Why Boston?

It’s all still so fresh. The unconscionable events at the Boston marathon happened mere hours ago. I’m in dismay over this seemingly random act of horrific violence. Why would someone do this? Who would do this? Why did this happen? Why to runners? Why At Boston? Why?

I just can’t fathom what would bring someone to intentionally inflict pain and suffering on completely innocent people. I’ve never been one to enjoy overtly violent movies with an antagonist that has some warped relationship with humanity. I don’t want to be forced to contemplate the darker side of humanity. But this is different. This happened to my tribe, my community, my running brethren.

As I woke this morning, I could feel the pre-race electricity running through my body, as if I were running Boston myself. I celebrated each runner’s personal victory with each crossing of the finish line, knowing the sacrifice and dedication that it took to get to that moment. Boston. The Holy Grail.

Hearing of the bombings, I became physically sick, feeling not just my sadness, but the collective sorrow of our community. The feeling has not left me. But it wasn’t until now, as I am snuggling next to my two-year-old as she sweetly falls to sleep, that I understand why this crazed person chose to inflict his or her inevitable mayhem on runners at Boston.

Because the true soul of humanity is found in the run.

Race day brings the best together, from the volunteers, to the spectators, to the runners themselves, all working together to better each other. You can’t find that at any other sporting event. When you consider the showing of the authentic human spirit that happens on race day, it only makes sense a crazy person would try to destroy that. Guess what. You can’t. The runner’s spirit is indomitable. News outlets were reporting that some finishers, after having poured every ounce of their being into the last 26.2 miles, continued running – straight to the hospital to donate blood.

When tragedies like this occur, it is commonly said that it is a time for us to pull together. Well, we’re already together. Always have been. Our community will rise above. We’re used to having to pull each other through seemingly impossible obstacles, being there for you buddy when it looks like he just can’t continue, providing strength to each other. That’s what we do. We’re runners.

Failure.

It slipped away so easily…

“She’s ten minutes ahead of you.”

“How is this? I left the aid station right after she did. I had been ahead of her. I was winning. Now I’m losing. I shouldn’t have taken so long changing my shoes. I shouldn’t have been so chatty at the aid station. Ten minutes? It’s over. I’ve lost.”

Each subsequent mile, my pace slowed. The loneliness was smothering me. Miles 35 through 37 were navigated through tear-filled eyes. This was the end. My first DNF (Did Not Finish) was drawing nigh. I didn’t care. I was pissed. Pissed at the roots on the trail for causing me to stumble, at the steepness of the hills for making my legs burn, at the sun for being so damn hot, at myself for failing. My signature mental fortitude was absent, leaving me to beg for mercy from my crew. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m miserable. Let me sit. Let me quit.” I could see the shock in my husband’s eyes. He was taken aback, hearing words from my mouth that sounded so foreign. Just 12 miles ago, the last time he’d seen me, I was invigorated as I left the aid station in pursuit of the girl I’d been sharing the lead with for the previous 25 miles. I had even been ahead of most of the male competitors. Now, I stood before him mentally defeated (physically fine) with 13 more miles to run.

Michael and Christian told me I wasn’t quitting. Not what I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear that it was okay, I had already proven that I could run 50 miles, I didn’t have to do it again. I wanted them to help me out of the chair and into the car, putting an end to my misery and a beer in my hand. Instead, they filled my water and pointed me in the continued direction of the trail. They said they’d see me at mile 45. I was dubious, but I couldn’t argue. I just started to run. Still pissed. Still mentally defeated.

As I approached a spot on the trail where I had spied a turtle earlier on my first loop, I saw that he was still there. He was dead. I had mistaken that turtle for a friendly reminder that “slow an steady wins the race.” Instead, it was a harbinger of doom. “You’re done. Might as well quit.” Again, the crying commenced. I called my mommy, I told her I was so lonely (I hadn’t seen another runner in hours) and that I wanted to quit.

“Oh honey, I’m so sorry. How much further do you have?”
“Ten miles.”
*laughing* “Thats it? That’s nothing! Just finish!”
*Dad yelling in the background* “Well, if you’d get off the damn phone and get back to running, you’d be done already!”

Not what I wanted to hear. Why wouldn’t anyone just tell me I could quit?!? I was infuriated. Physically, I was still fine, but I had lost the will to continue. I would just start walking for no reason other than I didn’t want to run anymore. I lost count of how many men passed me. Whatever. Then a woman passed me. With that, I dropped from second to third. I didn’t care. She looked great. She was running strong. She deserved second place, I deserved a swift kick in the ass. Mile 44 was through a cypress swap. I decided to sit on a fallen tree for a few minutes and take in the view. It was a scene straight out of Middle Earth. When I approached the water crossing for the second time, I just stood there. I didn’t want to get soaked again, so I climbed a tree and shimmied my way across to another tree on the other bank. This is how much I didn’t care about my time. Mile 45 brought me to the start/finish line where Michael, Christian, and my daughter Presley were waiting for me. Now, I had to do the last 5 mile loop. The race director is one sadistic bastard. When Michael ran to me to give me encouragement, I informed him that I refused to run the last loop unless he ran with me. Yup. It came to that.

So, my most noble husband ran with me in cargo shorts and barefoot. I was at my most ridiculous those last 5 miles. Vehemently and audibly cursing the roots on the trail, using combinations of swear words that would make one question my upbringing. Thank God there was no one else on the trail. I was embarrassing. But Michael stayed with me, being the inner voice of affirmation that I needed, but couldn’t offer myself. He told me he was proud of me, which I honestly couldn’t comprehend. “How is he proud of me? I’m acting like a fool! I have failed. I wanted to quit. I didn’t win. Maybe he’s crazy, too.”

As I finally crossed the finish line, there was no joy. I was enraged. What a failure I was. “50 miles? Who cares? What does it matter?” The one thing, ONE THING, I was always good at, was being mentally tough. Not today, sista’. I was a sobbing heap of self-loathing apathy. Three days later, I still don’t have a warm and fuzzy about the race. The experience has left me adrift. Was I getting too big for my britches? Was this meant to be a reality check? Will this leave me hungering for my next race, voracious for a victory? I have no idea, and I might not know for a while. But the only way to find out is to keep running.