The Olympics almost didn't continue. Some athletes went home. After a memorial in which, shockingly, the president of the IOC didn't mention the names of the murdered, the Israeli team went home. With a worldwide constituency, the Olympic committee perhaps was afraid of offending other countries hostile to Israel.
It must have been a terrifying and confusing time. Mark Spitz, as a prominent Jew, was given extra security. A Dutch 5000m runner, Jos Hermans, went back home, saying to Kenny Murphy, "If someone comes to the party and shoots people, how can you stay?" When the Olympic Committee determined that the games would go on, Bill Bowerman talked to his athletes and encouraged them to stay. "As Moore related it . . ., Olympians had laid down their arms to compete in games through the centuries. Bowerman said they knew there was more honor in outrunning a man than killing him. “One by one,” said Moore, “we came not only to see the truth in that but also to feel it. I remember Frank (Shorter) saying we have to spread the word by performance that barbarism only makes Olympians stronger. We have to say this is scared as I get and let’s go run.”"
1972 was the year America had its legendary dream team of distance runners. Bill Bowerman was the coach. Jim Ryun ran the 1500, Steve Prefontaine ran the 5000m, Jeff Galloway was in the 10000m. They didn't medal, but Frank Shorter won the gold in the marathon, the last American to win the Olympic marathon. THE event of the Games. He was way out in front by himself. This video makes me choke up, but maybe you have to be a runner to get teary eyed. Moore placed fourth.
As a runner, I wonder what I would do. What would honor the slain athletes more, closing down the Games or striving for victory in their name? What do you make of people who go out and do amazing feats testing human endurance, like rowing across the ocean or swimming from Cuba to Key West, to memorialize someone who died?
I have long struggled with feeling that running borders on being a selfish activity. It takes up time and involves some expense - shoes, race fees, clothes (which, seeing as I'm still wearing some of the tee shirts I got in college, I keep to a minimum). And I'm not running to raise money for charity, even though I did donate a good part of the little bit of money I won in Guam back to the organizations that put on the events. But even though it requires my family to make minor concessions to my hobby, I can't stop running, and I don't want to.
When I qualified for the Boston Marathon in April, I wasn't sure I would go to the race because of logistics and money. My husband kept encouraging me. When the bombing occurred, I felt more compelled to go and compete. The communal feeling of a comeback race amongst the tens of thousands of runners there next spring will be palpable. Like Shorter said, "This is as scared as we get. Let's go run." It will be a celebration of human triumph over adversity, of dedication and devotion and perseverance, and of the capacity of the human body and spirit to struggle against limitations. Almost like an art form or a prayer, running is a pursuit for transcendence over human weakness.
But since I still felt hesitant about committing to a race a year in an advance, my husband even asked my cousin when we were visiting this summer to tell me I should go. Her response wasn't what he expected. She said, "Absolutely not," and then argued that it was wasteful, selfish and vain to indulge in so much work and expense for physical fitness.
Her negativity almost compelled me to commit in a spirit of contrariness. Running is not just about the runner. It's about the community. It's about the human spirit, especially after the bombing attacks. Maybe that's not so evident when you wake up at 5 am to go on a long run all by yourself, and you complain and grumble in your head for 75% of the run, but when you show up at an event with hundreds of people from the neighborhood, you feel it.
On Sunday, my husband and I got up early to head to the oceanfront to cheer for one of the Navy wives in his command who was running the Ventura marathon. I didn't sign up for this race because with our summer of "fun," I didn't keep up with training. But I felt the itch to get back into long distance running while watching the marathoners pass by. Despite grimaces and sweaty shirts, they looked like they were having fun, even the ones who seemed to be struggling this early on. Runners and spectators were cheering each other forward.
I didn't write much about the marathon I ran back in April in Guam because so many other things were going on. Nor did I write about the two mile open ocean swim that my husband, 2 oldest sons, and I did just before we moved. That's close to the equivalent of a half marathon swim - it's Ironman distance. Both events went well. I felt strong all the way through the hours of competition - three hours and twenty three minutes for the marathon, an hour and eighteen minutes for the swim.
Watching the marathoners on Sunday, I relived some of the moments of my race: following a Japanese couple for the first five miles when they stopped at a port-o-let, the relief of NOT having to stop myself, the fear when I figured out the splits the night before the race to make my goal - which turned out to be inconsequential because the race was marked in kilometers instead of miles, reaching the place where my kids had a cheering section with the scouts, the several miles I ran with one of the other running club members until he dropped off. I tried to encourage him to continue with me, but he was done. Then I ran alone for several miles and was overjoyed when a lady was standing by the side of the street with water just when I was really needing it - she wasn't a part of the volunteer group; she was just a generous neighbor who lived on the route. Bless her. I had been praying the Divine Mercy chaplet when she appeared. I also won't forget hitting 20 miles and remembering my mantra, "20 mile warm-up for a 6 mile race," and seeing the second place female runner in front of me. She was slowing down. I was afraid to catch her too soon in fear that I might hit the wall myself. But I passed her before the 5k left mark and still felt strong. Then I hit the last big hill with less than 2 miles to go. I was no longer feeling so strong, but I saw a guy walking in front of me. Passed him. Started passing half marathon runners. Made it to the top of the hill. And rode the wave of exhilaration all the way to the finish line, where I stayed on my feet through the shoot, through the snack line, to a curb where I could sit down and take off my shoes. Nothing felt better. Except maybe the free massage afterwards.
It's like reliving your labor story - pain, struggle, relief and joy.
After church on Sunday, we went back to the race to watch the finish. A big party was going on all along the boardwalk. Runners were limping around with their medals on, smiling in their sweaty clothes, drinking their recovery fluids and exchanging war stories. We saw our friend finish and get big hugs from her kids. I wanted to be a part of the running crowd, but I was also glad to be just a little part of the event, especially knowing how much it meant to me to have supporters cheering on the way.
Sign ups for Boston are in September, but now I know I won't be running in the 2014 Boston Marathon for a totally different reason I'll explain later. And I want to cry from selfishness that I can't go. But the race will still be there the next year. And I'll still be running.
