A Simple Statement on the Bombings at the Boston Marathon

We have options when responding to a violent act. One is the natural one, to turn toward animosity. The other is the supernatural one, to turn toward love.

We have an amazing power at our disposal in the linking of prayers for those who have been affected, that they may find consolation and healing. We pray for those who are trying to solve this crime, that they are one with the mind of wisdom and that anyone with knowledge about it is given the courage to come forward to them. And we pray for those who would perpetrate such crimes, that their minds, hearts and souls may receive the grace they need to return to love.

As a marathoner, this atrocity hit home in an unexpected way. For the sake of the running community, I am filling my heart with as much love as possible in order to let it pour forth into a thirsty world.

Pace et bene,
David +

The Illusion of Final

I had a tough training run today. The first three or four miles were all right, but after that, I was struggling. I've run the distance and the terrain before, but you would never know that from today's experience. In fact, I've often run further. I was slightly over eight miles into my 10 mile run when I began to weave back and forth and realized I was "bonking." I didn't have the reserves to continue. I felt physically spent. I sat down, exhausted. My running partner Warren was having a strong day, and was well up the final hill when I sat at the foot of it. My other running partner Jessi came back to where I was and asked if I was all right. I said I was; I just had bonked and felt wasted. She said, "Are you sure? You're almost there." I asked for help standing up, and made my way to a nearby bench in the shade. I knew I would be OK, and encouraged her to finish her run. She left and I recovered in the shade for a few minutes with her question echoing in my head. Am I sure I'm finished? Am I OK with stopping this close to my goal? Am I sure I'm finished? Did I really want to end this run at this point? Am I sure I'm finished? As I regained my strength, I realized the answer was, "No. I'm not finished. I only have a mile and three-quarters left. I don't need to run it at top speed, but I need to finish it because I can." I dialed Warren on my cell phone to let him know of my decision and the route I would be taking. I topped the hill and a little at a time began to run toward my goal. No one would have mistaken me for Usain Bolt during that last segment. My best pace was a lively jog. But it was not my intention to set a speed record. It was my intention to finish. Warren and Jessi doubled back and ran with me while I finished the last mile. I told Jessi that it was her comment, "Are you sure? You're almost there," that made the difference. As teammates, we encourage each other and affirm each other's success. I knew I was supported 100% whether I continued or stopped short. I also knew if I could finish, I must finish. This is not some macho code of honor; this is simply having integrity and learning what the day and the trail want to teach. I have learned over the past 10 months of endurance running training that I have not come close to completely tapping my reserves. I have learned more and more that I have reserves to tap. I have learned that I am loved and supported, not just by my friends, but by strangers in the running community who call out encouragement as they pass. At the end of the run, I had gone 10.25 miles before I switched off my performance tracker. After that, I probably walked another 1/3 of a mile. What mattered was not that I did not do so well as a trail runner, or that I had to regroup a couple of times physically along the way. What mattered was that when I was almost there, and no one was going to judge me for the decision I made, the only decision I could make was to finish. Today, I learned there is a difference between giving all and giving up.

Heroes Where You Least Expect Them

This morning I met Coach at the track in a local park for our training session. The workout would be light since we are running in a 10K race (6.2 miles) on Sunday. Our drill was to run barefoot in order to become familiar with where our natural foot-strike occurs. I was apprehensive about running on the textured track surface, but I figured it would be like a giant pumice stone and other people pay a fortune for pedicures. So, off with the shoes and socks, and onto the track I went.

Soon it felt natural, and I was able to sprint, jog, run and walk as instructed. I began doing some speed drills, running 50 or 100 yards to catch up with people walking the track, then recovering at an easy pace.

There was a woman running on the track who I will call Ann (not her real name). As I passed her during one of my last speed drills, I was breathing as deeply as possible. "Breathe! Breathe!" she said as I passed, although a slight speech impediment made it sound like she said, "Bree! Bree!"

I knew what she meant, so I slowed down and said to her with a laugh, "Breathing is good!" She smiled and said, "I love to run." The slight catch in her speech was still there. At first, I thought she might be deaf, speaking with the open-throated tone that some deaf people have.

I said and signed to her, "I'll go with you," and we began to run again. Her pace was moderate but enthusiastic, clearly showing the joy she felt about running. I jogged barefoot beside her, no longer thinking of my feet.

We ran a few laps together, running until we caught up with three friends of hers who were walking the track. One friend said this would be the last lap. Ann and I paused while I introduced myself to her friends, and they began to finish the lap.

"I had an accident," she said, voluntarily filling in the gaps. "I was 16. I was in a coma for a long time. They said I would never breathe on my own or talk or walk. Now I'm 36 and I love to run."

"You are my hero," I said. Her eyes were shining when she said to me, "And you are my hero."

"Well," I said, "I do have this big scar across my left side where they took my kidney out when I was a kid. I could never play sports. Now I'm 56 and I'm training to run a marathon."

"See?" she said, "you are a hero. We're both heroes." Her smile beamed.

"The first time I spoke after my accident, I was my hero," she said. "Then I couldn't walk and speak at the same time. Now I can run and speak. We are all heroes."

We ran to the track's gate, where she caught up with her friends. I told her I am usually here at the track this time of day Mondays through Thursdays, and I hoped we could be running partners again.

Who would want to miss the opportunity to run with a real hero? Not me, that's for certain.