Boston

"This line is NOT moving! You need to make these lines straighter!" I looked over to see a disgruntled runner standing on a planter box, making her case to the clueless volunteers. I had been standing on the Tremont side of the Boston Common for 45 minutes now, and runners were getting impatient with the amount of time that was taking to load all of the buses to Hopkinton. The runners' "for the people" moment seemed to work, though, and I finally caught a bus 15 minutes later.
         After an hour bus ride, I finally was in Hopkinton (SUCH a cute little town) with my start time 90 minutes away. I was wearing old sweatpants with holes in them and an XL sweatshirt from Steamboat, Colorado (I don't remember how I acquired such a thing, but it was perfect for the job) over my highlighter green sports bra and matching arm warmers. Upon disembarking the bus, I made a quick decision to duck into the woods in lieu of waiting in a porta potty line. The forest was a little spotty for my taste, but so many runners were doing the same thing, so it was quite acceptable. I then milled around the staging area, taking in the scene and grabbing some water and a Powerbar to augment my second breakfast. I found an Addidas tent that was giving out shamrock tattoos, and so I naturally plastered one on my left cheek. Tattoo in place, I finally let one of the millions of photographers take a pre-race picture (after removing my frumpy clothes, of course). I then headed towards the starting line, heart racing and excitement bursting from every pore.
          I made my way to the second corral of wave 2, jogging a bit to loosen up. I danced to every song that came over the loudspeakers during my stay in the corral; it helped to ease my nerves. Then, as the clock struck 10:20, there was a loud CRACK, and I started bounding my way down the course of the 117th Boston Marathon.
         Miles 1-13 were a breeze. I smiled almost the entire time, laughing at the spectators' signs ( "those shorts make your butt look fast" was one of my favorites), high-fiving kids along the course, and running on pure adrenaline. The best part of the opining miles, though, was the girls of Wellesley and the "scream tunnel". I ran to the side so that I could stow away some of their excitement that I would undoubtedly need later on. I saw a friend from high school that I used to play soccer with (who now attends Wellesley College), and so I was happy to accomplish one of my missions for the race. I ran a 7:25 mile through that stretch...whoops. I couldn't reel in my excitement; I had been struggling to back down my 7:30 pace to something closer to 7:40, but to no avail. Until the course made me.
        I can't put my finger eon the exact point in time when my legs decided they had had enough, but it was somewhere around mile 16 that I noticed the downhills had taken their toll. With the looming hills ahead, I became concerned that I wouldn't be able to hold the pace for much longer. The worst mistake that I made, though, was confusing the hill before Heartbreak with the actual heartbreak. This happened because kids were handing out "Heartbreak Lemonade", and my delirious and tired brain wanted to believe that the hill I was pouring all of my energy into was Heartbreak. I completely ignored the fact that I was on mile 19, not 20. I crested the hill gasping and grimacing, and my heart dropped when I saw the steep downhill ahead. My IT bands began to scream with every step, and I finally sobered up to the fact that I had not conquered Heartbreak yet. After a painful half mile of the steepest downhill since the start, there it was: Heartbreak Hill. There were broken hearts drawn in chalk on the pavement, and the crowd screamed hill-related motivational cheers. I struggled up the most famous part of the course, taking small steps and feeling like I was barely moving. Let the suffering begin.
       I'm most proud of mile 21 and 22. I managed to run about a 7:45 pace, despite feeling gassed from the hills. I fought really hard to try and hold the pace, and the drunk Boston College students helped as well. They were chanting "BC! BC! BC!", and I pretended that they were instead chanting "Kacy! Kacy!...". Weird, I know, but it seemed to work. I ran off to the side and high-fived hundreds of BC students, but towards the end of mile 22 I realized I was getting too tired to do so. I tucked into the middle of the road to conserve energy. I stopped fighting to hold pace when I looked down at my watch upon passing mile 23. 9:00. My legs were cooked, and so was I
       The last 4 miles were a shuffle. I was too tired to do any more than acknowledge that the awesome crowd was there. Finally, when I took the turn for Boyston street, my heart fluttered (skipping a beat would have been really inconvenient at this time) as the finish line stood there like a lighthouse, guiding me to the end of my long journey. I stumbled across the finish line and stopped my watch. 3:26. Slower than I wanted, but hey, I just finished the Boston marathon.
         I walked gingerly through the finishing shoot, using whatever energy I had left to talk to other runners and laugh about how hard the course was. I kissed the medal as it was roped around my neck. From last September to this moment, right now. It was an unbelievable feeling.
        As I hobbled to my ride out of Boston, I assessed the damage. My quads were in the most pain, with my IT bands feeling tighter than ever. Both of my 1st metatarsal joints resisted further bending, a duty made difficult by my tender tibialis anterior muscles. I gingerly climbed into the car, still feeling slightly disorientated by the exertion, and headed out of Boston in order to catch my cutting-it-close flight at 5:40 (it was about 1:45 when I finished). I took as quick of a shower as I could, and as I dressed myself in my race shirt I put my medal back on. That's when I found my phone, the screen of which was crowded with missed calls and texts. Two bombs had exploded where I had crossed an hour before.
      I feel incredibly lucky, and my heart aches for those who weren't so lucky. I can't help but to think that I was a bad cramp from being in the area when the fire met the sky. I'm also thankful for my hasty travel plans, for without them I may have wanted to soak up Boylston Street for a little longer. I woke up Tuesday morning extremely sore yet extremely grateful that I was in my bed in Palm Harbor rather than a Boston ER. My thoughts and prayers have been with those affected by the awful act of violence, and as I look at my splits I think of the 4,000+  who didn't get to finish.
      I want to thank everyone who texted, called, or even thought about me on Monday. I was taken aback by all the love and support everyone sent my way, including before the race, after the race, and in the light of the tragedy. Although there is plenty of ugly in this world, love will always win. Boston will get back on it's feet, and we will all heal together.

I know that I will be hugging everyone much tighter from now on. I didn't need such a situation to be  thankful for the people in my life, but it served as a reminder never to let an opportunity to tell someone that you love them slip by.