For the past couple of days I’ve been searching around the house for two small things I’d not seen in a while. I looked on shelves, in drawers, in boxes, in plastic containers of odds and ends. These items I was looking for had not seemed all that important for the nearly three decades I’d had them, but suddenly finding them seemed paramount.
I was looking for my Boston Marathon medals.
To me they’d always been just another couple of trinkets among a collection of hardware won throughout the course of my running “career,” if it can be called that. As I sorted through the various medals stashed away I found some that brought back memories. “The Rawhide Marathon,” “Skyline Drive 10K Overall Winner.” “Leadville Trail 100” . . . all great memories but I wanted to find the thick gray medals, the ones with the unicorn on them.
And all this time I was looking for the darned things what I was really trying to sort out was my feelings about the tragedy at the Boston Marathon. Were my feelings any different from those who had never run the race? Did I have more empathy because of my past connection with the marathon? Maybe. Maybe not. And really, what does that matter, and who cares anyway?
Finally I did find one of the Boston medals. I held it in my hand and thought of that day when I had run the 26.2 miles from Hopkinton to the “Pru” in a driving rainstorm, then went with friends for fish and chips and to a RedSox game. That day so long ago when the world seemed so different than the one we live in today.
In recent days on my daily runs around the neighborhood, I’ve noticed people waving more enthusiastically than usual as they drive past. Some are neighbors. Some are people I’ve never seen before. I doubt any of them know I have a medal with a unicorn on it but somehow I think seeing someone out running means something totally different to them now.
And while splashing through the slush yesterday I suddenly realized why I felt the way I did about the Boston bombings, why I so badly wanted to find those medals, why running is important, why those people were waving. I knew now what the Tarahumara of Mexico know. And what the Maasai of Africa know. Running — this ancient form of travel, of hunting food, of spreading the news — builds tribal cohesiveness. And the lack of tribal cohesive is really what’s at the core of tragedies such as Boston.
So do this today. Go run. Run however far you can. However far you want. Run for 6 seconds or run for 60 minutes. Run 10 feet or run 10 miles. Run from your office to your car or run from your home to your office. Run because light drives out darkness. Run in place. Run around your house or run around a track or around a park. Run up your driveway or across town. Run because love beats hate every time. Run from your desk to the coffee pot or run across a mountain pass, a prairie, a desert, or on a beach. Run for the chance to wave to people you may or may not know, or to connect with someone you may have forgotten within yourself. Run for those who no longer can and for those who never will again.
Run because we’re all in this together.
Just go run.
Tags: Boston Marathon