wecanblaze

Sunday afternoon, April 14th, I walked Boylston Street on my way to the race Expo to pick up my bib. I crossed the finish line, stopping to take pictures of the area. “I can’t wait to get here tomorrow”, I thought. When I made the last left-hand turn onto Boylston Street Monday, I knew I was about to achieve my goal.  Dipping into the last reserves of my tank, I sprinted home toward that blue and yellow line. Upon crossing, I raised my hands to the sky and had just enough energy for one enthusiastic yell before stumbling toward the water, heat blankets, and the coveted finisher’s medals awaiting the throngs of runners pouring through the finish line.  I was happy.  I was emotional.  It was my third marathon finish, but only the first time I’ve finished the way I wanted to—the first time I ran a solid marathon from start to finish.  It was a great day.

Just over an hour later, I was relaxing at a famous tavern less than a mile away from the finish line.  I was warm and dry with minestrone soup in my stomach, and just beginning to feel physically good again (the aftermath of a marathon is a lot like the feeling of just recovering from the flu.).  I was soaking in the congratulatory texts from friends and family who had been following me online, when there was a random text about bombs at the finish line. That didn’t make sense. I was just there.  Then, suddenly, it was on the televisions at the bar and the atmosphere in the pub which was previously slightly raucous was immediately eerily silent. People crowded around the TVs in disbelief.

Right after I had finished the race and retrieved my gear bag, the first person I called was my wife. I was very emotional when I spoke to her, because she knows how hard I worked, she knows how much pressure I can put on myself, and she puts up with me patiently when my training can make me a bit selfish. I was so happy and relieved to have run so well, that I just couldn’t keep myself composed. So later, as I sat in my booth and finished up some cold french fries as the horrifying images rolled from the screen, I suppose between my fatigue and my earlier emotional outpouring, I felt a bit numb. It was very surreal. Shortly after, as I made my way toward the bus station, I walked the sidewalks alongside a bewildered city—everyone not sure what to do but wanting to distance themselves from any further danger.  When my bus rolled out of the city around 5 o’clock that afternoon, I felt relieved.  I couldn’t believe that I was in the midst of a terrorist attack. I had passed the very place of destruction, and luckily for me and over 17,000 other runners, just in time.  Around 4,500 runners never got to finish, and I can’t imagine their confusion and anxiety as they tried to reach their loved ones in the aftermath.

Now it is two weeks later, and hopefully there is beginning to be healing in Boston.  Not that things will ever be the same again for those who lost limbs or lost loved ones in the attack.  But, as usual, in times of darkness and distress, we rise up.  I ran in a benefit 5K here this weekend called “Bozeman to Boston”.  It raised money for “The One Fund”, a fund for victims of the bombings set up by Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick.  I ended up getting interviewed by local TV again before the race, and I told them that I hoped to run Boston again next year—partly as an act of defiance.  The interviewer asked me what I thought about events such as this fundraising race.  I replied,

Events like these show that American’s won’t be terrorized, that we won’t live in fear, and that there will always be more good in the world than evil.

It’s times like these that we keep pressing on harder than ever.  We celebrate freedom.  We help our neighbors.  We Blaze On.

If you’re interested in contributing to the One Fund, just click the banner below.