In the midst of a past national tragedy, I still remember the opening lines I wrote in a column for my college’s newspaper. It began, “Where were you? The truth is, you’ll always remember.” On that day, I had just settled in to an American Government class and then spent the remainder of that cool autumn day riveted to the television and my computer with my roommates and friends searching for answers. When I think back to what happened this past Monday, the truth is, I will always remember…
…that I had just hung up the phone with my parents. The faint sound of cheers filtered in through the window as runners prepared to make the penultimate turn onto Hereford Street. I lingered over a glass of champagne and tilted my head back against the chair to let my PR wash over me. Then I flicked my phone back on to begin answering the text messages and e-mails I’d received during the race. My wife, father-in-law, and friend had stepped out for a moment to go get us cupcakes to continue celebrating, until it was time to head back to Boylston Street to meet up with Boston-area friends and let the party really begin. A crush of sirens blazed by the window. As I pecked away at my phone, I thought, I hope everyone is ok, thinking it would be a heart attack near the finish line.
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| Photo my wife captured of runners halted on Commonwealth |
“So proud of you bud! You killed it!” a friend out in L.A.
sent me two hours before. I nodded and wrote back, “Thank you, sir! So ecstatic
right now. :)”
at 3:05 p.m. Seconds later, I received the following from him, “Dude are you
okay? Explosions near the finish line, people hurt”.
My face fell and I fired off a quick reply to him, then made
for the TV remote. The door flew open, my wife and crew returning, “Did you
hear what happened?!”
We spent the next three hours alternating between watching
the coverage unfold and putting messages out to friends, family, Facebook,
Twitter, any way to let people know we were safe. Our phones would cut out and suddenly come
back to life in a series of dings and alerts like slot machines and we would
jump to use those brief communication windows to put out information.
We managed to connect with a friend who had just passed mile
25 and been halted with the mass of runners who would never make it to
Boylston Street. She came to our room after connecting with her parents, and the eight
of us stared at the footage, trying to somehow process what had happened just a
half mile way, trying to figure out what to do next.
Information trickled in: other
devices may be in the area; fire at the JFK library; two dead; stay inside. We discovered other friends had been at Fenway. Another had been
eating on Boylston Street and felt the concussion, and would later be awoken in
the middle of the night to a firefight outside her apartment in Watertown.
At 6:00 p.m., my wife and friend were the only ones left in
the room. We had had enough coverage for the moment and descended to the
hotel’s restaurant for dinner. The waiter brought us three Sam Adams 26.2 brews
and we clinked glasses, though we weren’t sure what to toast to. I sipped at that beer trying to
reconcile my fleeting excitement that always dissolved to guilt. I received messages from friends, saying, "If you are not ready to be proud of what you accomplished, I am," and "Go outside, and have a drink. It's a middle finger to whoever did this."
We would return to the room and alternate between staring at
phone screens and TV screens, finally deciding that we needed to watch
something else. Once in a while, someone would look up and we schemed what we
could do to help at a time when we felt helpless. At 11:00, weary and raw, we turned the light out and
tried to fall asleep to the sound of more sirens breaking up the night.
On Tuesday morning, we emerged from the hotel. To the left,
it could have been any Tuesday, commuters in the streets and on the sidewalks.
To the right, yellow tape cordoned off streets and soldiers and police with
rifles stood guard, a jarring reminder.
The three of us climbed into our taxi to the airport
with…with…I’m not sure what. Sadness? Loss? Grief? Guilt? Confusion?...We were
emotionally frayed, constantly on the verge of tears, and exchanged hugs that
lasted just a few seconds longer and were just a little tighter than usual. The
day after, it had somehow become more real. More permanent.
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| Flashing lights and sirens became a common occurrence Monday night. |
Mine is not a story of survival or heroism. I was simply
there, sharing in what the WashingtonPost’s Mike Wise called “the crown jewel of the running community.” Where
for one day each spring, runners lace up their shoes from all over the world to
celebrate, a 26.2 mile parade of perseverance, of overcoming, of
accomplishment.
While I fought back the tears in the airport, I began reading
Dan Shaughnessy’s column in The BostonGlobe, where he said, “Yesterday was a day you realized just how connected
you were to people.” And it’s true.
I had originally been overwhelmed by the support I received
from friends who said they stopped working to check on my status during the
race, the meticulous tracking and posting of times that occurred on the
Runner’s World Loop, the outpouring of congratulatory texts and e-mails that
awaited me, the excitement in my mom’s voice knowing that this one was somehow
more special than the last eight.
But then it all changed, a distinct line in time. These
same people suddenly looked for confirmation that we were safe. And then the
additional outpouring of support from family, former and current coworkers,
friends from all corners and years in life, neighbors who stopped me while
walking my dog (many of whom only know me as “the runner guy”) to say I was the
first one they thought of when they heard the news.
I struggled for the past two days about how to put these feelings and the strength of Boston and the running community, into words (and perhaps still do) but can sum it up best by recounting the call I had at work
yesterday. It was a simple, weekly status call that my project has every
Thursday. I sat in the office with another coworker as we huddled around the
phone. My manager kicked off the call by welcoming me back and telling me how
relieved they were to hear that I was safe. I started to give a quick summary
of the events for them, when I found my thoughts and my words taking me here,
causing me to dab at my eyes by the end of it, words that I quickly realized are also meant for
all of you:
“I was so humbled and overwhelmed by your support and
concern on Monday. It makes me realize just how much love exists in communities
like ours and how much we depend upon and support one another. It’s days like
Monday that make you realize how grateful you are for the friends and family
who contribute to who you are as a person. I can’t thank you enough for giving
me that feeling.”
I still feel a stab of pain in my gut every time I see
“Boston Marathon” associated with this act of cowardice. It’s simply not the
way it’s supposed to be. But, those who did this only have the power that we give them.
So...
Despite the countless times the explosions that racked
Boylston Street played on TV, I refuse to let that hallowed stretch of pavement
be tarnished for myself and for those who still – and will always – let it play
in their running dreams. The magical half mile when you emerge from out of the
overpass on Commonwealth Avenue. The crowd is four and five deep on the
sidewalk, a cacophony of “Let’s go’s”, “C’mons!” and, “Finish strongs!”. You
make the fateful right turn onto Hereford Street and let yourself start to
believe. The final left turn pours you onto Boylston Street where the buildings
reach for the sky and the cheers rise up even higher. The pain melts away. The
spectators on either side of the street lift you from the ground and carry you
the length of the street to that big blue and yellow arch. A smile creases your
salty, sticky face and your arms instinctively pump harder, until, at long
last, you raise them above your head. Because whether it’s your first or
fiftieth time, in record time or not, you just broke the finish line of the
world’s greatest marathon.
The truth is, that’s what I choose to remember.
