2:50 pm:
Was that a cannon…? What was
th-…..oh my God. This isn’t good…OH MY
GOD.
* * *
The Race
I’m not
superstitious, except when it comes to racing.
I always think if I get hopeful, something will happen. In the month before the Boston Marathon,
every ache and pain would set off a flurry of worrying about potential muscle
pulls and stress fractures. Then there is the issue of weather: I’ve never been
one to have luck with weather in marathons: too hot, frigidly cold,
nor’easter. I’ve had 2 races cancelled
for weather: one for a winter storm in Myrtle Beach, and the other for a
hurricane. I used to joke I could make a tidy fortune having race directors pay
me to not enter. For 10 days leading up to the Boston Marathon,
I refused to believe the weather predictions of nearly perfect racing
conditions. I kept thinking Mother
Nature was thumbing her nose at me, dangling this perfection in front of me and
would pour on the heat on race day just to dash my fragile hopes. I was wrong: the morning could be described
in the single word, Perfection.
Sunny and high 40’s at the start of the race, the temps wouldn’t be much
higher at the finish on Boylston Street at Copley Square.
9:15 am - I’m making my way to my corral at the start. I’m with my long-run training partner,
Laura. With a faster qualifying time,
she’s two corrals in front of mine, so we wish each other good luck and I tell
her to text me how she did when she gets her phone after the race. With over 23,000 runners, I doubt I’ll see
her. The road to the start is jammed and
I have fear I might not get there in time.
But with 5 minutes to go I’m at the start… and next thing I know I’m
walking with the rest of the start and we’re off.
9:30 am - The early miles are easy and social – but I remember being
irritated at the number of ‘Bandits’ I pass in the early miles (the roads are
clogged enough without additional unofficial entrants). I have to remind myself to stow my crankiness
– this is too much of a fun, perfect day to let petty irritations get in the
way. Somewhere in the early miles a guy
says Keep running, you’re almost there!
Wiseacre. Later I see a huge sign
someone has put in their yard. I’m
laughing and then see a blind runner with her guide – they are holding
hands. He is giving her a description of
the course, People are laughing because
there is a big sign with an arrow that says SHORTCUT… ok in about a minute
we’ll get to a short hill… What is it like to hold both hands and
conversation over 26.2 miles?
11:50 am - We are in the town of Natick and a woman yells with a chowder-thick
accent Yaw gonna finish. Gawd Dammit
yaw gonna make it! By mile 8, I can
feel the beginnings of tightness in my thighs; this isn’t good. Just after mile 12, the women at Wellesley
don’t disappoint with their traditional “Scream Tunnel” – you can’t help but go
faster. At the half marathon point, I
look at my watch and see I’m on pace for a really good race. But the tightness
in my thighs has progressed to a dull ache.
I know this is going to hurt.
Somewhere at this point I see a man dressed as Elvis, strumming a guitar
and singing a song. Just before lower
Newton Falls, there is a long, hard downhill.
This is the thing about going downhill that most people don’t recognize:
it is work. Think of skiing – you don’t
just plunge down the side of a mountain as a passenger. It is a combination of efficiency and
control, and it all comes from your thighs.
My thighs are right on the edge of hurt at mile 15. I’ve been fending off the fear but it comes
roaring in. I have a decision to make:
do I succumb and slow down or accept it?
That morning I received many notes of encouragement. I remember one in particular Make pain your bitch. I simply accept that this race will hurt but
running a great race will make that hurt worthwhile. The marathon can seem like a weird sport,
I’ll give you that much. For many, it’s
about taking oneself to the breaking point and then not stopping. It’s about talking oneself into just one more
mile, then one more block, then ten more steps.
For me, I simply decide I’m going to hold the pace for as long as I can,
even on the hills; I’m not getting any younger. I employ a racing visual: I
imagine a big black steamer trunk. Make Pain Your Bitch. I embrace this thought, and I challenge
the pain, I want to see how much I can take.
But the bigger idea is to lock away the fear, to accept that it will
hurt, probably a lot. So mentally I
break out another steamer trunk, and fear gets tossed in like a limp rag doll and
locked away.
1:03 PM - I
hit the first of the famed Newton Hills just after Lower Newton Falls and look
at the friendship bracelet my son Jean-Marc made for me for the race in
2007. I’ve worn it for good luck, and
remember looking at it and do it again.
