Everything good that happened last Monday has been overshadowed by the drama that has gripped Greater Boston in the past few days. But the day itself dawned with a special loveliness - besides being the first marathon in the past several years where there was no threat of rain or specter of sweltering heat, the sky seemed a bit bluer, the air a bit sweeter, so much so that it seemed hard to believe nature had seen fit to grant us all such a glorious day. In fact, I chose not to take a picture because there was no possibility of doing that morning justice in one just frozen frame.
I arose that morning earlier, perhaps, than I ever have, and slipped outside before the dawn. I made my way downtown to the Huntington YMCA, for Hal's 28th Annual Marathon Bike Ride. It's a 52 mile ride, starting at the finish, up the marathon route to the starting line in Hopkinton, and then back down the route to end again near the finish line. Last year I observed cyclists racing through Washington Square, hoping to make it back before they were asked to leave the course so that the ultra-fast wheelchair racers could claim the stage. I could never make it back in time, I thought to myself last year. Yet, somehow this year I thought I would try.
Only once before have I ridden more than 35 miles - a 50 mile ride when I was still a teenager and I only remember a hot, slow and miserable five-hour slog on bare and windy hilly roads. I didn't train for Monday's ride, but I thought the worst result would be if I had to take a break for lunch and then cycle slowly and miserably back after having been dropped by the group - that didn't sound so bad. Our group, maybe 50 or so riders, left the Y at 6 am and made our way past the finish line and down Commonwealth and Beacon, headed towards Boston College. When we hit the 10 mile mark we were still close to my home - I thought hard about turning around - the pace felt terrible - could I really do this 5 more times that day? You're not trying, I thought to myself; I pressed on. We climbed out of the hills of Newton, into the hills of Wellesley, and then Natick. I could still breathe, I was still in contact with the middle group in the pack. Then we all stopped.
Apparently, we had taken a wrong turn. They all leaped on to their bicycles and took off while I was still eating my snack; I raced to jump on too and keep them in sight since I didn't know where I was. I caught a little group of riders. We rode and rode into the traffic that neared the starting line. Then I got stuck alone at a red light. I continued to ride for a bit, but only saw cyclists going the opposite way. About 2 miles before the starting line, and 30 miles into my ride, I turned around, concerned about being able to get back. I rode the miles into the city alone, passing little groups and being passed by cycling teams from all over the area. I cycled past volunteers setting up aid stations and pouring water into hundreds of little green cups. Officers and officials in yellow and blue jackets were setting up barricades and directing traffic. Onlookers were beginning to gather along the route, the older ones setting up chair while the college students stocked up on beer to the sound of pumping music.
One part of the route was closed, and I and other cyclists walked around it through an ally paved only with heaps of stones before rejoining it and climbing Heartbreak Hill. Finally, I began to recognize the scenery. Just before 9:30 I rolled down the hill that leads into Washington Square, where I generally watch the Marathon. I had made it without getting kicked off the course for slowness. I was thrilled. I rode to Harvard Avenue, taking a sip of Gatorade. That was a mistake - I felt horrible and stopped. I sat in a bench. It was a big ride for me - no need to go all the way back to the Y. I checked out my cycling computer. Over 52 miles. Average speed over 14. And a completely different feeling 50-mile ride than my first.
Only once before have I ridden more than 35 miles - a 50 mile ride when I was still a teenager and I only remember a hot, slow and miserable five-hour slog on bare and windy hilly roads. I didn't train for Monday's ride, but I thought the worst result would be if I had to take a break for lunch and then cycle slowly and miserably back after having been dropped by the group - that didn't sound so bad. Our group, maybe 50 or so riders, left the Y at 6 am and made our way past the finish line and down Commonwealth and Beacon, headed towards Boston College. When we hit the 10 mile mark we were still close to my home - I thought hard about turning around - the pace felt terrible - could I really do this 5 more times that day? You're not trying, I thought to myself; I pressed on. We climbed out of the hills of Newton, into the hills of Wellesley, and then Natick. I could still breathe, I was still in contact with the middle group in the pack. Then we all stopped.
