I’ve never been to Boston. I don’t know anybody in Boston. But I know what it’s like to run a marathon, I know how it feels to come to the end of months of training and the feeling of finally crossing the finish line after 26.2 miles. 26.2 miles of pushing through pain, pushing through feeling sick, pushing past the wall and finally running over that finish line. 26.2 miles of being surrounded by cheering crowds, by countless other runners with countless different t-shirts showing charities they’re raising money for, friends they’re running in remembrance of. 26.2 miles of people handing out water and sweets and total strangers cheering you on – people you’ll never see again giving you that high-five that keeps you going, giving you their enthusiasm when all you want to do is stop and sit down for a while to recover. Marathon day is like no other. Marathon day is when people come together, when it doesn’t matter if you agree with somebody’s politics or taste in music – what matters is that you are all there, you’re there to do good and to set a personal achievement and to support each other. And when you finally reach the finish line, surrounded by others who share your feelings of elation and joy – well, it’s a feeling unlike any other. Marathon day has a party atmosphere, a celebration atmosphere. And I simply cannot imagine what yesterday must have been like. The bombs went off at around the equivalent time that I reached the final stretch and the finish line last year in London. My heart goes out to everyone there. Sport brings people together. Sport unites. And to have that destroyed – it’s unimaginable and makes me sick to my stomach. Continue reading To Boston, to people.