This blog post has been two months in the writing in my head. Imagining how April 15th, 2013 would play out - my 5th Boston, my 13th marathon, but my first 26.2 with unborn child in tow. Playing out the experience before it even happened helped to relieve the anxiety I had about running while pregnant, and keep my mind off of my slowing pace. Envisioning myself crossing the finish line, both of us happy and healthy, only to unveil a "mom's 5th, baby's 1st Boston Marathon 2013" pic to friends and family. Mike and I talked about what a fun story it would be to share with this little person someday, that he/she actually ran the Boston marathon in 2013. Little did we know.
For a couple of years I've contemplated different "preggers in Boston" situations. At just how pregnant could I still run? Would I still want to run? Was I being ridiculous to believe I could bring life into the world without breaking my Boston streak? And then, just a week after racing the MV 20 miler and celebrating our 3rd wedding anniversary, I found I had a real life scenario, and that come Patriot's Day 2013 I would be 12 weeks pregnant.
It seemed perfect. I was in good shape, my mileage and long runs were up, and according to everything I read and every medical (and life experience) professional I talked to, it was completely safe and fine. But as the weekend drew closer I started to doubt myself more and more and questioned whether or not it was anything but completely selfish for me to attempt 26.2 miles in what my great uncle calls my "delicate state".
With Mike registered for Sunday's BAA 5K, and our travel plans already made, I decided I had until 10:20am Monday morning (my start time as a second wave runner) to decide. Saturday we drove to Boston and picked up our bibs and packets from the expo. Sunday, the day usually reserved for sitting around a lot, feet elevated, pouring in the liquids, began with a 6:30am depart from our hotel to drive back into the city for Mike's 5K. He ran wonderfully finishing in 16:43. And instead of spending the rest of our day relaxing, we spent the rest of the day shopping, eating, catching a Red Sox game, and touring.
By the time we got back to our hotel at 8pm, I was in tears insisting that I'd made up my mind and I wasn't running the next day. But after long talks with Mike and my mom, I decided I'd sleep on it. I did, after all, still have over 14 hours to officially decide.
At 6am Monday morning, I ate my breakfast next to the greatest running friend that's ever existed Emily, and I was still undecided. I went back to my room, put on my running clothes and bib, covered up in throw aways (this year it was the super fashionable combination of the pj pants I'd been sleeping in all weekend, a long sleeved cotton shirt of mine that was oober small, and an oversized tech shirt of Mike's that was covered in ink stains), and packed my bags. And then Mike handled it just the way I needed someone to - he said "okay, you'll just carry your cell, call me whenever you want to be done, text me every 5 miles so I know you're okay, and if all goes well I'll see you at mile 16 and run in with you". And I cried again.
Emily and I piled onto a bus headed to the start when it was almost full, so I took a seat next to a fabulous older woman who lived just outside of Hopkinton. She told me that she rides the bus to the start every single year, and that to her it's better than Christmas - "just as exciting and you don't have to be prepared with food or gifts!" I agree with her wholeheartedly.
We sat in our secret spot at the start line, and though our gang wasn't nearly as large as it has been in past years and we missed them terribly, we went on with tradition. Emily braided my hair. We watched the elite women start. We listened to the annual singing of America the Beautiful. Emily was off and running with wave 1, and before I knew it I was lining up for my own start at 10:20. The sun was shining, the skies were blue, and the air was chilly. There couldn't have been a more perfect day for marathoning.
My first mile was 8:42 and I thought "whoa, too fast, too fast". I was bound and determined to exercise complete and total overkill caution for the day. I stopped for gatorade and/or water at every single station, often walking through them to take my time drinking. I gave lots of high fives. My eyes were drawn to babies who looked only months old, and I welled up at the thought that our own little Murphy would be spectating his/her first Boston at less than 6 months old. I made my first of what would become six total porta jon stops at mile five. (I stopped at a porta jon twice in 12 marathons...my 13th, 6 potty breaks). I texted updates to Mike and even stopped on the side of the road to read and reply to a text from my sister in law who was having trouble tracking me.
It wasn't until mile 9 that I was able to strike up a conversation with another runner. I'm big on 26.2 chit chat, it's my favorite thing. But it's difficult to make friends in a race when, seeded by qualifying time, runners are flying past me as if I'm standing still at my new found comfy pace. I was approaching a woman with a "baby on board" sign on her back. 20 weeks pregnant, her company was just what I needed mentally and emotionally.
