The Boston Marathon and I

I was born and raised in Ashland, Massachusetts, a small town that is unknown to most, even those from the state of Massachusetts. When people at school ask me where I’m from, I usually reply with “a town next to Framingham” or “Ashland… it’s near the Natick Mall.” Ashland is the home of the electric clock, which allowed the town to justify naming our citizens “Ashland Clockers.” Yes, our mascot is a clock, and yes, I own many a t-shirt with clocks flying through the letter A on the front. Not ever being someone who cared about school spirit, aside from the occasional hockey game, I am still proud to come from a community with such an interestingly creative claim to fame. 

Though it probably goes unnoticed, my hometown is broadcasted on nationwide television once a year, every year, since 1897, on a holiday that Massachusetts proudly celebrates called Patriot’s Day, which for many is nicknamed “Marathon Monday.” Ashland is the second town after Hopkinton en route to Boston for thousands of runners who come from around the world. As a kid, Marathon Monday meant the first day of the April vacation week, where nobody would be able to get across town because the main roads downtown were blocked off for runners. Usually, the weather is finally transitioning from winter, allowing families to leave the house in just a t-shirt to go line the sides of Route 135 to cheer on runners who were still fresh and excited to finally be taking part in what they had been training so hard for all year. 

As a little kid, the marathon was always a family event, seeing as everyone in Massachusetts had the day off from work and school. As I grew older, my parents were thrilled to have me ask to be dropped off at the local Dairy Queen to walk around with my friends instead of going to watch the runners as a family, knowing that they would never have to deal with the crowds and traffic that form in our downtown area ever again. When high school came around and I could drive myself, I, too, was unenthused with the traffic situation, but simply could not let go of the part of my childhood that is spending Marathon Monday cheering on runners with an ice cream in hand.

When I decided to go to college in downtown Boston, I knew that the marathon would continue on as a tradition in my life. Typically for college students in and around Boston, Patriot’s Day is a day when you wake up, make marathon inspired t-shirts, and start the day with a round of shots. Last year, which was my freshman year at Suffolk, I didn’t necessarily wake up with a craving for beer, but more with an excitement to throw on a sundress and flip flops (it was an unusual 90 degrees!) and head towards the finish line to see a whole other side to the day, which had always been such a big deal to me growing up. 

My roommate and I met up with a group of our friends in the common and from there, headed to Boylston Street to get a good view of the finish line. After watching the wheelchairs speed through the finish, we were hot, dehydrated, and hungry. We decided to head back through the commons to one of our very favorite lunch spots in Boston, Beantown Pub, which is where I ate the best grilled-cheese and fries I think I have ever tasted. The energy in the city that day was the most exciting I had ever experienced since moving to Boston, and once the hot day spent walking around the city was over, I was already looking forward to the next year. 

A few weeks ago, Suffolk sent out an email that they would be selling a limited amount of $10 Red Sox tickets for the game on Patriot’s Day 2013. With my entire group of friends on board to buy tickets to the game, which is rare that everyone can actually get together and do something as a group, we had a plan in place for the day off from school. Game at 11, watch the marathon for a little bit after, and then head to Beantown Pub for, what we were trying to make, our annual Marathon Monday grilled cheese. 

I woke up on Monday, April 15th, with visions of Fenway Franks, hopes of eating an equally amazing grilled cheese, and having an awesome day with my closest college friends. We were running late (there was a line at Starbucks) but finally made it to our seats at Fenway about 10 minutes after the start of the game. After indulging in a Fenway Frank (first of the season), singing Sweet Caroline, and watching Mike Napoli rake in an exciting win for the Sox, it was time to head to the marathon.

At 2:41p.m. I sent a text to my friend who I saw run by me, on the corner of Boylston street less than a mile from the finish line, to congratulate her for completing her first marathon.  Within 5 minutes, my group of friends decided to split up, half to venture through the crowds to try to figure out a way to get back to my friends apartment located in the midst of the hubbub, and the other half, including myself, to take the T towards downtown to get lunch.  We got on the green line at Hynes Convention Center, because the Copley stop was understandably closed due to the mass amounts of spectators, which that central area draws being so close to the finish line. Once on the T, packed with Sox fans heading inbound from the game, it stopped. 

We were stopped in between Copley and Arlington for probably 10 minutes or so. If you live in Boston, you know that this popular mode of transportation often experiences delays throughout the day, so there wasn’t really anything to worry about. We got to the Arlington stop and the conductor announced that the train was going out of service (meaning it was the last stop) and that the station was closing, so we would all have to leave. I figured that this was because the Arlington train stop is right at the edge of Boylston Street and the Boston Common; where the city encourages families of runners to go towards to rest after finishing the race. Like sardines, everyone on the train exited out of the one, narrow staircase the underground station has and up to the street.

There were a lot of people running and screaming. At the time, it didn’t seem as though the screaming was in horror, it just seemed like the chaos that comes along with being the end of a huge event like the Boston Marathon. We made our way through the common and I found it strange that I still didn’t have service on my cell phone after being underground. There were obviously tons of marathon runners in their Mylar blankets, looking tired, but I then began to notice a lot of tears and looks of distress across their faces. It was after this realization that I looked down at my phone, which finally found service, and had an abundance of text messages from family members and friends reading the same thing: “Are you OK?” In the midst of these messages that my mom exclaimed that two explosions had just gone off at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, which from where I was standing was probably only two blocks away. 

We finally met up with our friends, who were in the area at the time of the bombs and, thankfully, were safe. I didn’t get my Beantown Pub meal because too many people were crowded at the bar televisions, so we couldn’t get in, but we did stop for what was probably the most somber meal I have ever eaten out. Hesitant to leave the restaurant and walk on the streets that I walk on every day, multiple times a day, because the city I love was now a crime scene, we headed home to our apartment, located across the street from Mass General Hospital, where 34 victims of the attacks were taken and news media trucks had already set up camp outside. As I turned onto our small, cobblestone street (gotta love that Boston charm), there was nothing I wanted to do more than snuggle up in my leopard-print snuggie, turn on Dancing With The Stars, and eat a box of Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies. 

Looking back on what was such a great day that turned out to be one of Boston’s darkest days, my heart obviously hurts for the victims and their families. At the same time, I can’t help but think about the little kids in my hometown who may have just gotten home from their town soccer games (there were always soccer games after the marathon) to turn on the race to see the athletes, who had not long ago been running through their town, cross the finish line. Instead, they saw clips of explosions going off, bomb squads searching for clues, and graphic images of terror-struck victims being rushed to get help.

I’m lucky to have about 18 years worth of happy marathon memories, having grown up in a town on the historical route. My hope is that the marathon next year will be, as the governor said, bigger and better than ever, for the sake of the victims and their families, who may have been attending their first marathon, but also for the kids in my hometown, who deserve to have the same childhood marathon memories that I am so fortunate to have. Although a cloud is now hanging over the spirit of the marathon, this is a city built upon history and tradition. I have learned over the past week that one tragedy is no way going to ruin 116 years of tradition for Boston.