I went into Boston to pick up my race number the Friday
before Patriot’s Day, which this year happened to coincide with Good Friday,
which is a holiday in my school district. It’s called Non-School Day. I’ve made it a point to visit the Boston
Marathon Running and Fitness Expo every year, whether I’m running or not, since
my first Boston back in 2001. It’s always festive, always joyful. It’s
Christmas and my birthday rolled up into one.
No one expo stands out as being better or worse or more
memorable than the year before. They’re
all equally fantastic. One year I got to talk for a bit with Dick Hoyt, a quiet,
unassuming man who shrugs off his vast accomplishments. Another year I hugged
my hero, Kathrine “KV” Switzer and thanked her for all she’d done for women of
my generation. I still remember the fun
I had chatting with Runner’s World editor Mark Remy, who writes a ridiculously
silly column where he regularly pokes fun at himself and lots of other serious
athletes out there.
I blame KV Switzer for my running addiction.
Last year, I got to meet John Hanc, who was shilling his
book The BAA at 125. I bought a lot of running gear at the expo last year. In
addition to Hanc’s book, I bought socks, shorts, headbands, a couple of energy
bars, a decorative hook set for all my race medals. Usually, when I get home from the expo, I spend
a few days going through my stash of treasures. I put things in drawers, start
reading any new books. I spent most of the days after the marathon last year in
front of a television set. My 2013 expo bags went unopened for weeks.
I was thinking about last year’s expo, and all that came
after, as we left the parking garage and entered onto Boylston Street. The
memories of previous marathon years roll together and I have trouble sometimes
telling one from the other. I knew I’d want to remember this year. I knew this expo
and marathon would be different. I couldn’t help but wonder what differences
we’d come upon. I wondered what I’d want to memorialize in print.
The first things I noticed were the pots of daffodils that
lined sidewalks in front of the shops and restaurants on both sides of the
street. I’d read somewhere that hundreds of thousands of daffodils would be
lining the course, from Hopkinton to the finish line, to commemorate last year’s
bombing and to signify rebirth and new beginnings for all those affected.
We all run Boston.
We hit Marathon Sports first, and picked up lots of running
gear with this year’s logo and the phrase “Boston Runs as One.” As I was
waiting for my friend to finish paying, I noticed a chunk of tar about the size
of a small dog on a shelf behind the register. I stood on tip toe and looked
closer. The top was painted gold. I
could make out a mouth and the tip of a nose. I asked the sales guy what it
was, and he confirmed my suspicions. It was a chunk of last year’s finish line. I was looking at the shattered head of the unicorn in the B.A.A. logo.
The finish line holds special meaning for me, not just
because touching it is the final ineffable proof that you’ve accomplished
something you’d never thought possible. A piece of the finish line figures
prominently in the book I keep editing and rewriting. To the main character,
that finish line is everything. I think that’s because it’s everything to me
too. More so now than ever, it’s hallowed ground.
The clerk told me that yes, I could hold the chunk, but to be
careful because the tar was starting to crumble. For a flash, I thought about
breaking off a tiny piece of yellow, just to have as a memento. Who could it harm?
Then I noticed the smoky dark splotch, a burn mark the size of my palm, up just
about where the eye should be. I ran my finger over it and thought about how
that scar had gotten there. I decided the
chunk was already hurt enough. Besides, it wasn't exclusively mine. It belongs to all of us. I took a
picture instead, then handed the wounded creature back to the guy for safekeeping.
Hallowed ground
Next we walked down to the Old South Church, where small groups
of people milled about on the flagstones between two ginormous daffodil
gardens. At the center of each group was a man or woman with patterned gold and
blue scarves draped around their necks: stripes of blue and gold, patches,
frills, checkerboards. They were removing their scarves one at a time and
handing them to passersby.
Gardens of daffodils and in the distance blossoming scarves.
“Are you running this year?” one woman asked me. When I
nodded, she told me to pick a scarf, any scarf. We’d heard about this. During the winter, some
members of the church decided to start a project of knitting scarves for as
many marathoners as they could. It was
their way of wrapping the runners in love and strength. Once word got out to
the public, people around the world offered to take part. In addition to each
of the fifty states getting in on the act, donations came from as far away as
Australia. My scarf was made by Linda in Lockport, Illinois. My friend
Wendy’s scarf came from a town just three miles from her home.
We shared hugs
with the church volunteers and settled down near the daffodils to watch other
runners receive their gifts. There were lots of tears and lots of smiles.
Nothing like being wrapped in love.
Our last stop was the expo, which was at the Hynes Convention Center.
