Yesterday dawned gloriously perfect for the 37th running of the Chicago Marathon. It was cool, sunny, and dry. For months my son planned to run with the other 45,000 contestants, while the rest of his immediate family cheered him on. He had qualified to be in the first wave.
Originally Kevin ran the Chicago Marathon when he was twelve years old, and such races were not well known. Back then, he and I drove from Libertyville to downtown Chicago, easily found a place to park the car, and walked to the starting line on Dearborn. I don’t remember how many runners there were, because I was focused on only one. I met him at the finish line and we learned together that he’d placed second in his age division.
Fast forward to yesterday. Both Kevin and the marathon are different. He is 46 years old, and the marathon has gone big time. Big names, big money, big security all dominate the sport, especially since the bombings that occurred at the Boston Marathon in 2013.
Still that didn’t deter us. We made hotel reservations months ago. He launched a training program and looked forward to coming home, so to speak. But it didn’t happen.
Instead Kevin recently fractured his right pelvis and is on crutches. He watched the marathon from his home in Fargo, ND, while I watched from mine in Benton Harbor, MI. We commiserated and tried to keep a brave front. But I know my disappointment was nominal compared to his. I only hope he can heal, both physically and mentally, to run Chicago next year.
We still want to come home.