My Marathon Story

Editor’s note: The following is a personal reflection on the tragic events in Boston, written by Canton native and marathoner Jennifer Seich.

I honestly don’t know what or why I’m writing. Part of me might recognize that today is going down in history and because I was there to witness it, I feel I should write about it. Another part of me is so angered I just want to vent. Another small part just wants to fill you all in. And another last part is using writing as a selfish coping mechanism to understand — or at least try to.

Jenn Seich is comforted by Harvard Dangerfield, a show dog who was also on Boylston Street on Monday with his owner, an MGH nurse.

I could start by saying I was there — I was on Boylston Street, making my push to the finish, a minute or two away. I could start by saying that my mother and sister were in the VIP bleachers poised with cameras — where they were forced to “duck and cover” underneath their seats, where my sister refused to leave because she was convinced I was dead. But I’ll get there. Instead, I’ll start from the start.

I found out seven weeks ago I was going to get a number to run the Boston Marathon. I love my home city, and I love running. It was a dream come true. It’d be my fifth marathon, my first Boston. THE Marathon. I was like a kid on Christmas.

I trained — quick and hard. I did double sessions (morning and night) and the gym during the cold winter months. I did a 21-mile training run on the course. I was as ready as possible.

Marathon Monday was magical — like the unicorn logo itself. I walked down to the buses, beaming at all my fellow runners, and at being a part of this special, prestigious group. Runners are a special breed — we’re friendly. We’re not like cliquey rock climbers or odd like bikers (sorry, cyclists). We talk about anything and everything. On the bus I sat with a beautiful mother of two, Joanna, a CPA from Fresno, California. She was a marathoner. Her best time was 3:28 here in Boston. She deferred last year due to the heat and doesn’t regret it. She’s run Big Sur. Her daughters prefer swimming — the younger has done a triathlon. Joanna coaches track and triathlons. See? We runners have a certain camaraderie.

Runner’s Village was like a fairytale land for me. In the bathroom lines I met two more gentlemen from California, one who grew up in Boston and didn’t miss training in the snow. In another bathroom line (hey, we’re at Runners Village for 2.5 hours — eating and drinking a lot of water — don’t judge), I met a woman who qualified with a 3:44 (right under time) two years ago in the Twin Cities Marathon, and a cool dude from Colorado who qualified with a 3:08. He was planning to run around a 3:20 give or take.

We had a moment of silence for the Newtown victims. I’d later learn that several surviving family members were in the VIP seats with my family, witnessing the terrorism of the day.

I stretched. I sat. I stood. I ate a bagel. I got free shoelaces from Adidas. I stood under a heat lamp. I chatted with reality TV star and cancer survivor Ethan Zohn, who might be one of the nicest guys alive.

Then I walked to my wave and corral, waited for the gun, and took off from Hopkinton on a 26.2-mile journey that I’d been dreaming about since I started running 10 years ago.

The crowds were unbelievable. Stories of the crowds don’t do them justice. There is not one quiet moment of the run. I passed Dick Hoyt and cheered to him, having met him two days prior at the Expo. I stopped twice to pee (not unusual) at miles 3 and 17 and twice at miles 14 and 18 to get help with my awful blisters on both feet (unusual for me; I knew my damn shoes were done for). I now thank goodness I stopped when I did, even for those precious few minutes. I still made great time, but had it been a minute or two better, I may not be here to write this.

The last hill in Heartbreak Hill did in fact break my heart (along with the blisters). I am not ashamed to admit I walked up half of it. After that, though, from mile 22 on, it was literally and figuratively all downhill. I stayed around a 9:30 pace. I drew from the crowds in Brookline and in Kenmore. I relished seeing the Hereford street sign — less than one mile to go. On Hereford, I felt a huge boom. “Why would they shoot off cannons?” I thought. I turned onto Boylston as I heard, felt, and this time saw, the second “boom.” Again, I don’t know why but the sound was so loud, and there was so much smoke, I figured it could only be celebratory cannons.

I didn’t get much further down Boylston. The finish line was blurred by smoke, and a line of cops jumped into the road, telling me (and others) to stop. “What happened? What’s going on?” I asked several times. The cops didn’t tell me at first. It was a spectator who mentioned the word “bomb.” That’s when it struck — the sheer, absolute panic. The guilt — I had begged my family to come watch me run. Lauren came home from NYC for it. I lost it. I sobbed. I couldn’t breathe. I shook, knelt down and prayed. And then the strangers made it better.

