http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l5vOhMwRQwI

Olympic gold medalist Billy Mills recalls winning the 10,000 meter run at the 1964 Tokyo Summer Olympics in one of the greatest upsets in sports history. Mills, an Oglala Lakota from Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota, was the second American Indian to win an Olympic gold medal and the first American to win the 10,000 meter dash. His triumphs over hypoglycemia and suicidal thoughts inspire him to help others overcome their own hurdles in life.

The post Billy Mills
“Wings of an Eagle” appeared first on Witnify.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ovwmULL2-f0

Alice Coachman describes what it was like to be the first black woman to a win an Olympic Gold Medal. She trained in bare feet, while growing up in rural Georgia. She went on to the win the Olympic gold medal in the high jump for the United States at the 1948 Olympics in London. She was awarded her medal by King George VI and upon her return met with President Harry Truman. She then had to return to a segregated south where the mayor of her hometown Albany, GA, refused to shake her hand. Alice Coachman died on July 14, 2014.

The post Alice Coachman
First Black Woman to Win an Olympic Gold Medal appeared first on Witnify.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXI7AyzWW24

Rick and Dick Hoyt explain how they got their start as a father and son team at their first race and share their memories of the different Boston marathons they have participated in over the years. The first Boston Marathon was held on April 19, 1897 and is held every year on Patriot’s Day.

The post Boston Marathon
Team Hoyt on Running the Marathon Together appeared first on Witnify.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=44oBbv80KQU

Lelisa Debisa, the winner of the 2013 Boston Marathon, describes what was going through his mind during the final stretch of the marathon and shares his thoughts on his successful race performance. Debisa’s interview on April 15th happened more than two hours before the first cooker pressure bomb went off at the finish line at 2:49 p.m.

The post Boston Marathon
2013 Marathon Winner on Fighting for First Place appeared first on Witnify.

Author: 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.

The post Boston Marathon Bombings
[Text] As Though Running 25 Miles Was Not Hard Enough appeared first on Witnify.

In this photo you can see I’m one of the only people standing after the 1st bomb went off on April 15th. I am looking on the ground at my wife. All you can see through the smoke is her blonde hair. Photo By: Michael Bourgault

Author: Michael Bourgault

The post Boston Marathon Bombings
[Image] Seconds After the First Bomb Went Off appeared first on Witnify.

This is a picture of me relaxing in Boston Commons following the 2012 Boston Marathon, run under extremely hot conditions compared to nearly perfect weather of the 2013 race.

It was an otherwise perfect day for running the Boston Marathon–my eighth, a race I first ran in 1987. I ran the first 13 miles with two friends from my home town–Holly and Mike. Both of them were running their first Boston. Despite likely running in scores of the same races, they did not know each other. Independently, they told me they hoped to run 3:35. So I put them together just a few minutes before the race and decided to run with them, even though I had qualified with a faster time and would have otherwise been in a different corral. After 13 miles, I needed to use the porta-potty, and left them–and both finished ahead of me, but not together.

I finished in 3:49, having started in the second wave, about 24 minutes slower than my qualifying time from the 2011 Atlanta Marathon. After crossing the finish line, I received my medal, space blanket, food goodie bag, and was chatting with Holly, who had waited for me at the finish line before a planned meeting with her family in the family reunion area around the corner from the race on St. James Avenue. We were discussing how wonderful the sports drink was that was handed to us–raspberry flavored. She decided to walk back toward the finish line and retrieve another bottle. I heard a loud explosion, that sounded like a cannon.

White smoke was drifting from north to south, and I knew that this was not something good. My immediate thought was that this was a pipe bomb, and it had exploded on the second-story of a building somewhere near the finish line. I instinctively looked down at my watch, thinking that there was a strong possibility that a second bomb might be detonated in about 10 minutes, targeted at first responders. The time on my digital watch was 2:50. I turned around and started walking east toward the Commons. Then, after what I had estimated to be more than a minute (and which turned out to be about 14 seconds), I heard the second blast. At that point, I began to doubt my theory about two bombs, and started worrying that it might be a series of them, and that they may be making their way down Boyleston Street, possibly putting me in the path. I picked up my pace.

There were lots of police around, but no one I asked appeared to know anything was out of the ordinary. It was a really long time before I heard the first sirens, and I glanced again at my watch, which registered 2:58. I thought this was really strange, because it would not have been unusual to hear sirens of some kind in that area even if there had been no bomb. And then, the sirens were constant for hours, and I saw scores of emergency and other official (both marked and unmarked) vehicles going south on Arlington Street and turning left (west) on St. James–a block south of Boyleston. My wife called me on my cell at about 2:59, and I told her to turn on the television–that “something bad just happened, but I don’t know what it was.” She did, but couldn’t find anything. I checked the news on my cell phone and couldn’t find anything either.

