A Firsthand Account of the Boston Marathon
Let me clarify one thing to start, I did not run the Boston Marathon. My Mum did. My marathon experience was as a spectator and supporter. While that normally would not be anything particularly remarkable, it is when it’s the Boston Marathon (or “Boston” to those in the know).
Running Boston is viewed as a privilege and a reward due to its long history (127 years) and because it requires participants to qualify by running another marathon in an above average time. This year had additional significance because it was the tenth anniversary of the bombing that killed three and injured hundreds. It was a very emotional weekend, for both the city and my family.
Boston is a cool city. There’s a swagger and personality most cities don’t have. Harvard, Fenway Park, the Charles River, and the Freedom Trail are prominent attractions. Marathon Day is the third Monday in April. It also falls on Patriots Day, and it’s a state holiday (rumour has it that this was a way the marathon organizers could access all the required school buses to transport the 30,000 runners). The weekend leading up to the big event is exciting and alive. Runners flock to the streets (it’s a miracle there isn’t a fatal accident on every corner of Beacon Hill), locals are surprisingly positive, and 26.2 miles worth of guard rails begin to pop up from Hopkinton to Boylston Street.
I was excited for Marathon Day. I had heard amusing things like “It’s an amazing display of positivity and support” and “BAWSTON STRAHNG”. My impression was that if you aren’t running, you’re watching, and if you’re not watching the marathon you’re watching the Sox, and no matter what you’re watching, you’re drinking Sam Adams.
I woke up around 8:00. Unfortunately It was a wet, cold, grey, and gloomy day. Definitely not the kind of day you’d want to be running 26.2 miles. As for the runners, they have to wake up bright and early in order to catch the school bus shuttle out to the starting line - which is around 26 miles outside of Boston in small-town Hopkinton.
My crew and I headed out to Natick (unfortunately pronounced Nay-tick, not Nah-tick like any rational person would think). Natick is another small town located at roughly the halfway mark of the race. We ate at a cool Massachusetts diner, and then watched the second wave (consisting of really fast runners) roll through the town. The first wave of the really really fast runners had already finished an hour earlier! They sprint the entire race !?!
From then on, for the next four hours it was non-stop clapping, cheering, and positivity. It was awesome. A little while later, and we were in the middle of the third wave (my Mum’s wave). She ran by us with a big smile and soaked in a disgusting rain/sweat solution. We cheered with pride, and I took one good photo. In hindsight, this was the highlight of the day.
My crew and I then moved to Brookline (around mile 22). The energy here was also fantastic, even in the pouring rain. My cramping mother passed us, a husk of her former self. We offered encouragement “You’re almost there!” and she soldiered on. This is where this story takes a dark turn. We foolishly decided to take public transit to the finish line.
Boston’s public transit system is disappointing to say the least. A confusing, ancient, ugly and slow mess. We endured this for 30 minutes before we decided to cut our losses and walk the rest of the way. Sadly, we missed my Mum cross the finish line from being stuck riding that beast.
Downton Boston was a gong show. We waded through unorganized foot traffic for 20 minutes before finally connecting with my fragile, freezing mother shivering in a thermal blanket. We embraced but quickly encouraged her to head back to the hotel with my grandparents, who wisely drove their car downtown. Our car was sitting in Brookline, meaning we had to take the dreadful subway again.
Due to awful directions from a marathon volunteer, and our inability to read Google Maps, it took 20 minutes just to get back to the station. Once inside, we were treated with a nightmarish experience of bureaucracy and incompetency. We were in that station for 40 minutes! At that moment, I genuinely thought that watching the marathon was harder than running the marathon (these were dark times). Eventually our train arrived, we got back to our car, and that was it for the marathon.
If I could do it again, I never would have gone downtown.
The Boston Marathon was surely an experience. A day that started so promising, ended disastrously (I know, I’m making this all about me on my Mum’s special day, but at least she didn’t have to ride the train!).
The outpouring of positivity and support was truly amazing to witness. I got emotional a few times (did not expect that). My advice for any future spectators; get out of the city, buy some Dunkin’, and bring a car. Whatever you do, don’t ride the train.
