Yesterday, a mere 2 hours before the explosions went off, I posted to FB about how seeing all the Boston updates made me excited for my own marathon venture this fall. Then the news broke. I saw it flash on my phone and frantically sought more information. I spent the last two hours of my workday refreshing Google to see if there was anything new, any more information, something, anything that would make sense out of this terrible act.

And then I did the only thing I could do. I laced up my shoes. I’d been debating all day about running after work. I felt good after Sunday’s long run but wasn’t sure if I wanted to push my luck. In an instant I had no choice. I’m a runner. That’s how I cope. That’s how I deal. That’s how I make sense of the world. So I changed my clothes, tied my shoes, and went for a run. 3.4 miles later, I got back in my car. Cleansed. The sick feeling had gone. I drove home. Checked FB on my phone. And then the tears I’d been holding back all afternoon came. And I let them. I sat in my car and sobbed, because the world just didn’t make sense. It still doesn’t.

Am I still going to run the Pittsburgh Half in a couple weeks? Hell yeah! Am I still going to train for and run my first marathon this fall? Abso-friggin-loutely. I’m a runner, damnit. You can’t stop me. Life is short, and life is precious. It could end at any time. I could get hit by a car running on the street. Anything could happen. I’m not going to be afraid. I’m going to run. It’s what I do. It’s how I cope, how I deal, how I relate to the world.