Boston.

I've been quiet for awhile, I know.

I have a lot to tell you, but my Colorado stories can wait. And the two miles that I just ran can wait.

The past six months have taught me not to take the gift of running for granted, I've said this before. Injury can strike at any time; we are pretty prone to it as human beings, I get that.

But intentional injury? Being attacked, because I am a runner, or supporting other runners? That's something that never even crossed my mind.

I heard about Boston when I got to Denver International Airport on Monday afternoon. A news alert popped up on my phone and it was vague, there weren't many details. I passed through security, got to my gate and saw the TVs.

And I sat down, and I cried. For a long time.

What I was seeing on those TVs was, the right to run, the right to joy, the right to compete in a beautiful, healthy sport that so many millions of people love.... being attacked.

That's my race. That's our race, that's our city. Boston is the world's oldest annual marathon. Those runners are my friends. Those spectators could have been cheering me on last year.

I was there last year. At that very finish line, in Boston Massachusetts.

I can't tell you how hard it's been to pull my thoughts together on this. How myself, as a marathon runner, will choose to respond. Then today, a beautiful 75 degree Maryland day, I went for a run.

And it hit me. Some of those runners injured on Monday will never run again. They may not get to do a lot of things ever again; their lives are forever changed. And three, well three will never get to experience that rush of joy that this precious world gives us, in so many different beautiful forms.

I will tell you this much. I will never line up at a starting line without thinking of those three people whose lives were taken, and 130 injured by such a senseless, cowardly act.

If anything, I'll run harder. I hope you'll do the same.

In the meantime, until I can race again, I will continue to pray for Boston.