Boston – it’s still personal.

As we remember the tragedy that struck a year ago today at the Boston Marathon, I took a few minutes this morning to reread what I wrote about it then and think about what’s changed for me since…

I assumed that I’d always have some fear for friends, family and even strangers who give up their time, sleep and a small fortune in poster board to cheer us on in races…  Indeed, I do worry for their safety, and I’m more appreciative than ever for their ongoing support.

My soon to be 12-year-old son, Leo, still worries about me… though the beauty and wonder of his particular age has caused the patina of fear to wear away some and seeing me return unscathed from a number of races seems to have eased his young mind quite a bit.

Last year, I speculated that I’d never again take my own relatively healthy limbs for granted…  Though I’m not always happy with their performance, yes, I value the use of my legs each and every day.

And yes, I have approached every. single. finish line. of the past year with my mind full of the victims of last year’s event.  My heart continues to squeeze hard through every last step of every race as I wish and hope that somehow, in some way, some of my strength will magically leave my body to help them.

What I hadn’t anticipated a year ago was how much more attentive I’d become not just in races, but in all public places.  I find myself acutely aware of things in my view that don’t look “right” – a person who stands out in a crowd for no reason I can articulate, an unattended backpack on a park bench, the parting of a theme park crowd for no apparent reason… I wouldn’t say I’m living in fear, but I sure am aware of my surroundings in a way I never was before.

I also never anticipated how incredibly connected I'd feel to the running community.  We're a tough, competitive bunch, we runners, but we have our tender spots and it's been amazing to see how we all pull together to support one another and protect our sport.  I am so very, very proud to be part of that.

Yes, a year later, Boston is still very much personal, and I suspect it always will be.  On this day, I join the worldwide running community in mourning the losses of that terrible day. 

But…

…come April 21, I will watch with so many others as we runners take back the Boston Marathon and return it to an event that celebrates the magnificence of human strength and endurance.  In the end, no matter where we are, we are all #BostonStrong.

Boston… It’s Personal.

I know a good many running bloggers have posted their thoughts on the recent bombings at the Boston Marathon and I’ve frankly felt like a slacker for not getting on it myself.  But the words weren’t coming and, really, I wasn’t sure I had any business making a statement at all.  I’m not a Bostonian.  I don’t personally know anyone who ran or was as spectator at the race.  I’m under no illusions that I’ll ever be a Boston Qualifier in this lifetime.  I find sadness in any loss of life, but I didn’t think this particular event had much to do with my own life.  Over the twelve or so hours following the explosions, I took in the facts and information, I thought of the victims, but I did so as an unassociated observer.  And then a co-worker asked me Tuesday morning, “How do you feel about what happened in Boston?  I know you race – do you feel like this changes things for you?”

It hit me like a Mack truck.  The tears started and I answered, “Yes.  I think it does.”  Because, it turns out, what happened in Boston is personal. 

I’ve crossed nine finish lines since beginning my distance running journey, all with only the thought of finishing strong on my mind.  I’ll never cross another finish line without a tickle of “what if there’s a bomb, not a PR, waiting at the end?”  I’ll never again see the finish ahead and not spare a mental moment of remembrance for those who became victims of a heinous act simply because they chose to cheer for us, the folks who love to run.  That’s personal.

My family and friends have been on the sidelines and finish areas of numerous races, cheering for me and every other runner out there.  Seeing them has brought me joy, courage and determination to pick up my pace and push hard toward my goal.  I’ll never again run a race without concern for their safety.  That’s personal.

My ten-year-old son, Leo, has always worried for me when I race.  He worries that I might be injured.  He worries that I might get lost.  He worries that I might tire early and not finish.  And now he worries that some stranger may intentionally harm me.  That’s personal.

For me, the most cruelly, ironically poignant fact of the Boston Marathon bombings is this: people lost to the explosions the very limbs I use to participate in a sport I love – the sport for which those victims took time out of their lives to cheer.  Some may never walk again, let alone run.  Since first learning of their fates, I have not taken a step, pressed on the gas pedal of my car, rubbed an aching shin, placed my foot into a shoe without thinking of them.  That’s personal.

So, to answer my co-worker’s question more clearly, yes, things have changed for me.  I am more determined than ever to meet and set running goals.  I will race the events for which I’m already registered and I plan to register for more events in the future.  I will shower with appreciation those who cheer for me on-course and will be understanding of those who choose not to.  I will think of Boston’s victims at every finish line I approach and push to the strongest finish I can.  I’ll talk with Leo and do what I can to assuage his fears while imparting what knowledge I can to help him be safe.  I’ll keep running; I’ll run for those who cannot.

Because Boston?  It’s very much personal.