Boston, Post Marathon Attack, Warning: Graphic Pics and Video

I was on a bus bound for New York to go to a rehearsal of a play I wrote when I got a call from my daughter, Allison, who was at work in Manhattan: Call Kathryn; there were explosions at the Boston Marathon.  So began an intense few hours when I tried with limited internet access to figure out what was going on, and if my loved ones were safe. 

I knew Sue and Allison were safe. Sue had the day off and was home in Wollaston, and of course Al was in New York. But Kathryn, our youngest? A student in Boston raised on the Marathon by her runner father, it was very likely she was on Boylston Street with her friends. As a little one, she and her sister would be so excited every time a passing runner would grab a slice of orange out of their hands as they stood and cheered along the course. The problem was her phone kept kicking over to voice mail, a problem we later learned came from overloaded circuits, and not from the cell companies shutting the network down to prevent more bomb detonations. Just one of the many rumors we, as a scattered little family, would deal with.

As it turns out, she was in the library, but not the Boston Public Library, where the explosion took place, but in her school library. I had to smile. Good old, Kathryn. Always studious, Montessori, the Honor student. Safe. 

The next couple of hours I spent trying to deal with very limited wifi on a Peter Pan bus. Life goes from good to bad back to good again, and I've learned to deal. Sue said when I learned the play I was working on in New York was being done there, she couldn't tell the difference between my reaction from when a play gets rejected. In the past decade, I've tried to behave according to Kipling's poem, If:

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same

While it did go through my head that Peter Pan advertises wifi so they should provide reliable wifi, I knew that getting upset at that particular moment over the bus company's failure to provide a steady signal wasn't going to help one bit. I just forced myself to stay calm, and think and focus. 

The overriding feeling I had for the rest of the trip was that something even bigger was going to happen in Boston or across the country, and we--Sue, Allison, Kathryn, and I--were going to be separated and out of communication. I tried to convince Kathryn to take a cab and spend the night with Sue, just to get her out of the city. She lives in a touristy section of Boston, and I was worried that section of the city may have been targeted, too. In the end, she took a cab to her apartment. 

So I'd succeed in logging on to Facebook for maybe fifteen or twenty seconds, and quickly scroll through the posts of people saying they were fine. That helped calm me down a lot. There were posts from people who I didn't know were in Boston, who were visiting for the Marathon. Again, it was nice to learn this, and that they were okay. 

Through all the status updates one stood out: Realize that what Boston is experiencing is what some people experience every day, sometimes because of the actions of my government. Yes, U.S. drones fall out of the sky. Roadside bombs explode because of unstable governments caused by U.S. military invasion. Yes, correct. But the timing was all wrong. That's a discussion for another day. Two days later, though, the Guardian, a news outlet that I replaced NPR with long ago as a source of what I consider mildly progressive news and thought, ran what I felt was a pretty spot-on article. Maybe now we know what lives are like around the world, and think about the role our government--and therefore all of us--play. Empathy is a powerful emotion.

I was in Manhattan--two hours later--before I could log on long enough to tell people that all of us were fine. And now I'll say it: Peter Pan/Greyhound: get your shit together when it comes to your wifi. I don't know if your on-board server only allows for two or three users or what, but it should allow every passenger to log on. 

Sometimes the wifi hung in there long enough for me to skim a local news report, but the reports were sketchy and contradictory. Was the fire at the JFK museum related to the Marathon bombing? How many unexploded devices were found, if any?

When I got off the bus at Port Authority, I went upstairs and saw police conducting random searches. Here we go, I thought. Knee-jerk response to a crisis. I never understood random searches in the subway. I mean, wouldn't a terrorist--or anyone with something to hide--see the search station and just turn around and go the other way? Or dump what they had and come back for it later, when the search station is taken down? Once again, idiotic responses by our government, intended to simply assuage people's fears and that only limit freedom, and has nothing to do with catching criminals and terrorists. 

Rehearsal was hard. I was working with four truly enthusiastic, dedicated theater artists who weren't connected with Boston or the bombing. To them, it was something that happened far away. And funny, I felt guilty about being upset, since these people had experienced 9/11 and everything that changed in New York. I didn't feel that this disaster matched up to what they experienced so I had no right to feel the way I did. Weird, huh? Still, I had to give it my best. Again, we should never allow acts of terrorism to stop our lives, and there's the adage in theater that the show must go on.

