A right on Hereford, and a left on Boylston:A Letter About Boston

Written by Jay and posted with permission

April 16, 2013.
A letter to my boys:
So that someday you will understand…

A right on Hereford, and a left on Boylston…

On Monday, April 15, 2013, I changed why I run.

On that day, terrorists detonated homemade bombs on the sidewalks of Boylston Street as runners finished the Boston Marathon. The bombs were planted near the finish line, and were designed to inflict the most damage on innocent spectators and contestants.

The second of two bombs exploded directly across the street from where your mom, Seth and Sam stood three years ago, cheering me on to my first Boston finish.

I have had a love affair with the Boston marathon for nearly my whole life. I read about the heroics of Alberto Salazar winning when I was only 8 years old. Every year, I read with increasing interest and stronger desires to join the throng on the hallowed streets from Hopkinton to Boston.

I first tried to qualify in 1998, but fell short. I tried again in 1999, but was even slower. I gave up marathon running, deciding that a Boston run was not in my future, and focused instead on starting my family and completing medical school and residency.

After 14 years of training, three boys, some disheartening personal experiences and two frustrating illnesses, I started running seriously again. I ran to restore some dignity in my personal life.

Sam, your shock at learning that I had run a marathon before was a big motivation. I wanted you to SEE me run a marathon. And remember it.
That soon changed. I wanted you to see me run BOSTON, and remember it. I trained longer and faster and harder. I know it took away time from you. But I was stricken with a Boston fever.

I was thrilled, and relieved, in the fall of 2009, when I qualified for Boston by several minutes. Finally, a major life goal achieved!!! Charles River, here I come. Boylston Street, here I come.

Running my first Boston marathon in 2010 was almost an out of body experience. I tried to soak the whole experience in. Scenes play back in my mind like a trailer for a personal movie. Riding the bus to Hopkinton, and waiting for the gun to fire at the starting line across from the little white church. The biker gang in front of the bar (there is nothing better than being cheered on by heavily bearded and tattooed men and women (yes, bearded women) in leather chaps)! To the shrieking tunnel of college girls in front of Wellesley College with their signs screaming “Kiss Me” (okay, I did sneak a peck on the cheek of one girl – because I thought I might not ever get another chance, and I’d regret it if I didn’t. She wasn’t anywhere near as good looking as your mom, though!). To the right hand turn at the Lower Newton Falls Fire Station, and starting up the first of not one, but three separate Heartbreak Hills that ascend Newton. Cresting as I ran by Boston College, being heavily cheered by heavily drunk college guys (these guys are way to drunk for 11 AM). Descending into Brookline, and finally seeing that CITGO sign in the distance. Seeing it, but never quite reaching it. Seeing it and knowing that it is at mile 24. When is that sign going to get here? Who put up that stupid sign, anyway? Is that really the right sign? And then finally passing the sign, crossing under the highway, and then the most blessed two turns in all of distance running:

A RIGHT ON HEREFORD, AND A LEFT ON BOYLSTON

Turns so sacred that they actually sell t-shirts with those words printed on the back. Turns where the sound of the crowd actually seems to lift you off of your feet and push you from behind towards the finish line. Cheering, clapping, bells ringing. It is like the whole world is there to watch you finish.

And unlike almost every other sporting event, there are no boos. No catcalls. No references to new glasses for the referees. No wishing that the other guy will fall or fail. No jeering. No negativity. Strangers running with strangers clasp hands because you did it. Stronger finishers encourage the injured. Signs everywhere explode with messages of inspiration. Go mom. Go dad. Go son. Go Bill or Jane or Frederico.

It is just your cramping calves, twitching hamstrings, and tens of thousands of Bostonians, Americans and foreigners propelling you to finish. How anyone can run down Boylston Street with dry eyes is a mystery to me.

