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Add My StoryAuthor: Jennifer Dranoff
Marathon Monday:
The energy that comes from the starting Village at Hopkinton is infectious and indescribable. Excitement. Anxiety. Every runner doing their pre-race rituals, whether that is carefully preparing an unusual breakfast that is certain to keep them going, taking a nap, saying a prayer, or going to the bathroom every 25 minutes. 27,000 runners are all together, waiting anxiously for the first gun to go off. Every runner has a different story and a different ritual. Every runner, however, has the same goal: to cross the finish line of Boston Marathon. Whether it is for the first time, or the 23rd, every runner has trained hard, and earned that opportunity.
As the gun goes off, it is hard not to feel every possible emotion. I was so excited that I was about to start my first Marathon in the city I loved so much, on the day that means so much to me. As the gun went off, and the marathon officially began, I could not wait to cross that finish line. I was told by Ron to not run faster than an 11 minute mile for the first 6 miles, advice I will take with me to every future marathon. He explained that “the first six miles determine your last six miles.” And even though this was close to impossible, as the excitement made me want to run as fast as I could, I kept my pace slow, and focused on enjoying everything around me. This was easy. I was so overwhelmed with emotion that crying was inevitable as people I had never met before told me how proud they were of me, and how I was an inspiration. They gave me high fives and encouraging words. I couldn’t believe how quickly the miles passed me by. I was so excited and distracted by the millions of people cheering me on that I barely noticed how far I was running. I hydrated regularly, and ate the “shot blocks” I brought to keep me going. I needed to bring nothing, however, as Boston had me covered. I took advantage of the generosity these people gave. I ate licorice, gummy bears, a jolly rancher, and took every orange slice that was offered to me. I gave as many people as I could high fives, but focused mainly on the children cheering me on. They were so excited to be there! Some were counting how many high fives they could receive on this beautiful day, others screamed with excitement when I chose their hands, as though I was a famous rock star. They did not understand why today was so important, but they knew it was.
The miles kept passing, and I kept running. Miles 1-3 were a breeze physically, while miles 4 and 5 left my already injured foot in pain. I kept running, however, and my body worked itself out leaving me pain free around mile 6. Nothing could stop me on this beautiful day. The conditions for running were perfect. Not too hot, not too cold.
Mile 13 came along, and I knew that I could finish this race. This was another emotional moment for me, as until that moment 13.1 meant I had finished the race, not reached the halfway point. I kept going, my “fans” continued cheering me on, and I knew my family was tracking me so they would know the perfect time to head to the finish.
Around mile 15, my foot hurt again. I had to slow down and attempt to stretch out my foot in between strides. It gave me trouble for almost a mile. I stopped to stretch my foot, and when I started up again, I had a round of applause suited for a football player who just gave a “thumbs up” while walking off the field from an injury.
Mile 18 became very cold. My arms went numb, but nothing would stop me. Other than my arms, my body felt great. To be sure nothing bad would happen, I quickly stopped in the Medical tent to make sure my numb and tingling arms were strictly from being cold, and nothing more. They checked all my vitals, told me I had the blood pressure of “a choir girl”, which is pretty impressive after running 19 miles, and sent me on my way. Coming out of the tent, another round of applause ensued, this time from spectators and runners.
At Mile 21, I knew something had gone wrong. I passed several spectators on their phones who were crying. I quickly pushed it to the back of my mind, convincing myself nothing had happened, and continued to run toward the goal that I had worked so hard for. Around mile 22.5 I passed the Hoyts, which was the most inspirational 30 seconds of my life. If they could do this, so could I. They will never know the impact they had on me in that moment—as a runner and a person, and will continue to have on me for the rest of my life.
Mile 23 came, and it became hard to keep the fear to the back of my mind as I continued to see more people on their phones, yelling in fear and crying. Several runners passed me talking about “what happened,” but I still could not figure it out. I did not want to figure it out. It was not until mile 24, when a runner passed me after sharing that she “heard the news” to a spectator, that I gathered the courage to ask what had happened. Hearing the words “two bombs went off on Boylston at the finish line” almost stopped me in my tracks. Anyone who has ever learned that their loved ones might be in danger can empathize with the fear I felt in that moment. I knew my entire family was waiting for me at the finish line. My husband, my parents, my parents-in-law, my cousin, and my aunt and uncle. I began sprinting. Suddenly the marathon, what I had worked so hard to complete, no longer mattered. What mattered was that my family was waiting for me at the finish line, and they were in danger. I had to run to them. I sprinted for about half of a mile before I could not take it any longer. I did not realize I was crying until I begged a spectator to let me borrow her phone. Begging was unnecessary, as she was handing me her phone before I could say anything coherent. Even though she handed me an iPhone, the same phone I own, I stared at it in horror, not knowing what buttons to press. She kindly rubbed my back, asked me to give her the number I wanted to contact so she could text them, as phone calls were not going through. I managed to give her my Mom’s phone number, and she sent her a text message asking if she was OK. My Mom quickly responded that she and my Dad were OK, but she did not know about my husband or the rest of my family. Not knowing what to do, I let out a “thank you” to this wonderful stranger and began my sprint again.
