Edward Fitzpatrick: For 26.2 miles, we ran as one

Some believe that the Boston Marathon bombing forever marred a great New England tradition, leaving us on edge and on guard, unable to embrace the race as before.

Let them come to Boston.

Some believe that the Tsarnaev brothers inflicted so much pain, left a wound so deep, that the civic spirit could never move past the heartbreak, could never muster the same joy as in years past.

Let them come to Boston.

Some believe that in our red state/blue state country, where people are divided over public policy and focused on private concerns, that nothing could bring us together, united in a common cause.

Let them come to Boston.

Some believe that the nation has grown lethargic and bloated, unable to muster the energy and the strength to undertake a grueling task, to do what must be done.

Let them come to Boston.

When I ran the Boston Marathon last year, the bombs detonated 41 minutes after I’d crossed the finish line. My wife had been in the stands across from the first blast, but, thankfully, she was meeting me when the explosions echoed off the John Hancock Tower.

I feel grateful to have been able to run the marathon again this year. It was much more than a foot race. It was a way to help honor the dead and the injured, to help reclaim the marathon from those who attacked it, to embrace life after senseless death.

For me, the highlight came toward the end, when I turned onto Hereford Street and spotted my wife and my two sons holding homemade signs and cheering me on. I was in pain at that point, but I was still smiling when I turned onto Boylston Street.

Now, some might believe that you wouldn’t want your family near the finish line again this year. Some might believe the dangers posed by twisted ideology and sheer stupidity are just too great.

Let them come to Boston.

Let them come to Boston on Marathon Monday and see a crowd, 1 million strong, thronging the course from Hopkinton to Boylston Street.

Let them come to Boston on Patriots’ Day and see Meb Keflezighi shedding tears of joy after becoming the first American to win the marathon since 1983.

Let them come to Boston on the day after Easter and see the marathon rise from fear and chaos amid brilliant sunshine and pulsing energy.

Let them run behind the man with two prosthetic legs wearing a T-shirt honoring Martin Richard, the 8-year-old boy who died in the bombing.

Let them run by the spectator in the green Red Sox hat holding a cardboard sign reading “We Own That Finish Line.”

Let them hear the deafening roar of the Wellesley College women and the crackle of the Red Sox game on the radio.

Let them high-five a boisterous bunch of Boston College students standing by an inflatable arch that reads “The Heartbreak is Over.”

Let them turn onto Boylston and catch sight of the blue-and-yellow finish line, pick up the pace amid a burst of adrenaline and then, just before the finish, let them see the runner with one leg churning ahead on a pair of metal crutches.

Let them see the physical toll and the mental determination. Let them feel the sorrow and the courage. Let them witness the defiance and the joy, the renewal and the victory.

Let them come to Boston.

On Twitter: @FitzProv