Boston Marathon 2013

            It is amazing just how quickly things can change.  I first found that out on September 11, 2001 when the World Trade Center’s Twin Towers were taken down by terrorists. The world changed that day.  I guess sadly the world changed again on Monday.  It makes you wonder why things happen the way they do, why some things don’t happen, and what goes into both.

            When there’s an attack on your country it hits you.  If there’s an attack in your state it hits you harder.  If there’s an attack that effects your family it hits you hardest.  Let me start by saying that my Uncle Steve and Cousin Kathleen are both all right but they were there in the line of fire during the bombings at the Boston Marathon.

            Obviously we live in a changed world since 9/11 where things like this can happen.  Still, who would have ever thought there would be a day where bombs were exploding at the finish line of a road race?  Think about that.  These were not politicians.  These were not soldiers fighting.  These were not any sort of authority figures.  These were runners, average people for the most part, who when they were so close to completing a huge task of running a marathon then found themselves being pelted with shrapnel from explosives.  This was not Iraq or Afghanistan, this was Boylston Street.

            I had tracked my Uncle Steve online and was updating friends at work about his progress as I was so proud of him not only running Boston at Age 60, but doing it after recovering from a fractured hip.  It was a truly inspirational story.  I am certain there were many other runners with similar tales of redemption but this one shares blood with me so it stands out.

            As I stated at the top it is amazing how quickly things can change.  I had seen my uncle’s finish time and posted a proud note on Facebook for everyone to see.  I had shared his time with folks at work and put my phone away.  Only minutes later I had been alerted of the explosions at the finish line.  We gathered to watch the television and my heart sunk.  It looked like a scene from a movie or at the very least a bad dream.  It was no accident, it was no coincidence, someone had bombed the Boston Marathon.  This was real.

            I immediately tried to get a hold of my uncle.  I told my mother about what was going on and she tried to get through to her brother.  Panic set in as it got to twenty minutes with no reply.  I knew that he had crossed the finish line somewhere around 2:46pm, I had no idea of when the bombs had gone off.  I had no idea if he might have finished and then gone back to the finish line to await friends.  People at work tried to say he was okay but I was not so sure.  I said until I knew he was okay he was not okay.   

            Thirty minutes passed, injury numbers began to be posted and with no word from my uncle or cousin I could only hope they weren’t a part of those numbers.  As the replays of the bombings and immediate aftermath played on a seemingly continuous loop my mind began to wander.  I could easily put myself in the shoes of those affected.  I am a runner and the Boston Marathon is the Holy Grail of races, the ultimate goal for many runners including myself. 

            Forty-five minutes passed with no word from my uncle or cousin.  Word got out that cellular service had been shut down in the event that the bombs had been cell phone activated and there were more around.  It was chaos.  I began to get texts asking about my uncle.  Maui, my friend of 20 years, said his wife had friends in that area that had yet to be heard from as well.  With tens of thousands of people coming together for the Boston Marathon it was harder to find people NOT affected than it was to find those affected.

            I tried to keep my cool to little avail.  Emily, as she always does, did her best to calm me down.  Only after did she tell me she was just as worried as me.  She offered to come down to my work to be there for me.  I posted another message on Facebook this time asking anybody who might have any info to post it, anything was better than the uncertainty.

            Finally after an hour we got word that both my uncle and cousin were all right.  Only minutes later word of casualties at the finish line came out.  It turns out that my uncle had crossed the finish line roughly five minutes before the bombs went off.  That is not a very long period of time.

            It was hard to fathom that ordinary people, running a road race, had been murdered by some evil coward/s.  I run all the time, and have run many races including a marathon, and never once did I feel my life was in danger.  How does that change going forward?  I have dreams of running all of these big time marathons in my future, and sadly I do wonder how safe they will be.  However, it will not stop me from running them.

            Later in the evening, after a long work day, I was finally able to sit on my own and think.  Sitting on a chilly fishing pier on Bass River I found myself wondering why some things happen, and why some things don’t happen.  When Emily said she had thought that it could have easily been us there on Marathon Monday it was not lost on me.  When I first started running my goal was to run the 2013 Boston Marathon with my uncle, I even made a sort of motivational poster for myself on the day of the 2012 race to remind me what was ahead.  It was not lost on me the fact that my goal time for the race was 4:05-4:10.  The bombs exploded as the race time read 4:09.  I had injured my Achilles during the Cape Cod Marathon in October and therefore did not qualify for Boston and I could have gotten in through an exemption thanks to my boss at work but did not want to risk further injury.

            If all had gone according to my goals, my aspirations, I would have been there in the middle of that horrific scene.  This is not about me, or about playing What-If games.  This is just about how close to home this tragedy has hit.  I feel it and will always feel it. 