I cross the 95 overpass and the crowds thicken – many deep along the
sidewalk. The spectators are
raucous. It’s such a beautiful day and
they are as much a participant in this event as the runners. At mile 17.4 is the turn onto Commonwealth
Avenue. The evening before the race I’ve
phoned my father. He’d run this race
roughly a dozen times in the 70’s and 80’s.
I told him my wish for my race was to get to this turn feeling good and
go mano-a-mano with the hills. It’s a
ridiculous statement – I’m just not a tough person. But it’s my own rather small, humble
gauntlet, to face a hill and not slow down. This portion of Commonwealth Avenue
is like Richmond’s Monument Avenue in the Fan district: a double lane road with
a large grassy median. In the median and
on the opposing sidewalk is a veritable street party of folks cheering on the
runners while adding to the general festivities. I’d run this race for the first time in 2007
– the weather was not good – and I thought then the crowds were thick. Under the beautifully cool sunny blue skies,
the crowds are immense. I’ve run this
race before, but in this perfect day, my expectations borne of memory are
trampled by the sheer volume of joyous humanity.
This race
morning, as I’ve sat down to eat an oversized bowl of oatmeal, I've read a
story in the previous day’s Boston Globe about two ‘Mobility Impaired”
runners. Both are dwarves. The woman looks to be very small but evenly
proportioned. The man has a large torso
but very, very short, bowed legs. I read
of their qualifying time of 6 hours. I
look at their photos and their very small stature and wonder how many steps
they have to take to every one of mine.
Just after the first hill I see – to my right – the man profiled in the
piece. He is tiny. And he is walking. I think for a brief moment what it takes to
endeavor to complete this course with that kind of handicap. And then it occurs to me that the winner of
this race will have broken the tape in the same time it takes me to complete 14
or 15 miles. Handicap is in the eye of
the beholder. Or those a hell of a lot
faster.
Jen is a
friend and former colleague who is also a monstrously talented runner. She’d be in the 1% if there were ever an
“Occupy Fast Runners” protest. These days
she is far less about winning and more about pacing. In the winter, we’d run a 15 mile training
run in Boston where the starting temperature was in the teens. She’d offered to pace me through this
marathon, but an injury a scant month later derailed her plans. She runs with the Somerville Road Runners and
had let me know We have a tent and
unofficial hydration station at the 30K (18.6 mile) mark. Look for the black and yellow balloons. I tell myself to get to 30k, that’s my next
goal. With every step, my thighs voice a
deep complaint of ache and hurt. I
remind myself to use my arms because For
every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Or something like that. If I use my arms, my legs will follow. I look in the median for the balloons and
just after the 30K marker, I spot them and seconds later see Jen standing
expectantly in the road, scanning the runners for someone she knows. She is dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved
shirt, and white-rimmed sport sunglasses.
I yell Jen. JEN!
She sees me and jumps up and starts running with me. Her running can be best described as graceful
– her footfall so quiet it’s easy to wonder if her feet ever touch the
ground. She is joyous and voicing her
support and in mid-stride pulls a baggie from her jeans pocket, extracts a wet
washcloth, and hands it to me. I never
knew such bliss. It is wonderful. She says You
look great! And I reply My legs are on fire but I feel great! She runs with me for about a tenth of a mile
then apologizes I’d love to keep running
with you but I have to get back to my team…
1:25 pm…I’m past mile 19 and my legs are painfully sore. I’m coming up on a bunch of raucous guys –
college age? – and I point to my Richmond Road Runners shirt like Gimme some love guys and all 6 of them
yell Yeah Richmond! Get ‘em Richmond. Go Richmond! I hear more laughing and look to my right and
see someone dressed as the Star Wars character C3PO running up the hill and
cheering people on. This is a Fellini
dream: I’ve seen blind runners, those missing limbs, a dwarf, a singing elvis,
and now a Star Wars character…this can’t be real I check my watch and see I’m
still holding pace. I start using my
arms to power my legs. I pray for strength and as meditation. I think of my mom, of my cousin Melissa, of
my Uncle Dick, and my dear friend Carlton.
My prayer isn’t deep or profound: it consists of a single phrase Can you help me out and give me a push
please?
