Boston Marathon 2013 - The Race That Changed Everything

Running Boston had always been a dream. After I got into running, one of my first major goals was to break three hours in the marathon. I did that by the barest of margins in Auckland in 2011, a 2:59, which also happened to qualify me for the Boston Marathon. I’d already done my homework, and I knew, Boston was the biggest marathon in the world and it was my next big goal.

Entries had already closed for 2012, so my wife Miranda and I decided that 2013 would be the year. We planned to make a real trip of it. Five days in Boston, followed by stops in Las Vegas and San Francisco on the way home. Our two young boys stayed with my mother-in-law as this was our big adventure.

When we booked the trip, I spent hours researching accommodation. I deliberately chose the Charlesmark Hotel which is directly opposite the Boston Marathon finish line. I wanted us to be right in the heart of it, to immerse ourselves in everything before and after the race. It also felt like a safe and practical choice. While I was heading out to the start line and racing, Miranda would have a secure base, a front-row view of the elites finishing, and a clear view of me coming down Boylston. I thought I was giving us both the perfect Boston experience.

My cousin Jessica had also qualified for the marathon. She lives in Doha, Qatar, and we arranged to meet her and her partner in Boston. The plan was to catch up before and after the race, and then celebrate together in Las Vegas. It was going to be the trip of a lifetime.

Training, Injury, and a Changed Plan

I trained hard for Boston, but in the final week before we flew out, I picked up a low-grade calf strain in my left leg. Not ideal timing!

I had to completely change my race plan. The goal was no longer to race full tilt. It was to run within myself to halfway and reassess from there, and if things had got worse, just finish. Boston, when we arrived, was cold and grey. There was even a bit of sleet and snow. We still managed some sightseeing and enjoyed ourselves, but I was focused. Fueling, hydrating, and mostly just trying to get the leg right.

On race morning, I headed out to Hopkinton early, about 6am. As is tradition, runners are driven out on one of those big yellow American school buses. It’s a great experience but I remember the long drive out, looking out the window and thinking, I’ve got to run all the way back!

At the athlete village, I waited in the cold making small talk with strangers. I remember seeing snipers on the rooftops of the school buildings and hearing announcements over the loudspeaker, “There will be a dog sniffing around your bags and your person, please don’t be alarmed.” I remember thinking, Is this normal? Or do they know something we don’t? I still wonder about that.

The Race

Boston starts with a big downhill and the first 5km can be dangerously fast. My injury forced me to go out conservatively, and in the end, that probably saved my race.

My calf held up okay for the first 16km, then started to tighten and be painful with every step. I began pouring ice cold water on it at every aid station (it seems like there was a never-ending aid station), just to numb it more than anything. Strangely, it worked. The cold weather helped, too. After halfway, the leg had gone completely numb, and I forgot the pain found a good rhythm.

I ran strong through the Newton Hills and all the way into Boston. That final 10km was one of the best parts of my race. I remember running down Boylston Street, finishing strong, and just being blown away by the crowds. Thousands upon thousands lining the street, five and more deep, in bars, on balconies, screaming support. It was absolutely electric!

I crossed the finish line in 2:58, a PB at the time. Not quite reflective of the shape I’d been in pre-injury, but considering everything, I was surprised and thrilled.

Miranda and I reunited at the arranged spot, slowly made our way back to our hotel just near the finish line, past the crowds and through barricades. I was offered free beers every 50 metres, but Miranda, in her wisdom, kept us moving. She was right, I needed to get warm, changed, and recharged for the night ahead.

The Explosions

Our plan was to regroup with Jessica after she finished. After finishing she was coming to our room, and then we were going to head back out to watch the final runners and enjoy the atmosphere. We had a booking at one of Boston’s iconic seafood restaurants for that night. Champagne, lobster, the works!

Jessica arrived and we had had some photos. Moments later, we heard them. Two almighty bangs. It was the loudest noise I’ve ever heard.

We froze and looked at each other. What the hell was that? My first thought was that the spectator bleachers near the finish line had collapsed as they were packed. I rushed to the window. Our room didn’t face Boylston directly, but I could see panicked people sprinting out the back doors of shops next door. That was all I needed to see.

I opened the door to our room after hearing noises outside. A man stood there, British, maybe Scottish. He was white as a sheet. “What was that?” he asked. We instantly connected, just two strangers desperate to make sense of what was unfolding. He said, “I’m going to the roof.” I followed.

We climbed the emergency stairs one floor up to the sixth floor. Somehow, the door to the roof was unlocked. We stepped out and walked to the edge, looked over.

What I saw will stay with me forever. Smoke rising above the street, bodies lying still, people screaming, blood on the pavement. The wailing of those in pain or shock was horrible. The smell, metallic and acrid, was something I’d never encountered before. It hit my throat like a poison.

What I didn’t know at the time, and what still gives me chills, is that FBI investigators later found the lid of one of the pressure-cooker bombs on that very same roof, right where I had stood. Just moments earlier, I’d unknowingly walked within metres of a piece of the device that had caused so much destruction. That detail still turns my stomach.

Then instinct took over. I ran back over to Miranda and said, “We’re going, now.” We hit the stairwell. On the way down, a police officer with his gun drawn shouted at us, “Get the f*** out, we think there are more bombs!” That was the first time I realised what we were in the middle of.

Escaping Boylston

We exited the stairwell into the lobby of our hotel, which had been turned into a triage zone. That pristine white-tiled floor, the kind you expect to be spotless in a high-end hotel, was now streaked with blood. I remember slipping in it. The screams and the crying, it was absolute carnage. Emergency services, runners, spectators, hotel staff, everyone was overwhelmed. I gripped Miranda tightly and pushed forward, trying to shield her from the worst of what we were seeing. That walk through the lobby was one of the most harrowing moments of the day.

