Boston Marathon April Series: The Day that Changed My Life
This is part two of the Boston Marathon series. If you missed my earlier post, take a moment to read part one.
TRIGGER WARNING: In this post, I am sharing a very personal and detailed account of the 2013 Boston Marathon from a runner who crossed the finish line moments before the bombing.
“Here’s what I know. These maniacs may have tried to make life bad for the people of Boston, but all they can ever do is show how good those people are.”
When you think of a perfect spring day in Boston, weather-wise, what do you think of? I think of a somewhat cool morning, clear blue skies, a sunny day in the forecast, minimal humidity, and a cool breeze. An ideal day to get up early and grab a coffee. Maybe head to a baseball game at Fenway, stroll through the Boston Common. And if it’s Marathon Monday in Boston, heading with friends to cheer on runners somewhere along the course, whether it be at the halfway point in Newton, funneling out by mile 24 when the game lets out, or camped out at a bar or along the barriers on Boylston Street leading to the finish line, if you’re lucky enough to get a spot. And what if on this day, you’re running the Boston Marathon? While the forecast looks a little warm for running 26.2 miles (especially after training through a grueling, freezing Boston winter), the promise of sunshine and a great spectator turnout in the weather brings nothing but excitement.
And that was exactly what was going through my mind when my alarm went off at 5am on that fateful Monday. I was a 27-year-old single working girlie living with friends in South Boston. I had moved back to Boston the year before after spending several years post college graduation in Washington DC, and spent my time working, running, and socializing. At this point in my fledgling distance running career, I had run many marathons, but none of the world majors. Running the Boston Marathon was a big dream of mine, and at the time, qualifying was not in the cards, so when I applied to run for charity (the Boys and Girls Club of Boston) and was accepted, I felt like my dreams of running perhaps the most iconic marathon there is were coming true.
I woke up that morning feeling excited and extremely nervous. While I had trained on the course all winter, I had never run a major marathon before, and knew that I would know a lot of people running or cheering on the course. My mom was going to be on the course at mile 20, near Heartbreak Hill, as she worked in Newton at the time, and my dad was going to walk over from his office in Downtown Crossing towards the finish line and plan on cheering me on near the finish line. My boss, Andrew, was also running the race that year, and had served as my Boston guru throughout training, as he had run the race before and knew the ins and outs of the course and the logistics of getting to the finish line.
Despite the nervousness, which is very normal, I was feeling ready. I had gone to the expo two days before to collect my bib, I had exceeded my $5,000 fundraising goal (a number that is absolutely unheard of now in the days of the marathon boom), I had new cropped leggings and a baggy dry fit t-shirt I couldn’t wait to wear (oh, how times of marathon apparel have changed), and a pair of hot pink Saucony runners broken in and ready to make the journey from Hopkinton to Boylston. I woke up early, had a breakfast of champions (probably a cinnamon raisin bagel with peanut butter), put on old sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and started walking to the red line to take the train to the Boston Common to begin the adventure to the start line.
Once I made it to the Boston Common, which is where runners gather for the seemingly never-ending line of yellow school buses waiting to transport us to the start line in Hopkinton, the nervousness and excitement reached an all-time high. Yes, I had been to many start lines before, but this was so much different. This was the beginning of one of the world’s most legendary marathons, and it was all happening in the city in which I lived and worked.
Thousands of runners were milling about and queuing up for either the school buses or the porta-potties, and lines snaked around the entire side of the common. I was hoping to see someone I knew, namely someone from the charity team I was running with or my colleague, but everyone was starting to look alike to me in our unofficial uniforms of throw-away clothes to keep us warm until we made it to the start line. I decided that it would be beneficial to get to Hopkinton and Athlete’s Village on the earlier side, despite my late charity start time, so I hopped on a bus, put in my corded headphones and my iPod, and started the bumpy bus ride 26 miles to the start line.
While the bus ride was a blur, I distinctly remember everything about my arrival at Athlete’s Village. The ground was slightly damp from the morning dew, and I regretted wearing the shoes I’d be running in. While my charity team had a tent set up, I am more of a lone soldier when it comes to the whole pre-marathon routine, so I laid out a trash bag I had brought from home and set up camp for myself on the outskirts of one of the staging areas for runners. I had a couple of hours before my start time, but figured I could take the extra time to have another bagel and scope the scene. It was also turning out to be a beautiful morning, albeit warm, and I wanted to soak up the sunshine. I layered up with sunscreen and borrowed a sharpie from a group of girls sitting next to me so I could write my name on my bib for extra love along the course.
When it came time for me to head to the start line, the excitement was palpable. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the sun was shining, and the temperature was creeping up, but nothing too unmanageable to run in. I remember I kept thinking to myself how incredible it must be for spectators to watch the race on a day like today, and felt so fortunate that my first Boston Marathon would be on such a crowd-friendly day.
