Five years later, still Boston Strong
Marathon veteran loves the race even more now than before bombings
“Were you there the year of the bombs?”
That’s usually the first question I get when someone learns that I run the Boston Marathon every year.
Yes, I was in Boston on Patriots Day in 2013.
That horrible day is not how I think of Boston. To me, the Boston Marathon is like a Mecca, calling me and others who love distance running to gather and feel the kinship of running and test ourselves on the famed Hills of Newton. It is the oldest and greatest race of them all, a magical event.
But if most people think first of those terrible explosions when they hear something about the Boston Marathon, I understand. I’m good with that. We should never forget. I know I won’t.
You see, those bombs, which took three lives and inflicted many gruesome injuries, changed forever the way I feel about a race that I loved before the tragedies and love even more now as I get ready to run my 10th consecutive Boston Marathon on Monday.
This year is the fifth anniversary of the bombs, and race organizers and city officials are marking the moment with solemn remembrances, moments of silence and the laying of wreaths at the two spots on Boylston Street where the bombs exploded.
There will likely be loving gestures like these every five or 10 years in Boston. For those of us who were there in 2013, though, the vivid flashbacks of
that horrific day are evoked every year we return to run again.
I still see the shock and fear in people’s faces, the panic in the streets, cellphones not working, the horrible not knowing if my family was safe, the worrying about whether everyone was all right.
Then, the awful answers came. No, everyone was not all right, not by a long shot.
I also have clear memories of the 2014 race, the year we came back to honor the dead, to support those still rehabbing injuries or learning to live with prosthetic limbs, to embrace and support a beloved race that is such a meaningful part of many runners’ lives.
I remember the 2014 race as if it were yesterday. We stood at the start in the town of Hopkinton and observed the silentest moment of silence I have ever heard. When we finished running, the hordes of volunteers who put medals around our necks were even more comforting and congratulatory than usual. And, this time, they expressed such gratitude for our mere presence.
“Thank you so much for coming back,” they said. “We appreciate so much you running again this year.”
We felt like heroes for simply having shown up.
That’s one of the things I learned in Boston, that showing up is indeed hero- ic. Sometimes we don’t know the best way to respond to others’ grief or suffering. Sometimes the best thing we can do is just show up. I heard something once about this: Don’t just do something, stand there.
And so we stand in Boston again. Boston strong. And we run. And we never take it for granted. That’s another thing I learned in Boston. We train and plan for months how to run our best. But nothing is guaranteed on race day. I’ve run Boston in record heat, in a driving rainstorm, with a bum foot. It looks like Monday will be another tough weather day — wet and cold.
As the saying goes, we make plans and God laughs.
I’ve also run Boston with a heavy heart. Sometimes terrible things happen to innocent people, and we all cry.
In 2014, my grown son Nate was there in Newton at the Mile 20 signpost, encouraging me as I headed for Heartbreak Hill.
When I ran past him, I couldn’t help but think of little Martin Richard, the 8year-old boy who was killed in the blasts while standing next to the course a year earlier.
I am remembering Martin again today. And I am thinking back to when my Nate was 8, when I taught him to make layups with his left hand and to read the incoming waves on a boogie board. Later, with his gentle nature and thoughtfulness of others, he taught me to be a better man.
I don’t know why Martin Richard’s parents lost their boy and I got to keep mine. I don’t. But I know that Nate is there at Mile 20 every year, and I thank God every time.
When I told Nate that I’m going to try to run 25 consecutive Bostons, which would take me to age 77, he said as long as I keep coming back, he’ll keep coming back.
So he will be there again Monday at Mile 20, holding on tight to his precious 9-month-old daughter, Ryan, taking in her first Boston.
At some point, I will be there, too. That’s the plan, anyway.
It is a lovely plan.