I cried when I heard about the Boston Marathon bombing. Not just because of the sheer tragedy of it, but because in the three years I’ve been running I’ve discovered that there is a vibrant running community. Something that connects two people meeting for the first time when they discover, “Oh my gosh, you run, too?”
And there’s something so incredible about race day environments. Spectators cheering complete strangers on. The camaraderie between participants, no matter your speed, on having completed the same course. Being inspired by pro athletes smoking the competition who make you want to be better runner, as well as seeing determined geriatrics shuffling along that make you resolve, “Wow, I want to still be running when I’m in my 70s!”
It’s a honor to even qualify for the Boston Marathon. A race filled with people who trained hard and all had their eyes on a personal goal, just as I do.
And I had to get out and do something.
My workplace sent us home with a snow day (eight inches and it didn’t stop until we had thirteen) and while snow days still bring out the third-grader in all of us, today had itchy feet and cabin fever. So I laced up some shoes…
So I ran. Not very fast or very far because.. you know… But I still ran. I ran for them. I ran for Boston.
Went to a nearby hill and ran up it as fast as I could four times before the slushy mud started getting too slippery. And I saw other footprints in the snow indicating that I wasn’t the only crazy person out running today in a town that plows the running paths before it finishes plowing the streets.