Running For Boston

I’m at home, getting ready to go out for a run.

It’s only going to be for a couple of miles, but I can’t not go, not today.

I am not the fastest member of the running community. I can’t run the furthest. I am not the most loyal or the most dedicated, even. I will never, probably, except maybe in my wildest dreams, qualify for the Boston Marathon, that Everest of all distance runners.

But I am a runner.

The words of Melissa Etheridge’s song, written eight years ago for a different kind of race, are ringing in my ears.

And someday if they tell you about it,
if the darkness knocks on your door,
remember her, remember me.
We will be running as we have before,
running for answers, running for more.

I’ve jumped up and down on a start line.

I’ve put in the training.

I’ve talked about the state of my bowels with people whose names I’ve never learned.

I’ve run in the footprints of Wilson Kipsang and Liz Yelling.

I’ve watched hundreds of thousands of pounds raised for good causes.

I’ve been given chocolate buttons and orange slices by people who have never met me.

I’ve run off bad days and I’ve run on good ones.

I’ve been spurred on by the cheers and the high fives of the kids who come out to support the people whose daft hobby has forced a shutdown of their roads for a whole Sunday.

I’ve known the agony and joy and exhilaration of finish lines.

This community is my community. These people were my people.

The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels tonight.

I am a runner and today I run for Boston.




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