1:35 PM - I’m on another hill, and I realize I’ve lost count of
them. Am I on the 3rd or the
4th? It’s so crowded and I’m
looking for a landmark – I’d driven this part of the course two days earlier –
looking for something that’ll tell me I’m on Heartbreak Hill, the last of the
hills. I pass a corner and look for a particular store and don’t see it. I’m on
the third. Oh man, I still have another… I feel a moment of despair but push it aside This is what you wanted. You wanted to leave it all out here, you
wanted to push the limits. Well, here it is. Right now, right here: This is the gut-check
moment. I do the math and it’s going to
hurt beyond any calculation and I’m hanging on by a daisy petal. I see a spectator holding the funniest sign
of the day If This Were Easy It Would Be
Called YOUR MOTHER. It takes me a
second then I laugh out loud. There is a
slight bend in the road and then I see it: the steeple at Boston College. I’m on Heartbreak Hill and the brutal
inclines are almost done.
1: 48 pm: The Wellesley Scream Tunnel is legendary. But this day – hands DOWN - belongs to Boston
College. Just after Heartbreak Hill,
there is a short but steep downhill and after the course has had your legs for
and appetizer and lunch, it is painful.
Both sides of the street are lined with people many deep. The screaming is both loud and agonizing: I’m
so tired and my legs hurt so much I can’t process the noise. I think I
love this but I have to get away from it or I’m going to throw up. Later, my friend BJ would give me grief
that I ran by him and I didn’t even look his way. I don’t remember hearing him or seeing him; I
just remember wanting to outrun the cacophony.
I pass the 35K mark.
I start praying in earnest. My
legs feel oddly disconnected from me but the pain is intense. I just want to stay strong, to be tough, to
push the envelope and be bigger than the moment. I start to say prayers of my youth… “Hail
Mary, full of grace…” They are a mantra, they settle my breathing. I’m a lapsed Catholic, but they still have
meaning. I look at my Garmin, and count
down the tenths left to the next mile marker.
I pass a duo of “Inclusive Runners”, a guide pushing a participant in a
converted wheelchair. Up ahead, I see
someone whose gait is familiar. I run up
next to the woman and see it is indeed Christine, who lives not too far from
me. She is wearing her iPod and I say –
twice – before she hears me Chris…
CHRIS…? She turns and I am so happy
to see a familiar face. She says I didn’t think I could finish this race. She will finish and finish well. Shortly after I see her, a spectator who
wants to cross the course jumps the barrier.
Instead of doing the smart thing – jumping in the race and tacking his
way across the street – he makes a mad dash straight across the street,
stumbles, and grabs on to an older male runner, nearly knocking him off his
feet. The runner is incensed: this is
not a time in the race when you want to be knocked off your feet or spend
extraneous energy on an idiot spectator.
He makes a momentary move to follow the young man, but changes his mind
and keeps going forward. I can see in
his face he is suffering these last few miles.
I move next to him and say Are
you ok? And he grunts Yeah. I’m fine. He’s not, but relatively speaking he’ll
keep moving forward. I pass another duo
– “GUIDE” and “BLIND RUNNER” on their respective shirts. What is remarkable is that they aren’t
tethered together. After the race, I
will read an article on Runners World that this is Peter Sagal – a radio commentator
and runner – leading a nearly blind runner to the finish.
2:06 pm I pass mile marker 23. Right here: this is the hardest mile. When you get to the next one, you’ll have 2
miles, and after a block, 1-point-something.
That’s nothing. This
is the hardest one, right here. I
shake out my arms and they tingle. I’m
pumping them to power my legs and my arms are not exactly powerful. After the race I will have described the last
8 miles as having “muscled my way through the course”. It’s a joke: my arms are like cobs of corn
without the corn. I’m carrying a lot of
tension in my arms and shoulders and remember very little of the
landscape. A slight uphill to Kenmore
square. The Citgo sign. Seeing the Prudential Center and knowing we
are very close. It’s just a matter of
time. It hurts a lot, but I know we are close. There is the marker 1 Mile To Go. I
see the Mass Avenue underpass up ahead, and off to the right, something catches
my eye. I see peach tank top; I see my
long run training partner Laura walking at the side of the road.
