I’ve started this post quite a few times over the last week, but I’m still tongue-tied. Still hurting for people I’ve never met.
There are so many blog posts out there where people so very eloquently express, moreso than I could, just what the running community is feeling. This is OUR sport, and how DARE someone mess with that.
Friday was incredibly rough for me. It’s tough to face down the reality that a simple matter of geography could very easily have changed “them” to “us.” I’d have been at that race had I lived in Boston. GCB would have been called in to deal with that, had we lived in Boston.
That would have been us, had we lived in Boston.
All I could do Friday when I got home was cry into his shirt. It’s another jolt, forcing me to stare straight into the face of mortality, and the mostly unspoken and truly terrifying possibility of him not coming home to me.
And then? I feel overwhelmingly guilty. Guilty that I’m looking at this selfishly. Guilty that I’m not taking advantage of the fact that my city isn’t being attacked, that my legs are still there, that I can run whenever I want, yet I’m not doing so.
Last year in the midst of all the “I hate running yet I’m still training for junk” feelings, I recommitted to running more times than I can count. Promises to myself that I would dedicate my time, my energy, and my focus to getting better, being healthier, getting READY for those races ahead of me.
And look how well that worked out.
I feel like this time is different. This time I’m committing to remembering why I love this. To running for those who can’t. To doing this because I WANT to, because I can. To teaching myself, learning to love this again.
Training for Tough Mudder starts this week. There is no choice but to train for this one. It will not be possible to walk the last third because I didn’t train hard enough.
But I won’t take this for granted. I get to do this because I can, because I love it.
Because no one will keep runners from running.