After about an hour of waiting at the 25.5 mile spot, everyone’s post-marathon legs were beginning to ache as the crowd finally began to move and funnel back onto the street. Though we knew the finish line would not be a sight for our eyes, we found solace in the hope that we were moving towards safety. Race officials and volunteers lined the road directing runners towards the Boston Commons area, where we could pick up our checked bags and find loved ones.
That mile walk brought more connections and even more pride in the sport I love so much. I met a woman from Argentina (who was spectating the race previously) guiding a distraught woman in her 70s down the street. She didn’t know the area, let alone the woman she was escorting, but felt compelled to make sure her new-found friend made it back to her family safely. I saw a man shivering in a tank top and shorts, who gratefully took the trash bag I’d acquired earlier. I saw more Boston residents handing out cheese, water and bags of clothes for cold and hungry runners. I took a stranger’s offer to use her cell phone to call my Mom to let her know I was safe. I saw the beauty of the human spirit, up close and personal.
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