I've never run the Boston Marathon. I haven't been to Boston in years. I've even half-heartedly vowed to never set foot in the city again unless I'm on my way to run its marathon. Such is the reverence I feel for this race. So despite never having taken part in one, when I learned of the bombing this afternoon, it hit particularly close to home. It felt like not just an attack on America and the city of Boston, but on marathons and those who run them.
I'm sad. Much like in this post, I feel deeply for those whose moment of pride and glory was stolen from them, replaced with horror and loss.
It's hard to believe there was a time in my life when I didn't think twice about going to school every day, or getting on a plane, or going to the movies. Now, anytime I'm in a crowd, there is that little, morbid voice that asks, what if? Now, when I cross the line of a marathon, even that hallowed line on Boylston Street, I will be forced to acknowledge the random acts of evil in the world that accompany so much beauty.
Boston, for me you have come to symbolize hard work, pride, hope, and a vexing frustration. Like many, I have a love/hate relationship with you. But in this moment, I feel nothing but love for you, and we all, runners and non-runners alike, stand with you.