::Marathon Monday::

This morning, I was lazy. I woke up at five thirty. In the morning, don’t worry. And I padded out of my room to the kitchen to make coffee. The light was streaming through the slats over the windows, we have been lucky to be getting the sunrises earlier and earlier, the temps just need to catch up. Listening to the gurgle of the coffee maker, I poured my water, took my vitamins and waited for the excitement to build.

People, it was MARATHON MONDAY!

In Boston, it is huge, and this year was definitely no excepting  After the tragedies of last year took place, not only did an entire East Coast city unite, but a nation, and a world of runners.

Little known fact: Last year’s men’s champion actually gave his medal to the city for their support through it all. He was gone from the course for hours by the time the bombs went off, but he knew he must come back to the city, and give.

As did the woman’s champion; this beautiful day was stripped from her a year ago, and she knew she must be strong, not only for herself, but the running community.

Americans united, and American distance running strove for more. They fought through the miles and rough winters all to line up in Hopkinton on this morning.

I watched with tear-filled eyes as the women’s elite field bent at the hip leaning into the line, waiting for the gun. They raced the streets and the great Shalane Flanagan WENT FOR IT. She fought hard, and raced to a personal best, but it wasn’t enough to best some of the fastest times ever recorded, a new course record overall. She made her country proud. I cried. As I did when the women’s champion fell to the ground after setting that record, crying with joy and relief.

I screamed at my computer as the men’s champion, an American who had emigrated with his family from Eritrea, raced down Boylston, watching the lead shrink, but as he pumped his fist through the sounds of the crowds, it was all too apparent that his win was secure. And I cried. (Side Note: I did my Junior American Studies Report on Meb, and his "American Dream").

Watching the medal ceremony you heard the crowds hush and silence, even though runners were still streaming in, as the National Anthem of the United States of America played at the finish, and the champion sobbed and praised and thanked everyone he could find, the cheers as he gingerly climbed down the stairs and into the crowds, and raised that flag high above his head, completing his American Dream. I cried.

I watched the finish line for my friends, my training partners, and my neighbors as they were completing the test of all their hard work. I received text updates and furiously refreshed my browser as I waited for their finish times to rise. I cried. 

There was hope today. There was hope in those who lost limbs, and family in those bombings, that the streets would be taken back. There was hope in the crowds who rose early to line the 26.2 mile course throughout Massachusetts, that they would be safe, and they would create a gift for the runners. There was hope in the champions’ eyes as they drove their way down the streets of Boston and across the finish line.

And there was hope for those who may not have finished on top, that they would live to see another day, and to run another mile. Or more than just one.

There is hope that comes from sadness and tragedy. There is hope even when you cannot see the light at the end of the tunnel. We never know the light until we have witnessed the darkness. And we must keep on. We must persevere. We must hope.

And so, after I lazily yelled and paced around my home, coffee overflowing, but never fully drunk, I laced up my own shoes and followed a different course. And still I felt hope.

I will keep on keeping on. I will lace my shoes. I will wake up and face the day. I will know that there is light though I may not see it, there is hope in the darkness of life. There is strength in the perseverance.