My Day in Boston

Monday, April 16th, 1990. The Boston Marathon.


I was here in Boston, Massachusetts, set to run one of the most prestigious running events in the country.

I was only 19. This is my story...


The morning of April 16th, the skies were clear and had the makings of near-perfect running conditions. From my 6th floor window at the Back Bay Hilton, a few blocks from the finish, I could see some early-morning participants warming up.

By 8:30 am, many official marathon buses, that were taking runners to the start, had lined up about a half-mile from the hotel. A few minutes later, I boarded. As the buses were making their way to the town of Hopkinton, the start of the race, I began scanning the Massachusetts landscape. I felt excited and kept saying to myself, "I can't believe that I am actually here. This is awesome!"

Two hours later, the buses arrived in Hopkinton. I slowly disembarked. Tension filled the air while I proceeded towards Hopkinton's gymnasium, about a half-mile from the starting line. Inside the gym, thousands of runners were anxiously awaiting the start of the race at noon. I felt nervous and completely lost among many unknown faces. Outside, lines to the sani-huts had grown immensely.

At 11:15, I decided to join a few runners who were making their way to the starting line. When I arrived, race officials were assisting the runners in finding their place in line, according to their race number,
for the start of the race (I felt like a sardine!). As I looked up, I could see a helicopter hovering overhead. The intensity of the moment caused chills to literally crawl up my spine.


At 12:00 noon, I heard the starting gun. The race had begun. The moment was immense, just spectacular. I felt electrified as the crowds cheered when the runners started to move. Just to be here was an absolute, thrilling experience. It took about 4 minutes to the reach the actual starting line. It was a green and white sign painted on the street which read, "Start BAA (Boston Athletic Association) Boston Marathon."

I felt pretty good at the beginning of the race. I reached the first mile in 8 minutes and 35 seconds, a relatively slow starting pace for me, caused mainly by the number of runners in the race. The first few miles of the race were hardly a problem.

By mile 6, the runners had slowly dissipated, which allowed me to run at a faster pace than I had started with. Cups were littering the streets as I made my way past the 10-mile marker. The crowds continued to cheer on the runners.

The excitement of the race increased as I approached the half-way point. Looking at my stopwatch, I could see it read around 1:29, which would put my overall time at just under 3 hours, if I had kept the pace. That was my goal. My spirits rose as I passed the half-way point and the marathon's most loyal fans, the girls of Wellesley College (I would've stopped to visit, but I wanted to finish the race).

A little past the 14-mile marker, I overheard two runners behind me describing how much they hated this race, which made me chuckle a bit. From here on, I just wanted to take each mile one at a time.

After mile 15, however, the tragic events of the day began.

Over the next few miles, my body slowly overpowered my mind. My mind wanted to finish the race, but my body didn't. I was beginning to fall into a state where I wasn't aware of what was going on around me, yet I still had a sense of direction. All I could remember was running to either side of the road desperately seeking fluids. My physiology was on the verge of destruction. I felt terrified. Ironically, I was only a few miles from infamous Heartbreak Hill, which from the stories I've heard, either makes you or breaks you. I never got the chance to see it.

About a mile later, I passed the 30 kilometer marker, the last one I would remember. My stopwatch read around 2:23. Approaching a slight incline on route, I stopped for the last time. When a fellow runner asked me if I was okay, I apparently collapsed and went unconscious, but I don't remember.

I woke up in the intensive care unit of Newton-Wellesley Hospital. According to the clock on the wall, the time was almost 4:30 in the afternoon. The doctors said that my internal body temperature was 106, which is one degree shy of potential "brain damage".

I remained in the hospital overnight for treatment and observation. Inside, I felt so angry because all I wanted to do was to finish the race and receive a finisher's medallion. It was the most frightening experience I've ever had.

To this day, every time I go out for a run, I think of what happened to me at Boston and how lucky I am to still be here and running again.

My memories of that day will always be with me. However, I will never forget the excitement of the start and the people of Boston who supported the race and the runners. Putting all of the behind me now, I plan to the run the 1991 Boston Marathon on April 15th.

I did and finished in a self-timed 2:51:53, a personal record.