Several police officers checked our bags before allowing us to walk up the
stairs to the number pick up area. We got in a long line that snaked from one
end of the building to the other and back again. I joked that the place
reminded me of that last scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, when the
crate containing the Holy Grail is lowered unceremoniously into the center of a
large warehouse. As the camera pulls back, you see that the warehouse stretches
from horizon to horizon.
We joked a bit about wearing out our legs before even
getting to the starting line, but we moved pretty quickly, up and down the
hall, then up an escalator, down a hallway, through another line that wound like
a bunch of letter ms through a large
room, then into the number area. We had
our numbers within a half hour, which isn’t all that bad considering the territory
we had to cover. In the past, getting
your number was a simple matter of walking to the end of the expo room, and maybe
waiting a minute or two.
The expo was one floor below and as overwhelmingly crowded
as it always has been, with scores of vendors marketing all kinds of running
paraphernalia that you just might possibly be unable to live without come Marathon
Monday. Along with my legs, my credit
card got quite a workout. For the most part, it was the same old circus as always. But
here and there were subtle and not so subtle changes. Almost every runner, for
example, was wearing a blue and gold scarf. Indoors. In April. Also, every
other merchandiser seemed to be selling something Boston Strong: T-shirts,
stickers, hats, keychains, socks.
On the temporary walls where runners are invited to leave
messages about why they run, most made some reference to the events of last
year like, “I’m taking back my finish line” and “It’s my fucking city.” There
were dedications from floor to fingertips to the four who where lost and to the
hundreds injured. I wrote “Faith, Hope, Charity, Boston 2014 4 Ever” with a
heart around the 4, my own feeble attempt to give homage to Martin, Krystle,
Lu, Sean, and the rest. Even as I wrote,
I knew it wasn’t enough. My message wasn’t going to change anything that had
already happened. It was ink on cardboard, and nothing more.
We exited the Convention Center and headed toward the mall
entrance. Suddenly a horn started
blasting. Then a muddy voice came over the intercom. It was at about the third
time of hearing the message that came in between the blasts that we realized we
were being told to evacuate the premises. We were at the mall entrance by then
and watched as people nonchalantly exited behind us.
I suggested that maybe it was just a practice drill. My
friend shrugged his shoulders. No one seemed panicked. It was then, as we were
scanning the crowds, that we noticed the cowboy hat a few yards away.
Carlos Arredondo is the gentleman in all the 2013 photos who
is helping emergency personnel rush Jeff Bauman to the medical tents. He is a
peace advocate who lost one son to war and another to suicide. He disregarded
his own safety, and rushed in to help when the bombs went off. Didn’t think
twice, just did it. He wears a cowboy
hat in nearly all his photos. He was standing just inches from us, while folks
shook his hand and posed with him for pictures.
I’m not a big fan of intruding on famous folks who are just out
and about minding their own business, but I had to meet Carlos. I don’t know if
I would ever have the guts to rush in and help the way he did. Heck, I don’t
know if I’d ever be able to get out of bed again if I’d lived through what he’d
suffered through even before that. He is my
hero.
I shook his hand and thanked him for all he’d done for me,
our marathoners, the city. His voice was soft and kind. He looked right into my
eyes as I spoke. He asked about my running and I told him about my charity. He
wished me good luck and said he’d be at the finish line cheering us on.
Best. Sign. Ever.
After that, I was all Bostoned out. I needed to clear my
head. It had been a beautiful day, but an overwhelming day too.
As we exited the mall, a girl in a shop asked if I was
running Boston. I stopped and we talked for a bit. Told her how I either run or
volunteer every year. How Boston is my family. The girl was working in Teavana, a store that
sells special teas and pots and cups. She was about college age and wore white geisha
makeup. Her ebony eyebrows looked like they’d been painted on with a thin
brush.
She told me her dad was running. That he ran every year, and
that though he didn’t qualify this year, he had won an entry via an essay
contest. My friend then asked what he’d written about and the girl hesitated,
then began tearing up. She told us he’d written about his experience after
crossing the finish line last year.
Family members, including her mom,
siblings, grandparents, were on both sides of Boylston Street. They’d cheered
him on as he ended his run. He’d crossed about ten minutes before the bombs
went off. As chaos ensued, family members couldn’t find one another and couldn’t
contact each other by phone because the lines were overloaded. Every family
member had thought the worst.
“It was the most awful two hours of my life,” the girl said.
“I’m just so thankful we were all okay.”
I asked her if she’d be at the race this year.
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be at the finish line, where I
always stand.”
She asked me my race number and wrote it down. She told me
she’d cheer for me. She thanked me for running. We wiped our tears and hugged. Then I went home.
Yup.
#KVSwitzer #BostonRunsAsOne #BostonMarathon2014