That night, on Al's couch in Brooklyn, I was able to sort out the events, send some messages, see the grisly pictures of victims with their legs blown off, bones exposed. I think we need to see that. I think we need to see more of it: the real effects of these events on people. I just wanted to get home, where I belonged.

If you're up for it, here are some images and video. Close-hand video near the blast. And very graphic images here. 

And crazy thought number two, but I remembered I had some overdue library books, and wondered when Copley Square would be open again so I could return them.

In New York, everything was normal. I wanted people to know I was from Boston. There was a part of me that wanted sympathy. I wondered what they'd say? Should I have been wearing a Sox cap? A Boston t-shirt. Then again, no. I hate calling attention to myself, and worse, I hate American jingoism in all its forms. Flag waving. Nationalism in all the hideous forms it takes in the United States. From traveling abroad, I know if you can't tell I'm from the United States just by looking at me, you're blind. And I wanted to be around my family and friends. Not people who couldn't relate. 

Yesterday, I was so glad to be back in Boston. On the bus ride up (again, crappy wifi) I didn't know what to expect. I wondered if I'd see squads of cami-wearing National Guardsmen in South Station. No, I didn't. I saw two, though I did see two stationed outside Port Authority in New York, one carrying an assault rifle. 

Boston is a tough town, and there were a lot of posts on Facebook talking about how the terrorists (do we even know if the bomber(s) was/were actually terrorist(s), which in my mind brings up a real political agenda, or was this the work of some whack job with a good working knowledge of demolitions?) picked on the wrong city. I saw an image of all the Boston sports teams' logos together, looking tough. I think that's all brave posturing. If it helps you get through this, fine. Just like I don't understand the posts on Facebook like, "hugs." And "sending good thoughts." Again, anything that helps a person get through this is fine by me. I try post news reports and what I consider intelligent analysis. And always humor. Good intelligent humor is what I need. Like this from Stephen Colbert.

When I got to the gate at Port Authority there were two middle-aged women standing in front of me, waiting in line. Besides the fact that the bus was leaving for Boston, you could just tell they were Bostonians. The accents. White, tough-looking, overweight old broads who looked like they'd as soon spit on you as say hello. Two more showed up, and never said excuse me or explained why they were pushing ahead in line to meet with their friends. They just did it. When we boarded the bus, again, two pushed ahead and when I let the other two ahead of me, neither one said excuse me or thank you. That, as much as anything, is Boston.

And I know some readers are thinking: He's going to segue into saying, but they're my fellow Bostonians and I love them anyway. No. That's not it at all. What I'm saying is, after 32 years of living in that city, whether I like it or not, wishing it was one way but accepting it for what it really is, it's my home. When something like this happens, it's where I want to be. 

2009 Boston Marathon Day

The Boston Marathon was run today. We went in to watch it for a while, and caught the women's finish. But unless you get to Copley Square at the crack of dawn or you have a VIP pass to the stands, you're not going to see anything except flags and the backs of people's heads. Still, this video gives a good sense of the excitement and anticipation as the runners headed down the home stretch. You can see the flags getting whipped by the headwind the runners had to face the entire face.

Still, the marathon doesn't have the appeal that it used to have for me, back in the days when I was running hard, 40, 50, 60 miles a week, if my shins would let me. Back then I called it Boston, and everyone I was hanging with knew what I was talking about. I had runners from all over the country sleeping on the floor and on couches one year, coming to Boston trying to qualify for the Olympics (none made it, but there were two very low two-digit numbers under my roof at one time.)

Things, life, hasn't let me out on the roads in about, God, is it three years now? But even back then I was running up to 15 miles at a clip, in the dead of summer with a Camelback loaded with Gatorade and a packet or two of GU (raspberry was my favorite.) I want to get back into it, but first I have to find a doctor who will give me a stress test and say, sure, no problem, you're heart is fine. At my age, with heart disease part of a big one-two punch in my family (the other being the Big C) I don't want to get out there on the roads and collapse of a heart attack. (Well, at least he died happy.)