Two girls, around my age, coaxed me over to the railings. They leaned over, with such concern in their eyes. “Are you ok?” they asked. I could barely speak. I was crying and hyperventilating. They got out of me that my mom and sister were at the finish line. I think at this point I was convinced they were dead. I really was. Little did I know that my sister was thinking the exact same thing about me — she was tracking my time and knew I was about a minute away from the finish. She was scared she missed me or that she hadn’t seen me because I’d been blown up. She was screaming so hysterically when she called my fiancé to tell him what happened, he thought it was a prank.

One of the girls pulled out her phone. She calmly asked me for a number to call. I tried my mom. She didn’t answer. My stomach clenched. I tried my sister. She answered. I could barely hear her but enough so to learn that she and my mom were OK. I told her I was too. I told them to just get out, I’d call them later. She also mentioned she talked to my fiancé, so I thankfully knew he was OK and that he was going to try to come get me.

Once I could breathe I aimlessly wandered across the street. I had told my sister to tell Terry to come to Capitol Grille restaurant, a good landmark I was close to. I tried to wait there but cops evacuated us. I kept getting pushed further back. I was shaking, cold, upset. I tried to get into Dillon’s to get warm but they were evacuated. Two young girls coming out saw me looking lost, confused, shaking and crying. They hugged me and told me to stay with them. They let me use their phone over and over to try to reach Terry. I thanked them before two friendly faces walked smack into me — two of my sister’s oldest and closest guy friends.

I think I threw myself into Bryan’s arms. Paul was working on getting in touch with people at a hospital. Bryan immediately insisted I put on his jacket and he whipped it over my head; I didn’t even bother with the arms. He put an arm around me and rubbed my shoulder. He made light that his fiancée couldn’t reach him and probably thought he was dead, too. I think I was a little in shock at this time. I got a hold of Terry, but because the cops kept moving us, I told him to go back or get home, or something. Bryan walked us down and around Comm. and Mass. Aves; we could see the aftermath through the side streets — EMTs, bright yellow jackets, cops, ambulances flew by, a motorcade of motorcycles.

Somehow, I heard my name being shouted. I turned and saw Terry running toward me. He enveloped me and I was a little bit more normal. I gave Bryan his jacket, thanked him profusely, and Terry zipped me in his. Bryan and Paul gave us some room and walked ahead. I told Terry what I knew, which wasn’t much. He had been back at work when my sister called him, screaming, hysterical, and told him what happened. He ran from work to come find me come hell or high water. And he did.

We made the long walk back to our apartment in Beacon Hill. Most people seemed to know. Others didn’t. We passed runners who did get to finish, draped in medals but unsmiling. A mother holding her son tight. People on steps, shaking their heads.

We immediately put on the news (for better or worse). I learned so much; saw it all up-close now. I was so, so, so very angry. This beautiful day. This peaceful event. This monumental occasion. This international experience. This day of love, faith, hard work, and accomplishment. The bombs were planted and planned not to kill elite athletes, not for prize money, but to injure as many people at the most popular finish line as possible. Charity runners. Disabled runners. In the face of family, friends, spectators, children, and Newtown survivors.

I can’t put into words what I’m feeling. Anger, most of all. Confusion. Heartache. Sick. Frustration. Incredulous. Emotionally exhausted. I won’t even get started about what kind of world we live in where people shoot children and bomb charitable marathon runners and their families. I can’t. I usually love a good debate, but it’s too much for me right now.

To my mom and sister, who survived. Yes, survived. Emotionally and physically. They had a front row seat to the devastation. They saw the injured, lying on the street, bloodied. They said their own goodbyes, “just in case.” They acted, they pulled each other through, they hid, they ran, they thought I was dead, and they helped strangers. You are my heroes. To the volunteers and first responders who ran into danger, you are heroes. To the runners who crossed the finish line and kept running to Mass. General Hospital to donate blood, you are my heroes and inspiration, and what running is all about.

To the sick jerks who did this. We will find you. Boston will not let you take away this day and get away with it. We are strong and resilient. We will get through this together. I came home to eight missed called, 50 Facebook posts and messages, and 40 text messages of concern and love — with more pouring in even still, as I type hours later, by the minute. You may have taken some victims; they and their families will grieve, overcome, and never forget. You may have taken glory from runners; we will run again, stronger. This event may not be the same, but it will rebuild and carry on.

I may not have “finished,” but I survived the Boston Marathon. And so tomorrow I will be wearing my marathon jacket with more pride than I ever could have imagined.

Jennifer N. Seich

Boston Marathoner 4/15/13

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Posted by Canton Citizen on Apr 18 2013. Filed under Featured Content. Both comments and pings are currently closed.