2:28 pm - I am so full of joy – I make my way to her and grab her arm We are less than a mile from the finish! You are not walking now!! Run with me to the finish! I’m surprised at her reaction: she looks
at me as if she’s seen a ghost and darts in front of me through the underpass. I catch up to her and she says I’m so tired. This course was so hard… I can’t believe
you’re here… She would later tell me she was so tired
and decided to take a momentary walking break, and was wished I was there with
here like on her long runs. Seconds later, I’d grabber her arm; she told me she
thought she was hallucinating.
2:30 pm - We make the right turn on to Hereford Street and a block
later, a left onto Boylston. It’s a
4-block canyon of buildings and people and noise and at the end is a big blue
and yellow finish line. I pump my arms
as hard as I can – I have no clue where Laura is; I think she is off to my
right. I just want to finish – the
sooner I get there, the sooner I can stop.
I cross the line and feel such joy at having soldiered through and the
bliss at being able to stop running. My
legs hurt more than I could ever imagine.
I turn around and see Laura finish.
We embrace. What a perfect finish. All those
long training runs together – how perfect is this?! Someone hands me bottled water. We are arm-in-arm and a man in a volunteer
jacket is peering curiously at us. We
are smiling and he says I’m sorry. I just need to make sure you can both walk on
your own… And we demonstrate our
wobbly legs and he is sweet and apologetic and we thank him for his care. We get our foil capes, and finishers medals,
and pose for a picture. A block from the finish we say goodbye and make our way
to our checked bag. And for that moment
– despite the clouds that are gathering and the chill breeze that is blowing in
- all is right in the world.
* * *
The
Bombs
2:50 pm: There is a very large blast. My first thought is it is cannon. A woman next to me says “Is that fireworks…?”
and we see a huge plume of grey smoke.
Suddenly, there is another blast.
I look at her. There is instant
recognition that something bad has happened. After the initial shock I quietly
say to myself Please let it be a gas
explosion. Please don’t let it be
terrorism. Something inside me knows
it is. Dammit. DAMMIT. Not here.
In my head I let loose a string of expletives. I look up and again repeat my bib number for
the bag retrieval volunteer. I want to
get my bag and get the heck out of Dodge.
2:57 pm: I’m still wrapped in my foil
finisher’s cape on as I grab my phone out of my bag. I’m nearly out of the finishers chute and I
ask a policeman at the barricade if he knows what is going on. He says with urgency in his voice that he
doesn’t, and to keep moving. I call my
husband – his voice is cheery and he’s excited for my race. He’s chatting about my even splits and I cut
him off. I tell him about the explosions
and the first ambulance with its siren blaring goes by. Call
your parents. Call the kids. Tell them I ‘m fine. I gotta call my dad. I’m
supposed to meet my friend BJ at the finish.
I text him quickly, Something is
going on – explosions at the finish. I
call my dad and it’s the same conversation.
He’s excited to discuss my race and I have to cut him off; I ask him to
check the internet for news but he is in his car. I can barely hear him with the clamoring
sirens of the first responders rushing past.
I’ll try and call later. I’m fine, I’m just really scared. My voice cracks. I’m
gonna call Erin but if I don’t get a hold of her, tell Erin, Reen, and Nickey
I’m fine. I dial Erin and have a
third, identical conversation. I have to
cut her off mid-sentence; I can’t hear her and she can’t hear me amongst the
sirens. The call cuts out. I try dialing her but the call won’t go through. It’s gotten cloudy and breezy. I’ve wandered onto a side street near the
finish and I’m cold and shivering. My
legs are shot. I grab track pants out of
my bag and with nowhere to sit, struggle to get them on over uncooperative and
weak muscles in aching legs. I put on a
long-sleeved shirt over my racing singlet, and as I’m zipping up my jacket see
a woman in a foil blanket walking down the street, the arm of – her husband? boyfriend?
– around her. She is weeping and
frightened. I realize whatever fear I
had is gone.
3:30 pm…I pick up my bag and try and figure
out where I am. If there is a ‘fight or
flight’ moment, I know I’m perfectly capable of neither: I’m too tired, and my
legs are too sore to run another step. I
take a left at the next street and see the edge of The Boston Common. I cross the street and see a young runner
with his parents. I ask them if they
know what has happened. We heard there was a bomb in the Copley
hotel. No one was killed or hurt. Someone else joins in the conversation There were 2 bombs. And they found a third they are diffusing. I ask if they know where the Arlington T-stop
is. They just closed the subway. The Green Line is closed. My phone keeps buzzing with text messages of
concern. I stand there not knowing what
to do. My rental car is parked miles
away. The subway is closed. However, people aren’t in a state of panic: They are calmly walking and chatting,
seemingly unaware that anything is amiss.