So we checked out the finish, where we couldn't see anything except the backs for people's heads and some flags. Around the corner there was a veteran's display. I have to think when dealing with a crisis like that in your life, 25,000 (I was told that was the number of runners today) endorphin-junkies is going to look pretty lame. From the work I did on The Boys of Summer, something like dealing with someone's death through warfare sticks with you for the rest of your life. You pretty much wake up everyday, and that's the thing that slams you between the eyes. It wasn't a dream, is the first thought through your head, and I feel for those people; I really feel for them.

Farther up Newbury we saw the Hempest store. I had heard for hemp being used for clothes, so we wandered in to see what the fuss was about. I have to say I really liked a few of the shirts, but still, I'm not going to pay $89 for a shirt, no matter how much I like it. I wouldn't be leaving for Spain and North Africa in a week if I spent that kind of money on clothes and luxuries. I'm a backpacker, and I like living like that. I've said if I won the Lottery the only thing that would change is I'd drink more premium beer and less beer on sale.

Farther up, Natural Bean was giving away free coffee to celebrate the opening of a new store. Sue told them I'd blog about them, so here I am doing it, but I'm not just doing that because Sue said so. It was really good coffee. I mean, really good. And giving it away is one way to get people turned on to your stuff. (Hey, fat-cat music execs--are you listening?)

We ran into a stream of runners up on Hereford Street that we couldn't cross, just like you might with a swollen stream out in the wilderness, so we turned around and headed home, via Park, going through the crowds again. It's weird, how the race and the runners just became a backdrop for our day, instead of the focus like it used to so many times in the past. The end of Marathon Day was always a cookout. Today we went to REI to pick up a couple of things for our trip.

Boston Marathon memories

Today is Patriot's Day and the running of the 111th Boston Marathon. The Marathon used to be one of my High Holydays, but no more. Today will be the third time I've missed it in the 27 years I've lived in the Boston area. Last year was the second time, when I didn't have anyone to go with and didn't feel like standing out there alone. Today is a work day.

But...there is a nor'easter blowing out there. Runners may get hit with 50mph head winds. The rain is pelting down, and the wind chill factor may dip into the 20s. Horrible weather.

I used to run like a demon. No more. The last time I ran hard was a few years ago when I vowed I'd run the Marathon before I turned fifty. I was clocking around 14 milers when my back blew out on me (really my hamstrings) and an October qualifying marathon came and went. Just life, I guess.

Now, I'm feeling fat and bloated. Sitting here in this cube, at this desk, eating and doing nothing active is killing me. It's killing all of us...not the life I ever wanted, but I have to dig myself out of a financial hole somehow...

Years ago, I think it was around 1984, my then wife and I hosted a bunch of runner from Ohio. Buddy John, his friends Bart and Ellie, and Ellie's sister from Oregon or Washington, I forget which. Bart had chance at qualifying for the Olympic trials; his number was something like 38. Johnny was already living in Boston, so on the appointed day, he and I headed to the airport to pick up the rest of the bunch. We got there, hugs and intros all around, and Ellie's sister noticed someone sitting on the floor of the airport who she knew from her health club.

Long story short, this woman and Ellie's sister had talked, sis had told the other woman, a single mom who's last name I remember was Proudfoot (what a name for a runner, huh?) who used her savings to buy a ticket and hope she could mooch a place to stay with the sis. Sis was furious; I can understand why, probably feeling used. I saw a tearful woman, and my heart went out to her. I was a runner, we were all runners, we all had our dreams. I told her she could come to my house. Proudfoot didn't want to come at first, feeling bad, but I told her she had a race to run and shouldn't have to worry about where she was going to sleep. Sis was still madder than a wet hen.

Interesting weekend with all of us crammed in one apartment. Runners sleeping on couches and the floor and spare beds. She brought her own food, nuts and granola and all foods with complex carbs, and she set up a picture of her kid on the floor next to her sleeping bag.

Bart blew his race and didn't qualify. Proudfoot didn't run well either. Johnny and Ellie's sis did fine.

I still think of Proudfoot every so often, particularly on Marathon Day. She chased her dream, and didn't get it that day, but I hope she found it, or maybe even something even better, later on.