Monday broke my heart.
A lot has been written about what happened in Boston, much of which is said more clearly and meaningfully than I could ever say it.
But, as an introvert who doesn’t often feel the need to express myself, I’ve learned that when I do feel that strange need to share coming on, it’s best to write it down.
I guess that’s why so many introverts have blogs.
In April 2007, I crossed the Boston Marathon finish line for the first time. That moment remains one of the proudest and happiest moments of my life.
I remember, with such clarity, turning onto Boylston Street, so little race left to run, and seeing the finish line in the distance. That beautiful arched blue and yellow structure meant I had come to the end of my exhausting 26.2 mile journey that day, but it also meant that I had fought through all of those internal doubts and finally reached the goal for which I had been striving for years. I was about to be a Boston Marathon finisher.
I remember the Boylston Street crowd cheering so loudly, so full of support and love that I forgot just how much pain I was in. I remember knowing that Dave was somewhere in that crowd and that I would see him soon, and the thought carried me across the finish line.
I don't consider myself to be an emotional person, but there were definitely tears.
It is a memory I will treasure forever - it was my Boston Moment.
Runners work unbelievably hard for the opportunity to run Boston. To even enter the race, you have to first finish another marathon under an established (and difficult) time, based on your gender and your age. People spend years trying to qualify for the race and it’s an honor to even have the opportunity to run it.
If you were to stand at the starting line of the Boston Marathon in Hopkinton, Massachusetts on race day and ask runners how they got there, you would hear so many stories - stories of persistence and dedication and time and huge effort. And these aren’t the stories of the handful of professional runners at the front…these are everyday people who just worked really hard to meet a goal, and finally made it to their Boston Moment.
If you ask the same question 26.2 miles away, of the crowd waiting at the finish line on Boylston Street, you would also hear stories of dedication and effort from the husbands, wives, parents, children, and friends of the crazy runners you met back at the starting line. Runners (especially runners trying to get to Boston) can be high maintenance, requiring love, support, and lots of patience (and frequent reminders to hydrate). The people waiting at the finish line aren't there for a medal or a finisher jacket…they are there out of love. They are there to support someone they care about as they reach their goal.
Over the past few days I have heard and read dozens of interviews with 2013 Boston runners:
runners who were re-routed and never saw the finish line,
runners who crossed the finish line but saw unimaginable things,
runners who had long crossed the finish line and were safely out of harm’s way, but will never be able to think about their accomplishment without also thinking of the tragedy of the day,
and , of course, the runners grasping with the fact that their friends and family suffered horribly while standing at the finish line excitedly waiting to see them cross and share in their joy.
I know that Boston is a resilient place and that runners are a tough bunch, and I know in my heart that runners will have Boston Moments as joyous as mine for years to come.
I know this and it does give me hope.
But, my heart breaks for the runners and spectators of Boston 2013.
I'm sad that they saw what they saw and experienced what they experienced and I'm so, so sad that somebody, for reasons we may never understand, stole the joy from their Boston Moment.
A lot has been written about what happened in Boston, much of which is said more clearly and meaningfully than I could ever say it.
But, as an introvert who doesn’t often feel the need to express myself, I’ve learned that when I do feel that strange need to share coming on, it’s best to write it down.
I guess that’s why so many introverts have blogs.
In April 2007, I crossed the Boston Marathon finish line for the first time. That moment remains one of the proudest and happiest moments of my life.
I remember, with such clarity, turning onto Boylston Street, so little race left to run, and seeing the finish line in the distance. That beautiful arched blue and yellow structure meant I had come to the end of my exhausting 26.2 mile journey that day, but it also meant that I had fought through all of those internal doubts and finally reached the goal for which I had been striving for years. I was about to be a Boston Marathon finisher.
I remember the Boylston Street crowd cheering so loudly, so full of support and love that I forgot just how much pain I was in. I remember knowing that Dave was somewhere in that crowd and that I would see him soon, and the thought carried me across the finish line.
I don't consider myself to be an emotional person, but there were definitely tears.
It is a memory I will treasure forever - it was my Boston Moment.
Runners work unbelievably hard for the opportunity to run Boston. To even enter the race, you have to first finish another marathon under an established (and difficult) time, based on your gender and your age. People spend years trying to qualify for the race and it’s an honor to even have the opportunity to run it.
If you were to stand at the starting line of the Boston Marathon in Hopkinton, Massachusetts on race day and ask runners how they got there, you would hear so many stories - stories of persistence and dedication and time and huge effort. And these aren’t the stories of the handful of professional runners at the front…these are everyday people who just worked really hard to meet a goal, and finally made it to their Boston Moment.
If you ask the same question 26.2 miles away, of the crowd waiting at the finish line on Boylston Street, you would also hear stories of dedication and effort from the husbands, wives, parents, children, and friends of the crazy runners you met back at the starting line. Runners (especially runners trying to get to Boston) can be high maintenance, requiring love, support, and lots of patience (and frequent reminders to hydrate). The people waiting at the finish line aren't there for a medal or a finisher jacket…they are there out of love. They are there to support someone they care about as they reach their goal.
Over the past few days I have heard and read dozens of interviews with 2013 Boston runners:
runners who were re-routed and never saw the finish line,
runners who crossed the finish line but saw unimaginable things,
runners who had long crossed the finish line and were safely out of harm’s way, but will never be able to think about their accomplishment without also thinking of the tragedy of the day,
and , of course, the runners grasping with the fact that their friends and family suffered horribly while standing at the finish line excitedly waiting to see them cross and share in their joy.
I know that Boston is a resilient place and that runners are a tough bunch, and I know in my heart that runners will have Boston Moments as joyous as mine for years to come.
I know this and it does give me hope.
But, my heart breaks for the runners and spectators of Boston 2013.
I'm sad that they saw what they saw and experienced what they experienced and I'm so, so sad that somebody, for reasons we may never understand, stole the joy from their Boston Moment.
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