I decided to pick up my checked gear from the school bus on a side street off of Boyleston, and then leave the area. It was somewhat windy, and I was feeling chilly, so after wandering aimlessly for a few blocks, I looked for shelter. I ended up in the Back Bay Amtrak and commuter train station–probably not the best place to be with the risk of a potential widespread terrorist attack. I began getting calls from local media–many of our local TV and radio stations were calling all of the runners they could find, and my wife had given them my cell number. I did several live interviews, but I did not know much, other than that by then, I learned that there indeed had been two bombs. The first reports were that six people had been injured. And there were reports that other bombs had been discovered in various places. This was not true, but added to the anxiety I had that I was possibly in an exposed position sitting in a train station.

There were rumors in the train station that the subway system had been shut down, but the Amtrak and commuter rail appeared to be still operating. Not knowing the full extent of the tragedy, I thought about whether I wanted to stick around for the post race party–I had attended the previous year and found it entertaining. This year, I did not feel like going, and worried a bit about the report of transportation being disrupted. Based on that, I decided to get to the Amtrak South Station as soon as I could, and leave town as planned by bus. I did not learn that this party had been cancelled until the next day.
Bracing for the possibility that I might be trapped for a long time in Boston without a way to get to South Station and back home, I approached the information desk in the Back Bay station. I learned that if I purchased a ticket and left immediately for the platform, there was a commuter train leaving Back Bay for South Station in less than five minutes.
I was on it. I later learned that many others weren’t so lucky being able to leave town as planned.

I ended up taking an overnight bus from South Station to 30th Street Station in Philadelphia, where I arrived around 5:30 a.m., and had a conversation with a K-9 police officer, with his dog on a leash, about my experience. There was a television crew from a local TV station that requested to interview me live, but I thought that I could get a train back to my hometown of Harrisburg that was leaving in just a few minutes–I could arrive several hours faster than if I used my bus ticket from Philadelphia to Harrisburg. During the train ride, I did live telephone interview with a commercial radio station from State College, PA, where my son had an internship as a radio producer. I remember expressing some anger that whatever motivated this, I found it appalling that the target was such a spirit-lifting event such as the Boston Marathon.

By the time I arrived home, I was beginning to get a sense of the magnitude of the tragedy, and realized that there were two previous Bostons I had completed where I would have been crossing the finish line at almost the exact time that the bomb had hit–the last one in 2011. It would not have been surprising for me to have been crossing the finish line at around 2:50 in the 2013 race–except that unlike most years, I needed a Boston-qualifying race for 2014, so I ran much faster than I would have otherwise.

I also learned that Mike’s wife, Becky, had been unable to finish the race. She was on Boyleston Street, seeing the finish line just a couple of blocks ahead of her, when the bombs went off. And another friend, Gary, who had been waiting for his wife to finish, was only a few feet from the first blast, and was blown into a barricade by the shock wave, but was otherwise unhurt.

Author: Gary Grobman

The post Boston Marathon Bombings
[Text] A Day in the Life – April 15 appeared first on Witnify.

I was there.

I should write something.

I was there at the start when the air was alive with energy and anticipation. I was there when runners who prepared for months nervously counted down to the start of the race. I was there when it was a perfect day for running 26.2 miles, fueled by the energy of the volunteers and spectators lining the route. I was there when it was uplifting and exhilarating. I was there when it was a fantastic day to run the 117th Boston Marathon.

I was there when the bombs went off, a few minutes after I crossed the finish line, just a few dozen yards away. I was there when cheers of celebration and joy transformed into screams of pain and terror, as emergency personnel and volunteers protected only by their bright yellow jackets ran into the smoke and carnage as they simultaneously screamed for us to evacuate.

I was there for nearly two hours, stumbling dazed around Boston as runners and family members desperately searched for each other, comforted each other, helped each other. And I was there when all but one of our friends made contact with her family, her glazed and wet eyes foretelling the unimaginable reality to come.

I see the faces of those killed, their photos capturing random, happy moments from their short lives. I was there, in their final minutes. I wonder if they cheered for me, or caught my eye for just a moment. I try to understand why some of us are protected by guardian angels, while others are called to become angels. I question endlessly how an event to celebrate running could leave spectators without limbs. How an event to celebrate the human spirit could be a target for violence, hatred and death. I wonder how the historic Boston Marathon is now followed by the words “Bombing”, “Massacre” and “Tragedy”.

I didn’t watch the unending hours of news. I didn’t have to. I was there, and replay that moment daily. My chest feels like it is being crushed by the combined weight of guilt, disgust, helplessness and sadness; so much sadness.

I didn’t save newspapers about the event. I didn’t attend the remembrance, memorial service or group run I was invited to. I should have, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Because I’m trying the best I can to be here, not there.

But I was there, and I should write something.

Author: bethogrady

The post Boston Marathon Bombings
[Text] Boston Marathon–I Was There appeared first on Witnify.

I took this image at 2:19pm April 15th 2013, 30 minutes before the 1st bomb exploded just behind me at the Marathon Sports store.

I was standing much closer to the explosion’s site earlier, but a craving for some ice cream on that beautiful day (that’s how it started out) made me go inside Sugar Heaven. I think that saved me from more serious injuries; when I got outside again eating my ice-cream, I was just slightly further away and never went all the way back into the crowd in front of Marathon Sport again, placing me a bit further from the bomb when it went off.

