My 21-Mile Marathon

As I walked up Heartbreak Hill on Monday — was saving my energy for the last push into Boston — I had several thoughts running through my head: 1) Trying to recall the history of this hill, which as many people had told me, wasn’t as bad as one would think; 2) Appreciating my sister who, after just seeing me in Wellesley, had come to this spot with her husband; and 3) Excited to see my nephew, his girlfriend and my other friends who would be waiting for me at the finish. After a mild bout of anxiety at Mile 16, which was the longest I had run up until that point, I realized I was going to finish 26.2 strong — I had it in me. I had played my cards right the entire way and would finish my very first marathon!

In fact, my only concern at that point was the dropping temperature. I had shed all my warm clothing in the first couple miles because it was so warm out. By the time I was into Newton, I was starting to feel the raw winds pick up. Empty water cups were swirling around and volunteers were trying to keep the floating trash under control. They had brooms out, furiously trying to sweep up the mess.

I was enjoying a perfect day — the kind most marathoners dream of. In addition to my run buddy, I had tremendous crowd support from Mile 2 — where my sweet 9-year-old neighbor held up a hand-made sign with her little girlfriends and brother — to Heartbreak Hill where my sister hustled up the sidewalk next to me. At Mile 2.5, friends screamed for me. A short time later another friend came onto the course and hugged me as her daughter cheered.

Through Framingham and Natick, I saw my sister-in-law, a former neighbor and her sister, a friend of a friend handing out water, and my nephew and his wife and her family who had made signs and took photos. In Wellesley, I saw my sister and some adopters from the shelter, who also lived near me and held up a thank-you sign from Nutmeg. In Newton, a friend and former colleague, who had run many marathons but was volunteering, high-fived me. And as I neared Heartbreak, there was my running club, the folks who had supported me all throughout this journey, running alongside me and giving me salted pretzels to refuel for the rest of the journey.

They must have been surprised to see me running as I had parted ways with my run buddy at Mile 16 in an attempt to calm my breathing. She had told them to keep an eye out for me in case I needed anything, but remarkably, after a few minutes of walking and a bit of fuel, I was back running and at a steadier clip. In fact, where I was stopped was less than a mile from her.

It wasn’t just the energy from the spectators and volunteers that had pushed me on, though. Fellow runners were encouraging and funny and full of camaraderie. A friend of mine who had suffered a knee injury was practicing a walk/run strategy that landed her at my pace where she’d run past me and then while she was walking, we’d run past her. We kept that up for about 12 miles, rooting each other on the whole way. We were cheered on not only by not only our names, but our charities and what was on our shirts. The front of mine said, “These two feet are..” so people yelled to me, “These two feet are made for running!” Then they read the back, which said “Running for the four-footeds at Baypath”, and cheered louder. One runner came up behind me and told me about two dogs she recently adopted. Another runner came up beside me and said we had a good friend in common — the same one that had cheered me on back in Ashland.

I could not have soaked in the energy more and it was truly making me stronger by the mile. Then at the top of Heartbreak Hill, it all came to a screeching halt. Race volunteers stopped us and corralled us to the median. At the time, they said there was a delay. It suddenly clicked in in my run-induced stupor that for a mile or so, I had been passed by a cavalcade of speeding police vehicles — the kind of line that would escort a dignitary. At some point, an ambulance had crossed over perpendicular to the course and smashed through a barricade, impatiently waving off help from a National Guard member standing sentry nearby.

None of that registered right away. Nor had the fact that immediately before we were stopped, I had heard a bit of a fellow runner’s conversation with his wife that obviously got cut off after she said the word “explosions” because that’s what he kept repeating into the phone… “what explosions?” Again, I was too focused on Boylston Street to absorb extraneous information.

As soon as we stopped, I began to get colder. The kind of cold that comes from inside. The kind that no mylar blanket would temper. I asked my sister to try and reach my nephew while I rallied with the runners and waited for word of a restart time. At that point, all we knew was that there was an incident “near the finish line”.

My sister got in touch with my sister-in-law, who was frantically looking for my nephew and his girlfriend and filled her in on what the news was showing. She was relieved to hear that my sister and me were together. And soon after, we heard from my nephew, who was very close to the bombings, but didn’t see them — only panicked people running by. Luckily they were able to get safely out of town.

For what seemed like an eternity, we stood atop Heartbreak Hill awaiting our next move. Race volunteers were reluctant to let us go because the command center needed a head count, but runners were starting to get worried and cold. Neighbors were streaming out of their homes offering shelter, TV, bathrooms and food.

Finally, I approached a gentleman with a yellow tablet, gave him my bib number and asked if I could go look for my nephew. He asked if I had a ride and then gently told me to go because it would be one less person to get out of there.

In that time, calls, including from my nieces, started to get through as well as texts. I found out quickly that my friends near the finish line were evacuating and they offered to come get me. They had stopped in a coffee shop near the finish before making their way there when a friend alerted them to what happened. She had seen it from afar.

I also texted my running club friends, many of whom would have been nearing or crossing the finish line, at that time. One had been on Hereford, another just behind him and two had just crossed over a minute or so prior to the explosions. They and their families were all accounted for, as well as other friends who were following us all along the course.

A mere five hours before, we had been on a charter bus, joking around and trying to figure out what to write on ourselves to attract cheers from the crowd. We swarmed Athlete’s Village, some of us amped up, especially me, for our very first marathon. My biggest concern was whether or not to keep my base layer on (it was already getting warmer) and where to put my bib if I did that.

Little did we know what the day had in store for us.

Even with a few days’ perspective, I still can’t make sense of what happened. I am devastated over the lost lives and injured spectators. It’s something I haven’t quite been able to process yet. That much damage to people who only wanted to cheer us on.

I will run Boston 2014. Not because I feel cheated — honestly, that was the last thought on my mind at Mile 21. I will run Boston 2014 because I do not want to cower to madmen. I want to show them that what we were doing was good and peaceful and global. I will run Boston 2014 because I don’t want whoever did this to take away something that means so much to not only the 27,000 runners but the charities they run for and the others we inspire just by running 26.2 miles to Boston.

My thoughts will stay with the families of those that lost loved ones and those that are injured.

This blog is reposted from Sandra Gittlen's blog, which can be found here.