Today, thousands of runners should be resting their tired muscles, their hearts swollen with pride. In the morning hours at Boston offices, supporters should be relaying to coworkers how amazing their friends or family members did along the course. BC students and twenty-somethings should be emerging from their apartments in search of hangover helpers and Gatorade. Inspired fans should be excitedly dreaming about how they’re going to run next year.
Instead, while those muscles are still sore, that pride is
tainted. Water cooler talk is heavy and sad. The party was stopped short. Four
hours and nine minutes after the start, runners became medics, volunteers turned
into disaster relief aids, and fans frantically searched for safety. Scenes
were gruesome and tragic, hospital doors swung open for injury after injury,
and local, state, and federal law enforcement broke into action.
But also, within minutes of the blasts, something beautiful
began to emerge. Heroes were highlighted by local media, runners extended their
routes to give blood, and social networks were overflowing with love for
Boston. The first thing my good friend said to me is that we’re definitely
running next year, and, when we checked in on our Chicago marathon client, her
determination was stronger than ever.
This bad thing, this very bad thing that very troubled people plotted, it can’t break us. The evil just won’t win – they won’t. They are cowardly, and pathetic, and no one is convinced of their point, whatever it was. What we are convinced of, though, is the good in people. Like the man who’s stationed in front of a stopped clock playing Amazing Grace on his accordion as tribute, or whoever decided to dedicate the Chicago Tribune’s Sports page to Boston, or the simple message that sweet Martin Richards sent out before his life was taken far too soon: “No more hurting people. Peace.”
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