Then we hit the street. We turned left, away from the finish line.

One of the first things I saw was a man being wheeled in a wheelchair, legs gone below the knees. Then another, a shoe with a foot still in it, no body. Pools of blood, terrified screams and just pure chaos. I tried to move quickly, shielding Miranda and trying to stay focused. My legs, freshly post-marathon, didn’t hurt at all. It’s funny what adrenaline will do.

As we got a few hundred metres away, people were still walking towards the finish, unaware of what had happened. I was shocked that the messaging hadn’t spread yet. I called my brother in New Zealand and asked him to contact the embassy as all our things were still in our hotel and I had no idea what to do. Was this part of a wider attack? We didn’t know and that was terrifying.

Eventually Miranda got through to her mum, who was looking after our boys. That call mattered most. Then through family connections, New Zealand media got in touch quickly. Within 15 minutes, I was live on TV3’s Breakfast with Rachel Smalley, talking about what we’d just witnessed. It was a strange situation as talking about it with someone who wasn’t there seemed to calm me down. I've embedded the video below, it takes a few seconds to start.

https://youtu.be/JApKWCoJwRM?si=AXPwemPZgixRAyvi

We couldn’t find a taxi, and we didn’t think we could leave the area safely on foot. However Jessica had a business card from a driver who’d picked her up from the airport. She called him and incredibly, he came. A huge black limo pulled up, and we jumped in. I was still doing a live interview as we drove out of Boston to Woburn, where Jessica was staying. Along the way, I gave interviews to nearly every major New Zealand outlet. RNZ, TVNZ, Newstalk ZB and many others.

All the while, convoys of police and military vehicles screamed past us in the opposite direction, back into Boston. It was a jarring sight.

Displaced

We obviously didn’t have a hotel room booked in Woburn, but somehow we found one. I was still in full race gear, my bloodstained Adidas Boston race shoes, Scottish singlet and two inch split shorts. We had no luggage, no toiletries, no clothes other than what we had on. We bought basic supplies, deodorant, a toothbrush from a convenience store and got Burger King for dinner. I bought a six-pack of Budweiser, a far cry from the Champagne I had envisaged.

That night, I spoke live with John Campbell on Campbell Live. He signed off the call with, “If you run into trouble, let me know". We had run into trouble so I told him. Our insurance company had been difficult and we didn’t know if we’d be able to continue our trip. Overnight, everything changed, maybe it was John? I’ll never know.

Getting Out, and Moving On

The next morning, we woke early and headed to the airport. Soldiers and police were everywhere and American airport security was even more intense. The FBI reviewed our phones and photos. Miranda had taken a number of pictures of my finish, right at the site of the first bomb. It sent chills through us as we handed these over and told our story.

The good news? An email came in and our insurance company had changed its tone overnight. “You’re fully covered,” they said, “Buy whatever you need.”

We flew via Chicago where we had a long un-planned delay. Here at a random airport gate, I met Meb Keflezighi (legendary American marathoner and Olympic silver medallist). I was still in my running gear and Boston jacket and this got Meb’s attention. He came over, and we talked, just two runners decompressing. I asked if he’d ever run Boston. “Not yet,” he said. “But I really want to.” The next year, he ran and he won!

That evening, we arrived in Las Vegas and to our relieved surprise, our hotel upgraded us. We went shopping at midnight and got personal shoppers to fill our trolleys. We spent thousands replacing everything. So much that our credit card company called to check for fraud. Miranda explained and they raised our limit.

We carried on with the trip, but it wasn’t the same. Every morning, we woke up and checked the news for developments on the manhunt. I remember falling asleep during 'Love' at Cirque du Soleil. I was mentally and physically exhausted. I just wanted to get home to our boys.

Reflection

One of the first things I did when we got home was get counselling. My employer was outstanding. They organised support for both Miranda and me. I saw a therapist for several weeks, and it helped. One of the key things that emerged was this, I needed to go back. I needed to run Boston again, to create a new memory, one not defined by terrorism.

So I did, and in 2014 I returned with my friend Ian. Understandably, Miranda stayed home. That second race was a smaller, more focused trip, and it helped me reclaim Boston. It was a powerful moment of healing and it was incredibly moving. To stand shoulder-to-shoulder with thousands of runners, many of whom had been through what I had, was profoundly emotional. After my race was over, I spent hours near the finish watching the later runners come in, many of them survivors, some amputees. I’ll never forget their courage, determination, and grace.

That whole Boston experience changed me. I used to be structured, driven, rigid, even. My training, parenting, daily life, everything had to fit a plan. After Boston, I mellowed. I became more empathetic, maybe a bit more emotional, but also more resilient.

At the same time, I noticed something else. I became less tolerant. Not in a bad way I don’t think, but in a sharper, more aware way. I lost patience for people who complain constantly when they have nothing at all to complain about. Once you’ve seen real suffering first-hand, trivial gripes lose their power. I try to carry that perspective every day.

For a few years after the attack, I followed the trial and eventual sentencing of the surviving perpetrator closely. I felt an intense anger and I wanted him to face the death penalty. I kept circling back to one thought, What if we’d made different decisions? What if Miranda and I had stepped outside just a few minutes earlier? What would’ve happened to us? To our kids?

That rage stayed with me for a long time. But time, as they say, heals. Now, I feel different and I no longer think death is justice. His death would be too easy. A long, slow life spent imprisoned, living every day with what he did, is a far better punishment. In a small way, a greater sense of peace for me.

Boston changed me and I’m grateful for that.