Boston residents, spectators, and foil-wrapped runners mix together and
walk slowly away from Boylston Street. I
look at the Common: Trees are beginning
to bloom and the lawn is bright green.
It feels unreal; I’m a sleepwalker in someone else’s dream. The Common seems to be the only thing with
color right now. I have this thought
that this isn’t real, that I’ll wake up and have to run the race again; my
aching thighs tell me otherwise. Another
text message comes in, finally from BJ: Walk
to Cambridge now. BJ is one of those
unflappable guys and the urgency in his message is not like him. A second text from him shows up: Or run.
It’s an unlikely time to smile but I do.
I stop two people who look like they know where they are going. I ask the direction of the Longfellow Bridge
to Cambridge Go straight on this street
about 5 blocks – you can’t miss it.
There is also a T-stop for the Red line right before. My rental car is parked at a station on the
Red Line. I tell them about the subway
closings and thank them for their help.
I start slowly walking down the street.
My hands are freezing and I have to keep taking off my gloves to use the
touchscreen on my phone. I see a runner
being interviewed by a TV station about what she witnessed: I
thought it was a cannon or fireworks.
3:50 pm:
I stop at a Starbucks to grab something warm to drink. I’m starting to get cold and I hadn’t
anticipated being outside this long. A
couple blocks later – I see the Red Line T-Stop. At the corner are two older women wearing yellow
Boston Marathon “Volunteer” jackets. I
ask them if they know what has happened.
It was bombs. The Finish Line was chaos. Runners who had finished ran back down
Boylston to make sure their family was ok.
They look at each other. The
other says I just want to get home. It was awful.
I just want to go home. I ask
a Transit cop if the subway is running, and it is. I don’t even think about whether riding it is
a safe move. My friend Susan – with whom
I’ve entrusted my wallet – has texted to say that authorities have asked people
not come into the city. I decide to take
the train – my car is parked at the end of the red line – and drive to Newton
for my wallet. I text BJ about my change
in plan. When I ask the transit cop
where to buy a ticket, she takes pity on me and lets me in without one. I make my way slowly up the stairs. Text messages keep flooding my phone as I get
on the train. The battery is wearing out.
4:00 pm:
This day is turning into the strangest of odysseys. At this point in the day I should have been
happily ensconced at the Cambridge Brew Pub working through a huge cheeseburger
and drinking a cold beer – which never tastes better than after running a
marathon. Instead I’m on a train full of
people, many of whom have been sent home by their employers. We pass three stops before a seat opens up
and I realize that this is the first time I’ve sat down since 9:45 that
morning.
I finally get to the Alewife Station where
my car is parked, get off the train, gingerly climb two flights of stairs and
enter the parking garage. I find my car, throw my bag in the back seat, and
punch in the address to my office in the Garmin app in my phone. I drive to the garage exit and see a sign
that due to the Patriots Day Holiday parking must be paid for inside the
station at an automated kiosk. Figures. I find the first parking space and make the
slow, tedious journey back into the station.
Descending steps is difficult on my aching, stiff legs. After paying the parking, I make my way back
up the stairs and feel something inside my coat. I realize my finisher’s medal is still around
my neck. I take it off, and as I look at it wave of fear, anger, and sadness
rocket from my belly and I choke back a sob.
I stuff the medal in my coat pocket and head back to my car.
4:45 pm – The battery on my phone is down to
8%. I doubt it will get me to the office
before dying, and I don’t know exactly how to get there. Within 2 miles, the screen goes blank. I become Ferdinand Magellan: I look at the sky for the position of the sun
and know the 95 is due west. While it
will add several miles to the trip, if I can get to the 95, I can get to the
office. Looking at the position of the
sun, I drive west looking for familiar streets.
Finally, I see a sign for the 95 and know I can relax.
