The Boston Marathon: A Revolutionary Experience

Karin A.

With the sudden crack of a gun the journey started, reminiscent of the first shots fired at Lexington and Concord that would lead to one of the greatest battles of all time for freedom and independence. The runners were off and there was no turning back.

“The Boston Marathon is an experience like no other race.” I continued to hear this up until race day. For me, it was hard to grasp until I experienced it first hand. This is the story of my first Boston Marathon; the people I met, the energy I felt, and my renewed determination to become a better runner.  

Boston is held on Patriots' Day, and it’s no accident. The American Revolution was a hard-fought battle with ups and downs, wins and losses. A ragtag group of citizens, disorganized and without military experience, picked up arms to go up against the mightiest military power in the world. They were on a quest for freedom, and in the process they built strength as a community and tested their limits of endurance. Great sacrifices were made, but in the end they prevailed.     

When I arrived in Boston on Saturday, it was clear that the city belonged to the runners that weekend. The streets were dotted with banners, and the runners were easily identifiable by their Boston garb. Mostly veteran runners, they proudly donned their colorful jackets corresponding to the year (or perhaps one of many) when they previously ran. It was a little intimidating to see so many fit athletes strolling confidently with their jackets, wearing them as well-earned badges of honor. As for myself, I had my purple 2015 jacket neatly tucked away in my suitcase with the tags still attached. I figured I hadn’t earned it yet, and while still nursing an injury from February, I was concerned whether I would finish the race at all.

RACE DAY

On race day morning, I was wandering around Boston Commons with countless other runners waiting to board the big yellow school buses that would drive us to the start in the town of Hopkinton. In and around the Commons, I could hear runners clickety-clacking about the route, the weather, and their times. The morning was unusually cool with the promise of rain and headwinds in the forecast, and runners puttered around in throwaway clothes trying to keep warm.

The BAA is extraordinarily organized, including everything from the pre-race newsletters to the hyper-detailed instructions on what to do before, during, and after the race. In preparation at Boston Commons, much of this organization was apparent; runners were gently directed to fill the buses early and often, and when it was time to head to the start, a fleet of yellow buses would take off one wave after another. It was an impressive sight.   

We arrived at Athletes' Village, which housed amenities for runners waiting their start times where they could indulge in last minute necessities; more potty breaks, extra carbs, and warm coffee to quell the shivers. When the wave was called, runners would walk nearly three-quarters of a mile to the start line. On the way, BAA volunteers offered pre-race waters and collected discard clothing. 

Volunteers Collecting Clothes

The local residents were already outside in the cool weather watching and supporting the runners as they approach the start line. A woman in her pajamas, swaddled in a blanket, waved warmly from her porch as she shouted words of admiration and encouragement to the lot of strangers walking past her home. 

As soon as I reached my corral it started to rain on cue, like the first note of a great symphony about to engage in a seemingly endless and magical musical journey. It was invigorating. The excitement of the race was palpable and the runners were ready.

THE RACE IS ON

Crack! The gun went off. So would start the 26.2-mile journey that we had been waiting for months or maybe even years to take. It was a mixture of exhilaration and the slow onset of wistfulness, in anticipation that in a few short hours it would be over.

The route is a series of gently rolling hills streaming like a ribbon through quaint towns. Locals lined the route to cheer on the runners as we made our way into Boston proper. From Hopkinton to Ashland to Framingham and onward, the borders from town to town were peppered with fun-loving rowdy early-morning drinkers and loud rock. At one point, we came across a small group of men cheering in front of church wearing denim and bright orange shirts, joined by more official-looking uniformed officers. A few of us runners commened quizzically that they looked like prisoners. 

As soon as we hit the 12-mile mark, we knew we were approaching the famous Wellesley girls and their Wall of Sound. Admittedly, I wasn’t looking forward to the overwhelming sound of screaming young ladies. You could definitely hear them at least a mile out. As soon as we hit the heart of Wellesley, it was a delight. The enthusiasm from the girls was infectious, and the vibration I felt throughout my body from the sound was elating.

Around mile 16, before the famous Newton hills, I saw a sign that read, "The Kenyans are drinking your beer." Needless to say, this gave me an extra boost to power over the dreaded hills. And those Newton hills weren’t so bad. In fact it was the smaller and seldom-mentioned mini hills after Heartbreak that were the real kicker. But it didn’t matter. I felt great and I was within reach of my goal (and on my way to earn my purple jacket!).

As you enter Boylston Street, the buildings get taller, the street gets wider, and wide-eyed crowd thickens with shouts of encouragement – “You got this!” – “You look great!” – “You’re almost there!” I felt cloaked in their cheers and roars as I raced ahead for the blue and yellow banner.   

POST-RACE REFLECTIONS

One of the most remarkable aspects of the race is the strong will of the runners. Many people I spoke to were aiming for times well under 4 hours and some even less than 3. But it wasn’t only about time. Victims of the 2013 bombings, including some of whom lost limbs, were there in a show of resilience and determination. There were also cancer survivors and people with severe physical disabilities who finished the race in triumph. It was awe-inspiring and moving.

At a post-race Sam Adams brewery tour, I met Bill Iffrig. Bill was knocked down by the blast in 2013 just 20 feet from the finish line. He was featured in what’s now an iconic photograph from the cover of Sports Illustrated, with him on the ground and three police officers coming to his rescue. 

Fortunately, Bill sustained only minor injuries, and in the midst of the smoke and chaos, he stood up and assessed himself and decided he was well enough to continue and cross the finish line. And he did. He was 78 years old. He ran again this year at the age of 80 and finished in 4:23:13.  

 

With Bill Iffrig

The day after the race, I strutted down the streets in Jamaica Plain in my well-earned purple jacket on my way to the famous Doyle’s Cafe for one last Sam Adams and a bowl of clam chowder. A man shouted congratulations from his car as he drove by, and a woman with four small kids did the same as we crossed paths on the sidewalk. I felt like a celebrity. Boston is a city with great pride, history, and strength, and this was tangible in all corners of this city of rebels. 

Back in NYC, it seemed as though spring had arrived in my absence as trees in all directions were blooming fiercely. The feelings of my brief stint as a celebrity were diluted and I went back to being just another runner in Central Park. But I put on my purple badge of honor and began to plot how I would work my way back to qualify for Boston. I reflected on the great runners that I met on my journey and took inspiration from the resilient souls that prevailed against the odds to run the Boston Marathon.

I want to say a special thanks to the many friends, family, fellow runners, and acquaintances that showed me an overwhelming amount of support; people that took time to say good luck and congratulations in the midst of busy schedules, personal struggles, and even family tragedies. Your selflessness and warmth will not soon be forgotten. 

-Karin A.