Missing Out: What it Feels like to Not Run the Boston Marathon

When I woke up this morning I didn't put on my Under Amour shorts and Nike run top. I didn't loop my timing chip onto the laces of my Asics running shoes. And I didn't drink my half cup of black coffee and eat my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I didn't do any of these things because this year I would not be getting on a bus and heading out to the race start in Hopkinton with the other 20,000 plus runners who were as privileged as I to be having the chance to run "Boston."

This has been my routine every Patriots Day for the past three years. I would always start off my day excited and nervous, knowing that I had already accomplished so much by just qualifying to run the oldest annual marathon in the world.

Today, instead of walking up to the start line (or what felt more like being lead through a heard of cattle) I watched the start from my desk at work, no where near Boston. I didn't get that sick to my stomach feeling that always happened once I started running, that feeling you get when you know you've gotten yourself into something really risky, but it's too late to turn back.

I didn't feel the rush of excitement from the amazing crowds that line the street, nor did I grab any Gatorade to keep me hydrated. I didn't get to yell to my Dad who always saw my sister and I at the last moment. I didn't get to feel the powerful screams of the girls at Wellesley College, and I didn't get to run up (and over!) Heartbreak Hill.

I didn't get to see people running out of their homes to tell all the runners that "The Sox are winning!" and giving everyone real-time updates of the traditional Patriots Day ballgame.

I didn't get to count how many time people said "Hey, twins!", either because my sister and I were dressed in the same identical outfits or because we actually are identical twins.

There were no mantra's entering my head willing me to keep going. There were no split times given to me by my sister, and no moments of silence when we both knew we were too exhausted to speak.

I didn't run up Beacon Street past the rowdy Boston University students, or past Fenway Park where the droves of fans had overflowed onto the streets after the game was over to cheer on all the runners.

I didn't get to run up Comm. Ave, feeling like I was going to die, wondering when this race would be over and how badly I wanted to stop. I didn't get to turn that corner onto Hereford Street then the other way on to Boylston Street, seeing the finish line for the first time. I didn't get to slow down a little to make sure I would see my three best friends who were there to see me finish every single year, only to speed up and cross that finish line with my sister and feel that amazing feeling only someone who's finished "Boston" can feel.

What I'm trying to get across is that even though I didn't run this year, I did get to run it and have memories that I will never forget. You'll never know what you're missing if you don't try it. Even though I wished I had been running today, I knew what that run felt like and nothing can ever change that.