"I'm done," I thought to myself. "Stick a fork in me. I am done."

Unfortunately, I was only about two miles through my 5-mile stretch of the 2010 Mississippi Blues Marathon. We had formed a team from work consisting of five runners. The first four were each to run five miles, and the last was to run six miles and some change. I was third to run.

It was 17 degrees at the start of the race, and then it started to snow—unusual for Jackson, even in January. In fact, the city would be paralyzed for more than a week by scores of water-main breaks. The torn-up streets from repairs would plague the city for months. But the first two runners from our team, both much younger than I, seemed unaffected by the cold.

I grabbed a paper cup of some blue-colored frozen drink as I passed the watering station. A nun from St. Dominic Hospital cheerfully waved me on, instructing me to "just throw the paper cup in the grass" when I was done. Her cheerfulness and lack of acknowledgement of my pain angered me. As I crunched on the blue ice, I wondered if anyone remembered that the first guy to run a marathon collapsed and died after finishing.

Quietly murmured encouragement from my team leader, a co-worker half my age, disturbed my concentration. Jeannie was the team organizer and had decided to run my five miles and then hers. She was the only reason I was still running. When the team asked me to join because they were short a runner, I said I would walk much of it and that the five miles would take me an hour or so. If they couldn't live with that, count me out. The team assured me that it was OK. But Jeannie foiled my plans at the last minute by declaring that she would run with me for encouragement and then continue with her portion.

Running had once been a big part of my life, but 55 years, a motorcycle accident, college rugby, softball, volleyball and many years as a soccer referee had taken their toll, not to mention adding 50 pounds of extra weight and a perpetually aching back.

Through my ragged breathing, I heard her tell me how well I was doing. My mustache was frozen and my fingers no longer had any feeling. If I had any breath, I would have told her what to do with her encouragement.

A couple of heavy-set girls cheerfully passed, waving and encouraging me to keep up the good work. In my humiliation, I almost called out that "spandex is a privilege, not a right!" Fortunately, my ability to talk was limited at the time.

Still murmuring encouragement, Jeannie ran to my right and slightly behind me and somehow realized my distress and her place in it. She knew that there was nothing she could do and that any attempt to help risked stinging my fragile masculine pride. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that her wisdom and kindness was far beyond her 29 years. I knew I was lucky that Jeannie thought our friendship important. It was more than that; she was my all-but-in-biology daughter. I choked a little—literally on the blue ice and figuratively on the thought. That gives me four daughters and a wife, I thought, more femininity than any one man deserved, wanted, needed or could handle.

We were coming up to Lakeland Drive, at that point an eight-lane thoroughfare we had to cross.

"Thank God for lazy cops," I thought. Two police officers were leaning against their vehicle parked on the side of the road, engaged in animated conversation. We would have to stop and wait for the light, and the anticipation of doing so lifted my spirits.

Why Jeannie and I were friends baffled me. I had treated her badly in the past and on several momentous occasions had been insensitive and even callus. True, her youthful confidence—she had the answer to everything—and her sanctimonious feminism infuriated me. I couldn't help but poke fun at her now and again. Baiting her had been a favorite pastime of mine until I realized how seriously Jeannie considered my opinion.

We were close to the light now, and the cops still hadn't acknowledged us. I focused on a rock about 10 feet from the road and told myself I could stop when I reached it. The mere thought of stopping reinvigorated me, and I strode forward preparing a scathing remark about lazy cops and having to wait for the light.

"When had we become friends?" I thought. Jeannie had worked for me for about 10 years now. She started during her freshman year of college; I have some memories of her during that time, but nothing special. She seemed no different than the many other students we hired. At some point, she became someone whose name I remembered.

Friendship has never come easy for me; I can count my real friends on the fingers of one hand—not acquaintances that come and go, but people who stay in your life even when you live far apart. As she ran beside me, I thought about how important Jeannie's friendship had become.

I was almost to the rock when I noticed the cops moving. Without looking at us, they waded into traffic like they were invulnerable. Just lifting his hand, the first cop stopped the traffic nearest to us; the second crossed the median and stopped the other four lanes of traffic. With his left arm still in the air—like Moses holding back the Red Sea—the nearest cop turned and winked, and with his right arm made a pumping motion.

Then I looked at the expanse of the intersection we had to cross. "Oh, my God," I thought. It's one thing to stagger along in the relative obscurity of Frontage Road, but quite another to cross in full view of dozens of people—people who were getting out of their cars, clapping and cheering. This was not the angry reaction I expected from people stopped on their busy Saturday mornings. I felt a surge of adrenaline, and my fingers tingled as I picked up the pace like I was competing in the Olympics. The cheering crowds and adoring fans were carrying us to victory.

It occurred to me that maybe I was trying too hard regarding friendship. Maybe it wasn't that complex; maybe I didn't need a secret decoder ring or a fraternity to have friends. Maybe friendship was defined by actions—tolerance, forgiveness and acceptance of eccentricities without judgment. Maybe friendship was being there without an agenda, like running quietly beside your 55-year-old friend who is 50 pounds overweight, has a bad knee and a cantankerous personality.

Then we were across and the adrenaline gone. I staggered to the 3-mile marker. I told Jeannie I had to walk for a while. She crossed a patronizing line when she told me that she also needed to stop. I told her to "stuff it," secure in the knowledge of our friendship.