A perfect day for a run: fifty degrees and sunshine. I left my apartment this morning around 10:30 and walked down the block until I hit the road perpendicular to mine. Bulky metal barriers lined Beacon Street, keeping a very small amount of spectators at bay. My intention was to head across to get my morning coffee at Dunkin Donuts, but the gates kept me contained. I decided to stay. Leaning against the metal gate, I watched the handcyclists and wheelchair participants cruise by me, headed for Mile 25 of the historic Boston Marathon, just over the hill in Kenmore Square. I nearly cried, but I smiled instead. Having stood outside for an hour, I decided I couldn’t miss the runners. Signaling their impending passing, police motorcycles and cars drove by, lights flashing, followed by a large truck displaying the time clock. Squeezing my way between two middle-aged men, I stuck my head out to see the leading women run by. They looked exhausted. By this point, the crowd had thickened and the cheers, accompanied by clapping and cowbells, were loud and purposeful. Minutes later, the leading men passed, met by the same fervor of the spectators.
Sneakers of the brightest neon colors. Bare feet. T-shirts with the runner’s name made out in tape, urging those of us on the sidelines to call out to them in support. Shirtless runners. Dripping sweat. Muscles tense and lean. Young. Old. Bib numbers clinging to fabric.
I felt, suddenly, as though I were a part of something rather important. And I felt proud of the participants. And I felt lucky to be standing on the sidelines, a mere thirty seconds from my own front door. Frantic texting to a runner-friend back home led to a dead cell phone. Anxious to take more pictures and video, I retreated back to my apartment for a bit. I sat in the middle of the room on my hardwood floor before my open window, listening to the cheers outside and wondering if I was missing something. It was nearly 2:30 in the afternoon, though, and I imagined the running packs would be lightening up a bit. Finding the battery percentage satisfactory, I slipped on my shoes and headed back out. I watched less running and more walking but still with more endurance than I could ever fathom. To finish a marathon–a whole 26.2 miles–is an accomplishment itself, regardless of time or placement.
I found a spot where the crowd was light, right up against the gate again, crossing my arms to my chest against the breeze. A woman in a tight black t-shirt and knee-length pants ran off to the side of the course, headed for a policeman. Although I couldn’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, she looked as though she were speaking fervently and just a few feet away from me, jogging in place. I watched her hold up two fingers as she mouthed the words “two bombs.” Taken aback, I tried to make out what the officer was saying. He kept nodding, as if to reassure her of something. But I have never been good at reading lips, and so I didn’t think my perception reliable. She ran on. I looked away.
This is when I met Penny. Barely taller than I am, she wore a pale pink knitted hat and a puffy brown winter jacket that reached her knees. Her face was wrinkled and aged and lovely. She stood about a foot away from me, her delicate hands grasping the metal gate. We caught eyes and shared a smile. Moments later, she shuffled closer.
“They are so incredible,” she said. I smiled and nodded. We seemed to become fast friends. She was fond of pointing out the runners who looked to be over the age of fifty. “That’s not a young person,” she’d say each time. We agreed that neither of us could accomplish such a feat, and she seemed concerned that 26.2 miles was far too much abuse for the human body. “They should all just be half marathons!” she declared. I liked her. She asked if I knew a runner. I told her no and that I lived just down the street, relatively new to Boston–just since September. When I eventually told her I went to Emerson for Creative Writing, she assured me the college was well-known for that and thought my pursuit was “wonderful.” And then I really liked her.
At 3:11, I received a text message from a friend back home: “Did you hear those explosions?” I let out an audible, “What?” before replying in kind. As I waited for his reply, I immediately thought of the woman in black interrogating the police officer. My friend sent me a link to an article about two reported explosions at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, a mere 1.5 miles from where I stood. But I couldn’t open the story. My phone wouldn’t load, and when I tried to explain this problem to him, my text message wouldn’t send. I assumed something went wrong with my own phone. I wondered if I should say something to Penny. My answer came when cop cars and motorcycles sped by, sirens blaring, forcing the runners to the sides of the course. Penny looked worried, so I told her about what I had heard. She leaned over my phone as I repeatedly tried to get the story to load. When it finally did, the information seemed sketchy and sparce. Two explosions at the finish line. At two different locations. Two dead. People with missing limbs. At 2:45 this afternoon. Just half an hour prior to that gut-wrenching moment of realization. Penny became outraged that the Marathon was continuing. I suddenly became aware of the buzz among the police officers around me. They walked up and down the street with intent, speaking into cell phones or walkies, congregating together. Finally, Penny had had enough. She flagged down a nearby officer.
“Can you tell us what’s going on up there?” she asked.
“Uh yeah.There were two explosions near the finish line. We’re about to close off the race right here in about fifteen minutes and bus the runners to different locations.”
“Oh good, good. I heard people were hurt.”
“Yes, there are injuries, but I don’t know the extent of them.” He spoke firmly. We nodded and thanked him.
I couldn’t believe how quiet they had kept it. I wouldn’t have had any idea had I not heard from my friend. And when I remembered this, I looked down at my phone to see text after text asking if I was okay. I responded to my best friend first, asking if I could call. She said she had tried calling me, but it was going straight to my voicemail. Stupid phone, I thought. Finally, she got through, telling me my sister had called her and was worried. I told her to reassure my sister and parents that I was okay. I was just over a mile outside of the explosion site. The call ended abruptly. And as it did, a man in full army attire aggressively requested that we get off the main road. Penny and I parted ways, after formally introducing ourselves. She wished me luck and I told her to be safe.
As I sat back at the table in my apartment, I saw the Facebook statuses. I wasn’t the only one having cell trouble. I posted to let everyone know I was okay. Many had seen I was attending the Marathon. And the amount of people who sent their thoughts and love my way was absolutely incredible. I cannot thank them enough. And I hope that they are sending their thoughts to those directly affected, too.
My father finally reached me, and I assured him I was safe in my apartment. His inability to hear my voice had worried him into tears, and I hated that I had unintentionally caused him that fear and panic.
I couldn’t turn off the news. My heart hurt. The videos, the images of bloodied limbs and shocked faces of men, women, and children pushed frantically in wheelchairs amid the smoke and debris. The people who came to one another’s aid without giving it a second thought. Two bombs. Two other explosives found. Two confirmed dead. 22 injured. Then it was 50. Then it jumped to 100+ as though they couldn’t even keep count anymore. Tragedy struck a wonderful, historic event. And I couldn’t not cry.
Living close to the site meant hearing the sounds of sirens and helicopters well into the evening, making it quite difficult to concentrate on much else.
Until night finally fell. And it was silent.
I tried to distract myself, but now it’s after midnight, and I’m sitting in the silence of my apartment, feeling unsettled but with so much love for this place that has become my home.
Goodnight, Boston.
Untangle 