It should have been a story about a red-eye coast to coast trip, a
marathon expo, marathon gear as a badge of honor, settling at a pretty brownstone
building, carboloading, bus loading, bus bonding, pre-race jitters, athlete village,
meeting friends, happy pictures, porta-potties, start line.
It should have been about the physical, mental, and
emotional experience of every single mile throughout a 26.2-mile course; about
the connection with the crowd, and about every mile split.
It should have been the story about crossing the finish line and kissing
the ground of another conquered state on my 50-state quest.
But it is not that story.
It is the story of horror and ordeal that started when I turned into
Hereford and heard a huge blast. I immediately thought it was a bomb but looked at the
fans to find some cues in their faces but they kept cheering on. Then I heard the second explosion, I couldn’t focus on the race anymore,
I was trying to understand what was going on. I saw confused faces and the
crowd looking and walking in all directions. I turned into Boylston and saw the
smoke by the finish line. I slowed down and when I by mile 26 I
stopped, the police was coming running toward us to stop us and protect us. Complete
chaos. I couldn’t react. I felt on my knees and started crying. The only image
that came to me was my daughter being blown up while waiting for me at the
finish line. She bought her airplane ticket back in October to be with me for
the race. She cancelled her trip at the last minute to stay in Venezuela to
vote in April 14th presidential elections. She would have been there
on that side of the street because I always run on the left side. She would
have been there. She would have been there. Then I thought of my mom who should
be in Copley Place, the building right behind the Public Library where the
finish line was. Then thought of me running by the areas where the explosions
happened, I was 3:20 minutes away from the first blast, and 2:30 minutes from
the second, but the recurring thought was my daughter standing at the side of
the street by the finish line waiting for me. And at this very minute, that is
still the picture that comes to my mind. I can’t let go.
A lady that saw my distress offered me her vest. I was wet, it was 51F, very windy, and overcast. She also helped me to contact my
husband and son. She dialed for me, I was shaking. She could communicate right
away as only minutes have passed since the explosions. The police cars haven't even arrived yet to the scene. They did when my husband’s call went through, he
said “congratulations sweetie”. I told him “No, No…. There were two bombs. Two
bombs exploded by the finish line. I am OK. Please, call Diego (my son) and
tell him to call my mom to stay where she is. I will go and get her.”
Police directed me and other runners to the medical tent
that was right there. I was shivering, they ran out of blankets but gave me a
cotton sheet that did the job. Two men were lying down on cots, two other were
being helped, two girls were sharing a wool blanket. I shared the cot with one
of them who asked me if I spoke Spanish. She happened to be from Caracas,
Venezuela, city where I was born and raised. She was crying thinking of her
family, boyfriend, and friends who would not know if she was OK. She mentioned where
she was staying and I told her not to worry that I would help her to get back
to her apartment in Beacon St. when things were clearer. I learned that she was
member of the VO2Max team in Caracas, where one of my very good friends runs. I told her that as soon as we found a phone I would communicate with my son for him to send a message to our
common running friend. About 5 minutes later the police evacuated us from the
medical tent in Boylston and told us to move toward Dalton. We moved to the
corner of Dalton and Boylston and we sat on the sidewalk by The Capital Grill.
The medical personnel gave me a very thick wool blanket that one of the runners
let on a cot. I was very wet and I needed to avoid getting Raynaud, a disorder that
when getting cold, narrows the blood vessels in my fingers hindering blood of
getting to the surface of the skin and turning the skin white and blue.