5:15 pm – I pull into the lot at work. I realize I have no change for the meter walk
up to two older blue-collar kinds of guys talking in their thick, native
accents. I ask these complete strangers
for a quarter. They give me an odd look
then quickly one of them digs into his pockets and hands me two quarters. Only
later will I realize that because of the holiday, I didn’t need to pay. I was wearing a Boston Marathon windbreaker,
and I can’t imagine what my face must be telegraphing - probably a dazed
mixture of sweat, exhaustion, and quiet shock.
He gave me a quarter for a meter that didn’t need to be fed without a
single word of protest. Bostonians are
like that: sometimes they know when just help and to not ask questions.
5:20 pm – I ring the bell to the office door
and the Office Manager lets me in. Renee
gives me a big, long hug I’m so happy
you are safe and out of harm’s way. We
were so worried about you. I tell
her I’m fine. I feel uncomfortable with
this kind of attention because – despite being a block away – I never had a
sustained feeling of fear. I apologize
for not having changed or showered and she says she doesn’t mind. I walk into the main office corridor and see Susan,
my friend Melissa, and my former boss Kristin. They repeat the sentiments Renee
has voiced minutes earlier. I tell them Really, I’m fine. I’m just really pissed. I tell them a little of the finish. I’m smiling when I talk about the race but
when I get to the part about the explosion, something catches in my
throat. It was awful, is all I manage.
But after the initial moment of emotion, I feel empty and I think I should feel more. I should feel terror or fear or anger or
something. I look at Susan – my best
friend at work - and I just shake my head It’s
just crazy. I just can’t believe it.
We walk to her desk so I can plug in my
phone, and as I go to sit in the chair, my thighs completely fail me and I fall
on the floor. She looks at me and I
break out laughing. It seems like such
an odd thing to do – to laugh. She walks
with me into the office kitchen and I grab a ginger ale out of the fridge. It’s now three hours since the race finished
and nearly 12 since I’ve had a meal. The wall-mounted TV is showing the news of
the bombings. We watch replays of blasts
going off and I see – right across the street from the blast – the man and the
inclusive racer I’ve passed around mile 22.
I recognize the shirt of the guide, and the wheel chair he is pushing. I watch the guide ducking his head and pushing
his charge as fast as he can. I tell
Susan I saw them! I passed them! It should make it feel more real, but I’m standing
there drinking cold ginger ale watching the explosions and I feel nothing but
an odd sense of detachment.
6:30 pm - Melissa, Susan, and I leave to go
grab a beer at the restaurant on the ground floor of the building. I can’t wait to taste that beer, to finally
inject some semblance of post-race normalcy into the day. The three of us – the best of work buddies –
talk and chat and joke. Then I start to
talk about the race. They get quiet and
listen. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel right now. I’m so sad and angry, but it doesn’t feel
real. A woman walks in - she is a
few years younger than me and with what I assume are her husband and parents. She is wearing the ‘secret handshake’ - a
Boston Marathon windbreaker. Our eyes
meet; I say You were there? And she
says, Yeah.
6:40 pm
- I leave the restaurant and make my way to another where I will be
meeting BJ and his wife for dinner. It’s
one of my favorite seafood places and across the street from the Alewife
Station parking garage. With my phone
charged, I plug in the address and the trip takes 10 minutes. I think of my blind wandering in the suburbs
of Boston hours earlier trying to get to the office. I get to the office and my phone buzzes from
my sister. I see an email from my in-laws. I call both of them before dinner. My Mother-in-Law is concerned, worried, and
mournful. She is a strong woman. My sister is in tears. She is a teacher in Columbus, Ohio, and she
tells me how her fellow teachers and administrators heard of the bombs, knew
she was tracking her sister, and how after school was over and she shepherded
her class on the bus, a colleague had gently taken her into a classroom. On the way, she passed her Principal whose
face had a look of serious concern. She
was confused, wondering if she’d done something wrong. Her colleague told her gently of the
bombings. Have you heard from your sister?
Reenie is a gentle soul; she told me she panicked and said I’m always afraid of this – that someone I
love will be hurt… She starts grabs her phone and turns it on. She says she broke into sobs of relief when
she saw a text from Erin saying I was fine.
Her voice is shaking as she tells me this and I reiterate over and over I’m fine.
Really, I’m fine. There are
people so much worse off. I was blocks
away. I just heard the blast and saw the
plume of smoke. It was crazy for a
second but… But what? There is
something there I can’t articulate.
