Boston Marathon 2013. Part Three: The Beath is Actually Unleashed

Most of my Boston Marathon story was written in Part One and Part Two.  Race day, as expected, was epic. The tragedy that occurred that day was horrific. So what else can possibly be worth writing about on this overwhelming day? There's one more story I'd like to tell.

First I'd like to give a bit of background about myself and my dad for any readers that might not know either one of us. I was a nerd in high school -- member of the National Honor Society, band geek, gold medal winner at an Academic Decathlon meet. For one week every summer during high school, I went to church camp. We sat around a campfire singing songs and making "warm fuzzies" out of yarn to give to one another as signs of friendship and love. In college, I spent most of my free time scooping ice cream and chatting with friends online. I've been a youth group leader and confirmation sponsor at my church. I went on a mission trip to Biloxi, MS to rebuild homes that were destroyed in Hurricane Katrina. I started a chess club at my previous place of employment. In addition to marathon training and raising thousands of dollars for charity, my activities include wearing sweat pants and snuggling with my cats. I take after my dad. He is on church committees, volunteers weekly for the local food pantry, and takes care of an elderly woman who lives down the street. He is a Vietnam War vet, and goes to annual reunions with his fellow "Firebirds" and makes annual visits to grave sites of his fallen brothers to pay respect. We are both reserved, non-confrontational, good-hearted people. Remember that, because you won't believe me when this story is over.

Now let me set the stage. This story takes place after I ran 25 miles of the Boston Marathon, and eventually ended up finding my dad in Kenmore Square. We got into his truck and started driving toward the hotel to find my out-of-town friends. We were listening to the news on the radio, when they reported that runners were being diverted to Boston Common to retrieve their bags that had been checked at the start line. We agreed that we might as well do this now before we left the city. We drove to Boston Common and my dad parked on Beacon Street on the side of the common. I didn't know where the bag check buses were, but I thought it would be easier to find it on foot. All runners have to use the official B.A.A bag for the bag check, so these bright yellow bags were easy to spot on the common. I asked every person with a bag where they got it, and kept getting pointed further and further away. I ended up walking over a half mile before I finally found a huge gathering of people, many of whom had their bags. Still not seeing the buses, I asked one woman, "Where did you get your bag?" and she replied, "It's down on Boylston Street, but I think I was the last one to get it. They aren't letting anyone else in." Just then, a cop was shouting to the crowd to disperse. This was right around the time when they thought there was a third bomb at the JFK Library, which turned out to not be true, but we didn't know that at the time. The cop boomed, "The city is under attack, you cannot get your belongings right now, you have to clear the area." A woman who had run the marathon asked him how she was supposed to leave when her house keys, car keys, and ID were all in the bag that she now didn't have access to. He shouted very aggressively back at her, "Lady! I don't care about your stuff! There are bombs going off! Evacuate the city, NOW!" Well, that was pretty clear. I walked on my tired marathon legs back to where my dad was parked, and slumped into the truck, explaining that there were bigger problems than retrieving belongings right now.

We turned around to head home and were stopped at a stop light, in a right turn only lane. There was a guy on a bicycle in our lane in front of us. The light for the right lane turned to a green arrow, while the lanes going straight still had red lights. The bicyle didn't move, and the car behind us honked. My dad passed on the honk. The guy on the bike turned around and looked at my dad, saying smugly, "I'm on a bike!" Important note: the bicycle he was riding was one of the city's Hubway bikes, which is basically a rent-a-bike system throughout the city. I was annoyed by his comment, as clearly he didn't know common bicycle road rules. I rolled down my window and yelled at him, saying, "You have to follow the rules of the road! It doesn't matter that you're on a bike!" I was honestly more upset that he was ignorant of bicycle etiquette than the fact that he was blocking our progress to get home. Then, he walked his bike over to the front of my dad's truck and defiantly stood there with his bike parallel to the grill of the truck. He smugly stared at us, giving us a "what are you going to do about it?" look. Before I knew what I was doing, I opened the truck door and jumped out. I marched right up to him and shoved him square in the shoulders with both hands, screaming something along the lines of "Get out of the fucking road, you dickhead! You have to follow the rules of the road! You're in a right turn only lane and you're blocking traffic!" He stood his ground, still straddling his rent-a-bike. Mind you, I'm not strong on a good day, but after running the marathon and being physically and emotionally exhausted, my shove was probably the equivalent of me tickling him with a feather.  He said something back to me, but I don't remember what it was. Almost immediately, my dad jumped out of his side of the truck and came at the guy with clenched fists shouting, "Don't you mess with my daughter or I'll knock your fucking teeth down your throat!" So now both driver and passenger side doors of the truck are open, and my dad and I are on either side of this guy on a bike, with me shoving him, and my dad threatening him. I said, "Dad, get back in the truck" and we both got back in the truck. The bicycle guy ended up pedaling straight through the intersection, but waited on the median. We made our right-hand turn and he snapped a photo of my dad's license plate (yes, the one with the Purple Heart on it), saying, "I got you! I got you!" as we drove by him. After we got a few blocks away and my blood went from a boil to a simmer, I said to my dad, "We almost just beat up a guy on a bike." Then we both laughed.

I told the story to my family when we finally got to Camp Wiklanski, and they just stared at me in disbelief with jaws dropped. It was so unbelievable that we couldn't do anything about it except laugh, and we're still laughing. The next morning at breakfast, my dad was thinking out loud, planning his day. My mom made a suggestion about what he should do. My dad said, "Don't tell me what I should do!" and I said, "Yeah, mom, or he'll knock your teeth down your throat." And then my dad says, "Your FUCKING teeth down your throat!" And then we all laughed some more.

This week has to end already.