Tears were already flowing when I saw you with your mom in front of Lord and Taylor’s. Yes, that Lord and Taylor’s. The one across the street from the second bomb. Seeing you, hugging you and giving you a high five made every one of those previous 26 miles worth it. Reuniting with you after the finish line, with that heavy metal around my neck, made me proud to be your dad. And I think you were a little bit proud of me. I hoped that you would always remember that day. And that your dad finished Boston. And that Boylston Street is a special place. A place to be revered and treasured. A place unlike any other in the world.

I went back to Boston in 2011, but without my personal fan club to cheer me one. Because I was alone, I noticed even more than before, how much the people of Boston and surrounding areas supported the marathon runners. The number of spectators is amazing. The cheering is continuous and incessant for 26.2 miles. The signs, extra water bottles, messages written on the road in chalk; everything about the race screams loudly how much Boston loves their marathon. And how much the marathoners love Boston. I think it was that crowd that pushed me onward. Onward to break 3 hours for the first time. Another goal I thought I might never achieve.

That is why what happened on April 15, 2013, was such a shock and personal devastation to me. I was crushed for the people of Boston. Crushed for the race that I love. But disturbed that someone or someones wanted to change the most special street in Boston. Someone wanted to take Boylston Street from us.

And Boylston Street is a special street. There have been more cheers on that street than perhaps any other. Personal triumphs, joyful reunions, tearful struggles, people helping strangers, dogged determination, fist-pumping elation, and weary completion are all witnessed on Boylston Street. Everything that is positive about humanity is found there. And none of the negative.

Until last Monday. When two bombs blew the innocence and joy of Boylston Street almost off the map. Almost.

Tragically, those terrible bombs did end the lives of three. Martin Richard, age 8, reminds me in many ways of you boys. Smiling. Wearing an Under Armour hoodie. Cheering on strangers running by, because that is what you do on Boylston Street.

Krystle Campbell, age 29, was there to cheer on friends, like she had done almost every year since she was a little girl.

And Lu Lingzi, a graduate student from China at Boston University studying math and statistics, there with friends just to take in the spectacle that is Boylston Street.

All three had their bright futures tragically dimmed.

As I went to bed Monday night, before I knew all of the details we later discovered, I thought to myself, “I need to go back to Boylston. My kids need to go back to Boylston”.

The next morning, your mom said to me, “I think you should run Boston again next year.”

I checked the website. My last marathon in Denver still meets the Boston qualifying standards by 5 minutes. Registration opens up in September. I have until then to try for a better qualifying time so that I can increase my chances of making it in. I’m going to give it everything I’ve got so that next year I can make…

A RIGHT ON HEREFORD, AND A LEFT ON BOYLSTON

I hope you will be there to cheer me on. On Boylston Street. By the Lord and Taylor’s. And I hope that you soak in the cheers. The American flags that I’m sure will be waving. The Boston t-shirts. The Red Sox jackets. The positive wave of humanity crushing the weak will of terrorism. The triumph of runner, spectator, official as we complete another Boston.

I’ll be thinking of you as I climb Heartbreak Hill(s). But my heart won’t be breaking. I know you’ll be on Boylston Street. Cheering on the elite winners, surrounded by strength. Because I know that we are strong. Our family is strong. Our country is strong. Our faith is strong.

This world might be scary at times. There are people that do things that we don’t understand. There are evil people that try to rob our innocence and steal our victories. There are places to avoid. Places to be scared. Places to wonder if we’ll make it back.
But Boylston Street is not that place. And I will not let terrorists or anyone else turn such a positive place into a place that should be feared or shunned.

And so, now, I run for Boylston Street. Next year, we will return to claim that street back. I’ll run down it. You’ll stand on the sidewalk among strangers and feel confidence, not fear. You’ll hear cheers, not boos. We’ll claim it back for runners. For cheerleaders. For supporters. For friends. For families. For the Johnsons. For Boston. For America. For all that is good in humanity.

A RIGHT ON HEREFORD, AND A LEFT ON BOYLSTON!!!