A couple of girls, Kathryn and Macie, were passing by and I
asked them if they could help us to make some phone calls. I was very concern about
my mom and the evacuations. She is 84, doesn’t speak English, and I knew she
would not be able to go back home by herself. From that moment on the girls stayed
with us and told me they would not leave me until I reunite with my mom. Not
too long after, the police evacuated us from Dalton, mentioning that there was
possibility of more devices. We entered in the Sheraton Hotel and sat on the
floor at the lobby. The lobby was packed with runners and bystanders. Sheraton’s
personnel were amazing, providing us with water and warm towels to cover
ourselves. We still had no information on what was the magnitude of the
tragedy. I presumed that people had been killed. Cell lines collapsed; it
was impossible to communicate with anybody. I lost track of time. Kathryn
and Macie where constantly dialing my son’s and mom’s cell numbers saying “everything
is OK. Your mom is OK.” The comfort that they provided during those hours was
priceless and I will forever thank them for their kindness. The Venezuelan girl
saw somebody known at the lobby and she went with him. Then we learned that 2
people had been killed and there were dozens of injured. I was in shock, I
couldn’t react and I felt like a zombie. I broke again. I let the girls resolve
and make the decisions on what to do and when and where to go. I wasn’t capable
of even thinking. They finally got a hold of my mom, and she told us the exact
location where she was at Copley Place. I told her not to move that we were on
our way. The plan was to cross to Prudential Center and Copley via the Sheraton
sky bridge, but when we got to Prudential they had just closed the bridge to
Copley and we couldn’t go through. We needed to go through the street, but at
our attempt to leave Prudential, all buildings were on locked down and nobody
could get in or out. As soon as they lifted the lock down we walked to
Copley through alternate streets as the main streets were closed. When we got
to Copley Place this was being evacuated, and my mom was not where she had been.
I started looking on the street and finally saw her at the sidewalk almost 2.5
hours after the attacks. The girls and I had tears in our eyes. Kathryn and
Macie, immense thanks for all your help and kindness. God bless you.
From there my mom and I went to try to recover my bag. I needed my
phone. We walked about 0.3 miles to get to where the bags were placed. The area
looked like a war zone. No smiles but tears, no happiness but sadness. We runners
looked like refugees walking wrapped on blankets, with our heads down on isolated streets. The Boston
Athletic Association, BAA, off loaded the buses and placed the bags on a nearby
street. With all the chaos and street closures, BAA kept the organization to
the highest levels. Once I recovered my bag we walked home, 0.4 miles away.
What came in the aftermath of the explosions were dead and
destruction. Three young and beautiful souls were killed: Martin Richard, 8; Lingzi Lu, 23; and Krystle Marie
Campbell, 29. 180 injured, amputations, people in critical and serious
conditions, sadness, anxiety, vigils, prayers, and memorials for the victims
and their families, 24/7 sirens, police, bomb squads all over the city, bonding
with the runners and the city of Boston, healing, unity, strength, and
determination.The marathon jacket , that "badge of honor" became a special symbol in the somber city. We runners looked at each other, nodded our heads, and shared a sad smile.
On Thursday, the interfaith service at the Holy Cross
Cathedral, 4 blocks behind the apartment where I was staying, provided me some
closure. Thousands of people gathered to comfort each other. We were one.
Boston was one. I felt that, even with the suspects still on the run, the
commotion was about to be over and the people were ready to start the healing
process. Until midnight.
I woke up at midnight due to endless sirens; one after
another, after another, for more than half hour. Instead of turning the TV on I
texted my husband and son: “Tons of sirens.” My Hubby encouraged me to go back to
sleep, but my son texted back: “Because a
cop was killed in Cambridge. A gunman killed him at the MIT campus... Multiple
shots and explosions in Watertown.” My mom and I had been in Watertown on
Wednesday night having dinner at the home of a very close friend from my teen
years. TV was on for the next 20 hours. The city of Boston and its suburbs were
on locked down. Metro and taxi services were suspended. All businesses were
closed. The manhunt in Watertown became the center of our world. The rest is
history.
My dear running partner Michelle texted me on the day of the
events: “Who would’ve thought that your daughter
would have been safer today in Venezuela than in Boston.” True. That may
have been providential, and although I am extremely sad I have no fears.
All marathons leave special marks,
but this particular edition of the Boston Marathon, the 117th, will
be indelible. I will work hard to come back in 2014 to run this great city of
Boston, city that has been carved in my heart and in my soul forever.
And my daughter will be there at
the finish line waiting for me.
Thanks to all that were concerned for my well-being and my
mom’s. All my love.
sincere-lee
lizzie lee