Apparently, we had taken a wrong turn. They all leaped on to their bicycles and took off while I was still eating my snack; I raced to jump on too and keep them in sight since I didn't know where I was. I caught a little group of riders. We rode and rode into the traffic that neared the starting line. Then I got stuck alone at a red light. I continued to ride for a bit, but only saw cyclists going the opposite way. About 2 miles before the starting line, and 30 miles into my ride, I turned around, concerned about being able to get back. I rode the miles into the city alone, passing little groups and being passed by cycling teams from all over the area. I cycled past volunteers setting up aid stations and pouring water into hundreds of little green cups. Officers and officials in yellow and blue jackets were setting up barricades and directing traffic. Onlookers were beginning to gather along the route, the older ones setting up chair while the college students stocked up on beer to the sound of pumping music.
One part of the route was closed, and I and other cyclists walked around it through an ally paved only with heaps of stones before rejoining it and climbing Heartbreak Hill. Finally, I began to recognize the scenery. Just before 9:30 I rolled down the hill that leads into Washington Square, where I generally watch the Marathon. I had made it without getting kicked off the course for slowness. I was thrilled. I rode to Harvard Avenue, taking a sip of Gatorade. That was a mistake - I felt horrible and stopped. I sat in a bench. It was a big ride for me - no need to go all the way back to the Y. I checked out my cycling computer. Over 52 miles. Average speed over 14. And a completely different feeling 50-mile ride than my first.
C had never seen the marathon, but due to unforeseen circumstances, took the day off from work and we both strolled down Harvard Avenue to Coolidge Corner to watch the marathon together. We watched and wandered down Beacon Street for hours, clapping, cheering, ringing our little "cowbell" and watching the efforts of so many thousands of runners, the culmination of the months of training. We stopped to listen to a band, we ate Italian sausages. We walked some more and enjoyed the silly outfits of some of the runners, the hoots and cheers when someone ran past her supporters in the crowd. A friend and co-worker of mine was running her first marathon and we decided to stay on a bit later than in the hopes of seeing her pass and cheering her on.
We all kept clapping and cheering, but, like the officer, turned to our phones. What was happening, what blight on this most beautiful of celebrations of running, of the human spirit, and our local Patriot's Day holiday? "Nothing," said C, scanning the news. "They don't have anything," said the officer to the EMTs. "Twitter," I said, hoping that the fastest way to learn about MBTA disruptions would also prove the fastest way to know if something had marred this special day. And there it was - in less than 140 characters - explosion at the finish line. It was maybe 10 or 15 minutes before it was known that the explosions were vicious, not some overheated steam pipe, not a backfiring bus, and that something was truly and horribly wrong. In the meantime, the crowd became nearly silent and hundreds of runners ran past, their pace becoming increasingly slow. I clapped, I encouraged: these runners had worked just as hard, deserved our praise and support just as much as every runner who passed before them. Eventually, hundreds of people watched hundreds of runners silently, as the runners slowed to a walk, looking at their phones as they ticked off the last few miles of the day's momentous effort.
And then, they shut down the marathon. We didn't know, then, but my friend had been stopped on the course at mile 21 and was safe. The T was stopped. The street cleared. Police cars rushed down the route, and some drove with flashing lights traveling eastbound down the westbound lanes of Beacon Street. Thousands of runners and spectators tried to figure out where to go and how to get there.The beautiful afternoon was left to sirens and then to silence.
And then, they shut down the marathon. We didn't know, then, but my friend had been stopped on the course at mile 21 and was safe. The T was stopped. The street cleared. Police cars rushed down the route, and some drove with flashing lights traveling eastbound down the westbound lanes of Beacon Street. Thousands of runners and spectators tried to figure out where to go and how to get there.The beautiful afternoon was left to sirens and then to silence.
We won't forget the victims and their need for our support as they and their families try to stitch their interrupted lives back together. But as we do so, we can also acknowledge the real accomplishments of all those runners who cannot help that their accomplishment coincides with a day that brought not only joy and beauty, but like so much of life, also pain and suffering.
