April 15, 2013 will sadly rank among the infamous dates of December 7, 1941, and September 11, 2001. There's one personal difference, however. On April 15, 2013, I was there.
I've been there on the third Monday of April sixteen times, dating back to 1978. A suburban Boston businessman once put a group of us up at his home, AND gave us complimentary Red Sox tickets. As a member of the Eastern Airlines Racing team, I stayed at the swanky Copley Plaza Hotel. Randy Haas and I, having both finished in the top 100 back in 1987, were treated to brews at the Boston Beer Works. I've lodged in the seaport town of Newburyport. I was presented a lucky coin by a skinhead on the MBTA, and have been honored by waitresses, firemen and members of Boston's Finest.
The sign reading, "It All Begins Here," in Hopkinton, the emptying of the towns of Ashland and Framingham, as seemingly every resident is drawn to the race course. The piercing screams of the girls at Wellesley, the support, needed by every participant, at the Newton Hills. Boston College, Commonwealth Avenue, and the Citgo sign, with one mile to go.
A right on Hereford and a left on Boyleston.
Then runners come out of the tunnel onto the floor of the stadium. There are 50,000 people who line the 600-yard stretch to the finish line. Over the years, I have blown kisses, posed, Hulk Hogan style, pointed to my wife and children, and invoked the crowd to get loud.
They have never let me down. I get goosebumps, I hyperventilate, and I as I cross the finish line, I vow to return, and barring injuries, I usually do.
Boston is the world's oldest continuous marathon. It is steeped in tradition, the course is legendary, the battles among the elite have been epic, but, for me, Boston is about the people. Not about the runners, but about the spectators, and the people of the marathon. The people, who, on marathon weekend, treat each and every runner like a rock star. The people, who stake out their spot early and leave late, usually after all the runners have passed them. The people who party. The people who, in last year's blast-furnace heat, stacked cases of bottled water on their lawns, for runners they do not know.
On that stretch of Boyleston Street, my wife and my children have stood. This year, my wife met a family from Kentucky. Some spectators near the finish line have friends and relatives in the race, but others do not.
On April 15, when evil from the depths of hell descended on Boyleston Street, it was the spectators who, in an instant, were impacted the most. The spectators who, for 117 years have selflessly cheered the runners, were killed and maimed, in a senseless act, perpetrated by men who came to America, took advantage of our good will, and turned it into cowardly hatred.
On April 15, amid the carnage, the bond between runners and spectators was cemented.
As the blasts shredded bodies, runners, having run for four hours, stripped off shirts and used them as tourniquets, and surely saved lives. Blisters and heat exhaustion became like hangnails, as runners vacated the medical area, giving way to those wounded in the blasts. Runners assisted to the wounded. Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans used their skills to tend to shrapnel wounds. By nightfall, Boston hospitals announced that no more blood was needed. Runners had given enough of theirs to provide a surplus.
Exactly one week after the tragedy, a local race promoter near my home in Reading, Pennsylvania, hastily organized a race. It attracted over 800 runners, and over $17,000 was raised for the One Boston Fund, which will aid victims of the terrorist act, and their families. All over the country, runners have had similar events, and at this writing, over $9 million has been raised for the One Boston Fund.
The terrorists are cowards. They underestimate Americans. They don't understand runners and those who support runners. My daughter, Kelly ran Philadelphia's Broad Street Run over the weekend. She reported that there were a record number of participants, and the crowd support was magnificent.
In 2014, the Boston Marathon will be bigger and better than ever. I know I'll be there. I also know that the crowds will be tremendous. They always have, and always will be.
Thank you Boston!
God bless you, and God bless America!
Beautifully written. Truer words were never written. Thank you from one runner to another. They chose the wrong crowd to mess with - I've heard in the past, never mess with someone who runs 26.2 miles for fun. (Yes, I cleaned it up. :)
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