I've really tried to soak up the Boston experience the last couple of years, and this year was no different. I tried to notice more about the towns we run through, read the signs more carefully (my favorites included: "this is the worst parade ever", "you're nowhere near the finish" (mile 6), and "run like Ryan Gossling is waiting for you at the finish with a puppy"), and really notice the fans. Thank people for the orange slices they cut up in their own kitchens, and the popsicles, and tell them how outstanding they are for knowing how runners covered in gatorade stick appreciate the wet naps they hand out. And I was overwhelmed for the love the spectators have for the event. As if each and every one of them knows each and every runner like a close friend or family member.
By the time I got to Mike at mile 16 I was starting to feel the run in my legs, but I knew it was just from sheer amount of time on my feet, certainly not because I was overdoing it. He offered me the out to just call it quits and go to the car, but I felt fine and knew I wanted to finish. I sat next to him on the curb and ate a little bit, and we were off together.
Running with Mike made all the difference in the last ten miles. We talked, he showed me the picture of him and the friend he'd made while waiting for me...Lauren Fleshman! He gave high fives (I'd given them up at that point), waited for me on porta jon stops 5 and 6, and was not only supportive of, but actually encouraged some of, my walk breaks. He thoroughly enjoyed the Boston College crowd, and he commented over and over how much more enjoyable those last 10 miles are to run fresh:)
At mile 25.5, just before the dip into the underpass and before the famous right on Hereford, left on Boylston, we parted ways and he stayed straight on Comm Ave while I ran to the finish.
The crowds were, as always, loud, enthusiastic, and packed onto the side walks of Boylston. Just as I crossed the finish line, the clocks overhead (which had been changed to 3rd wave time) were just passing 4:06:00, though I knew that my time was really 4:26:and change - a far cry from the 3:11:41 I'd run there just two years ago. I pointed to my belly with my left hand and gave a number one with my right for the cameras, in hopes someone at marathonfoto would get a good souvenir pic of baby's first Boston. And, just like I had each of the four previous times I crossed that line, I cried. And though it was my slowest marathon yet, there was definitely no sadness at all to my tears. Words can't express how happy I am to be a runner. To already be able to share the goodness that is the world of running with my child. To know that this child will have this story forever.
I scooted past the medical help, thanking them for their service to the race, took two bottled waters from the Poland Spring volunteers, skipped past the cups of gatorade table, and stopped at the first volunteer handing out mylar blankets. "Congratulations!" she said, and as she put it around my shoulders, it happened. Offensively loud, a number of people around ducked down. The rest of us turned around to see Boylston behind us filled with smoke. And as we watched, wondering, a second explosion, that from our view point seemed to fill the entire famous Hereford/Boylston corner.
In the next few minutes there was a lot of "everyone stay calm", "please keep moving", and a few less calm "run, get off Boylston!". Mike called almost immediately to see where I was and if I was okay. We decided to meet at the Boylston/Arlington T station. A fellow runner asked to borrow my phone to call her daughter who'd been standing to cheer at the corner of Boylston/Hereford, and when she handed my phone back to me there was already a USA today breaking news update about the explosions on my home screen. I called my mom immediately to let her know I was okay. I turned around to look at some point and realized that everyone coming at me was wearing medals and I realized that I'd rushed right past the table. And so, completely idiotically, I went back. It's so odd how we process things. Sitting here now, completely rational, I have no idea what would have possessed me to back track. But when I got to the table, a friendly volunteer, as calm as anything says "you didn't get a medal!", and handed me one. And I looked at him and said "you shouldn't be handing out medals! You need to leave!".
I found Mike in the insanity that was the area surrounding the Arlington T station. Security was clearing out the station pushing everyone back up, as hundreds of runners and their families were trying to get down. Mike and I walked around the block to Comm Ave, and sat on the steps of a church to collect our thoughts and come up with a plan. I had on no clothes but my running shorts, shirt, bib, and mylar blanket. Though the sirens of emergency vehicles filled the air, cell service was shutting down, and just one block from us was mass chaos, the city seemed almost eerily calm. And though I'd seen the smoke from the first and the second explosion with my own eyes, there was a seemingly general hope that all was really okay.
