Brother and the B

“You know, you qualified for Boston right?”  This was the way the conversation started with my brother Ross after I ran my first marathon at age 40.  I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying.  I was exhausted.  Not so much from the effort of the race, but from the effort of my life.  I ran the Denver Marathon to prove something to myself.  To prove that I was strong – mentally strong enough to get through an emotional divorce, sell the family home, buy a new home, and secure a full-time job, all while helping my children adjust and be happy.  “I don’t know,” I replied.  “I don’t think I can do it.”

“You qualified for a race that takes some people years and years to qualify for.  It’s almost like you have to run it.”  After I was able to really see what was in front of me, I started to read more about the race – about the runners, the traditions, the athletes that spent years trying to finally make it to the famous and historic start line.  Even though I still wasn’t sure I’d be able to sort out my life in time for the April race, I felt like I had to register, if for no other reason than to show my respect for the race and for my brother.  When I told Ross that my application had been accepted, he said, “Buy your ticket. We’ll meet you there.”  Easy for him to say: I had less than three months to train for the race of my life while trying to pick up the pieces of a broken one.

I joke that my brother is to blame for the madness that has ensued since that day.  It was one decision that led to 12 marathons and 6 Boston Marathons.  But in all sincerity, Ross ended up being my savior.  When he convinced me to fly to Boston, it wasn’t just about a race.  It was about him having faith in me at a time in my life when I doubted everything about myself.  I think his conviction that the race was so important was really more about him believing that I was important.  I am also pretty sure that if it had not been for Boston that year, I would not have had the mental strength to move on and start over.  I needed to see the finish line – literally.

Off to the race start with my brother Ross

My brother Ross was my savior six years ago and he proved to be my savior this year.  He and his wife Deborah are my biggest Boston fans.  They are not runners.  They are not huge sports fanatics of any kind.  But, they love Boston.  They cheered me on at my inaugural race, joined me for my second race, took a few years off to start a family, and returned to Boston as a trio this year.  Like so many of the Boston fans, they enjoy the energy and the city and the history of the race.  And, along with the thousands who line the course, they too cheer for runners they don’t even know – for hours.  Hours of cheering resulted in them actually seeing me only once along the course and never at the finish line.

Ironically, they had never seen me cross the finish line until this year.  This April 15, Ross and Deborah had found their way through the crowd to camp out at a spot very close to the grandstand.  Thanks to the runner tracking app, they knew approximately when I would finish and were intently scouring the field of runners until they saw me.  I never heard them yell my name because the crowd support is incredible and loud and exhilarating.  It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt, unless of course, you are a rock star in concert or a football player in the Super Bowl.  They watched me vanish into the sea of finishers and then they surrendered their post to another eager fan in order to look for me.

I was so thankful that they saw me finish.  I was so thankful that Ross had asked me to download the runner tracking app onto his phone.  I was so thankful that we had mapped out a post-race meeting place early that morning.  I fear that had we not done all of this, the outcome for all of us and everyone close to us would have been much different.  Minutes after the bomb blasts, I was reunited with Ross and Deborah at the agreed-upon family meeting area.  Unknowingly, we were one block from bomb site and the noise of emergency vehicles was creating incredible din and confusion.  Ross systematically and calmly guided us out of the ground zero chaos, bearing much of my weight so my 26.2 mile-tired legs wouldn’t ache so much as we maneuvered the confusing cobbled streets.  After a dozen attempts at trying to get a taxi to stop for us and three miles of walking, Ross essentially stepped in front of the vehicle and convinced the driver that we were not a threat and just needed a ride back to our hotel.  “This marathoner has done enough miles for one day.”

At that moment, Ross’ only concern was our safety.  I’m sure he thought what he did that day was just a simple act of navigation, but in my heart, he was my savior.  I cannot think of another person who I would rather have had by my side than my brother.  Six years ago, he started something pretty great.  He will always be part of my Boston experience and a constant reminder of what Boston truly means to me.

If you would like to share in our journey to help Boston recover, please join me in supporting the Boston Children’s Hospital through any-sized donation.