Great Day for a Race (That Time I Ran the Boston Marathon)

“Great day for a race!” The phrase I heard repeatedly on April 15, 2013. The air was crisp and cold, little to no wind. I have never raced in more perfect race conditions. The excitement was palpable as we boarded the school buses from Boston Common headed to the legendary Hopkinton, home of the Boston Marathon starting line. It was time to run 26.2 miles and then head for the party at Fenway Park. This was going to be one of those amazing once-in-a-lifetime experiences that Matt and I would reminisce about as we sat on our back porch and rocked in our old age, gray hair blowing in the wind. Hours later, that dream would be shattered. There would be no celebrating on the night of April 15.

Scoping out the Boston Marathon Finish Line the day before the race

 

I wasn’t supposed to run the Boston Marathon. I was supposed to be there cheering on my husband who had worked so hard to qualify for the most famous foot race in the world. He had labored through the hours of training, grinding out the miles in the face of pain and discomfort. This was to be his big celebration. Just a little over a week before the race, I received news that one of Matt’s friends was injured. She would not be running Boston, and did I want to take her race bib and run in her place? “And why didn’t we think of this before?” several commented. “You could have been training,” they lamented. Later, those words would haunt me. What if I had been faster?

Banditing. Participating in a race as an unregistered participant.  As the Boston Globe reported just days ago, “Yet the Boston Marathon has long handled bandits with a light touch, turning a frowned-upon tradition into a back-of-the-pack tradition.” A true bandit does not have a race bib, and often jumps into the race for only a small portion of it. The Globe continues, “For two decades, Boston College students have run as bandits, raising money and awareness for a special education school on campus.” Technically, I was running as a registered participant, just not myself. Before last year’s race, it was estimated that there were about 4,000 bandits in every Boston Marathon. Did I have what it takes to run as a pseudo-bandit?

I knew that I could definitely keep up with the charity runners, but that those who qualified would be much too fast for these legs. I debated the pros and cons. I have always been a rule follower in general, a “good” girl. That has changed a bit as I’ve aged… as I’ve come to see that most rules are made by imperfect man, not God, and that the two do not always jive. I debated some more. Every single one of my runner friends who had ever run Boston told me, “YOU. MUST. DO. THIS. If it were any other race…NO. But Boston? Not yes, but h*** yes. You’ve run a marathon before. You are mentally prepared for what happens during those last miles. The crowd will carry you the rest of the way.” I went ahead and ran the half marathon I was scheduled to run the week before Boston. Still concerned about how legs that had only carried me 13.1 miles of training would carry me to the finish line, I mapped out all of the train stations along the marathon route. If my legs failed me or cramped or any number of other variables, I knew that I could meet Matt at the finish line. My initial goal was to make it to at least Wellesley, the halfway point. The rest I would take one mile at a time.

Everything changed the night before the race. I’m not really a “do something halfway” kind of gal.  And to be entirely honest, I wanted to cross that finish line and feel that medal around my neck.  I wanted to see it all. Experience it all. From Hopkinton to Ashland to Framingham to Natick to Wellesley to Newton to Brookline to Boston. I wanted to breathe deeply in the New England air and soak in the picturesque towns along the way. Sitting in a hotel room in Boston I decided. I wasn’t going to just start the Boston Marathon. I was going to finish it.

Only a select few knew that I, too, would be running the Boston Marathon on April 15, 2013. My parents and my running buddies from home knew of my plan. My children’s teachers knew, and were tracking both of us with their respective first and third grade classes on the day of the race. My intention was to take a photo with Matt at the finish line to announce that I had, miraculously, run Boston.

Which brings us back to that cold, crisp morning in Hopkinton. The skies were pure blue and the sun sparkled with promise. As our bare legs prickled with goose bumps, we shivered in our trash bags and made our way to the Oklahoma House. We were told that if we made it to the Oklahoma House, we would be met with food, drinks, warmth, and restrooms until the race started. There was little eating, but many trips to the restroom. This is a runner thing. Stopping to go to the restroom during a race is a big fat “no no.” Precious time is lost “doing business.”

