Thoughts from Boston

After the events of yesterday, I feel the need to capture a glimpse of what is going through my mind.

As I write this, I am sitting in Boston Logan Airport. 23 hours and 48 minutes after the bombings at the Boston Marathon finish line. All around me, I see the blue and yellow jackets and shirts of Boston finishers, occasionally punctuated by the flash of a finisher’s medal catching the light.

I have never seen so many runners in one place outside of an actual race course. And I have never seen such a forlorn, subdued group of race finishers.

The blue and yellow of the runners is counterpointed by the blue and black of the TSA officers, and the darker blue of air marshals, who are out in force today. Despite this, the security line was nonexistent and, aside from checking to make sure my tools were less than 6 inches long (what does that do, exactly?), I flew through the tightened security in a matter of seconds.

Before I get any further, let me say that I did not run the marathon yesterday. I am in Massachusetts for work, and just so happened to be in Boston yesterday on Boston Monday. I had tried several times to arrange a way to be at the finish line and watch the runners come in. Frustratingly, at the time, that was not possible: there was too much work to do and we had to go by our customers’ schedule.

So it happened that, at three o’clock yesterday afternoon, just under 24 hours ago now, my coworker and I walked into a bar in Dorchester and sat down for a late lunch. Almost the second we sat down, the TV screens lit up with news of two explosions at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, just a few miles away.

I would say it didn’t register at first, but it did. It registered that something horrible had happened. It registered immediately that the sport I love, something I have always seen bringing people together peacefully, had been attacked. It registered that I should be worried, and was terribly worried, about the numerous people I knew running and watching the race that day. I registered the sirens of emergency vehicles that were lighting up the city.

Of course it didn’t register that people might be concerned about me. I had lobbied hard to get some time to watch the finish, and as far as many people knew, I was as good as there.  When I finally realized that, after some questions on Facebook to that effect, of course the cell network was swamped, or shut down, depending on who you ask. I tried without success to reach my girlfriend, who was in class in Colorado at the time. I sent texts and email to my family and close friends assuring them I was ok.

Then I jumped back on my phone, looking for updates on my friends.

All the time, I was bombarded by images from the TV. I’m sure by now most of you have seen them: the first blast knocking over a 78 year old runner, who was lifted to his feet by a volunteer; the second blast pouring more smoke and flame into the street, setting of screams as people ran, some away from the blast, but a remarkable number towards the blast. I remember the images of blood pools, not stains, but pools, in the streets of Boston. And I remember the image I can’t unsee, of a man, wheeled away in a wheel chair, clearly in shock, with nothing remaining of his legs below the knee but a fully exposed bone on his left side.

But I remember the other images as well. I remember the incredible number of people who ran, not away, but towards the blast area, tearing through barriers and rendering whatever assistance they could. I remember runners heading straight across the finish line, when most feel they cannot run another step, and running straight on to the hospitals to donate blood. I remember the inquiries of friends making sure everybody they know in the area is ok.

I only had a short time, not enough to begin to process the events, before I had to move on to the next site on our list for the day (a young Vietnamese family, where the mother didn’t look up from texting on her phone other than to help us find a light switch or three). Then it was on to the next site: on Beacon Street, the marathon course: completely empty save for emergency vehicles rushing back and forth.

The weight of events, the emotional nature of the day, only caught up to me late last night, when I finally checked into my hotel. I would get, and still am getting, flashes of pure emotion where I feel like I’m going to sob: something precious to me was attacked in the most vile and cowardly way I can imagine. Something of the innocence of running was lost yesterday, and that hurts me more than I can say.

An 8 year old boy, waiting for his father to cross the finish line, died.

Runners and spectators alike lost life and limb, quite literally. Some will never run again, or at least not on their own two feet.

But I see something else: runners are a community. We are a group of people, the world over, who help each other. When somebody falls during a race, inevitably multiple others will stop, spending precious seconds of a time they’ve worked towards for weeks, months, or years, and offer them whatever assistance they can. At mile 27 of a marathon, a time when they are physically and mentally spent, they will sprint towards danger to help people they don’t know.

Anybody looking on Facebook, or any news channel, today will know how the running community is facing this tragedy. There is no division. There is no sense of giving up. There is no other option but to keep running.

There never is.