Boston.

I love the Boston Marathon.

I loved going when I was little, with my father and sisters, when we were stationed on route nine in Natick, when Mary Decker was a household name and I believed that I could run a marathon when I was older.  I love it now, when I know that I don't really ever want to run a marathon, when I head to Natick, or this year, Newton, with my own children to cheer on people who have put insane months of preparation into achieving something punishing and outstanding.  I love bending over my girls' heads to point out the strength and determination of disabled runners and racers in wheelchairs, and then crouching down to get Marley and Rudy excited with me about the elite women and men about to pass us.  I love it when the phalanx of police officers on motorcycles coast by, followed by and then amidst the trucks carrying oversized lightboards with official times.  And then, these otherworldly athletes race by, so focused and lean, so strong and world-class.  And we can scream for them from the sidewalk.

Later, we get to cheer on our friends who run.  This year we nearly missed my friend race by in her blue and yellow BAA uniform, a bow in her ponytail, but we screamed her name just in time for her to turn around and give us a tired wave before she turned the corner and began the ascent of Heartbreak Hill.  Afterwards I began cheering for whoever had names or organizations on their shirts.  "Go Lisa!" "Let's go David!" "Here we go, Michigan/Navy/Argentina!"  Marley ran down the checklist we made for her and kept track of some of the costumes and clothes both girls have grown familiar with over the years: someone dressed in all pink, wearing a tutu, with taped legs, or running barefoot; someone with a full beard, or braids, or dreadlocks; someone dressed as a superhero, or a fairy, or a hotdog.  I love these runners, the real runners, these ordinary people who have decided to do something extraordinary.

And then when we were nearly back home, we heard about the bombings at the finish line.  And the Boston Marathon that I love now has additional dimensions of not only bravery and heroics, but also horror and tragedy.  And I feel so angry and sad that the purity and joy of this event has been changed. Like most people, I spent this week refreshing my browsers for updates, reading tweets and stories, examining photographs and footage, watching the news coverage away from my girls, late into the night, and almost all day and night on Friday when the suspects were killed and captured.  Like most who consider themselves Bostonians, I felt pride and outrage and despair.  I listened to President Obama on Thursday and felt gratitude for his words and for the way he expressed what so many people, what I, was feeling.  

I know the marathon will be there next year, and I know that we'll be back to cheer on the runners, their athleticism and their resolve: the disabled, the elite, and those dressed as cheeseburgers or in their luckiest shirts.  I will still love the Boston Marathon, next year and always.  That love will be different and will mean more, and these changes are just part of what I've been mourning for the past week.  But I will still love every bit of it.