Boston Marathon

I spent Monday morning sitting on my bed, the TV tuned into the live coverage of the Boston Marathon as background noise while trying to write rough drafts of eight progress reviews.  I looked up when the wheelchair champions crossed the line.  I rooted for the American from the North Shore as she finished fourth, just missing out on the top place.  The group of three elite men seemed to finish just minutes behind.  And then I turned the TV off so that I could get ready to go to work.

As the second shift folks started arriving, whispers about the Marathon started drifting between cubicles and along the corridors, "Have you heard?  Can you believe it?  Oh my God!  Bombs!  Terrorism, for sure."  My thoughts immediately went to a former team mate who was running his first Boston marathon today.  Both of us worked overtime on Sunday morning and I teased him about not being down in the city getting his gear and taking part in the festivities.  Was he OK?  When did he finish?  Was his family waiting for him at the finish line?  Were they OK?  What about his training partner?

At 3:30 I made my usual rounds of saying good afternoon to all the members of my team. One woman was trying to reach her step-daughter who was at the finish line working as a nurse because she specializes in sports medicine (if I am remembering the particulars correctly).  Anyway, her step-daughter was there and her status was unclear at that moment.  

I felt sick.  My stomach was cramping and I had shooting pains in my abdomen.  I thought I was going to cry.  The rumors of other bombs and an explosion at the JFK Library started swirling around.  It was hard to get accurate information at work while trying to conduct the business at hand.  Around 4:30 I found out that my friend was in his car and headed home with his family, all safe and unharmed.  They had left prior to the explosions.  Relief.  My core muscles started relaxing.

Later on in the evening, my team member had heard from her step-daughter who had been in the thick of it all and was able to help the victims with her training and console others with prayer.  The tension in my shoulders dropped.  I took an early dinner and watched the coverage on the evening news.  It was so hard to swallow food and see the images at the same time.  They kept talking about all the people who had lost their legs and feet in the bombings and showing the bloody pavement.  Gruesome.  Horrific.

Going to the Boston Marathon is on my bucket list.  It is right there with going to the Rose Parade some New Year's Day.  For so many years I have lived within a 2 hour drive and have never made it down to watch the runners.  I think Heather took her place on the side of the road when she was at Wellesley College as the even goes right by the campus.  This year I had thought about taking the day off, but with Selim's school vacation next week and taking time off then, I couldn't see how I could afford to be away an extra day, just for fun.  I had imagined that watching the event would inspire me to get back to my own running routine.  I've struggled with going out more than two times a week.  I have lacked motivation and discipline.

Tomorrow (or later on this morning as it is now 1:17am) in my own way, I will run in memory of those who lost their lives or were injured.  I will reflect on the event and think about the victims and their families.  I will lace up my shoes and head out the door, once again grateful for the life that I have and the ability to have both my feel slap the pavement on two good legs while pumping both my arms and sight in both eyes, face intact.  There are many who will no longer be able to do the same after such a senseless act of violence.