Earlier today bombs killed and injured people at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. I feel as if my own family has been violated. Worse, after a lifetime of writing about how running is one of the most positive forces in the modern world.
I've been in Boston five days. I've been at media conferences, parties, meals with fellow writers and a running travel group, and the expo. I ran among lots of runners alongside the Charles River, I stood and cheered on the sidelines of the 5-K and street mile, and today I reported the race from the media center, surrounded by journalists from around the world. There has been not one moment in all five days that has been anything but warm, friendly, supportive, generous, benevolent in the fullest sense. Until now.
I'm not just being warm and fuzzy. Marathon running has a long tradition of celebrating, commemorating, and affirming life. The original Olympic marathon in 1896 was to commemorate the man who carried the news of a victory for freedom. The first Boston Marathon a year later followed that idea by honoring the ride of Paul Revere, not on his actual route, but always on his day, Patriots Day in the State of Massachusetts (that's why it's on Monday). The Kosice Marathon in Slovakia and the Comrades Marathon in South Africa were created to commemorate the dead in World War 1. The Oklahoma City Memorial Marathon affirms life after the bombings in that city in 1995. This very Boston Marathon mourned and honored the school kids who were gunned down a few months ago in Newtown, Connecticut, not far from here. Out of respect for them, the race was started for the first time in 117 years not with a gun but with an air horn.
Even without that special purpose, marathon running is a sport of goodwill. It's the only sport in the world where if a competitor falls, the others around will pick him or her up. It's the only sport in the world open to absolutely everyone, regardless of gender, age, ethnicity or any other division you can think of. It's the only occasion when thousands of people assemble, often in a major city, for a reason that is totally peaceful, healthy and well-meaning. It's the only sport in the world where no one ever boos anybody.
If you're losing your faith in human nature, look at marathon crowds, standing for hours with no seating, no cover, no bathrooms, to cheer thousands of strangers. Or look at our sport's volunteers, on whose shoulders the whole sport rests. I spent part of the Runner's World party with mates from Buffalo and Niagara Falls who are race directors and also travel the East Coast as race volunteers, giving their skills and labor to other races. Two of them, Bob Kaminsky and Les Potapcyck, told me they were "working security at the finish line" today. Right by where the first bomb went off. They are now my greatest personal concern. Anyone who tries to kill Bob and Les is below any depth of contempt.
Our problem is that this marathon world of goodwill and prelapsarian innocence has made us so vulnerable. Ever since the New York City Marathon went ahead seven weeks after the horror of 9/11, my wife Kathrine Switzer and I have feared exactly what happened today. Our sport is such a great photo-op, and global media coverage is guaranteed. Modern murderers like those things. That time Kathrine was on a TV motorcycle alongside the lead women, and probably the greatest relief of my life was when she came safely off the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. I'm spending this afternoon explaining to media from England to New Zealand that it's impossible to make a marathon course totally secure. Kathrine saw the police sniffer dogs at 8 this morning checking the finish area, so the bombs were presumably planted later, by someone who wandered in behind the crowd. How could you stop it?
It's too soon to say where we go from here. The world cross country championships were much weakened by the demands of modern security, meaning they always have to be held on closed circuits instead of across country as they should be. Could we run marathons on safe closed circuits? How could you reconcile that with the essential notion that the marathon is a journey, and a celebration of the community or the environment it passes through? I just received a press release from the London Marathon, where I'm due to travel tomorrow morning, to say they are "reviewing security arrangements with the Metropolitan Police." How do you reconcile that need and that language with the essential innocence of the marathon?
We're in "lockdown" in the Copley Plaza hotel, the race headquarters. The window looks down on Dartmouth Street. Every other year that scene has been jammed with happy and tired runners, making their creaky way to the Family Reunion area just around the corner. Every other year, we have looked down on a scene of mass but quiet jubilation and unity. Today there's nothing moving out there, and the street is lined with back-up ambulances, fire trucks and police vehicles, including a massive thing out of Mad Max called "Massachusetts Police Incident Command." I'm grateful they are there today. But it's a sight I never wanted to see at a marathon.
Roger Robinson is a highly-regarded writer and historian and author of seven books on running. His recent Other Hearst Subscriptions and is a frequent Running Times He Ran Boston 8 Months After Tumor Surgery Runner’s World contributor, admired for his insightful obituaries. A lifetime elite runner, he represented England and New Zealand at the world level, set age-group marathon records in Boston and New York, and now runs top 80-plus times on two knee replacements. He is Emeritus Professor of English at Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand, and is married to women’s running pioneer Kathrine Switzer.