I return to the table and have a low-key
dinner. BJ insists we are going to
celebrate. This is the deal: we aren’t going to sit here and mope. You had a great race and we’re going to talk
about that. We aren’t going to talk
about the other stuff. BJ is genius
at segmenting life. He can throw up an
impenetrable wall around unsavory topics that us mere mortals lack. Behind him over the bar the TV is on and it
plays the finish line blast over and over.
I avert my eyes. We toast my run
and I say It’s just hard to find joy
here. This is what I can’t square: I say ‘I left it all out on the course’. There were people out there who had legs
blown off. Who died. I left nothing out there. Whoever did this hit the spectators, the
soft, unmoving targets. The ones there
to cheer me and the others on. It’s all
relative, and I left NOTHING out there. He
looks at me and says in his even way. You’re right. Now tell me about your race. You know I was right where I was the last
time you ran and you didn’t even look at me…you didn’t even wave or anything He’d been there in 2007 – with my sisters
Reenie and Erin – just shy of the 35 KM mark.
The place – this year – that both the Boston College students were
screaming louder and my legs hurt more than I thought humanly possible. I immediately launch into a defense about how
I was feeling, the screaming… it wasn’t later until I saw how genius BJ really
is at the art of distraction. He knows
me well enough to know it normally doesn’t take much, but at times like this it
is a mighty effort. He makes it look
easy.
9:30 PM – BJ and Elizabeth offer their spare
room again. I’ve had several similar
offers: from my dear friends Tammy and Dan Smith in Groton – a good drive from
Boston – the offer to come get me and bring me to their house, a respite from
the city. From a childhood friend and
neighbor in Scituate – her house, her help, anything… From Susan who has
offered a dozen times her home… None of them are natives of Boston but all of
them are doing its city proud. A friend
in need, etc. But I want to be
alone. I need to be alone. The memories in my head are churning and I
need quiet and solitude to let them fall into place. It’s a short drive to my hotel in
Cambridge. As I’m waiting to check in I
watch the TV near the registration desk.
There are two talking heads, discussing the wounds suffered by the
victims of the bombs. One is an
Emergency Physician. He says a term that
takes several beats to decipher: “Catastrophic Amputation”. In layman’s terms, it means having one’s
limbs blown off.
10:15 pm – I enter my room and turn on the
lights. I drop my loaded suitcase,
backpack, and bag. I take off my
jacket. I feel a weight in my pocket and
unzip it – it’s the finisher’s medal I’ve stowed. I can barely look at it; can barely stomach
the feel of it. I put it quickly in a
small black velvet pouch I use to store jewelry when I’m travelling, pull the
silken ties tightly shut, and put the pouch in my backpack. I strip off my
race-weary clothes and step into the shower.
The water and soap wash away the grit and sweat of the day. After showering, I put on clean, soft
pajamas. I go to the window and part the
curtain. Across the Charles River I see
the Prudential Tower, brightly lit as if in defiance of the carnage that
occurred at its feet. I pop an Advil PM
and crawl between cool sheets. Was any of this real?
I fall into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
The Aftermath
I crossed
the finish line of the race at roughly 2:35 pm.
I felt euphoria and celebrated a well-executed race, for having hung
tough and for muscling my way through the last 8 miles. I looked forward to the post-race celebration
as I navigated my way through the blocks-long finishing chute. The feeling lasted roughly 15 minutes before
the elevator at the top floor plummeted to the basement.
And what of
the aftermath? I didn’t know what I was
supposed to feel, but that day and a day later I felt nothing – not numb shock,
but a complete absence of anything. Not
joy, not fear, not anger. Looking back I
realized I felt only momentary fear, despite hearing the blasts, and seeing the
smoke. It wasn’t some rare form of
bravery; it was more pragmatism and exhaustion.
After that, I felt nothing but occasionally mild anger and sadness. And I couldn’t pin the source of either down
on any one thing.
In the
Airport, I abandon any signs of having participated in the race. After the security checkpoint, I see a woman
wearing her medal in a restaurant and am incensed: she is trying to draw
unnecessary attention to herself, to make it about her. If she were there, unscathed, she would be
better served to pack up her memorabilia and have some humility. Later at my gate, I see people wearing
medals and Boston Marathon jackets and I can’t look at them. I board the plane
and see them and their little finisher’s tokens hanging on their necks. I feel incalculable fury. I think Why
in God’s name are you trying to draw attention to yourself? You are no hero – you finished the race. You haven’t a scratch on you. Take that damn medal off. Stow the jacket. Later, some friends gently tell me this
was their way of ‘showing solidarity’. I
angrily push aside that explanation. It’s ego and vanity - nothing else. I can be a vicious, unforgiving critic.
