October
11, 2021
Greetings
from the span,
When
I finish writing this morning I will go outside and look to the east. There is a crest of trees that form the near horizon
here, frame the light of this new day, and point to a distance I’d like to
span.
About
seven hundred miles beyond my horizon, there are a group of people who are
connected to me, although I don’t really know them. About twenty-six miles from where they are lies
the city of Boston, which matters to them.
I’m curious about how they will span this last distance.
It
is a unique confluence of events. This
Boston Marathon is 539 days late, pushed a few times down the calendar as the
world struggled with our new restrictions.
Each time the date was moved it reshuffled the players and so today’s
contest looks much different than the original race.
Running
Boston is more than the 125 year tradition, or the challenge of qualifying, or
that of the course itself, which has tested my capacity six times. I have run marathons all over the country,
and all of them have some things in common, but the experience of Boston is a
unique one.
In
2019 I ran Boston, traded a sliver of my essence in exchange for spanning the
distance. I ran with the other heroes
along the course, slower than some, faster than others. I turned right on Hereford, left on Boyleston,
and felt the crowd lift me up and carry me to the blue and gold finish line, exhausted
and exhilarated.
The
day after the race we made our way down Boyleston St, the stage of the finish
line now redressed as just another busy street in downtown. Like thousands around me, I wore my race
shirt and my finisher’s medal. Everywhere
we went people smiled and congratulated us, as we staggered and limped along
the sidewalk.
The
coffee shop was crowded, and we ended up sharing a table with two men wearing
marathon regalia. Erik and Jon were from
Poland, their conversation a patchwork quilt of near-English and gestures and their
native language. They both had huge
smiles, like little boys who had just come in from recess.
We talked about our race the day before, and
I asked them why they started running marathons. Erik said, in his way, the longer distance allows
him to get quiet in his head. We all
nodded.
Jon
had started running marathons at fifty, after running shorter distances for a
few years. Six years later he had circled the globe, running
all the major races. He explained why he
ran: “The marathon is…here,” touching his smile, “and here,” touching his
heart, “and.. here….” wiping a tear from his eye.
This
little moment swirls around with a hundred others from that weekend but it serves
to illustrate what I hope to share. In
the little window of time we were together we saw in each other the passion we
hold, each our own version, for the challenge and the beauty of running that
race. People from wildly different walks
of life, raised in vastly different ways, living on nearly opposite sides of
the planet, who through a shared experience spanned the distance between us.
That
connection is a bond that I’ve had with hundreds of others, and feel with thousands
I’ve never met. Including those who laced up this morning and
will line up in Hopkinton to brave the span.
It
was not my time to be with them, not for lack of trying. But aside from a small pang of
disappointment, the only thing I feel is proud to be in their number, to share
the same bond that I hold with Erik and Jon, and countless others whose names I
don’t know. This morning, right now in
fact, I will go outside and face east, and I will span the distance.
Hope
this finds you on Boyleston,
David
Copyright
© 2021 David Smith
No comments:
Post a Comment