I try to stay away from writing about tragedies, or politics, or most holidays. I don’t like to get into the must-post-about-everything mindset. But something about this one got to me a little more than normal. Maybe it’s because I don’t have kids in elementary school, I don’t go to the movies. My public transportation isn’t especially well-ridden, and, while my city recently experienced tragedy, I wasn’t here at the time to experience it with them.
But I grew up at races, I’ve run since I was 6, I spent more hours than I can count skipping around race courses, screaming and whooping and yelling. I know the exhilaration of the finish line, the excitement of a good race in the last stretch, the accomplishment of making it to the end. I know the peace and balance that running brings, and that for so many that peace is now shattered.
No one I knew very well was at the Marathon – I know of people who were there, and I know people who know people who were there – but people in my life run races all the time. My twitter feed is full of people training for the Flying Pig in a few weeks, my family is often planning their next race, my sister is racing next weekend, my husband ran a race a month ago.
I spoke with my sister this afternoon – the one who’s running next weekend – and verified that all of her friends made it through safely. One crossed the finish line 15 min before the blasts. She mentioned that for those that were there, the finish line will be a much more daunting task. That after running a race and leaving it all on the pavement, they will be faced with the fear of crossing the finish line.
This is not to say that the far too many tragedies that have happened recently were not terrible. You never know how one will affect you and this one in particular got me more than the others. It hit close to home, to something that I had previously considered safe.
So I lace up, because what else can one do when the world rocks than to keep putting one foot in front of the other.