Stretching and Waiting at The Oklahoma House

 

As we set off for the start line, Matt proceeded to his corral. Due to his crazy fast running, he had an earlier start time. While in Boston, we became friends with another couple while on a city tour. They, too, were there for the race. The wife was running, but the husband was like me… a spectator. That is… until we came up with another bib number for him. Injuries abound in the world of running and thus, another Boston Marathon runner/bandit  was born. I stayed with our new friends, and pushed back to a farther corral so that I could start with them.

The gun went off, and the race was on. Man, were these people fast! I mean, I bet they could run a BQ (Boston Qualifying time). Oh yeah, because they all HAD run a BQ to earn their entry. I tried to keep up for awhile and moved to the side to let faster runners pass. Remarkably, I felt… GOOD. Lungs breathing, heart pounding, legs moving. Everything in working order. Several miles in I met up with a man who wanted to talk. He was from the Boston area, had run the race before, but wasn’t really trained up for the race this year. I looked down at my watch. We were running a 6:30 mile. This was going to be over really soon for me if I didn’t slow down. I told him that I wasn’t really trained up myself, so I was going to have to slow down. “No problem. I’m waiting on my friends, anyway,” he casually threw out there as we continued at our 6:30 pace. I slowed waaaaaay down to make my point. “Well, it was nice meeting you!  Good luck!”

“Absolutely,” he called back, “Great day for a race!”

Great Day for a Race

The miles rolled on. Past the classic New England salt box homes with their picket-fenced yards. Along the train tracks in Framingham where the crowd was a little more exuberant in their cheers. “You f***ing got this!” they cheered. Meanwhile, I was receiving computer-generated text updates every time Matt crossed another timing mat. For me, they served as confirmation that he was holding up physically and not in a medic tent (Have I mentioned that he pushes himself pretty hard during races, even Boston?). It was the first time that I had ever run a race with my phone. It was in that raucous little town of Framingham that I made the stop I vowed never to make. A port-a-potty.  Maybe it was the nerves and excitement of the day. Maybe it was the rich pasta we enjoyed the night before in the North End. Whatever the case, for the first time ever  in a race… my body screamed “STOP. NOW!” I took a nice, long break in the port-a-potty before moving on. My body thanked me, and I ran on.

As I approached Wellesley, I could hear the cheers. The infamous Wellesley girls were out in full force, offering kisses and encouragement to the runners. I took a video on my phone as I ran through Wellesley in an attempt to capture the crazy, fun atmosphere. It was one of those moments when I really, truly felt alive. Every sense was activated. The sights, the sounds, the salt on my lips (a souvenir from this sweaty endeavor). I was halfway, and I knew I could do this.
 

I ran past the little Cape Cod houses and slapped high fives with the hundreds of children offering them along the route. I even accepted a Fig Newton from one child (and I actually ate it!). Throwing caution to the wind, I reveled in the experience. And every mile or so it would hit me again: I AM RUNNING IN THE BOSTON MARATHON. It was surreal. I in no way deserved to be there. I took photos with my phone. So many photos, in fact, that I finally quit putting it back in my arm band. There was no need to listen to music. The race itself was entertainment. There were no mind-numbing miles of nothingness stretching ahead of me. There were people cheering EVERY. SINGLE. MILE.  Smiling and cheering and offering nourishment (both physical and emotional), they lined the streets.  As I made my way through the Newton Hills they cheered. As I made my way up the very last of those hills, aptly named Heartbreak Hill, their words buoyed me. When I spotted the boys of Boston College, I knew it. I was almost in Boston. I was going to finish this race! My legs were screaming, but my spirit soared. I looked down at my watch. Even with potty stops and photo ops, I wasn’t just going to finish this race. I was going to finish it FASTER than my last marathon!

Not a great photo, but I was running...and loving it!

And then the murmurings began. We had become a tight knit bunch, those of us staying together to pound out those last few miles. First one, then another. Something had happened. Rumors of the race being stopped or diverted. Still, we ran on. Heartbreakingly close, we were picturing Boylston Street. We had all visited the finish line in the days before the race. We figured some kid had pulled a prank. Never in our wildest nightmares could we have envisioned what was waiting for us on Boylston Street.