Everything about that day from the start line to the halfway point in Wellesley feels like a blur to me. I remember taking in every second and being in disbelief that my 27-year-old-self was actually running the Boston Marathon. I remember the course was crowded and alive with the good energy of all the other charity runners; it felt more like a party than a marathon. I remember cruising through the mile 13.1 marker and feeling on top of the world, giving the crowds in Wellesley high fives. I remember starting to enter the pain cave at miles 15 and 16, turning by the firehouse and realizing that I was starting to climb the infamous Newton hills. I had actually ran the course a few times during my training, but mistakenly thought that the first hill I encountered was Heartbreak Hill, and charged up—failing to realize that was just the start of several climbs leading to Heartbreak. When I saw a spectator holding a sign that said “you’re almost at Heartbreak,” I remember feeling slightly defeated—but that the good energy of the day was carrying me through. Right as I was about to start the infamous climb, two serendipitous things happened: first, I felt a tap on my shoulder; it was my colleague Andrew!
This could not have come at a better time, as the heat of the day and the hills were getting to me, and my pace was slowing at a steady rate. He asked me if I wanted to run the remaining 10K together, and I eagerly agreed. Second, right after joining forces with Andrew, I saw my mom on the sideline and got to give her a giant hug. Seeing these familiar faces gave me the boost I knew I needed to get to the finish line.
Running up Heartbreak for the first time in a race was an experience I’ll never forget. The streets were lined with spectators, and I felt like I was in a scream tunnel. I remember Andrew was struggling a bit at this point, so I even ran backwards for some of the hill to encourage him and cheer him on. We got to the top and felt as though we were on top of the world. From there, the 4-4.5 miles between the top of Heartbreak, through the screaming college students at BC, and along the small rolling hills of Beacon Street were again a blur. My memory picks up at the iconic right turn onto Hereford and the left onto Boylston. This was an absolutely surreal moment for me that will be engraved in my memory for the rest of my life. The deafening screams, the thick crowds, the waves of people in the sunshine making their way from the bars of Back Bay and from the Red Sox game that had just let out at Fenway. If there was a moment in my life in which I felt like a true professional athlete, this was it. I was looking into the crowds looking for my Dad, as I knew he was walking over there from his office, but the faces were a complete blur. I remember thinking I was so overwhelmed with love and emotion and pride for this city and this marathon that I could barely feel my feet hit the ground as I pounded the pavement the last few hundred yards to the iconic finish line on Boylston. And then it happened. I crossed the finish line of the Boston Marathon.
The time on the clock above the finish line read just over four hours. The time on a non-finish line clock? 2:49pm. And just as I crossed the finish line with Andrew, my arms raised over my head in triumph, and I turned slowly to take in the finish line, the crowds, the MOMENT I had been waiting for, my world went completely upside down.
I had barely enough time to turn to face Boylston when a huge explosion rocked the entire street. I remember grabbing onto Andrew, confused, and wondering if the finish line or the photographers’ stand above the finish line had collapsed. I saw a huge tuft of black smoke, and my ears immediately started ringing. I felt a pressure in my head like you feel when you’re changing altitudes on a plane. Time stood still - the other runners around me were also frozen, looking around to see what was the cause of the noise. And just as I started to smell something burning, like someone was holding a piece of paper to a match, the same explosion happened again, a few blocks further down Boylston. And that is when the world started moving in what feels like slow motion in my mind. I remember hearing Andrew’s voice in my ear, but him sounding muffled and like he was light years away from me. He was yelling “we have to get out of here!” And that is when I knew something horrible was happening. I could hear someone yelling about a terror attack, and then I immediately felt Andrew grabbing my one arm and a cop grabbing my waist so hard I thought I was going to fall over.
We were being pushed away from the finish line, and I still felt like I had tunnel vision; I had just run 26.2 miles and barely had a moment to breathe. I felt like the world was closing in on me. Runners were pushing each other out of the way, and I heard another loud noise; the clattering of the spectator guard rails as people stampeded out of the VIP bleachers and across the street. And then I saw it—the blood. Almost immediately people were being carried by cops and medics who were stationed to help runners—and they were all covered in blood. I think I started screaming and latched onto Andrew as we were pushed toward the Westin hotel just past the finish line. I then realized I had no idea where my dad was—he was right where the chaos was and I had absolutely no way to reach him. I tried to push back through the swarming crowd, but to no avail. I needed to find my dad, and I needed to find him now, but there was no way to get to him.
We were ushered into the Westin Hotel and everyone’s worst fears were confirmed—they believed two bombs had been detonated a couple hundred yards apart along Boylston, and the marathon had been stopped. Runners were being held back on Commonwealth Avenue, and Boylston was in shambles. There was zero cell phone service, as everything had preemptively been shut off. I don’t even know how he found me, as I was in complete shock, but I remember all of a sudden my dad appearing at the hotel with Andrew. I gave him the world’s biggest hug. He had been standing near the bombs but luckily had been unharmed.
