boston, part iii
Working my way east on Comm Ave, I was taking walk breaks as I saw fit. I walked Mile 25 in its entirety alongside another runner in my boat. We shared a mutual hello and 1600m of silence amongst the trains and screaming spectators. As if rehearsed, both she and i started jogging the moment we crossed Mile 25. In the full sun, it was becoming quite warm.
What a relief it was to see K on the right side of Hereford. I crossed the street to hug her and baby; baby was wearing her Red Sox bib and that made my day. I had been thinking about her the whole run; I had to ensure this story we would tell her years from now wouldn't end with "daddy DNF'd." That doesn't do a child's esteem any good. (Well, the child's esteem probably wouldn't be affected--but the dad's sure would!)
K indicated that my parents were closer to the finish line--I spent the final half-mile scanning Boylston for them. I made eye contact with just about every person on both sides of the street. Knowing the odds in these crowds were against me, I wasn't too disappointed as I approached the finish line without finding them.
Pomp, circumstance, merriment... but most of all, relief. Relief that this trainwreck of a journey was over. But the journey to Boston was anything but a trainwreck: injury, wedding, swimming, cycling, forefoot, Ironman, daughter. With relief came a deep sense of satisfaction. I told the volunteer who gave me my medal that I'd been waiting six years to meet her. That got me a hug. It was uncomfortably cold in the finish chute. Winds from the east were picking up and blowing Mylar everywhere, a stark contrast to the heat just two miles back.
Now the real race began: the race to the airport. I tried not to think about it much during the race, but I very much thought about it while planning this trip. I likened the finisher's medal to the idol in Raiders of the Lost Ark: it's great that you got it, but it will mean much less if you don't back it back home. The thought of poisoned darts and giant boulders humored me. The next step: get my phone, contact everyone and meet back at Nellis' hotel in the Theatre District, well east of the finish line.
I was able to reach my parents and K. Everyone was heading in the direction of the hotel. K and baby were going to a sandwich shop to pick up food. I slowly navigated the streets: as I approached Park/Tremont, one thing started to grab my attention: cop cars. The first few weren't of any real note ("cop car, big city, whatever"), but after the third intersection I had seen 10+ cop cars, sirens blaring and all flying westward. Citizens were yelling at others to get out of the way. By the time I had made it to the hotel, I must had seen 20+ cars in total. Still, I didn't think much of it.
The first thing I noticed in the hotel was a chair. I recalled this lobby--this was the hotel I stayed at for my first Boston in 2000. I was so relieved to take a seat. The lobby had a television broadcasting the race. The broadcast showed a finish line, but no runners. Bleachers, but no spectators. Tables, but no volunteers. "That's odd," I thought, "why are they showing post-race footage from a previous year? That won't get you any ratings." I kept watching--perhaps I fatigued and confused. Then I saw the graphic in the upper corner: "LIVE." My heart sank into my stomach. I thought about all those the cop cars. I didn't know what exactly had happened, but I didn't need to. "Are you seeing this?" I turned unbelievably to some other people in the lobby. "THIS IS TERRIBLE!!" I exclaimed loudly. MY GOD, I WAS JUST THERE 30 MINUTES AGO. Pomp, circumstance, merriment. Finisher's medal. Now NOTHING. Poison darts. Giant boulders. I got out of my seat and walked as fast as I could (which wasn't very fast) to the sandwich shop where I knew K was. En route, I heard someone say something about a bomb.
I saw K on the north side of Stuart. We waited for more cop cars before meeting in the middle of the road. She was confused: what was I doing here? "Do you have any idea what's going on?" I asked. She had no idea (perhaps the only time in our history where I knew more about news headlines than my journalism wife). I was getting emotional: "Someone bombed the finish line." I had some confidence that my parents were alright: I had just spoken to them, and they were well clear of the finish. K and I returned to the hotel with baby. We went up to the room to see Nellis and Cherisse; that's when the reality set in. My mother arrived in tears. Nellis read something on his cell phone about deaths. Texts to my phone started arriving. Surely the airport is going to be shut down--a check of my phone said that our plane was still leaving... in less than two hours. I hadn't even showered. I hustled--if we can leave Boston given the current events, we must. I started throwing things away and shoving everything else into my backpack. Nellis found that the hotel shuttle was leaving NOW. There wasn't even time for goodbye. We hustled out of the lobby and into a packed van, leaving my parents with Nellis and Cherisse, everyone very troubled and grieving. Thanks to the graces of a good driver and a TSA agent who let us through the special needs security in an otherwise jam-packed airport, we arrived at our gate and boarded with minutes to spare. We had cut it too close, but got lucky. I just spent a holiday with my family, caught a game at Fenway, and I have a BAA medal around my neck and our daughter in our push cart. Tell me that our holiday isn't ending like this. Onward to Altanta.
Every coach seat had a personal television, and every passenger was glued to national news for the two-hour flight. And all national news had at that point was a single 10-second clip of a finish line bomb, which the news did not hesitate to replay over and over and over again. I was trapped in this Clockwork Orange airplane seat, with no where to run from these images. It didn't matter that I turned my own screen off when everyone else was attached to theirs. I went through fits of guilt, depression, anger and fear. I hid my medal under my shirt--I didn't feel like celebrating at all. Someone woke up this morning with the dream of killing my wife, daughter and parennts, and everyone else that I made eye contact with on Boylston. I was sore and tired. K and baby were safe, but what about my parents, Nellis and Cherisse? And my other friends? All festivity was drained from me--I just wanted home, but that was guilt-ridden knowning therer are others not ever going home.
Luck struck again: we caught an early flight to Austin. We landed by 1030pm, and were in bed within the hour. There was no sleeping--my night was filled with violent nightmares. I did get confirmation by morning that everyone else I knew was okay.
[...]
A stuffed unicorn sits in the back of my car now, a Boston 2013 toy I picked up at the marathon expo for baby. She loves it, and we take it with us to restaurants every now and then. It kills me that some children can't look at that toy with happiness. Perhaps someone bought that toy for a loved one, and that loved one was maimed in April, or worse. We didn't get a family photo of all of us at Boston--who cares, compared to others' losses that weekend. The Watertown broadcast provided minor closure. Three months later, it still hurts to think about what could have been for us, and what is reality for others. I journaled the weekend here in hopes to preserve the good memories from that weekend--baby with her grandparents, K and I running along the ocean, seeing the Red Sox, running into Gerardo and Sarah, seeing baby on Hereford--for the media and society that surrounds me will only remember Boston 2013 as tragedy.
A friend passed along an anonymous quote from the weekend: "if you're trying to crush the human spirit, don't start with a group of marathoners." Boston 2014 is virtually guaranteed to be epic: the elite field will be unlike any other, those who lost limbs in 2013 will cross the finish line with their surviving limbs and unstoppable hearts, crowds will fearlessly turn out in record numbers, and the Red Sox will surely be playing with some extra fire in their gut.
With love and sympathy to those affected by the Patriots' Day bombings: keep putting one foot in front of the other. To support those families affected, please visit onefundboston.org.
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