Guest AuthorAfter five months of hard-core training, I hated to admit I wasn’t running fast enough to qualify for the Boston Marathon.
I maintained a nine-minute mile for shorter distances, but drifted into 10-minute miles for longer runs. In my age group, I’d have to run a seven-minute mile for a full qualifying marathon before the end of September.
Crazy talk.
And yet I kept training, pushing myself and trying to figure it out.
Someone mentioned running with a charity team, so I found a list of participating organizations. These were all worthy causes. I carefully considered each one, before clicking on the charity for multiple sclerosis.
Two cousins were living with MS and both had faced their diagnosis with an inordinate amount of bravery. I couldn’t have been prouder, and wanted to support them, too, in this unique way. Running Boston may have started out to defy terrorists, but it quickly became so much more.
Participation was a way to support the victims of last year’s tragedy. It was an opportunity to get in better shape and conquer something important.
I was also running because I said I would.
There were many reasons.
So I added one more — raising money for a good cause and publicly supporting two important members of my family.
When I contacted Marathon Strides Against MS, their coordinator Nancy said they’d heard from many people motivated to run after the bombing. This was admirable, but they really wanted people who could connect with their cause, not just run with them to be in Boston.
Competition for these charity teams would be fierce and friends suggested I apply to several, to improve my odds.
I went the other way.
In September, I applied to one charity, the MS team, and put my entire heart into the process. I carefully completed my on-line application, detailing the visceral response I felt after an attack on my former hometown and the desire to see a whole lot of good come from it. I wrote about my family, fundraising experience and training. Then I blew a kiss and hit “submit.”
I waited.
The following month, I traveled to Boston for a conference and called Nancy to meet for lunch.
While there, my morning runs around the city were emotional. From Copley, I ran to my old apartment in the North End, high-fiving the brick building and breathing in an aroma of fresh bread and Italian coffee. I passed the Old South Church, hundreds of ribbons adorning the gate with messages of love and hope. I stopped to look at the bright yellow finish line and closed my eyes, almost hearing the cheers…and screams…along with car horns and rattling sidewalks as the T rumbled beneath my feet.
Nancy and I met for lunch a few days later. She had another week to make up her mind, so I decided to relax and be myself. It felt like an interview of sorts. She told me stories about MS and the marathon that changes everyone who runs it. I told her about my cousins, my connection to this town and intense training that had improved every aspect of my life.
It was a good lunch.
I thought about what I’d do if I weren’t picked. I’d be devastated, for sure. I wouldn’t stop running. I’d raise money and cheer everyone on. Could I sneak into the race as a bandit? Maybe come up and run it alone on some other day? I wasn’t sure. But I knew I wouldn’t give up.
Before we left, Nancy looked at me and smiled.
“I guess I could have told you this before,” she said. “I’d made up my mind already about you. Congratulations and welcome to the team.”
I put down my glass of wine and returned her smile. My eyes filled with tears.
“I made the team?” I asked.
She nodded and I couldn’t stop thanking her. Five months of determination and I was finally an official member of a team running the Boston Marathon in April. I grabbed Nancy’s hand and squeezed it, overwhelmed and grateful.
Before flying back to Tampa, I went for one last morning run. In and around the Common and Public Gardens, circling Charlestown, getting lost a little in Downtown Crossing, and stopping again near Copley Square. I bent down to tie my shoes, but really just wanted to touch the ground and feel that energy one more time. As I crossed the street, I stared at the yellow finish line, my feet striding over the words. I soaked it all in knowing this feeling would help get me through six more months of hard training.
“I’ll be back,” I said.
To donate to the MS Fund, click here:
http://main.nationalmssociety.org/site/TR?px=12609485&fr_id=22897&pg=personal
Catherine Durkin Robinson is a political advocate and organizer living in Tampa.