I don’t even know how long we stayed at the Westin, or had any concept of time, but after what seemed like both an eternity and five minutes simultaneously, my dad and I started to walk back toward his office. I had just my sweaty clothes and a spare runners’ blanket given to us by staff at the hotel, and had only a couple sips of water after finishing the race. The city was an absolute ghost time. We walked all the way from Back Bay to Downtown Crossing, which is in reality, just over a mile, but felt like we were walking for hours. The only people we saw were police officers and a few other runners trying to make their way to offices to call home. We made it to his office, and finally were able to call my mom and brother, who were at home in the suburbs. They confirmed the worst. According to the news, two bombs had been detonated and many spectators (and a few runners) had been injured, and several had been killed. I remember sitting in quiet shock, and the only thing I had the strength to do was pick up a sharpie and write “I love you Daddy” on the white board in his office—something he told me later that he kept on that board until he retired years later.
I am going to skip the details on the next few days that followed—the massive manhunt that ensued and paralyzed the city of Boston in fear as they tried to track down the suspects who committed such a horrific crime. I remember I went home to my parent’s house as the fear of being in the city was too real. I do also remember how the city of Boston came together to support those who were injured in this brutal attack. The term #BOSTONSTRONG was coined at this time, and that is exactly what happened. On the day of the marathon, some runners kept running after crossing the finish line to donate blood to victims at local hospitals. Spectators turned into first responders, jumping in to help the fallen and create makeshift tourniquets to stop the blood. In this time of tragedy, a city of heroes emerged.
But I felt the opposite. I was overcome with an immense feeling of guilt about running the race. Questions swirled in my head; what would have happened if I had stopped somewhere for water along the course? If I had finished 8 seconds later, I would have been right where the bombs went off. Eight seconds. I couldn’t grasp the concept that people had died, were permanently injured, and both mentally and physically scarred because they were spectating an event I had chosen to do for fun. I had such a case of survivor’s guilt, I remember feeling like it was hard to breathe. I was scared and confused and felt like I should have been the one in the line of fire, not those watching the race I was running.
A few days after the race, I was invited to a ceremony held in the city by the Boston Athletic Association. I was one of a few runners who had finished the race but hadn’t had enough time to collect my medal, so we were invited to get our medals. I remember this feeling extremely bittersweet; I was so proud to wear that medal, but also felt incredibly guilty for wanting to celebrate such a somber occasion.
It took me months to return to running after that day. I felt like I had lost my sense of joy for running; that day incited not only new fears for me, but I also felt bad for wanting to jump back into marathoning, an event that had left so many lives permanently scarred. However, when I saw many of the bombing victims were pledging to run the following year and had big dreams of rehabbing and eventually training to run the Boston Marathon, I felt incredibly inspired. I knew that what had happened on the day of April 15, 2013 had been a senseless act of violence and tragedy, but that one day did not define the Boston Marathon, it did not define the city, and on a personal level, did not define me and my running career.
That day did not come without its own scars for me as well. While not physical, I tried to use running (and other, less healthy outlets like alcohol) as my way of dealing with the lasting trauma of that day. I had tried to convince myself that because I was not physically hurt from the events, I did not deserve to seek counseling or therapy. Eventually, nine years later, that underlying trauma came to a head, and I was hospitalized for a mental health episode stemming from the PTSD of that day. It wasn’t until I was able to talk to professionals about how the events of the marathon bombing had affected me that I was able to find real help and treatment.
While the terror attack on the marathon in 2013 had incredibly devastating impacts on lives and on the city, it also brought a sense of purpose and resilience not only to runners and spectators, but to Boston as a whole. Ever since the tragedy of that day, the number of applicants for charity bibs and qualifying bibs alike has skyrocketed. I was invited to run the following year in 2014 with an invitational bib from the Boston Athletic Association, and the city was electric. Everyone was wearing blue and yellow in the crowd, #BOSTONSTRONG signs and chants could be seen and heard along the course, and the city truly came together to take back the finish line.
The Boston Marathon has become my sort of life purpose after that first fateful year I ran. I qualified to run many times after that, and the past two years have been fortunate enough to run with bibs gifted to me by friends. This year will be my twelfth Boston Marathon, and will likely be my last for now. The joy and gifts this race has brought to my life—in training, coaching, and running the race myself - far outweigh the horror and fear that two individuals tried to instill not only in myself, but in the entire city.
So to those of you running on Marathon Monday, whether it be for the first time or the millionth time, take in every single second of this iconic race, and don’t take any of it for granted. This course is truly magical, and no one can ever take that magic away from the city of Boston.
Xo
Coach Kelly
P.S., If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health, there are ways to get help. The Behavioral Health Help Line (BHHL) is available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. Anyone may contact the Help Line. Call toll-free or text 833-773-2445.