One Year On

In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.
—Robert Frost

It’s one year and some change later.

Wheelchair racers begin at 9:22, women start at 9:32 and the men at 10.

From the top of RunTri.com’s advice page:

The bus ride from downtown Boston to Hopkinton always seems long, long enough to make you realize that 26 miles is quite a distance to run. As if you didn't know that already. But it is a little intimidating, still.

There can also be a small delay between the time your bus enters Hopkinton and arrives at the high school, as it takes time to empty each bus in order. I only mention this because it happens every year: a long bumpy bus ride with dozens of runners constantly hydrating inevitably leads to one or more who beg the bus driver to make an unscheduled stop for emergency bladder relief. Lesson: everyone, as we tell our kids before long trips -- go before you leave.

Everything seems normal—excited, celebratory, focused on the joy, the thrill, the pain of the run—right? Well, no. Of course not.

From CNN’s article Boston Marathon security: How can you keep 26.2 miles safe?:

This year's marathon will be a massive enterprise.
The race will have 9,000 more runners than last year. More spectators than ever before will also line the course, according to the Boston Athletic Association. 

Keeping that in mind, police will double the number of officers on patrol from last year, with 3,500 scattered among the crowd. They will be aided by 100 additional security cameras and bomb-sniffing dogs.

Why so many more runners and viewers? Dunno what everyone else’s motivation is but mine, were I to venture into town, is/would be along the lines of “fuck you, you fucking rabid, bit brained, terrorist death merchants! We have survived and we WILL have our joyous hoopla, our Marathon, our welcome to all that is spring, our triumph over fear. You do NOT win!”

My default setting, in the face of egregious, shit bagged adversity, is anger.

 Why am I not going into town today? Oh please, I worked in Back Bay for a thousand and one half years—right at the finish line. After the first five Marathon Days, right there in the midst of everything and everyone, shit got old. As soon as I built up enough seniority, I started taking that day off. The crowds were just too much

On this gorgeous Valhalla spring day, one year later, I’ll trike, paint and maybe plant a whole bunch of daisies and sunflowers.

Give sorrow words;

the grief that does not speak;

whispers the o’er-fraught heart

and bids it break.
— William Shakespeare, Macbeth