I have a friend in New York. We ran our first Los Angeles Marathon together. It was when the Staples Center was still under construction, when the Angelenos and out-of-city-runners used to pack Figueroa Street downtown to start the race. We ran through north South Central where cheering was heartwarming-best, through relatively silent Hancock Park, and then made our way through Hollywood and back to downtown. We were in our twenties. It was something that we had to do, just because. Even though we couldn’t make the time that we had set out to make, it was a memorable experience with more than one great story to share—something that we will never forget.

Ever since then, we would introduce one another to our respective friends that we are “LA Marathon Partners” as we did gleefully this past weekend, during my visit at her and her husband’s beautiful Williamsburg apartment. Ironically and tragically, there was that bombing of Boston Marathon on following Monday. I was still in New York when I saw the news.

City-sponsored marathons are one of the most meaningful sports events that everyday athletes cherish. People run for causes. People run to celebrate their personal victories. People run to remember their loved ones. It is a friendly competition where the participants feel the comradery of being alive and being able to dare so greatly. It is sad beyond words that there are individuals out there who think that launching such a senseless attack at such a celebratory event is a worthwhile activity. It boggles my mind. There is nothing to be gained. Life is tough as is. Why choose to become the problem in people’s lives, a devastating problem at that?

The next morning I got up and set out to run the entire Central Park. I hate fear. I find odious, the perpetuators of fear. Running was the only way I could shake off the messed-up feelings. The park was beautiful with all the signs of life and spring. There were runners and cyclists everywhere. Birds making beautiful sounds. Flowers of brilliant colors. Tiny new leaves budding from grand old trees. Everything seemed to be busy at work ushering in a thriving new season, after it endured a harsh East Coast winter. It was the easiest and most beautiful 7 mile run I have ever ran.

As I was finishing my loop at Central Park West, near the Dakota, the final song on shuffle was “Here Comes the Sun.” Yes, I know, a different Beatle. Still, it was a great way to end the run – an epiphanic coincidence. I felt so elated.

I got back to my room with an assuring thought that there will be another Boston Marathon. Heck yeah. People will run anyway. There will be thousands of runners this year who will train to qualify for Boston Marathon anyway. There will be thousands of runners who will register for next year’s Patriots Day race anyway. These are not just runners. They are marathoners. They don’t give in that easily. There are certain things in the world that cannot be stopped. The will of everyday heroes who are up for 26.2? On the world’s most sought-after stage? That’s one of them. As sure as the sun.