As my distances began to get longer and my times faster, I began to think I might like to train for the half-marathon. After all, the twentieth anniversary of the Murrah Bombing would be coming, so the Memorial Marathon seemed like a natural fit for my first timed distance run. So I began to take it seriously. Until two months ago, I wasn't sure I'd make it. I kept getting sick over the winter with stuff my kids were bringing home, so my training was falling off. But when it warmed up and I got up to eleven miles, I signed up. A couple months later, the Half Marathon medal hangs in my closet, the 13.1 sticker is on my rear windshield, and like many newly initiated distance runners, I'm hooked.
The Memorial Marathon was especially meaningful for me because the Memorial Half is a running tour of the neighborhoods where I've spent most of my career. I love these old neighborhoods: the tall buildings and shadowy streets of downtown, the stately approach toward the capital building, the handsome old houses of Mesta Park, Heritage Hills, and Crown Heights. Throughout the run, I got the sense that I was doing something I would never forget in places I love to remember. The whole run was very touching and meaningful for me.
I would be remiss to neglect the stated purpose of the Marathon itself: a fund raiser to support the OKC National Memorial, and an event explicitly dedicated to the memory of those lost in the Murrah Bombing. I have been reluctant to write about the events of April 19, 1995 for a number of reasons. For one thing, I am suspicious of the common "where were you when you found out," kinds of conversations. I understand the importance of public memory and take seriously the realness of public grief, but I also fear the temptation of making the event about myself, when so many, some that I know well, were effected much more personally than I. For another thing, with months of buildup by local media outlets, I fear exploitation of the event and its victims. I don't want to be simply adding to the noise, noise that a great many people, including some that I love very much, are trying as hard as they can to avoid. For some people, the notion that "We Will Never Forget" is not a well-meaning promise, but a horrifying curse.
Nevertheless, the event was a large part of my motivation to run. In 1995, my father was a crime scene detective on the Oklahoma City Police Department, and my step-father, who I lived with, was an Oklahoma City Firefighter. Both of them are strong, courageous, and empathic men, and both were caught up in the Hell of that month. My step-father spent nearly a month digging through the rubble of the bombed out building, and my father spent that same time assigned to the Medical Examiner's Office processing the bodies of the victims. Unsurprisingly, the event had a singular impact on them and on our family in ways that are, frankly, no one's business.
My dad's were and are exceptional men. They both went into their respective professions for all the right reasons. They are brave and caring, and what they experienced in that month hurt them, probably more deeply that I actually understand (they both hold their cards pretty close). I have always felt a debt to them for spending a month in a place they would not allow me to even go see. For this reason, I saw the run as a way to honor them. When training was tough, when my body was breaking down, or I felt sick, I pushed on by telling myself, "they spent a month in Hell; I can spend a few hours running." It's an empty ovation, I'm sure. A run that many people do for fun cannot really repay for the sacrifices made by any of those who were forced to sacrifice in 1995 and in the years since, but it's all I can really do: to endure in order to honor their endurance.
Beyond this, (and I didn't really think about this until during the run) it became a way to reclaim the month and the sight. April is no longer the month, and NW 5th and Harvey is no longer the place that tried to destroy my fathers and my family. It's the time and place where I accomplished something really difficult and important. In a way that is admittedly imperfect and which may or may not be lasting, at least in my own psyche, I've taken back my family. At the very least, I've reclaimed the month of April.
This notion occurred to me as a ran up Lincoln Blvd, with the field of flags in front of the capital on one side, and hand-written posters with the names of victims on the other. The Marathon itself hangs signs on light posts with the names on all 168 victims along the course, but far more touching are the hand-written signs that people along the course hold. Friends and family of victims participate as spectators, make home-made signs, hand out medals at the finish line, serve as board members, and run the race. In fact, the whole city is involved in the race. Spectators line the entire 26 mile course, stand in front of their houses handing out food and drinks to runners, and cheer for people they don't know. Neighborhood associations decorate their neighborhoods and line the streets in ridiculous costumes. Two local T.V. stations preempt programming to carry the race on live television. This communal effort speaks to the meaning of the Memorial Marathon for this city. The city was injured, horrified, and changed forever in April of 1995. But through the Marathon, we've taken back that time and place. We've reclaimed it for ourselves and for our community. Downtown in April is no longer a place of defeat, fear, and injury. Instead, it's a place of celebration, strength, endurance, and triumph.