The next day
my sister Erin calls me. She asks me how
I’m doing, and I tell her I’m fine, I’m
home. I’m tired, but I’m fine. I tell her about what I witnessed on
Boylston Street and my strange journey after.
I tell her about my anger at the people in the airport, of trying to
understand the senselessness of the attack and toll of the loss. A
little boy, a child… I break down sobbing breathlessly,
and am overcome by wave after wave of unimaginable, raw grief. Is there nothing we can do with reckless joy
and abandon?
The
following Thursday evening, the police kill one of the suspects and on Friday
evening, the second is captured cowering in a boat on dry land; the nightmare has
seemingly ended. That night, I walk into my office and pull the finishers medal
out of the black velvet bag for the first time since I’d put it in there. I feel the silken ribbon, the weight of the
enameled token, and look at the smiling unicorn, the mythic symbol of the
Boston Athletic Association. I
anticipate the warm sense of relief, achievement, and celebration to finally rise
inside me. It doesn’t. I think about the senseless violence and
realize that the cycle will never end.
Despite that, I don’t believe that mankind is inherently evil. In Boston, there were two seeds of evil
amongst the reveling throng of over half a million. Two.
If mankind were fatally seeped in evil, we would have perished of our
own violence and despair a millennia ago.
The medal is what it is: a symbol of a race in a city that is tougher
and more resilient than this violence. That
same city will both shelter the victims and dare any evil to come back to this
race in this town.
After days
of numbing rage and sadness, I feel nothing but fatigue and odd detachment. I remember the swirl of the race and the
things I saw: blind people with guides, runners with one or two prosthetic
limbs, inclusive racers being pushed. I
saw a dwarf walking up heartbreak hill and later a man dressed as C3PO. I saw drunken, joyous Boston College students
cheering with such ferocity and glee that in my fatigue the noise was
nauseating. I ran past the screaming
Sirens at Wellesley College, and found neighbors and friends in sea of over 24,000
runners and multiple times that many spectators. I saw hand-made signs of encouragement and
hilarity. I saw barbeques, and people
celebrating with kegs of beer. I saw a group
of army men in full gear with packs double-timing the course. I
remember my legs hurting as much as they’d ever hurt but feeling like they
weren’t attached to me. I remember
saying prayers as both meditation and plea over the final miles, and in all of
this I’m surrounded by a sea of humanity running to a finish line on an
impossibly beautiful day because – at the end of it all – the finish line simply
exists. The race was a fantastic dream –
fluid and crazy and frenetic, full of characters so colorful I have a hard time
believing they are real. I’m having a
hard time believing the entire race as having actually occurred. Did I imagine it?
The violence
after I finished was brutal and vicious; there is nothing remotely poetic or cinematic
about it. It snapped everyone immediately out of their
endorphin-fueled joy. So much of life is
lived well in-between the margins of absolutes and it’s rare to feel the outer
limits of these measures; It’s even rarer to feel them on the same day. It’s difficult enough to navigate them in the
span of days, let alone a span of minutes.
To go from one to the other mostly requires an external force; there is
no way we could muster the desire or strength on our own to willingly endure them.
None of it
makes any sense: not the before, not the after.
If I had to choose which half of the day was real – before the
explosions or after – I’d have a difficult time. That they are both real is unfathomable. The day has now become an exercise of
memory. There are fixed points on a
calendar that mark the changing of seasons; they are determined by the position
of the sun. But while the first day of spring
comes on a specific day, the first spring day comes on its own schedule. One we look to with anticipation; the other
we greet with much more joy because of its capricious nature and
timetable. You wait on that day, and
more often than not, have scant notice of its arrival. The seasons are precocious children of
nature; so is memory. We don’t have control over our memories, but we can exert
our influence and discipline over those on which we linger. As for the others, we must continue – for as long
as it takes - to lock them tightly away along with pain and fear, in a sturdy steamer trunk in our soul.
