Rare News Desk
Last week I ran my eighth marathon, my third in Boston’s fabled race. I crossed the finish line three minutes before the bombs went off. I saw an explosion. I saw confusion. I saw fear. I saw people run away from the bombs. I experienced the worst of what people can do to one another out of hate. But that’s not all I saw.
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I saw people run toward the bomb with wheelchairs, cameras, bravery. People determined to help. People unafraid to lend a hand in the face of chaos. I recall that awful day when terror struck in front of me and although the shock is hard to shake, it’s not the horror and carnage that are foremost in my mind. It is the good in all of us and the greatness of the event that are primary. Crazed fanatics cannot kill the human spirit.
And the celebration of the human spirit amidst trial and human frailty is what a 26-mile road race is all about. On that April 15th day that will live in infamy for all the wrong reasons, I saw all that is right in the world. I saw every level of runner, from the elitest of the elite to the first timer. I saw comraderie. People sharing sunscreen. People allowing others to cut in the bathroom line because they really needed to move ahead. People sharing their running stories and accomplishments. People offering a jacket against the morning chill.
I saw excitement. The thrill of the unknown. The anticipation of what the next three, four or five hours would bring. I saw spectators offering everything we needed: high fives, cheers, more high fives, oranges out of little hands, pretzels, high fives, ice, wet paper towels, cheers, water, more high fives, Twizzlers, Gatorade, tissues, kisses, funny posters, music, even more high fives. Encouragement. The human spirit.
I saw volunteers. Pointing us in the right direction. Offering a hand. Offering water. Offering Gatorade. Plastering blisters. Running toward disaster with wheelchairs. I saw hills. Lots and lots of hills. Runners chugging up the hills. Runners leaping up the hills. Runners rolling up the hills. Runners guided up the hills. Determination. Strength.
I saw Boylston Street and the finish line. I saw tears of gratitude to those along the way who helped me get that far. I saw the purpose on my husband’s face as he finished in honor of his recently deceased friend. I saw masses of people yelling, cheering, clapping, thrilled for us
I saw pride. I saw love. I saw solidarity. The running community banded together in the marathon spirit before the race, and they banded together after the race. Terrorists can’t defeat a brave community united around one another. The Boston Marathon is a joy to run and they’ll never stop us.
Karen Hathaway Viani is a mother, marathoner and systems engineer for The MITRE Corporation who resides in Northern Virginia.