I passed the “Mile 25” marker, but did not realize it until I noticed the “one mile left!” sign. This sign should have made me thrilled, but instead it reminded me of what happened only a mile away. This sign should have been surrounded by screaming spectators, but instead, thousands of people were quietly walking away from the finish line, paying no attention to us. I continued sobbing as I continued running, noticing spectators trying to stop me from running in the direction of danger, and trying to give me comfort. Less than a mile away, I finally asked a group of Boston Police if I would be able to look for my family at the finish line. They told me the finish line was now a crime scene, and the race was over. I wish I could say I kept myself composed, but it was impossible. On a day-to-day basis, I take pride my ability to keep calm and collected in times of need, especially around my students. But today, in this moment, I needed others to help me. In the midst of Kenmore square, a place I had grown so familiar with, I found myself more lost than ever.
I will never forget the kindness Boston gave me in that moment. A mother, searching for her own husband and 2 children, gave me a hug and tearfully promised me it would be OK. A medic gave me a trash bag for warmth and brought me into his tent to help calm me down. Three girls came over to me immediately after seeing me. One of them sacrificed their coat for me to wear. The second, without hesitation, told me she would come up with a plan for me to meet up with my family. She asked for my Mom’s and husband’s phone number, then texted them that I would be in Bertucci’s around the corner and to come find me there. As I handed the first girl her jacket, she gave me 20 dollars to buy food in the restaurant while I waited for my family. I only accepted this money because she told me she knew I would pay it forward.
Walking into Bertucci’s, Boston continued to prove to me what I already knew: this was the greatest city in America. As I was crying in the bar after watching the bombs go off over and over on the bar’s 4 televisions, a man came over and gave me his jacket and bought me a much-needed beer. A family, who saw me, came over and gave me a hug. They sat me down at their table, ordered me bread, and helped distract me from the horror I was feeling. They lent me their phone so I could try to check my email, while the man who lent me his jacket offered to call my husband again. It was then that we heard each other’s voices for the first time since 5:00 that morning. Never have I heard anything so wonderful. Though my husband and my Mom had told me they were safe, calming down was not an option. I would not believe they were all safe until I got to see them, and feel them for myself. I do not know how much time that amazing family stayed with me as I anxiously waited to see someone I knew, but I will forever remember their kindness. Finally my parents walked through the door of the restaurant, and the moment was surreal. I could not run fast enough to jump into my Mother’s arms, where we stood, embracing each other and crying for several minutes. I hugged my Dad, sobbing, just so happy to be reunited. We all went over to thank the family that had so wonderfully taken me in. I embraced one of the women at the table, who cried in my arms apologetically. Now all I needed was my husband and his family. I knew he was coming, but there was no telling if he was safe on the streets of Boston. As I sat, crying with my parents at a table in Bertucci’s, he ran by our table yelling my name. Another embrace drowned in tears and relief. His father was not far behind. When you hug someone after fearing that you had lost them, there is no comparable feeling in the world. I did not want to let any of them out of my sight. Ever.
I forced some food down my throat because I knew my body needed to eat, but I was still in shock from the event. We stepped out of the restaurant onto the streets of Boston to begin looking for a cab. We went much farther than the mile I had left of my run in order to do so. I had to buy sweatpants at Boston University in order to keep warm, and we made it all the way back to my parents’ hotel, a block from the finish line, before we were able to catch a cab. Looking down at Boylston street, seeing the signs for the “Family Meeting Area” where I had planned to triumphantly stand as I met up with my family, which was now covered in debris, was unbearable to see. Leaving my parents at the hotel for the night was horrible. I never wanted them out of my sight again. But the hotel assured us they were ID-ing everyone who entered the building, and would keep their guests safe.
We finally made it back to our hotel, crying the entire way, where I was able to run into the arms of the rest of my family. I cannot tell you how grateful and relieved I felt embracing them. Even now as I write this, reliving the feeling I had when I heard the words “a bomb went off on Boylston” I wish I was back in their embrace. We were all together, we were all safe. Truly, there was nothing more important.
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