We walked a bit, ironically back toward the site of the explosions, just a block behind, and thought about trying to find a warm place to get into until we had a plan. A nice man, who had obviously also run the race, approached us and introduced himself. Another runner and his wife joined the conversation too. A physician who had just completed his 44th Boston, a civil engineer and his wife, and Mike and I, became fast friends who were all headed to the Riverside T station, roughly 17 miles from where we were standing in Boston.
We decided we'd have to walk for a bit, and that we'd try to get a cab out of the city. We passed the underpass just before Hereford and saw the thousands of runners whose run had been stopped short, just standing crowded in the road, no doubt wondering what was happening and how they'd reunite with family. The line of runners was backed up as far as we could see toward the famous Citgo sign by Fenway park at mile 25.
After about a mile and a half of walking it became obvious that finding a cab would be near impossible, so we decided to hitch hike. The entire city had turned into a community of trust and caring and friendship. The very first car to see us stopped. The five of us piled in with the an early twenty something guy who graciously drove us about five miles out, and it was through him we learned that there were already two victims reported deceased and multiple wounded. When he let us out, we were again picked up by the first car that came along. This time a man in a mini van, and his two young daughters who had just finished their day at parochial school. They quietly ate their apples and looked back at us sweaty runners suspiciously every few minutes. The man drove miles past his house and took many detours to get us to the Woodland lot where the physician's wife was waiting with our 3rd ride, a Prius. We all piled in, again, and were able to catch a small bit of humor in what had become a very dark afternoon as Mike squeezed himself into the hatchback.
Once back at our own car, we said goodbye to our newfound friends, got cell service back, and began the wait on hearing from running club friends to make sure everyone was safely headed out. About 30 minutes later everyone was accounted for, and we started home.
It wasn't until the Today show the next morning that I realized how soon after I crossed the finish line the bombs went off (less than four minutes), or how close to the finish line the first bomb was. I was met at school with teary hugs, and have felt, for nearly a week now, relatively numb telling the story over and over.
I'm certainly not sad for myself. I don't honestly feel like I was even a part of it. My own very small imprint on the day seems almost surreal. When I become overwhelmed with the day it's my thoughts of the 20 week pregnant woman I ran with. I'm near certain she finished behind me, and I don't even know her name. Did she finish? Where was her husband and two small children when it happened? Were they waiting on Boylston? Fred Bostrom, one of my all time favorite running club members, was running his 38th Boston, and was stopped before his turn onto Boylston. Where was his dear wife waiting at 2:49pm? Knowing I wasn't "racing" and realizing there was a definite chance I wouldn't even run, my mom didn't travel with us for the first time in five years. Each year she waits at the corner of Boylston to watch my finish. Where would she have been four minutes after watching me run by this year? And the mom's and dad's holding the wee month old babies I'd adored early in the race...how many of them had made their way to Boylston to watch their friends/family finish?
I am fine. I've responded to each of the overwhelming number of concerned texts, emails, and facebook messages I've received with "I'm safe, healthy, and oh so happy to be home". But my heart is broken. Broken in that irreparable way that a heart breaks when horrible wrong is done to the most innocent and good. I can assure you that there is no greater concentration of goodness and kindness and gentleness in a place than there is in the participants and spectators of the Boston Marathon. And I think the only way to heal is to keep running, and to keep cheering.
Marathonfoto released pictures late this week and I was able to find a picture of me running through the 15K with my newfound "baby on board" friend. Thanks to the genius of social media I was able to make contact with her, and she's safe and healthy. Our running club, Triple Cities, also held an informal "Run Strong for Boston" group run this morning, where over 150 people turned out to donate over $1000 to victims of Monday's tragedy. I got to finally hug my friend Emily and see her beautiful face for the first time since she was off and running at 10am Monday morning, and then leave for a run with a beautiful sea of blue and yellow clad runners united in love of, and belief in, the goodness of the sport of running. It felt really good to be home with them. And I am awe struck by the flawless and heartfelt way the Boston Athletic Association has handled Monday's horrific events. I've yet to open my gmail account this week and not close it in tears - their words are perfect, and their sentiments remind me why Boston is so important to me and so many others. They truly do regard all of their runners and spectators as family. In their most recent email they even assure those injured that we'll all be with each of them as they relearn to stand, walk, and yes - even run again.
This was our baby's first Boston, and I am so happy that he/she is already surrounded by the goodness, kindness, and gentleness that is the running community.
