Boston is a tough and resilient town. So are its people. I am supremely confident that Bostonians will pull together, take care of each other and move forward.
~President Barack Obama
The Boston Marathon is a sort of mythic beast, akin to the unicorn that is its chosen symbol. It’s a race steeped in history, an emotional, transcendent experience where one lines up with the best of the best to tackle the notoriously capricious course. You feel the spirit of the crowds who line the course every inch of the 26.2 miles.
I’d been a runner in high school, but I didn’t lace up another pair of running shoes until I was in my mid-thirties. I enjoyed some success in local 5Ks and 10Ks, but soon the lure of longer distances was pulling at me.
In late 2005, my father was battling terminal prostate cancer, and I spent a lot of time with him, either at the hospital for his treatments or else at home, just keeping him company. I’d talk to him about my running, and I shared with him my secret ambition to train for a marathon. At the time, I found solace in my long runs. Simply putting one foot in front of the other helped allay the feelings of impotence, fear and anger as my father deteriorated before my eyes. Whenever the effort became painful or taxing, I would try to put things into perspective, reminding myself what my father was going through, and the courage and strength he was drawing on simply to survive.
My father passed away on February 11, 2006.
In May 2007, I ran my first marathon. The last few miles were tougher than almost anything I’d ever experienced, but I felt my father there with me, and I remembered his courage and grace. I crossed the finish line with a time of 3:35, and the tears began streaming from my eyes as I found my husband. My first words to him: “We’re going to Boston.”
He had no clue what I meant.
I had to explain the whole notion of qualifying times, and age- and sex-based standards. That was easy enough. But trying to explain to a non-runner the concept of chasing the unicorn — that was more challenging!
In April 2008, I ran my first Boston, and it lived up to all of its promise and then some. Bostonians treat runners like royalty, and the course is a non-stop party of sights, sounds and characters. It’s said that an average of half a million people find a spot alongside the course. They have impromptu barbecues, hold up encouraging signs, and play instruments or stereo systems. They hand out orange slices, wet wipes, small bottles of water, and even beer when you pass by Boston College. Just before the halfway point is Wellesley College, where the students are renowned for setting up a scream tunnel; you can hear them long before you see them.
For this small-town girl, the experience was overwhelming to the point that I moved toward the center of the road to shield my senses a little bit. But it is absolutely exhilarating. After the race, runners are invited to ride the T (subway system) for free. They proudly wear their medals and jackets, and Bostonians everywhere stop to congratulate them and ask them how their race went.
I have had the good fortune to qualify for Boston every year since my first race, and barring an injury or two, I’ve been at that starting line in Hopkinton every third Monday in April.
Patriots’ Day 2013, Monday, April 15th, dawned like any other. I got up at about 5:00 a.m., had some breakfast, and dressed in my marathon gear, covering myself with throwaway clothes that would keep me warm in the hours before the start. My husband drove me the couple of miles from our B&B to the Common, where the endless line of yellow school buses waited to ferry us out to Hopkinton.
I am a very introverted person, so my typical strategy is to snag a window seat and zone out. But this particular year, something clicked with my seatmate Susan, a woman my age who was running her first Boston. A recently widowed Chicagoan, she had a teenage boy and girl at home. We talked about everything and nothing all the way to Hopkinton. My wave was before hers, so we eventually parted ways, but I wished her all the best and told her to remember to savour the experience.
My race was pretty typical; I finished at around 3:30. Volunteers massed around us in the finish chute, dispensing sustenance, medals and heat blankets. It took a while to navigate out of the organized chaos.
I’d learned that the best thing for me after a marathon is to keep moving. I headed back toward our B&B, which was in Brookline, about two miles upstream, on a side street parallel to the marathon course. I followed the marathon route back, going along Commonwealth Avenue to the 25.5-mile mark to check in with some friends who were watching the race and cheering on various other friends who were still on the course. But despite the heat blanket, I was beginning to get chilly in my sweat-soaked clothes, so I didn’t linger long.
I went on past Fenway Park and along Beacon Street, cheering on the runners. As I turned onto the side street where the B&B was, a police car went peeling away. I didn’t think much of it at the time.
Entering the B&B, I found our room door locked; I could hear the TV on inside, but my husband did not respond to my knock. I went to find the concierge, and as I passed a room with an open door, I saw a woman crying inside.
When the concierge let me in, the first thing I saw was the image on the TV screen of the marathon finish line, smoke, and people on the ground. My legs went out from under me as I realized what was happening. My husband must have raced out to try to find me. Cell-phone service wasn’t working, so it took us a horribly long half-hour to connect. When he returned to the room, we just held each other and cried tears of gratitude, but also of horror, shock and fear. Boston would never be the same again.
The next few hours were a mad scramble to decipher and digest news, reassure friends and relatives, and try to account for friends still on the course. My new friend Susan had been stopped at mile 25. She didn’t finish her race, but she was safe.
I spent a good part of the following 12 months debating whether I wanted to return or not. I felt a lot of frustration at the loss of innocence and the new normal of terrorism that had shaken our running community. In the end, I did go back, to honour those lost and to show and feel my solidarity with Bostonians and their wonderful, magical marathon. I cried many tears that day — cleansing ones. We’d taken back Patriots’ Day.
— Paula Roberts-Banks —