Yesterday, the explosions in Boston were too new. Too unexplained. Too surrounded in unknowns. Too anonymous.
Today, I see the face of the 8 year old who died. I hear the voices of all those interviewed who were there, who ran away, who ran to help, who ran - for their own glory, for charity and for their lives, and I am overcome by heavy sadness.
I have been a runner for almost two decades. Even now, when I can not run because my ankle simply has been broken too many times, I am still a runner. It's like being an alcoholic - you may no longer drink but you will always self-identify as such.
Races are magical. Race day is like a party and a vacation and a community festival and a trial and a test all in one. Races run take away all the pain. All the outside noise of life. And all the crap.
When you are running you glory in movement and breathing. When you are running, the gap between you and the eternal is closed and you are one with god.
Certainly not always. Certainly not every race, especially if you are unprepared, or injured, or it just isn't your day. But on the days when it is right, running is all the things I mention above and the exact opposite of terrorism.
And so I add my voice to those affected by this selfish and cowardly deed. I have not bled. I was not scared. I will not fear.
And yet I mourn. For the 8 year old. For his father. And for all of us, who have ever gloried in the race well run and never, ever imagined yesterday would come.