The Day the Finish Line Disapeared.

Anyone that knows me will tell you that I am never lost for words. As I watched the horror of the Boston Marathon unfold on my TV yesterday, I was somewhat lost for words to post on my face book page. I was  very choked up and had difficulty talking with friends and family members who called to see how I was and to feel some relief that I was not in Boston.

First, let me be perfectly honest. I will never qualify for the Boston Marathon. However, that said it doesn’t mean I can’t run it. I could collect donations for one of hundreds of charities that offer a running bib for specific dollar amounts raised for their cause.

I appreciated every call and every comment from yesterday’s face book commentary.

As a runner, there is a huge sense of euphoria when crossing the finish line. Euphoria that you have for the first time, or several times over, completed a momentous physical feat. You have run what many do not and cannot accomplish.

From the moment I finished my first half-marathon, I joined an elite crowd. I joined a small percent of beings that can check the box of running 13.1 miles. I’ve yet to check the box for 26.2 miles.

So, yesterday instead of enjoying the feed of the Boston Marathon, I was pulled into the horror that erupted four hours and nine minutes into the race. I’m no different than any human being that watched the scene unravel into a frightening calamity of chaos and fear. I could not pull myself from the TV.

I texted friends who were running in the hopes I would get a ping back. I messaged them on FB for an update. I knew the odds were long that I’d get communication back. Most runners place their personal belongings in a plastic bag which is then secured by the race management team and those belongings are retrieved after crossing the finish line. But at 4:09 there was no finish line to cross.

But in truth, a line had been crossed. One of, if not, the most revered marathons in the United States had been attacked. There was no doubt from the first puff of smoke that it was deliberate though the news channels were at first taking the high road. It soon became very evident there was no high road to take.

So there it was, the moment of euphoria when you cross the finish line, intersecting with a moment of unspeakable horror.

A road race is no light undertaking. There are 27,000 + or – runners registered to run the Boston Marathon. There are easily three times that amount of staff, volunteers, fire, police, medical station workers, and photographers staged along the entire route. Those numbers swell upward when family, friends, and road race junkies are added to the mix.

Runners do not just show up and run. There is an entire morning ritual of early morning wake up calls, getting to the pre-race staging to drop personal belongings, and eventually making your way to your assigned corral and waiting to run across the start line.

The start is euphoric. Always the euphoria of running across the timing mat and knowing you are off on a 13.1 or 26.2 mile adventure. The runner high sets in at different points for all runners, and as I’ve said many times, I am a late comer to this sport. But late or not, I love this sport. I have embraced it as my own. It is the first significant athletic thing I have ever done. But this is not about me; it is about the friends I have made both near and far. Friends like Sid Busch whom I see at races all the time. Sid whom I commiserated with yesterday afternoon.  Jac Blair whom I just ran Disney with in February and sooooo many others and tooooo many others to mention by name.

I have a bit of a relationship with some race organizers and I could not imagine what each and every one thought, when like me, they saw the explosion and following carnage. Our sport changed in the blink of an eye. The change was evident on Face Book and Twitter, the heavy hearts and spent tears were common place in our discussions

I prayed for the MarathonPhoto camera operators who sit in and around the finish, in the street, along the sidelines, and perched above the finish line capturing fabulous images of euphoric runners completing their runs. Lord knows what images they captured by accident and then maybe intentionally. Lord only knows. These wonderful photographers capture the beauty of our sport and yesterday they captured something that cannot be unseen.

I wanted to stop watching, but I was held entranced watching the replays over and over as if at some point it would all right itself and become our glorious sport again. I had the same feeling when the twin towers collapsed. I thought if I watched long enough they might stand erect and majestic and I’d awake from a terrible dream.

Yesterday, race directors across the country stopped in their tracks and assembled their teams to muddle through this maze of uncertainty. I can imagine they are meeting and conferring to try to come up with contingency plans for their races. Races that have been run over and over and the logistics, though daunting, are pretty much a repeat of the previous year with tweaks to continue to improve the runners and spectators experience. Now this, now a new level of planning has to be put into place. My mind cannot comprehend the overwhelming task they face. How do you plan for the unimaginable? 13.1 or 26.2 miles is a lot of ground to protect. I just cannot fathom.

So, today I am trying to figure how to express my profound sorrow. I’m not angry yet, though I think that will come. I’m just deeply saddened for all involved. There are no survivors of yesterday’s bombings. We are all impacted, some in ways I cannot comprehend and for others just from the simple viewing of the outcome.

I will continue to run. I will run in the spirit this sport was intended, but I cannot, and will not forget the day the finish line disappeared.