#bostonmarathon2014

[runrorhorserun]

Walking to the starting line...#bostonmarathon2014 #bostonstrong #beardnation (at Boston Marathon Start Line)

[rorhorse]

Back at the Finish line! #bostonmarathon2014 #bostonstrong (at The 118Th. Boston Marathon Finish Line)

[paddyrunsforboston]

The 2014 Boston Marathon-sponsored by Linda Baker and Neal Freeman

Friends, believe everything you’ve heard.  The 2014 Boston Marathon was one for the ages.  Every year, the marathon has its share of beautiful and inspiring stories, but this year, the inspiring story was the race itself; that the people of Boston, and the runners themselves all agreed the race was worth doing again.  Along with all the goodwill and celebration, there was also a deep awareness of last year’s tragedy.  No one could forget that four people had died and many more were injured.  We ran with joy and exuberance, but we ran with those people in our hearts as well.

I’d spent the past year running under the weight of last year’s tragedy.  I thought about it every time I ran.  I thought about it so intensely that I worried I’d gone a little crazy.  The more I talked to other runners, however, I began to see that everyone felt the same way.  It had been weighing on all of us.  All weekend long, everyone said the same thing, “I had to come back.”

So many people had acted for the good last year in the face of all that horror.  As a runner, and especially as a participant in last year’s marathon, I wanted to live up to their example.  That was why I started Paddy Runs for Boston.  I felt a duty to help people, especially people in Boston.  And I’m grateful beyond words to all the folks who came along and supported that mission.

My running of the 2014 Boston Marathon was co-sponsored by two very generous donors.  One of them was Neal Freeman.  Neal once told me, “You can put up with anything for two miles” and ever since, that phrase has been my go-to piece of motivation.  I use it all the time.  He accompanied his $53 donation with a twist on his own quote; saying, “You can put up with anything for two dollars a mile.”  I wrote that on my arm that morning as a reminder.

The day’s other sponsor was Linda Baker.  She asked me to run in memory of her friend and running partner Maria Cecilia, who passed away in 2006 after a three-year battle with ovarian cancer.  I wrote her name on my left arm and drew an arrow pointing the way forward.  She would be there to keep me heading in the right direction.

Despite the heightened security, my trip to the starting line felt routine.  This was my third time at this particular rodeo and I knew the procedure:  Up at 5am, coffee and good luck from the Starbucks barista then onto the bus.  After a couple of hours lying in the grass and a well-timed trip to the toilet, I made the long walk into Hopkinton.

The start area was crowded and busy, but the national anthem brought us to silence.  It was broken afterwards by a flyover by four National Guard helicopters.  Everyone cheered.  There was a pause, and then they let us go. 

Friends, how shall I describe to you the volume of celebration, the outpouring of positivity that occurred over the next twenty-six miles?  Should I compare it to a rock-concert?  A Superbowl win?  Times Square on New Year’s Eve?  It was all those, but without the negative crap, the cynicism, the ignorant jostling.  Overwhelming is the word that keeps coming to mind, overwhelming and positive.

And communal.  This was everyone’s party.  Over a million people, more than double the normal attendance, came out to offer their support, showering us with affirmation, letting us know how glad they were to have us running again.  If a front yard normally hosted ten spectators, this year it hosted twenty-five.  Children lined up for high-fives in rows of a dozen or more.  I slapped so many hands, that by the end of the race, I had bruises.

All the shouts and cheers meant more this year.  Everything felt personal.  People cheered for us passionately, and we sent it right back in equal measure.  It felt like every footstep, every word of encouragement, pushed the cloud of tragedy back a little further, brought us a little closer to getting the race back for humanity.  It was a twenty-six mile exchange of love.

People were generous!  They offered us oranges, water, freez-pops, licorice, even beer!  Whole families, generations of them, had set up water stations in their front yards.  Some played music for us (inevitably the theme from Rocky).  The guy in Framingham who plays drums on his porch was back, too, and we waved to each other for the third year in a row.  I even saw the kid in Hopkinton holding the mannequin head with the fright wig.  Best of all was the spectators’ generosity of emotion.  They made us feel like heroes, but to us, they were the heroes.  All these people had ignored the “what-ifs” and come out to be a part of the marathon.

Making the boldest statements of courage were the bombing victims themselves, many of whom were once again back at the finish line.  Two of them, both amputees, were on the course with the rest of us competing as handcyclists.

I saw some familiar faces out there, including William Reilly and Harold Chayefsky, two guys I know from New York.  William has cerebral palsy and pushes himself backwards in a wheelchair.  Harold runs with him and helps where needed.  I passed Rick and Dick Hoyt, too.  This was their last year at Boston and they received a magnificent, ongoing ovation that didn’t stop until they reached the finish.

People cheered for the rest of us, too.  The feeling of goodwill was so present.  People cheered for me and I cheered them right back.  As I ran through Framingham clapping and shouting, another runner remarked, “You’re really here for the people.”

“I had to come back”, I told him, “I had to come back!”

