That night, when I called my brother Randy, I found out that he and his wife, Jenny, had been there at that awful moment. It was so crowded near the finish line that they’d decided to move a bit to have a better vantage point for photos of me finishing. A couple of minutes later, the first explosion occurred about 50 yards away, accompanied by a black ball of smoke.
“We thought it might be part of the celebration,” Randy told me.
Seconds later, another explosion occurred in about the same area, and everybody started to run, he said. Police pushed them along the street as they wondered if a third bomb was about to go off. They saw state police in camouflage uniforms with assault weapons, running to the scene.
I heard my brother’s harrowing account over the phone that evening as most of my family sat at a friend’s downtown apartment, watching the news. We were still shaking our heads and, like the rest of the world, wondering who had planted those bombs and why.
I thought about the runners who had given up a chance to finish and, pushing aside their exhaustion, rushed to help injured spectators. And I thought about all the medical professionals who had volunteered to staff the finish line tent to treat blisters and cramps—and ended up dealing with lost arms and legs. The three people who died and almost all of the injured were spectators. I didn’t know any of them.
Many of my friends feared that I might have been among the victims, and when I finally saw my email accounts, they were jammed with questions and expressions of concern.
Technically, my streak had ended. Under the circumstances, though, the BAA concluded that anyone who had reached halfway would be deemed to have completed the marathon.
Many people ask if I intend to return. Absolutely. I’ll show up on Patriots’ Day as long as my body allows. I wouldn’t know what else to do on the third Monday in April. I want to extend the streak and, if my luck holds, set the record for the most Boston Marathons completed. The great Johnny Kelley finished 58 of them. It’s more than a little sobering to realize that I’m at least 13 years away from that day. Assuming I don’t miss any, I’ll be 76.
Sure, all of us will be thinking about the possibility of another bombing. There’s no way to ensure that a terrorist won’t show up somewhere along those 26 miles. But we can’t live full lives if we avoid all such possibilities. I plan to just keep putting one foot in front of the other and take what comes.
Ben Beach is a writer and editor at the U.S. Department of State. He lives in Bethesda. To comment on this story, email comments@moco360.media.