My heart hurts so badly for the families of those who were killed going to watch a road race.  It’s supposed to be a happy day and a safe event.  My heart hurts for those grievously wounded, losing limbs and facing an unimaginable recovery process.  My heart hurts for those who went there to run or watch and now cannot or maybe will not anymore due to fear, I will not blame them for that. 

I will do all I can to be there on race day next year by any means necessary.  I will run for those who cannot.  It is amazing just how fast things can change.  

St. Peter's Fiesta 5K - June 2011

My second race fell on an off day from work for me; it was to begin at 6:30pm on a Thursday meaning I had all day to think about whether it would be my last or not.  For those of you not wanting to relive the entire story obviously it was not my last as I am still running to this day, but for dramatic effect let’s keep the suspense going.

I had all day to think about the pain in my right knee and left Achilles.  Why did I worry about it being my last race?  Sure, rest would probably have done the trick.  It might have been 6 weeks of rest.  It is easy to keep running, or keep exercising when you get into a pattern; however once you stop for any extended period of time it becomes so much easier to stick to that pattern as well.  I feared that 6 weeks off from running when it was still so new to me would take away my new found passion so I threw caution to the wind.

I began to get myself psyched up for the race before starting the nearly 2 hour drive from Cape Cod up to Gloucester.  The drive and the music I played got my mind off of running and allowed me to enjoy the summer afternoon.  Unfortunately as I got closer to Gloucester the clouds and fog began to roll in.  By the time I parked near the YMCA on Middle Street there was a light drizzle in the air.  I figured this could only hurt my chances of a pain-free run.

I got my bib and shirt from the kind folks at the YMCA.  They allowed me to change down in the locker room.  It was deserted and silent, alone with my thoughts, how fitting.  As I changed I stretched my legs and could feel the pain still there, somehow I thought that maybe race day would provide a miracle.  It did not.  I returned to drop my gym bag at my car and felt sober about my running career.  Before I left to head to the race area I posted a message on my Facebook page thanking my 3 running mentors, my Uncle Steve, Deanna, and Emily, and of course my mother.  I felt as if I was getting ready to retire from running before I even got started.  

The St. Peter’s Fiesta was going on, a celebration of Italian heritage which struck home with me thanks to my heavy Italian descent on my mother’s side of the family.  The crowds were sparse at best thanks to the cool and raw weather.  I tried my best to avoid the carts of sausages, fried dough, and the like, there were a few stationed right at the starting line which seemed more than a coincidence.    

There was a light rain at race time and such a crowd at the starting line; unfortunately it was not organized.  What I mean is that I have since learned at half marathons they have the pace times along the side of the starting line, meaning if you plan on running a 9 minute mile you line up behind that sign.  Here it was everyone for themselves, slow people in front and all.

When the race began it was hard to get going.  I was trotting, trying in vain to get around slower runners and even some with strollers.  The slick road only made things slower.  Finally I was able to break free and turn my engine on.  All I could do was give it my all and hope for the best.  Luckily there was only one hill during the race, which was a plus.  We ended up heading down to the State Fish Pier, around a barrel and back into town.

The cheering crowds along the streets helped me stay focused.  I kept my legs churning but paid attention, like I was waiting for the ‘other shoe’ to drop.  Then through the mist and fog I saw the finish line and more importantly I saw my time.  22:48, 7:22/mi.  I crossed and caught my breath.  I grabbed a pair of bananas and a bottle of water before sitting on the sidewalk and taking stock of my body and how I felt.  Sure my legs were tired from running all out but there didn’t seem to be any new damage which was what I had been dreading.

I smiled and people watched as I recovered.  With all of the pain and uncertainty going into the race I had shaved a minute and a half off of my previous 5K time.  To top it off I had no injured myself worse so I knew that my running career was not over after 2 races.  I did not stick around very long after finishing.  I had to work the next morning and still had a 2 hour drive home, plus I was hungry too.

I returned to the YMCA to shower and encountered a bit of a problem.  There was a line of guys waiting to use the showers.  I had been in the locker room and counted only 3 showers, using some rough math I was looking at probably an hour wait for a shower.  Yeah, I decided that I would drive home in my running clothes since I was alone I would not be offending anybody with my old gym socks scent!

I made sure to send a follow up post to Facebook letting everyone know that not only had I survived the St. Peter’s Fiesta 5K, I had run a great race.  I was still on my runner’s high all the way down the North Shore.  I remember having to stop and get gas before I hit Boston.  I was so hungry that I bought a big back of Jack’s Links Beef Jerky and ate it one-handed while I drove. 

I knew that I was going to have to rest up my injuries after the race but it was comforting knowing that rest would solve my problems.  I had been so close to having to give up my new found passion, but I was lucky.

Have any of you come close to having to quit running?  Have any of you gone into a race expecting it to be your last, or even expecting to aggravate injuries?  Or would you have been smarter and postponed your next race until you healed?  Maybe I just enjoy the dramatic moments.      

