Explosions rocked Boylston Street Monday afternoon. The concrete seemed to rise and erupt like a volcano as two bombs went off on the sidewalk bordering the 117th Boston Marathon. It was as if the street itself was inhaling deeply and blowing out an exhaustive breath of flame and smoke.
Thirty-four years ago, my father's lungs were burning like the air as he pushed himself down the same street. It was Patriot's Day in Massachusetts - Marathon Monday.
That year my father became the youngest person to complete the Boston Marathon at age 16. He was also the fastest to finish from Framingham High School at the time. Looking at my father now, I see he hasn't really moved since that day, not that I blame him.
In the confusion of Monday's events, Twitter lit up as news flooded in. A death and injury toll ticked quickly from two dead and 23 wounded to over 100 estimated injuries and three fatalities between the explosions. Bomb estimations hovered between two and seven but ultimately settled at only two on Boylston Street going off.
I watched my friends on Facebook check in, realizing cellular signals were jammed by the influx of use. They were trying to let their families know they were safe. I texted my cousins and collapsed in my astronomy class in relief at their prompt and shaky responses.
The Boston Marathon has heritage. It is the oldest annual marathon on record at 117 runnings. With over 500,000 viewers, it is New England's largest spectator sport. It is more nostalgic than red-dyed socks, baked beans, the Freedom Trail and "Hahvahd Yahd."
The marathon is also one of the hardest sporting events. At the 20-mile mark of the race in the town of Newton, the course takes the runners up a series of hills called Heartbreak Hill. The course that passes Boston College rises .4 miles and comes at a point in a marathon when a runner's glycogen stores are depleted most.
Sixteen, young and exhausted, my father found himself trapped on the hill, slowly crawling up, doused in sweat and delirious with exhaustion. With each step, his legs burned, sweat stung his eyes and his breath came in ragged, cutting gasps.
"You can do it, Todd," a cry of support came from seemingly nowhere. My dad looked to his right, and suddenly, my grandfather was beside him, jogging with a cup of water in his hands. "Come on, Todd! You gonna quit?" He handed my father the water, egging him on. "Let's go, Todd! Let's go!"
It seems that heroes can come from the most unlikely places. When my dad talks about his time on Heartbreak Hill, you can hear the smile in his voice, the gratitude for his father sharing the brunt of the run with him. Heroes are not born but made.
Massachusetts General Hospital is 1.3 miles from the Copley Square finish line of the marathon. In the wake of tragedy, runners spanned that distance, exhausted after their 26.2-mile endeavor, and rushed to the doors of Mass. General to give blood.
When the street erupted in a plume of fire and smoke, countless people dropped what they were doing and ran into the chaos. Police and volunteers alike ran into an uncertain climate, throwing themselves into the dust to help the wounded.
Those people are my heroes. In a time of distress, they gave me an ounce of hope. When police scanners crackled and told others to stay inside, they pressed on. When the suspicion that there were more bombs strewn about the city broke the news, they pushed on.
Two years after his ordeal with Heartbreak Hill, my dad became the poster boy of an American hero. He joined the Marines and learned to fly helicopters in the '80s . He made a commitment to always run toward the sound of danger. When times are at their worst, Marines push on.
But before that, he had Heartbreak Hill. My grandfather handed him a cup of water and he pushed up the incline and actually sprinted down the backside. He finished the race in 3:42:53.
Ronald Reagan said: "Heroes may not be braver than anyone else. They're just braver five minutes longer."
And on April 15, 2013, and April 16, 1979, the heroes ran on.
Email: meganlea@buffalo.edu
