One television commentator seemed amazed that, despite the blast, runners kept charging toward the finish line. This reporter knows nothing of the lonely countless hours runners invest in getting to the point they cannot only finish that great distance, but qualify for the holy grail of marathon races.
He knows nothing of the missed sleep, the sore muscles, and the weather-beaten bodies that accrue from such an arduous undertaking. Of course these runners continued to the finish line. They had already invested four hours in getting there and were within an eyelash of realizing their dream. There was no way they were going to quit because some lunatic detonated a bomb.
Nor will he sway many others from doing it again next year. Marathoning is its own form of lunacy, and they will not be intimidated.
In fact, until last week, qualifying for Boston has never really piqued my interest. It is doubtful I could do it, but a fire has been lit to try. I would love to be one of those crossing Boston’s finish line next year, bomber be hanged.
And here’s hoping he is ... hanged, that is.