I don’t remember the blast. I do remember the heat, the smell, the panic, my ears ringing… the blood…

I wanted to post this picture to show what beautiful day it was, just before…

Author: Anton Spaans

The post Boston Marathon Bombings
[Image] Before It All Happened, It Was a Beautiful Day appeared first on Witnify.

Author: Sydney Corcoran

Everyone was so happy as we cheered on the complete strangers that were running by while waiting for our loved one to cross over the finish line and come back to us. I was trying to see a familiar face on any of the runners but I couldn’t find my aunt just yet. My mother was eager to see her as well; she was using my shoulders for balance as she was trying to pull herself up so she could balance on her tiptoes. My father was right behind us, our family friends were scattered around us. It had the allusion of a beautiful day.

It’s amazing how everything can change from ecstatic and jubilant, to horrifying and gruesome in the matter of mere seconds. The first bomb goes off and everyone is immersed in smoke. Every one of my senses is in use and working in overdrive. I can smell smoke and blood. I can taste the smoke going down my throat and into my lungs. I can see people on the ground but I can’t make out their faces. I can hear screams coming from every angle; each scream being muffled by my perforated eardrums.

I felt the force of the first of two bombs, but I was left standing. I wasn’t lucky enough to walk away unscathed. I felt like half of my right foot was gone. I managed to limp away to a rail. I was clutching onto that rail trying to comprehend what had just happened.

The next thing I know, I’m on the ground laying flat on my back. Men are putting massive amounts of pressure to my thigh and they’re taking off my shoes because they are covered in blood. I lift my head up to look at my thigh and I see something protruding. It’s hard for me to breath. When I speak, it’s barely above a whisper.

There’s a man with a friendly face that’s holding my hand and telling me to squeeze it. He keeps calling me buddy and tells me I’ll be okay. I’m not sure I believe him. I’m about to be wheeled away on a gurney when he asks if I would like him to stay with me; I say yes. As the people are carrying me towards the medical tent, I think in my head that we’ll be killed by another bomb.

Once in the medical tent, they begin tearing away my clothes and strap an oxygen mask over my face. My entire body feels tingly. I can hear one of the medics say how I’m going white and my lips are purple. I begin to shiver because all warmth is leaving my body. I can hear the medics frantically yelling, “She has a femoral artery break! She has to leave now! There’s no time!”

Once I’m in the ambulance I intermittently close my eyes because the urge to sleep has grown stronger and my will is deteriorating. The ambulance was cut off and the EMT in the back with me is thrown to the front of the vehicle. I was jostled around from the abrupt stop and I feel my warm blood rushing out of my thigh. I don’t think I’ll make it.

In the emergency room, everyone is asking my name and where I’m from and they want me to give them a number they can contact for me. I speak with enormous effort. I ask them when they’re going to put me under, I just want to sleep and not feel the pain. I ask them while on the brink of sobbing if I’ll be able to keep my leg. I also tell them that both of my parents were in the explosion and I don’t know if they are all right.

I could be an orphan. The only person I think I have left is my brother. I want to sob thinking about how my parents could have been violently ripped away from this earth leaving me all alone on this operating table bleeding to death.

When I wake up, I’m intubated and tired. I see my dad and want to ask questions but the tubes prevent me from doing so. I ask for paper and a pen and try to ask him if my mother is alive. He tells me she is alive and in critical condition, he tells me that she no longer has her legs. I feel myself start to cry as I try to write and tell him that I thought that I was an orphan. After he reads what I wrote he begins to sob and kiss my face.

The hospital wanted to bring my mother and I together so they wheeled her bed into my room and next to me. Once we were next to each other we both began to cry and we held each other’s hands.

I didn’t care that my mom had lost both her legs, I wish that I could take away the pain she feels, but I’m just glad she’s alive and that I can still look at her and call her my mother. I know that we both have a long road to recovery.

I now have a hollow hole in my right foot; the bottom of my foot has a crack in it like the sidewalk does. My right calve has two incision’s that were made to alleviate pressure because I had suffered from Compartment Syndrome. I have two massive shrapnel wounds where a piece of shrapnel entered my thigh and severed my femoral artery. I have two incisions on both of my thighs from the surgeons taking a vein from one thigh and putting it in the other thigh to repair my broken artery. I have one other shrapnel wound located on the bottom of my shin on my left leg.

Today is Thursday, August 1st, 2013 and I still have shrapnel trying to leave my body. I have a BB pellet that’s trying to work its way out of my right thigh where the major artery was severed. It reminds me every day of the bombings; but it also reminds me that I’m still alive despite those two murderers.

My mother may not have her legs but she’s got new legs now. She and I are proof that those boys almost took our lives, and failed.

I’m just glad I’m alive and that I got to go to my senior prom on crutches without my Wound Vac and I managed walk across the stage at graduation with nothing to aid me except for the boot on my healing foot. I still get to see my parents and my brother and be able to tell them, “I love you”. In my eyes, every day is a good day to be alive.

The post Boston Marathon Bombings
[Text] April 15th, 2013 appeared first on Witnify.