Run On

Where is the darkest of dark places?  Spelunking through a deep cave with the only sound the scurry of furry creatures or the drip, drip, drip of unseen seepage from a stream that never knows sunlight doesn’t come close.   Swimming through undersea caverns where the water is cold and clear and the main sensation is when a Ray is startled and stirs the deep laid sand is not the place where darkness rests as comfortably as if in a corduroy reclining chair.  Walking in the small hours of a moonless, starless, slightly foggy night on a street where shuttered, abandoned buildings stand adjacent to cracked pavement where weeds have taken root and every street lamp forgot how to glow is not as chilling as the truly dark place.

After months, really years, of training to test their minds and bodies against one of the highest standards of endurance, thousands came to Boston to run in the first among equals of marathon races.  Born in the lore of the ancient Greek soldier, Pheidippides, who was the messenger between the Battle of Marathon and the power elite in Athens, marathon races were reinstituted as a tests of will.  The length of such races required exhausting physical and mental preparation.  Marathon has become the metaphor for going the distance, persevering in face of pain and testing a person’s individual limits.  Some accolades are reserved for the winners of a race but for marathoners the goal is to finish or to achieve a personal best – not to post the fastest time.

So again, yesterday, thousands of people who have dedicated themselves to running came to Boston.  Twenty six miles and 385 yards, some steep hills and about 50,000 hard impacts on their feet and knees stood between each runner and the finish line.  Along the route there were many thousands more offering food and water and endless encouragement.  When a runner stumbles and tries to get his cramping limbs back in motion, her pain radiates to other runners and spectators alike.  As she wills her muscles to make each next stride everyone near cares and cheers.  Runners’ heads swing from side to side searching for air to clear every distraction bombarding their brains with screaming signals from every part of their body.  At about seventeen miles some question what they are doing.

Hours after the starting gun sounded, marathoners, who finish well after the world class elite, can sense the finish line within their grasp.  With a mile to go many begin to see the banner on the street like a desert traveler sees an oasis rising through a thermal aura.  The largest crowd is assembled there.  Every finisher hears the cheers – just finishing is admired and applauded.  Waiting in the crowd are family and friends who have supported and cheered, fed and watered every runner’s quest to achieve this goal – their joy and relief is written on their faces. Their arms are spread wide to support the runner whose legs fold a step away from waiting arms.

Right there, right then, an explosion.  Before the chaos and anguished cries reach their peak, another blast fills the air.  Every caring person mobilizes to help the wounded.   Exhausted runners and stunned spectators search for a route to lead people to safety.  One runner who collapsed from the shock wave had been so focused on finishing, he picked himself up and stumbled to the finish.  Because there were untold numbers of cameras there, for every second of those fateful minutes, the carnage was captured.

There is a room, probably in Boston but it could be anywhere, where one or more people huddled around a workbench or a kitchen table and built backpack bombs.  The bombers added shrapnel of BBs or ball bearings to get more injuries and deaths.  They expected the images to induce feelings of terror.  Visions of severed limbs and flowing blood pushed the bomb maker to finish his work.  Somewhere in the deep recesses of a demented mind he saw retribution, vengeance or possibly fame.  But even that deepest corner of the bomber’s soul is not the darkest of dark places. 

Failure to run the marathon of free people leaves a void that's darker than the blackest of black holes. The finish line of our marathon is to deny victory to evil.  The evil doers must be face justice.  But the darkest darkness must be driven out by the light of people gathering together and doing the things that make us free.  Whether it is running a marathon or spending a night at the opera, the light from courageous free people will render the evil bomber or demented shooter a shriveling, sniveling failure.  We must persevere, not be diverted, overcome the pain, finish every race, respond immediately, care for the affected, reject terror, and keep running.

--td