[Maybe I shouldn’t have run.] That’s the thought that keeps rudely interrupting every thought I’ve had since the bombings at the Boston Marathon. When I started writing this series, I never expected that part three would be such a literal manifestation of the title, “Running Away from the Violence.” The series was prompted by the horrific events at Sandy Hook Elementary School and the premise was that running could possibly be linked to a more healthy mental state. Today, I’m praying that there is no part four. That this all ends now and forever with the heinous and senseless bombings at Copley Square in Boston.
It was April 15, 2013, and I was among those who had the honor of running from Hopkinton to Boston where the world’s best marathon runners compete in the world’s oldest marathon – the Boston Marathon. I had every reason to feel giddy and excited – even if it was my sixth Boston Marathon. Every year, I am humbled by the crowd and by the selfless volunteers. For decades, millions of people have lined the 26.2 mile course to scream and cheer and dance for hours to encourage a mob of athletes they don’t even know. For the first half of the race, I am running on a rush – high-fiving as many kids as I could reach, clapping for the fans themselves, and cheering for the creative sign-makers. (I couldn’t resist this sign: Go Alice. Your legs hurt because you are kicking so much ass!) These people are the heart of the Boston Marathon. They are the soul of the city on Patriot’s Day – when the Red Sox play at home and the city takes the day off to celebrate its freedom. [Maybe I shouldn’t have run.]
Around mile 16, I am not as exuberant. My legs are cramping and my two middle toes on both feet are raw. But still, the crowd yells my name, “Callie – Go Callie!” “You can do this Callie,” an older man says as I stop to massage my right quad muscle. “Work it out and get going. Don’t give in.” Ironically, my fan-for-the-moment will never know just how important his encouragement turned out to be on that fateful day. My mind was trying to convince my body that I had already done five other successful Boston Marathons, so perhaps a slow, casual four-hour marathon pace to the finish would be acceptable. But, my heart had other plans. I found my rhythm and got into my zone – picking off the miles as I finally made my way down Commonwealth Avenue, took the famous right turn onto Hereford Street, and then left onto Boylston for the final 400 meters. The cheers and applause were deafening. I was exhausted, but I wanted to run strong through the finish to make my brother Ross and his wife Deborah proud as they cheered with thousands near the grandstands. [Maybe I shouldn’t have run.]
I cross the finish line, stop my watch, and begin to quietly cry. For me, each race is a milestone in my life that generates a rush of emotion – joy, pain, hope and gratitude. I hear the BAA volunteers congratulating the runners with kindness and care. “Baby, you did it.” “You are a rock star.” Through my tears, I catch the eye of volunteer Maria who is handing out medals. She says, “Come here darlin.’ This one’s for you.” She carefully places the medal around my neck, puts her hands on my face and says softly, “Congratulations.” The tears stream again. This is the spirit of the Boston Marathon – the volunteers and the fans and the friends and the family. All of this is what makes me work to earn this coveted entry year after year. It is 20 weeks of staring at a gym wall as the treadmill belt whirrs beneath me. It is 20 weeks of crawling out of bed hours before dawn to do strength training and then more running. It is 20 weeks of envisioning the race and hoping to feel that Boston spirit once again. [Maybe I shouldn’t have run.]
But then, within 30 minutes, I am running again – running away. I wish I hadn’t run, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know what the blasts were that exploded a block to the right of me. I didn’t know that the emergency vehicles screaming past the Family Meeting Area were going to turn right and head back to Boylston Street to aid innocent spectators – those same people who helped me make it through this race. I didn’t know that Ross and Deborah had escaped danger because they were looking for me after the finish. All I knew was that the police and BAA officials were telling people to “Get out!” “Just go!” Move out of the area. When I found my brother in the crowd – thanks to a few Sponge Bob balloons floating above the sea of people – he takes my gear bag and asks me how fast I can walk. And we walked as fast as my cramped legs and torn up toes could go. For three miles, we walked – not knowing what was unfolding on Boylston Street. Not knowing that maybe I could have helped those hundreds of spectators and runners and volunteers who were hurt and suffering.
[Maybe I shouldn’t have run.] Maybe I should have done what so many others did: Run towards the violence. For days now, I have replayed the events and have experienced about every emotion possible. Why hadn’t I been brave? I suppose I am wired with a more flight than fight instinct. I am wired to run, but I know I am also wired to help. So, I will run again. I will run in tribute to everyone who was lost and to everyone who lost something on April 15, 2013. You will all be in my heart as I continue my journey – a journey that would never be possible without the therapeutic effects of running. No one can take that away.
Please join me in donating to the Boston Children’s Hospital through my fundraiser. Together we can help Boston heal. http://www.crowdrise.com/running4relief2/fundraiser/callieskokos