Boston Marathon

By Angela Carron

The morning of the 2018 Boston Marathon race arrived with cold temperatures, sleet, rain, and headwind. I took shelter inside the Athlete’s Village, a giant tent set up to shelter runners as they waited for the race to start. People packed in like sardines. I found a spot near the tent opening and had to laugh because the rain still blew in on me. Soon it was time to make my way to the start line. As I walked, volunteers held out bags for us to “throw away” unwanted layers of clothing to be later donated. Totally soaked, I decided to strip off my top layer jacket. 

I walked shoulder to shoulder with the other runners to the start and once there, had about 20 minutes to wait. It was still raining. I reached up to pull down my visor, hoping to better shield my eyes, but it was gone. I realized I must have lost it when I ditched my jacket. I looked around frantically, and even considered asking a volunteer for their hat, but what did I have to offer in exchange besides one last layer of sopping wet clothes? The National Anthem started, signaling the countdown to go time.  

The gun went off and I was on my way. This was my fifth time running the Boston Marathon and I had a goal to run it in my fastest time ever and break my record of 3:20. I knew it would be a tall order with the day’s conditions, but I was determined. I set out at a 6:55 mile/hour pace for my first mile and felt great. I started to visualize the finish line and to prepare myself mentally for the weather conditions to worsen. But I couldn’t prepare myself for what happened next.

 I was running with a small, tight cluster of people passing others along the left side of the road, when suddenly the man in front of me stalled. I clipped the back of his shoe and hopped to keep from falling on him. The next thing I knew, I was crashing onto the pavement. I hunkered down, immediately overcome by hundreds of runners. Someone stepped on my leg. Another guy tripped over me. I was gripped with thoughts of being trampled to death like some kind of horrifying Black Friday rush at Walmart. I covered my head in fear. 

Then a man swooped me up by my underarms and helped me to the side of the road. I was crying. Sobbing. Hysterically crying. What had just happened? Only moments before, I was envisioning crossing the finish line in personal-record-breaking glory. Now my knee hurt so badly that when I tried to run on it, I started to limp. My elbow, ankle, knee and stomach were all scraped and bloodied. It was the second time in my dedicated running life that I wanted to quit a race. The first time had been a 100-mile course. 

One of the race marshals ran up and asked if I was okay. I wanted so badly to say, “No! Take me to the Med Tent! I’m done!” But I didn’t. Instead I said, “I don’t know.” I began to hobble along the shoulder of the road, still bawling. I tried to run a little but the negative thoughts were pouring down like the rain. I hadn’t even reached mile one yet. How was I going to make it through this? 

A man slowed down next to me and said, “It’s okay. You look okay. Come on—let’s do this!” We ran together and I continued to cry. After a mile, I calmed down and he bid me farewell and ran onward. I thanked him with a smile—this anonymous stranger who had helped me to carry on.

Over the next 13 miles, I hosted an epic pity party for myself. “Poor me—my knee, my elbow, my stomach…I can’t believe I lost that stupid visor. My feet are soaked and frozen. My ankle hurts. I’m freezing. Will this head wind ever stop?” Then I came upon a man running with a prosthetic leg and I snapped out of it. My thoughts turned to gratitude. My mentality switched gears and positive thoughts began to swarm in. 

I checked my pace and was doing well. I was running the elite Boston Marathon, on my own two legs, AND I was running fast, despite my accident in mile one. I had friends running the race with me. My husband was waiting at the finish line. My family and friends were getting text alerts at all the check points, keeping track of my progress and cheering me on. “Let’s do this,” I thought.

I got my second wind when the hills got bad. I was passing people left and right. At one point I said out loud: “Thank you, Five-Mile Road Hill!” Each time I passed a med tent and watched people head inside, I felt grateful I hadn’t had to be one of them. Grateful for every stride I was able to take. Before I knew it, I had conquered Heartbreak Hill and was close to the finish. Six miles to go. I started hunting down tall men and running up behind them so they could shield me from the wind and icy rain pellets. Then I was turning onto Boylston Street and heading to the finish.

I crossed the finish line, lifting my soaked, heavy arms into the air. A volunteer handed me a water bottle and asked how I felt. I was injured, shaking, freezing. But I replied, “I feel AMAZING!” Not only had I persevered to the finish, but I managed to break my previous record by running the marathon in 3:11. 

NEVER GIVE UP.