Mile 23, Brookline

Then a text from Matt. He had already finished the race and was in bad shape. He had been to the medic tent for treatment due to low sodium levels. He then tried to elbow his way to the finish line to see me finish, but was turned away by a police officer who told him it was too crowded. “You’ll never be able to get down there,” he was told. I am so thankful that he still felt awful because the Matt I know would have fought like crazy to see me finish. He had turned around and was going to try to get a massage when he heard the blasts. The first text I sent Matt in the photos below was when I received text notification that he had finished...

 

My final text would never go through.

I ran right up to the barricades on Massachusetts Avenue. I was at the front of the pack of thousands who would be stopped at this point. This could not be happening. My watch read 26.02. A marathon is 26.2 miles long. Having no clue what had actually happened at the finish line, a wave of immeasurable sadness washed over me. The runner in me wanted to tell the officers, “But if you let me run just a little farther and finish this thing, then I promise I’ll stop. You don’t understand. I’m about to set a personal record.”  I’m told that many runners had the same feeling, knowing something terrible had happened, but in the delirium of having already run twenty-some miles, felt the overwhelming desire to push beyond the barriers and finish. I was so close, but thankfully too far away.

The helicopters swarmed like bees entering the hive. It was deafening. To this day, the sound of a helicopter causes the hair on my neck to rise. I stood behind the barricades as runner after runner came in behind me and received the crushing news. And then the crumbling began. The crumbling of the runners, that is. That full-body, sinking into the ground, total-loss-of-muscle-control-and-not-just-because-you-ran-a-marathon melt. You see, for every one of us who was quickly approaching the finish line, someone was waiting at the finish line for us. Let that sink in a moment. Almost everyone had someone at the finish line. I knew I needed out of there. Immediately. I needed to be with my husband, the father of my children. I needed to hold him and have him hold me.

Race stopped. One look back, and then I began my trek across the river.

The next hour and a half are a blur. After my carefree texting and photo-taking throughout the race, my phone had very little battery left. I tried to conserve it as much as possible, and responded to just a few of the many texts to let everyone know we were okay. Matt posted three little words on Facebook which immediately received a record number of likes, “We r ok.” Grant’s teacher was one of the first to text me, and I immediately responded. Matt and I were able to talk on the phone briefly. He had more information since he was by the finish line. He told me, “Stay away from trash cans. They said there might be more.” We made a plan to meet. Several of us proceeded to move barricades so that we could get off of the race course and begin the process of finding loved ones. I had no intention of remaining a sitting duck with thousands of other runners. When I asked a military officer how to get to a particular building to meet Matt, he said, “Ma’am. You can’t go there. That’s the finish line. There’s a new meeting spot that way.” He pointed toward the Massachusetts Avenue bridge that leads into Cambridge and MIT. It would not be until several days later that we would learn that this was the escape route taken by the bombers, as well. It would be the exact location where MIT police officer Sean Collier was killed by the Tsarnaev brothers three days later.

I began the slow trek across the Charles River. A kind soul had emerged from the rowhouses and handed out trash bags to help fend off the chill of the afternoon seabreeze. The wind kicked up as I walked, and I could not stop shivering. Caked in sweat and salt, my swollen feet carried me across the wide expanse of bridge. Matt and I had agreed to meet by the building with the yellow wallboard and the crane on top. As I determinedly made my way alongside the buildings of MIT, that beacon of hope stood before me… the building with the yellow wallboard and crane. When I couldn’t find Matt, I was on the edge of tears. Another kind soul offered her phone. When I spoke to Matt again, we realized that we were standing at two different buildings on two different sides of the river. I wanted to cry. I began the trek back across the bridge, and met Matt halfway across. It was my turn to melt. I melted. He cried. We begged cab drivers to take us back to our hotel, but none would do it. They claimed that all of the roads were blocked. Finally, we found an angel of a cabbie who agreed to find a way. We didn’t care if we had to drive through another state to get there. Please just get us to our hotel. And then to a plane. And home to our babies.

