I have run a bunch of 5K races, but this one was for just one mile.
And it was more important than all of them, combined, for it was the final mile of the Boston Marathon.
My husband and I walked and jogged and did not go too fast as his back was bothering him.
But that's okay. This was not for speed. It was not for PRs. It was not for personal glory.
We participated for those who no longer have legs, and for those whose futures are gone. We did this for the scared, to show that we aren't. We did it for our city, and for our country, and for anyone who's tired of the violence and hate in the world.
I have already told the sponsors that I hope they will do this again, for it was an amazing experience. There is a turn, just before Boylston Street, near the Hynes Convention Center. You have just gone up a small hill. And you turn. And you see them. And you hear them.
They line the blocks, and they are LOUD. And they are watching, and they are cheering. There were signs. There were high fives from strangers. And the press was there, for people who had been hurt 40 days before, or who had been running and wanted to finally finish. We are not marathoners. We were not that part of the news story.
We were there to be a part of it. And it was one day when this 50 year old who will never run a marathon (trust me, I am FAR too slow) could feel like a rock star.
That day will live on. It was our 21st wedding anniversary, by the way. And that is how we spent it.
And that day will live on.