I used the arrow to point me out in the crowd.

That was how I prepared before the race.

Looking to The Man at the Wheel for inspiration.

54 - 5/25/11 - In My Footsteps Trip

Initial Impressions

Christopher Setterlund

54 – In My Footsteps Trip

5/25/11

                Today was a long overdue trip up to Portsmouth and Rye, NH.  There was also an unplanned stop it the little town of Stratham which will be explained later.  $35 in gas, stupid gas prices.  Total of 286 miles.

                Summer is close, which I could tell by the sheer number of cars on the road, so many of them driven by people who need to get their licenses revoked.  Way too much traffic too, ugh, started tiring me out before I got into Boston.  Not good for a 2h 20min drive.

                By the way Rt. 1 past Boston may be the worst paved road in the state.  I mean, can’t we spend a little money on filling the billion pot holes that I was fumbling all over?  Especially after being stuck in traffic and knowing I needed to go faster to make up time.  It was amazing that I didn’t blow a tire or 2 or 3.

                Once past Newburyport this was the furthest north I had gone since I went to Maine last October.  As soon as I got into New Hampshire I remembered why I love that state so much.  It’s like immediately entering a better place, the sun got brighter, everything smelled sweeter, and there were rolling green hills, no lie this all happened.

                Today marked the return of the ‘driving arm tan.’   Got some color/red on my face/neck, but the left arm is pretty bright, that’s what 9+ hours in the sun will do to a body part.

                Stratham Hill Park was an unexpected stop.  After seeing some cool photos of a fire tower at the top of a 230+ foot hill I knew I had to check it out for myself.  The hike up Lincoln Hill as the trail is called was tough, pretty steep, but the views were amazing.  The only way I knew which direction was which was thanks to a marker at the highest elevation of the hill with a compass on it.  It was such a great spot to visit, thank you to Emily for pointing me in the right direction!  Stratham Hill Park - YouTube.com

                It was 15 minutes to get to Portsmouth, a place I had planned on visiting during my Maine trip from last October along with Portland and Rye, NH.  The monsoon rains stopped that from happening but it was worth the wait.  By only choosing to visit two towns I was able to really take my time and enjoy both, it might be the way to go for me from now on.

                Parked in front of a paid meter which was great.  I got to walk out to a drawbridge which leads to Badger Island in Maine.  I got to see a couple of cool old VW buses near the water, neither was driven by a stereotypical burned out hippie though, little disappointed.

                Another unexpected stop was a place known as Prescott Park.  It was on my way to the Strawberry Banke Museum across the street but the park took center stage very quickly.   There I caught sight of a small garden with fountains through a white fence.  It was simply fantastic coming close to rivaling the rose garden at Lynch Park in Beverly.  There were three fountains and these awesome trees that cast half of the garden in shadows.  The photo will show you what I mean.  It was so incredible that I basically passed over what I had gone there for to spend more time sitting among the flowers and trees.

                On a side note there was a house next to the park which was also next to a cemetery.  The crazy part was the huge marble casket no more than 3 feet from the fence, I mean how freakin’ scary would that be out there every night?  Oh and I never went to the Strawberry Banke Museum.  It looked cool, like an old village, but there wasn’t enough time to see it all, plus there was a field trip going on and I didn’t feel like waiting to take photos to avoid the kids.

                Portsmouth Lighthouse was awesome, and getting the photos of it was so dangerous.  The lighthouse is on the grounds of a Coast Guard station, but so is Fort Constitution.  I was able to go in walking on a blue line.  The lighthouse was obstructed by the fort and Coast Guard buildings so how did I get the clear photos?  I leaned out of a small window of the fort, nothing between me and the rocks below but air, the photos were great though.

                I stayed in Portsmouth for 3 hours and still felt like there was stuff I had missed.  I went to Rye next which was all about the beaches.  Wallis Sands, Rye Beach, and Rye Harbor State Park.  They were mowing the grass at Rye Harbor State Park which was one big mass of dandelions.  Isn’t it when you mow them that they multiply?  Thought that was the case.

                When it was time to leave Rye I decided to make a special stop at Mike’s Pastry in the North End of Boston.  The traffic was hellacious, more than 2 hours stuck in and around Boston, guess that’s what I get for going there just before rush hour, smart.  I will tell you that the trip was absolutely worthwhile though and I would do it again in a heartbeat if I get the chance.

                In the end reducing the number of places to see made the day better, no more feeling like I was being rushed.  The photos will show just what a great place New Hampshire is to visit which is why I need to go back really soon.

Photos of the Day:

View from the top of Stratham Hill Park's tower.

Awesome shot from Prescott Park.

Portsmouth Light

An old man fishing at Rye Harbor State Park.