April 15, 1996: A continuous clap and a constant roar

Joe Muldowney

On April 15, 1996, the world’s oldest marathon was about to become the world’s largest marathon.

But it wasn’t going to be easy.

The northeastern United States had experienced its snowiest winter on record, and simply because the calendar read “April” meant little to Mother Nature, who pursued her relentless polar assault into the middle of the month.

On April 10th, fifteen inches of snow fell on Hopkinton. Heavy rains continued for the remainder of the week, turning the grounds around the Hopkinton Middle School into a soupy quagmire.

2013 - Sharing a handful of moments that filled my heart with joy

Megan Hetzel

I’ve divided this post into two parts: the first will address yesterday’s tragic events at the finish line of the Boston Marathon; the second will share a few of the happier moments from the weekend because, frankly, I’m weary of reading about the sadness that now surrounds what was meant to be a euphoric, celebratory event. I’ve desperately needed a reason to smile, so, in an attempt at some shred of normalcy, I wrote up a quick race report that will hopefully make you smile, too. So, here we go…

I sat this morning at the airport in Boston in a sort of grief-stricken stupor, trying to wrap my brain around all that’s happened in the past 24 hours. I awoke this morning to the TV replaying that infamous clip taken at the finish line. I begged my Dad to turn it off. I’d seen it on loop all afternoon yesterday while I was holed up in my hotel room just a few blocks away from the explosions, and I simply couldn’t take it anymore. A work friend put it perfectly, “I was gonna call my feeling this morning a ‘bad news hangover’ and realized the better word for it is ‘grief.’” Exactly. I put on my yellow Boston Marathon shirt–runners from around the country are wearing race shirts in support of the victims–and headed to the airport. Outside our hotel were a handful of military personnel clutching assault rifles. When I arrived at the airport, the police debriefed me. It all felt like a horrifically bad dream.

2012 – Foregoing the race, and embracing the experience

Kristy Campbell

I truly believe anything is possible, if you want it badly enough. For me, qualifying for (and running!) the Boston Marathon was a big dream for many, many years. I’m sure people thought I was crazy talking about BQ’ing when I was still hours (yes, hours) away from my BQ time. But Boston was always in the back of my mind during every marathon.

It took me nine marathons to qualify for Boston. I ran my first marathon, the 2004 Marine Corps Marathon, in 5:12. Over the next seven years, I chipped away at my marathon finish time, slowly, and with lots of hard work, determination, and a little luck. In September 2011, after an incredible training cycle, I knew I could BQ. I ran the Lehigh Valley Marathon and crossed the finish line in 3:43:46. I was finally a Boston Qualifier! I had dreamed about this day for years, and the dream had finally come true.

1987: Even short fat guys can perform if they train for it!

Rob Crosswell

I first started running in the mid 1980s. I had gained a lot of weight, and determined it was time to take action on that matter. I went to the track at the high school, and a few of my friends were there. They told me they were training for a marathon. I was impressed. I believe that was when the seed was planted for my personal marathon mania. (By the way, none of those friends ever made it to a marathon finish.)

Shortly after that, I met an amazing guy named Joe Muldowney. Joe owned a small local running shoe store. I went in, and I guess I had him chuckling as I was asking about racing flats. At any rate he sold me an appropriate pair of training shoes and I was off. I have always been something of a passionate athlete, but I also have certain passions about food and drink that require an extra level of training effort to overcome. Joe introduced me to the necessary commitment to compensate for this lifestyle weakness. (Don’t quote me on this, but I think I may have stopped drinking beer for a year after my first New York marathon as part of a training regimen which was overseen and supervised by Joe.)

1983 - Someone steals my thunder.

Joe Muldowney

The Fenway Hotel was about a mile from the finish line, but it may as well have been a thousand miles away. On blistered feet, space blanket covering my body, which was caked with dried sweat, I shuffled back to the hotel, spent and exhausted having completed my first Boston Marathon. The unicorn medal, bearing the number ‘82,’ signifying the number of annual Boston Marathon races, hung from my neck. It was the third Monday of April, 1978.

With sunken eyes, and a salt-covered face, I entered the small lobby, where a pleasant desk clerk smiled at me. She gazed with pity at the decrepit figure who stood before her. I knew that all I needed to do was pick up a key and I could hobble to my room, where a hot shower and a cozy bed awaited me. It was at that moment, out of nowhere, a pair of pliers gripped my right hamstring. In reality it was a cramp. The kind that strikes in the middle of the night. A painful, silent grimace crossed my face, sweat beaded on my forehead, and the concerned clerk implored, “May I help you?” At that moment, the pain was white-hot. I gripped the marble desk top. Before I could reply, however, a middle-aged man, who simply could not grasp the mentality of those who run 26.2-miles for fun, emerged. He glanced at the pained figure on the other side of the counter and drawled in his thick Boston accent, “Not unless yaw name is Gawd!”