Boston Marathon Attack - My Personal 9-11

Dear all,

I'm a hurting unit tonight, along with millions of others. Boston's the grandaddy of races...the one that lured me 6 times and then years working with elite runners for the Boston Athletic Assoc. I humbly submit this to all of you as an editorial combined with a wish that the race continues. Sad, sad day.

Love,
Heather

BOSTON MARATHON ATTACK...
MY PERSONAL 9/11

Heather McKeown
East Berkshire, VT
802=933-2498

I was halfway across the country at 35,000 feet when the televisions aboard seemed stuck on a single channel. “That's weird, I thought. Wonder what's up.” It became obvious as soon as I focused on a screen. The attack at the finish line of the Boston marathon, the grandaddy of all races, was the news of the hour. One customer, a former New York City policeman, told me it could well have been an electrical problem or a gas explosion or two. I hoped this was the final diagnosis because then I'd just be terribly sad. If terrorism was the catalyst, it would be hitting below the belt.

        Boston's always had a chunk of my heart. I worked on a commercial fishing boat out of Newberryport in my twenties and felt the warmth and enjoyed all the humor that Boston and its environs offered. Before this, the Boston Bruins, home of Bobby Orr, was only beaten out by one other hockey team, les Habs, in my heart. Before this, the stories my dad told about how this city treated him so very well while shore leave was granted for Royal Canadian Navy sailors during World War II. Boston was always a place of joy for me. Challenge. A place where my love of the sea and training as a runner was given a heck of a start and I loved every time the crew of THE KNICK motored out to sea and when I raced in my race, I couldn't believe that I was following in the footsteps of the pioneers of the sport. My race. When I joined the massage team responsible for the elite runners, Boston made another dream come true. Boston has been such a jumping off point for me since I was just a little girl at my daddy's knee. I love it. I cherish it.

        Today, when the smoke cleared at the finish line and chaos ensued, part of my entire body became charged with every possible emotion. Fear for my friends; some running, some working. Hope that the disaster was caused by a short in one of the many generators at the finish. The suppression of blind anger, if my worst suspicions of terrorism were confirmed, was like a roiling, turbulent, full-bank river after a thaw and rainstorm.

        My anger is now seething out of every pour. My blood has turned to ice. The race that allows goals to be reached has been sullied. The grandaddy of all organized runs has been raped. This is personal. This is very personal. We've been desensitized by the constant fear mongering from all fronts over the past decade. Shoe bombs, diaper explosives have made shampoo, water, jello and peanut butter and toothpaste the feared ingredients that are removed from baggage.

        I'm not afraid. I'm just hoping the race goes forward next year and for another century so that people like me can have goals and the thousands who run to raise funds for their favorite charity won't be spooked enough to quit. Boston...I love you. Your finish line was there to inspire me, pull me forward and it was the greatest feeling to cross you. I'm hoping millions more get this chance...it's THE finish line...but not the end.  

Thanks Heather