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Pound, pound, pound–my feet hit the pavement, as I struggle to breathe normally. It’s Tuesday, the day after the Boston Marathon bombing, and my run feels like an act of defiance. I turn down Beacon Street, the area where SWAT teams descended, and I acknowledge the officers with a proud salute. I run past a corner where a friend told me she handed her jacket to a dazed marathoner, moments after the blast. It all feels surreal.
I wasn’t the only runner out on the road that day. I passed others striding through the streets. We all understood the extraordinary significance of our run and that the healing process would be, in essence, a marathon that we had to complete.
More than a month later, my city is still healing, and the running community seems to have more purpose. Charity races that benefit the One Fund for victims are popping up all over, and they sell out quickly. We run for those can’t. We run because we’re Boston proud.
Next year, when the marathon winds down the streets of Boston again, we’ll still be grieving, but we’ll hold our heads high. And I’ll be right there in the midst, pounding the pavement.