While in the cab, Matt gave a phone interview to a friend working for a local TV station in Tulsa. His voice trembled and cracked. My first glimpses of the horrors of the finish line occurred when we returned to the hotel. I stared in shock and disbelief. We had just been there. I had shopped in Marathon Sports and was hoping to return there after the race. Gone. All of it. Blood. Tears. Smoke. Screams. Three dead. 260 injured. Forget the medal, I wanted to go home.

Our dinner that night would be in the restaurant several feet from our hotel, not Fenway Park. The entire city was on lockdown. We headed to the airport in the morning under the dark cloud of uncertainty, murderers still on the loose, the city paralyzed with terror. To make a long story short, our plane did not take off that day. Our flight was cancelled, and we were forced to return to the heart of Boston for one more night. We made our way to an eerily empty North End for dinner and to Mike’s for a pastry that we brought back to the room. Boston Common, which had been littered with thousands of runners and the school buses they would board for Hopkinton the day before, was now a sea of news vehicles for as far as the eye could see. The National Guard stood at every subway station entrance and on every street corner.

Boston Common April 15 (top photo) and April 16 (bottom photo)

 

Subway Station, April 16

It was as I sat in our hotel room, staring across the street at the armored vehicles and armed guards surrounding Tufts Medical Center, where several of the victims were fighting for their lives, that I began to see it.  Many would question, “Where was God that day?” When I stopped to really let it sink in, I realized… He was everywhere. Don’t get me wrong. Was it God’s will that Martin Richard, Lingzi Lu, and Krystle Campbell die that day? Absolutely not. Was it His will that 270 would sustain life-threatening and life-changing injuries? No way. Evil is not from God. Will I have some serious questions for Him when we meet in Heaven? You bet. But He. Was. There. He showed up in the first responders and civilians who saved countless lives through their quick-thinking and actions. He was there in the kindness of strangers who brought trash bags to warm us and water to sustain us. And He was there in my personal story, one of thousands that day. I’m so thankful…

·        that I was given a last-minute opportunity to run the race instead of standing at the finish line

·        that I didn’t have more time to train and thus run faster

·        that I decided the night before the marathon to run ALL of the race, not just part of it

·        that we decided not to bring the kids because of state testing even though I REALLY wanted them to see their daddy run the Boston Marathon (I never thought I would say it, but thank GOD for state testing.)

·        that Matt was so sick from low sodium levels, even after receiving IV fluids, that he couldn’t make it to the finish line to see me finish…and that the police officer told him he couldn’t get there

Feeling much worse than the photo portrays. He sent this so I wouldn't worry.

·        that I pushed back to a farther corral and thus started the race later

·         that I stopped for a prolonged emergency potty stop (first and only time in a race)

·        that I carried my phone (first time in a race)

·        that I savored every moment of the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to run the Boston Marathon by slapping high-fives and taking both mental and physical photos for 26 miles

He was there. I’ve seen Him in the stories of courage and resilience over the past year. I saw Him in the faces of the Boston PD and the National Guard and the strangers on the street. I've seen Him in the way our country rallied together to support those affected by the bombs. Would I ever run Boston again? Absolutely (as a legitimate, registered charity runner). The good guys win, and not just in the movies. Today is Easter Sunday, and the 2014 Boston Marathon will begin in less than 24 hours. Jesus conquered death. The stone is rolled away. He is risen...and He was there. He's always been there. He'll be there tomorrow...

 

I'll be praying for all of those running tomorrow. Tonight they will lay out their race gear. They will pin their bib numbers to tanks, stash shoes in socks, charge their Garmins (watches). To those runners I say, "Run hard, run fast, and soak in every. single. mile. I've looked at the forecast. It's gonna be a great day to race!"

Never so happy to be HOME

Postscript, Monday, April 21, 2014:

For the first time since 1983, an American, Meb Keflizighi, has won the men's race in the 118th Boston Marathon! Congratulations to all of those who ran. There were personal records and course records broken on this day in Boston. Today, over 36,000 runners ran for Boston. They ran for Martin and all of the other victims. They ran for those who could not. They ran, as my husband always reminds me, BIA... Because I'm Able.

Meb was so kind to stop for a photo with Matt at the 2013 Boston Marathon Expo