my tracks. He is compact, solid in stature, and moves stiffly at a much slower pace than the rest of the field. A beautiful young girl, blond pony tail splayed out behind her, trots along beside him – each clutching one end of a short rope. She is a step or two in front of him, his guide. His head is tilted to one side – he is listening for her voice, sensing her every move with intense concentration.

He is visually impaired – enough so that he needs a guide to navigate this race. Oblivious to the wave of runners that preceded them, they each focus completely on the other – she quietly leading, guiding with voice and subtle signals; he listening, processing, trusting his footfalls to another gentle human being.

They have no idea how stunning they are. This is no paved, smooth running path – cross-country trails are rutted and hilly. Racers barrel through woods and pick their way among trees, roots, rocks. Cross country requires speed, endurance, agility, keen concentration.

Imagine hurtling your way through those same woods, blind to any obstacles you might encounter. Imagine completely trusting another soul to be your lead, all the while running as fast as you can. Imagine running blind.

The sight of these two brought a flood of tears to my eyes. At this tender age, this young man knows such immense courage, such boundless faith. This unlikely team seems unaware of the impact of their partnership.

About 15 minutes later, the leaders begin to make their way across the finish line. Personal bests are recorded, and runners walk off the soreness of having given it their all. Much of the field is done. Then – there they are.

They appear over the last rise – connected by the simple rope stretched between them – and quietly, they finish the race.

Much of the crowd has dispersed to gather with their runners, congratulate the teams. I watch them cross the line, quietly working their way back to their teammates. She says softly, “There’s someone to your right who wants to congratulate you . . .,” and he turns, offering a handshake. He is beaming, and when he recognizes a voice, praises that athlete by name.

They blend back into the crowd, she still leading, he following, having no idea that together they were some sort of miracle.

– Special to the Telegram

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