Judged as an athletic undertaking, a runner would critique my marathon pretty harshly.  I started at a good pace, but used a lot of energy embracing the dynamic of the crowd.  Shouting thank you or giving a thumbs-up doesn’t seem like it would take much out of you, but I probably did those things hundreds of times over the course of the run.  Each hi-five offered just a little bit of resistance that my body had to counteract.  Every fist pump subtracted slightly from forward motion.  All that accumulates over the miles.  I had to slow down around mile fourteen, but I didn’t care.  I knew I would never run a race like this again.  I wasn’t here to run a smart race; I was running this one from the heart.

The first half passed in a blur of outstretched hands and cheering.  There were quiet spots here and there, but not many.  I picked out a freckle-faced girl from the crowd of women lining the road at Wellesley College.  Her sign read, “I like beards.  Kiss Me!”  So I did.  This year, even the Wellesley girls seemed louder, more ecstatic, and that’s saying something.

From Wellesley to the finish, the road seemed to be lined by a solid wall of people, an unbroken corridor of support guiding us into Boston.  I started struggling in the Newton hills.  My left leg had gotten very stiff, the sole of my foot was aching and the subtle twisting from all those high-fives had manifested as a cramp in my right side.  I looked down at my arms.  Neal reminded me just how much I could put up with and Maria Cecilia told me to keep going forward.  So I did.

The closer we got to Boston, the more the crowd’s enthusiasm intensified.  I labored through Brookline, but people kept encouraging me.  They chanted my name at Cleveland Circle!  By this point, I’d gone hoarse from shouting “Thank You!”  Or was I just choked up from emotion?  I crested Citgo hill and looked ahead towards Kenmore Square where my girlfriend Denise was waiting.  Getting to her had been my motivation over the past mile.  I saw her craning over the barricade.  Hands reaching out for hi-fives surrounded her.  I stopped for a quick kiss, shook a few hands, and then headed across Kenmore Square, clapping and cheering.

Tired as I was, the people along the final mile made me feel like I could fly.  There were so many of them.  They cheered for us so ardently, so sincerely.  The home stretch was magnificent.  The sidewalks were crammed with people, ringing cowbells echoed off the buildings.  I clapped and cheered all the way down Boylston Street, tears streaming down my cheeks.  I was so proud of these people for coming back, for helping to bring back the joy to this event.  The sound rolled between the buildings like a swirling wind, pushing us towards the finish line.

What was now a scene of triumph was, of course, also the scene of a tragedy.  A makeshift memorial by the finish line reminded us of that fact.  I blew a kiss to the four crosses by the tree and jogged across the finish line.

I felt differently than in past years.  There was no urge to yell and shout or fall to my knees.  I just wanted to thank everybody for being there.  And I did, every cop, every volunteer.  I had to shake their hands, look them in the eyes because I was grateful to them for coming back, too.

I got my medal from the woman in the patriotic tiara that gives it to me every year.  “I remember you!” She said.

“I had to come ba…” and that was all I got out before bursting into tears.  She hugged me across the barricade.  Other people patted me on the back.  A TV reporter pulled me aside for an interview and asked if I was grateful to all the police and volunteers.  “Hell yeah!” I said, “I’d buy ‘em all a drink if I could find a bar big enough.”  It didn’t make it on the air.  I guess I shouldn’t have said “hell.”

And all too soon, I found myself at the exit.  My 2014 Boston Marathon was over.

I said “Thank You” to a lot of people that day, volunteers, police, national guardsmen, spectators.  Ninety percent of them had the exact same reply, “Thank you for running.”

It was humbling.  All we were doing was running.  Doing what we do.

As wonderful and inspiring as it was, I hope there is never another one like this.  Everyone who ran spoke of the overwhelming euphoria, but we’d all rather have those four people back with us.  Meb Keflezighi wrote their names on his bib.  He went on to celebrate their memory by winning the race, the first American to do so in thirty-one years.

The Marathon’s official motto this year was “We all run Boston.”  I thought it was a bit corny, but it turned out to be absolutely true.  For several hours that day, hundreds of thousands of people of every age, gender, ethnicity, faith, political orientation, and physical ability all contributed towards getting this event back, dragging it out of the shadow of tragedy and turning it into a story of redemption, cooperation, and ultimately joy.

Finally, Thank You to Neal, Linda and all of the Paddy Runs for Boston supporters.  I always think of us as a team and when I run, you’re all right there with me.  I will keep running until everyone’s donation is accounted for.  Thanks for going on this journey, friends.  See you at the finish line!

[lilrunnah]

Pride is forever!! So glad I could participate in this year’s Boston Marathon!! Set a goal, get out there and get it!!

[mmbcl]

Yes, we color code our buildings ;) #Prudential #Boston #BostonStrong #BostonMarathon2014 (at Prudential Tower)

[mmbcl]

#BostonMarathon2014 #FinishLine #bostonstrong #oneyearstronger (at The 118Th. Boston Marathon Finish Line)