Marathon Monday 2013

I could say the day began like any other. But that wouldn’t be entirely true. That’s because this particular Monday, April 15, was also my birthday. 

Three friends were in town, visiting to celebrate my birthday with me. They were all staying with me and my partner in Roslindale—just a quick train ride into the city where we planned to spend the day cheering on those ambitious enough to run 26.2 miles.

It was set to be a memorable afternoon, a birthday to remember. But the afternoon would become decidedly more memorable than I could have ever imagined in the most horrific and terrifying of ways.

The next morning a shop in
Roslindale was selling these T-shirts.

We were running behind schedule, as is usual with this group, and we didn’t get into Boston until some time after 1 p.m. As we maneuvered our way through the various barricades—in place to keep the marathon route clear of spectators—trying to make it to the finish line, it was just about 2:30 p.m. before we could see a clear path to it down Exeter Street. 

We decided to stop for lunch beforehand because we knew the foot traffic would only be thicker on Boylston Street where we could hear the crowds cheering. So we got our buzzing thingamajig from Joe’s American Bar and Grill on Newbury Street and were told we were in for a 45-minute wait. My three friends, my cousin and I converged on the corner of Newbury and Exeter with hundreds of other revelers who were enjoying one of the city’s first spring days—a little crisp perhaps, but perfect for runners—and waited and laughed and enjoyed each other’s company.

We were standing on this corner when we heard the first boom and the sidewalks simultaneously shook beneath our feet. I say “boom” because we had no idea what had happened just a block away. We all looked at each other with varying degrees of concern and confusion. The question was in all our eyes: “What was that?” Then, just seconds later, the second boom shook the city and each one of us as we began to notice the smoke billowing down Dartmouth street toward us. Next, it was the crowd—massive and running at us in a panic—that told us all to run.

Nothing made sense. It still doesn’t make sense.

My heart goes out to all those who were at the finish line and in harm’s way, whose lives are forever shattered and altered by the acts of cowards. And for those we lost, there are no words of condolence that can suffice.

Wood's words for thought: Although our hearts may be broken, Boston is not.