Boston

April 24, 2017

Greetings from the Unicorn Hunter,

I ran through empty streets and through Boston Commons and onto Boyleston.  I was a little conflicted, not sure if it was appropriate to run across the finish line before the race.  Kind of like seeing the bride in her dress before the wedding. 

It was early Sunday morning but there were already dozens of runners warming up on Boyleston.  The street was closed, and it was easy to imagine it is always closed for us.  It was unnaturally quiet, even for this time of day.  A few people talked in hushed tones.   Pictures were taken.  Runners autographed a piece of art there.  Groups ran through talking quietly. 

I stood there longer than I realized. I couldn’t name what I felt at that moment, except I knew I was in a very exceptional place.  I had no concrete thought, only felt this welling of emotion and then I was crying.  I was a little shaken by how suddenly this took me.

I wiped my eyes and began to jog away, and I turned and looked back and I knew what had been pulled through me.  For 121 years people had poured themselves into the herculean effort that would bring them to this spot, and I was a part of that.  And right there, this close, was where something evil had tried to disrupt all of this beauty. 

Months of running alone, cutting through snow and ice, long before the sun comes up.  On my own in the dark, doing the hard work to get ready for this marathon.  It is easy to forget that I am part of a tribe.  It all came back to me in that moment.

At the Old South Church, a few steps from the finish line, the Sunday service ended with the Blessing of the Athletes.  We stood and were prayed over, and then they played the ‘Highland Cathedral’, a powerful and moving piece, complete with bagpipe.  I wept.  I watched runners around me sobbing, holding one another.

The pastor had opened the service, welcoming us, saying “We know many of you have travelled a long way, and we want to be your community, to stand in for those at home who want to support you.”

That was Boston.  And so it was in Hopkinton, Ashland, Framingham, Natick, Wellesley, Newton and every block in between.  ‘Be Boston.’  That was the theme all weekend.  What’s interesting is that I think it was a message held by the runners, and by the hundreds of thousands who by extension were part of our journey. 

The next morning I stood in Athletes Village, over twenty six miles to the east, and soaked in the company of the men and women who were branded with the BQ.  Some stretched or rested on the grass, others stood in the infinite lines to the portojohns, which is where all the real running strategy is exchanged.  Runners signed each other’s bibs, wrote on each other’s arms and legs, shared last minute bagels.  Everywhere was nervous laughter, from warriors and hopeful newbies and determined Olympians and women with a cause and somebody’s Dad.  People from all over the world, some of whom did not share the same language, but all spoke the same language. 30,000 people like this.

We flowed into the race, a river of color and sweat and energy bracketed by screaming supporters, a roaring noise that was like a surprise party that lasts for 26 miles.  Music and singing and signs and cheering and threaded into all of it was hope and optimism and victory over anything small that would divide us.

Somewhere after the halfway mark I knew it was not going to be as fast as I planned.  The heat and the hills took their share of me, and I gave the course its due.  It is humbling, but there was no self pity.  I kissed the Wellesley girls and saluted the Newton Fire Station.  I churned up the hills without stopping and waved at the man at the top who held the sign “The Heartbreak is behind you.”

It was not what I hoped for and it was so much more than what people hope for.  My legs seized up and the crowd rushed to the curb to push me on.  Runners called to me to not give up.  The people in the water stations told me I could do it.  They were right.

I ran past the man with one prosthetic, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed, bent over his good leg, trying to make it carry him forward.  Passed the woman in the hijab, covered from head to ankle in the sweltering heat, her eyes facing toward the next step, struggling but not succumbing.

In each step I remembered what I told myself weeks ago; to be the best version of me, to enjoy every mile, to embrace the energy of the day.  I knew it would be tough, I would be tougher.  It’s Boston, it’s hard.  If you want easy you stay home.  Even as my stride eroded, I took great satisfaction every time my legs turned over, every time I said no to gravity and inertia and giving in.

As I turned onto Boyleston and saw the finish line again, my heart soared.  The crowds roared for me, and although I know I didn’t pick up my pace, I flew the last quarter mile.  I was reminded how grateful I should be as I passed others, statues of runners, frozen in pain, unable to take another step within site of the finish. 

I was smiling, my arms lifted up in victory and crossed the blue and yellow band that separated the effort from the triumph.  Only a few steps more and then I was walking, amazed that this was the same place.  This was where I felt reconnected to the tribe, felt those tears and now felt them again.

People said ‘Congratulations.’ And everyone after that line, every person who saw I wore the medal, or the marathon shirt, said something.  Nice going.  Congrats.  You should be proud.  Good job.  These people, the same tribe that lined the roads from Hopkinton, were my tribe too.  They stood in for the community that knew me.  They were Boston.

 ‘Be Boston’, the signs challenged us.  Be determined.  Be brave.  Be resilient. Be adaptable.  Be strong.  Be positive.  Be encouraging.  Be undefeatable.  Be more because of the crucible that forges strength.  Be part of what makes people come together for good. 

 I was Boston.

Hope this finds you celebrating,

David

Copyright © 2017 David Smith