By Adam Cancryn
A non-runner takes to the road in the wake of the Boston bombings.
I went for a run the other day.
That might not sound remarkable, and in most cases, it isn’t. Running is just a part of life for many people, another routine embedded into their existence. For the thousands at the Boston Marathon and all those who aspire to one day make it there, running is a way of life. It’s how they greet the day, or wind down at night, or kickstart their afternoon.
Not me, though. I’ve done the exact opposite, spending an otherwise athletic life avoiding the dreaded “run.” And for the past several years, I’ve succeeded. No 5ks, no endurance sports. I even tapped out of a drunken jog home from the bar a few weeks back. When I tell people I haven’t run more than 100 continuous yards since the fall of 2006, they laugh. It’s not a joke.
But that streak came to an end, on a day where the temperature felt just right. On a day where I would normally get home, make some dinner and enjoy the last remnants of sunshine from the front porch. Instead, I ran.