Muses

Maybe only a runner — even a non-qualifying runner — can understand.

I’m a runner.

Or a person who has run for 30 years.

These days when all my joints and muscles are working moderately well my body allows me do 20 miles a week.

In my mind, I do 10 a day.

If you are a runner and strike up a conversation with another runner the subject of marathons is always lurking around waiting to jump into the mix.

“I ran Chicago the year they stopped the race because of the heat” to “I have a big birthday this year and I’m determined train for my first,” 26.2 miles is the marker in the life of anyone who runs.

And Boston is sacred.

“I qualified.”

Running 26.2 miles in a time that earns you the right to enter Boston is the brass ring.

Even reaching a lifetime qualifying time in a qualifying event isn’t a guarantee of entry with the race closing out in a number of hours after registration opens.

No. With the recent lowering of times needed to qualify, I know it will never happen for me.

But I appreciate the thrill of the chase for that elusive spot for those able to compete at that level.

Friday night at a party, I enjoyed lots of small talk and smiles — but  the one conversation that engaged me was one betwixt me and two runners.

A runner who has run Boston and another with the potential to qualify.

I steered them toward that subject with the skill of a child figuring how to get her mom to turn into an ice cream shop.

Boston was Monday. What better topic than bending the ear of someone who has flown up Heartbreak Hill to the finish?

My husband doesn’t get it.

He doesn’t understand why I love to wake up well before sunrise to stand in line with a few thousand runners to run 3.1, 6.2, 13.1 or 26.2 miles.

Runners for the most part are a bit the loner. Even if you are running 17 miles with a group — you have to turn in on yourself at some point and choose to keep moving forward.

They are for the most part polite. Standing patiently in line, sometimes 50 deep — to use a stinking porta-let. They say thank yous to those handing out cups of water at Mile 8 or bananas in a tent after the finish.

When I think of the Peachtree Road Race, the image that comes to mind is tens of thousands of runners and friends covering the rolling hills of Piedmont Park after 6.2 miles.

I see a sunny July morning. Sweat and a towering American flag.

Then I think of trash cans everywhere.

Trash cans for empty water bottles, used tissues and IEDs.

Maybe it’s something only a runner can understand.

I was angry yesterday.

Now I’m just so terribly sad for us all.

 

 

 

           

           

Subscribe Blog Posts to Your Email.

Archives