Last Monday, I watched Meb Keflezighi’s last three miles of the 2014 Boston Marathon on the edge of an ottoman in front of the television in my St. Louis home while my kids ate breakfast in the next room.
As Wilson Chebet fought to close the gap between himself and Meb, I absolutely refused to imagine any alternative to Meb’s victory. I cheered as loudly as if I was there in person, shouting encouragements with tears (where did they come from?) spilling over at the same time.
Before that morning, I hadn’t really thought about the elites running the race. I thought about the memorial events and gestures, the crowd, the average Joe runners like me crossing the finish line after being stopped short last year, and the victims from the April 15, 2013 bombings finding hope and strength in running or cheering on the runners this year.