In the affluent Lakewood neighborhood surrounding Lakeshore and Pearson drives, residents say they can see human misery.

And it's always on a Sunday in mid-December.

SONYA N. HEBERT/DMN

In Lakewood in Mile 20, Shannon Bates waved for her relay teammate and then ran the last leg of the White Rock Marathon.

The intersection is near Mile 20 of the annual White Rock Marathon, at the crest of a series of grueling hills that mercifully come to an end in the 6700 block of Lakeshore before the grade eases the final six miles to the finish line downtown.

"Let me tell you about this corner," said Ralphana Barnes, who lives in the house on the intersection's northeast side. "The runners call this The Wall. It's the toughest part of the race. When you break through The Wall, it's all downhill from here."

On Sunday, as they have each year of the race, neighbors joined volunteers at the Mile 20 aid station – aka The Top of the Rock – for a combination block party, pep rally and therapy session.

"I try to offer them any encouragement I can. There's a lot of suffering that goes on out there," said John Eichman, 50, who lives catty-corner to the Barneses. "Some years, I've let them use the bathroom if the port-o-johns are full."

The crowd at Pearson and Lakeshore began with about 50 people Sunday and nearly doubled as the chilly, damp morning progressed. People shouted encouragement, waved signs and lined the curbs with upturned palms offering orange slices and cups of Gatorade.

They even tried to help psych out the fatigue with music.

Mark Hess, 43, a computer systems analyst at Hewlett Packard, which sponsors the aid station, set up speakers on the Barneses' front lawn to pump up the runners for the last part of the race. And the "Moonlight Sonata" will not do the trick.

At dance-floor decibel levels, Mr. Hess played "La Vida Loca," "Love Shack," "Cotton Eyed Joe" and "Who Let the Dogs Out."

"Play what people know, play what will make people jiggle and play it loud," he said.

Tami Simmons, 47, who has volunteered at the aid station for the better part of two decades, can tell how long the race has been going on by the faces of the runners.

Those leading the pack – the ones with single-digit body fat – are intense, the runners further back are much less so.

"The ones that come by at 11 [about three hours after the start of the race], they're having a blast; you get the crazies that come to the top of the hill and wave their arms and yell," she said, "The front-runners don't look at you. They don't say anything. They're in their own space."

And at every point in the pack, some look just plain miserable, she said.

Ms. Simmons said she has seen runners unable to walk, some with calves severely swollen, some men with shirts bloodied by the friction against their nipples.

That's why Ms. Simmons, who said she runs "only when someone's chasing me," gets up at 5:30 a.m. one day each year and drives from Richardson to Mile 20.

"When the runners come along, you tell them, 'You're doing great,' 'You're looking strong,' and they need that," she said.

One of the runners, Roger Brown, 46, of Oklahoma City, agreed.

"They can see your name [on the registration bib], and when they yell, 'Roger, you're doing great,' they make you feel like you're in first place," Mr. Brown said after the race.

The Mile 20 station is exactly where some runners need a boost of self-esteem.

"You come out of Mile 19 and you hit that wall, and you've given all you can, you can't do anything more," said Michael McCormick, 25, of Abilene, who ran the marathon last year but stuck with the half-marathon on Sunday. "There's nothing more humiliating than having a 65-year-old woman blow by you, and there's nothing you can do about it."

The knowledge that the worst is over helps only so much, Mr. Brown said.

"You've gone 20 miles, so you're feeling fatigue, but you've got six miles to go, so it's too far to feel exhilaration," he said.

The neighbors and volunteers on the sidelines say they feel the runners' pain – at a comfortable distance.

"I watch them as they go past," said Ms. Simmons. "And I'm thinking, 'Boy, I'm glad I'm not out there.' "