I would like to thank all of you who sent messages to check on my safety, and the safety of Bridget and her family, at the Boston Marathon last Monday. The outpouring of concern and caring meant a lot to me. I can’t thank all of you enough.
Marathons are unique events, and the Boston Marathon is exceptional. For many of us, this is our ‘Olympics’–runners have to qualify to run at Boston and many athletes struggle and train for years to make it to Boston. At Boston, ordinary runners like myself have the chance to be on the same course and compete along with the world’s elite.
There is no place like Boston for a marathon. As you walk around the days before the marathon, everyone sizes you up and tries to guess if you are running or not; if you are reasonably lean and are wearing well-loved running shoes, it’s very likely that your waitress, taxi driver, or the guy next to you at the lunch counter will ask if you are running the marathon. Then they will ask you how your training was going, what time you are aiming for, and how you think the weather will suit you. You will feel like a minor celebrity.
The race begins in a small town on the outskirts of Boston. We are bussed out in the dark, and 25,000 of us all sit on the athletic fields at the local high school until the race starts. Over the next two hours (for the elites) or more if you are like me, we wander the small roads of New England. The course itself winds through small towns, and fans yell and cheer and clap the whole way. When we get to Wellesley, for a quarter mile, the Wellesley girls stand 4 deep screaming at the top of their lungs, holding signs–‘Kiss Me, I’m Vegan’–‘Kiss Me, I Won’t Tell’! When we get to Boston College, the kids will offer beers and shout encouragement–‘Don’t quit now, you are almost there!’ (there are still four miles to go!). And finally, when we turn on to Boylston Street–where less than an hour after I finished, the bombs went off–there is that last hard, grueling half mile, with the support of the yelling, clapping crowd, and a great feeling of accomplishment together with the city of Boston.
A little over an hour later, I got my first text from my friend Josh Cox, asking if I was OK. My first thought was, of course I’m OK, didn’t he see my finishing time? Then text after text and v-mail after v-mail started popping up on my phone and I found out what was happening. Now I was worried about all my friends too–I wanted to know that Bridget and her family were safe, that Josh and Desi were not at the finish line for any reason, that all my friends and supporters were back in their hotels. And I wanted everyone to know that I was secure too. Fortunately, all the people I know who were in Boston were saved. My heart goes out to those that were killed or injured, and to all the people who knew and loved them.
All athletes are honorable, and what marathoners do is not any more special than other athletes, however there is something particularly vulnerable about marathoners at the end of a race. We are exhausted, physically and emotionally. I’ve seen runners that seem to be going well, who collapse two steps after a finish line. I’ve seen many a marathoner break into tears at the finish of a race. To plant a bomb at the place of that vulnerability seems to me to be a particularly senseless, cowardly, insane act.
I can’t explain how much this effected me. The next day in Boston was strange. There were police and military everywhere. I went back to my favorite diner, with the same waitress who was there in 1985 when I came to Boston for my first job after graduate school. For the prior six years, this was my ritual, and she would always ask me how the race went. This year, she quietly asked me if my friends and I were all OK.
I’m still processing my emotions, the experience is hard to talk about. And all your expressions of support have helped me immeasurably.
Marathoners are a resilient bunch, and by nature we tend to push through obstacles. I’ll be back next year.
Thank you, all.
