The day started out perfectly—and then something went terribly wrong.

credentials of Michele Collette Keane of Bay Village, Ohio. Keane’s first Boston came at age 2, standing beside her mother, Jean Collette, handing water to passing marathoners.

The Collette family’s private aid station was near the 12-mile mark, close to the border between Natick and Wellesley, only a half mile from the edge of the campus where Keane would attend college. While at Wellesley, Keane ran the marathon three times with classmates at the all-women’s school. “We ran it as a lark with a bunch of guys,” Keane remembers. “They dropped out. We kept going.”

Keane’s best time as a collegiate fun runner was somewhere in the vicinity of 4:30, but after graduation she dropped her personal record to 3:03:07, achieved in 1986, when she placed 50th among women. In years she did not run, Keane volunteered as a spotter. After moving to Atlanta and then Cleveland, Keane continued her love affair with her hometown race, running Boston whenever she could find an excuse. Last year the excuse was her daughter Shannon, now a student at Boston University. “Shannon never had seen me run Boston before,” says Keane. “I told her to stay away from Boylston Street, too crowded, and hang out with her college friends near Kenmore Square, around mile 25.”

Thus Keane’s goal for this year’s marathon was not to run a fast time but to give her mother a hug at 12 miles and her daughter a hug at 25 miles.

She connected with both, pausing with Shannon longer than her daughter thought proper. “Mom, get going,” Shannon insisted. ““You’re losing time!”

Michele obeyed but later realized that her two stops—one with her mother, one with her daughter—were the reason she was not closer to the finish line when the bombs exploded. On Boylston, she saw the first blast. “I stopped, hesitated, then took another step before the second bomb detonated. People were running

/ mong the participants in last year’s Boston Marathon, few could boast the

at me and shouting to stop, stop, stop!” Keane ran into a nearby parking garage for protection. Runners and spectators all around her were doing the same. It was a horrible ending to a wonderful day. Eo * *

The day had started so much better, hadn’t it? It was the weather. How many times has the weather disappointed us, turning to trash months of training? Starting the day, it seemed that in terms of predicted temperatures, you had lucked out. The year before in 2012, temperatures had soared to 87.4 degrees. Ugly! But the weather reports for 2013 promised morning temperatures in the 30s, afternoon temperatures in the 50s: a perfect day, a glorious day, a “no-excuses” day, a day where everyone would fly like the eagles. The gods were smiling on 23,000 wellmotivated and well-prepared marathoners who had picked the right year to cash in on their BQs. Yes! You earned this day because of your hard training, didn’t you? You deserved this day.

It would be a day to remember.

You said as much in meaningfully written blogs, in posts on Facebook, in tweets on Twitter. You posted pictures while running the race with your iPhones. Friends and family rode your shoulders from Hopkinton to Boylston, tracking your times online, knowing even before you did the estimated time you would finish. While the race up front among the fast men and the fast women would be told by credentialed reporters huddled in the media center of the Copley Plaza, the race among everyone else, the /umpenproletariat of our sport, would be presented to the world through social media. Consider the memories of some of those electronic reporters now.

Whitney B. Wickes of Aspen, Colorado, explained in a blog what Boston meant to her: “From the confirmation of acceptance sent to you in the mail to the point at which you finally cross that finish line, there is something undeniably majestic about the Boston Marathon. Much of that aura can be attributed to the regal tradition it has embedded within the city of Boston and the immense spectator support it has received year after year.”

George Karaganis had traveled to Boston from Athens, Greece, the birthplace of modern marathoning. He reported on the Internet how his day started: “When we walked out of the hotel, all you could see was people with yellow bags walking towards where they would catch the buses.”

Neil Gottlieb of Philadelphia remembered the same: “The streets were filled with runners heading in the same direction.” Gottlieb remembers the walk as being quiet, almost eerie. “Nobody was talking along the walk.”

Aubrey Birzon Blanda of Glen Ridge, New Jersey, blogged about arriving at Boston Common for the bus that would take her to Hopkinton: “I’m a chatty person, so I immediately fell into conversations with runners around me. We

© Joe Findaro

were excited that the weather looked good. Not too warm. No rain expected. Everything completely normal.”

Arriving at the Athlete’s Village at 7:30 a.m., Rosie Allister headed first for the “‘portaloos,” as the runner from Edinburgh, Scotland, called them later in an Internet post. She could feel the electricity in the air: “There was a party atmosphere already: a nervous party but a happy one in anticipation of what was to come.”

She described everyone in the portaloo lines as chatting. “Boston was the long-held dream that brought us all together.”

“The Athletes’ Village was abuzz with nervous energy,” offered Kara Zech Thelen of Grand Rapids, Michigan. “Like the other runners, I gathered with some friends and inventoried the critical supplies for our 26.2-mile trek: a jar of Vaseline, water bottles, bananas and peanut butter, extra clothes for the finish, and extra energy packaged every way possible—from gels to beans to blocks to bars.

“We were lubed and ready!”

Jon Munro from Alloa, Scotland, defined what running Boston meant to him. As far as Munro was concerned, it was all about the spectators: “You become a marathoner when you stand on the start line with the intention of covering 26.2 miles in the very best time you can manage and by doing so giving the spectators something to cheer for. They know that their hours of standing in the cold are worth it. You, the runner, give them someone to reward.”

For Joe Findaro of Vienna, Virginia, Boston 2013 would be his 15th marathon, his sixth Boston in a row. He was running for the Tufts Marathon Team and would recall: “Perfect weather. The best I’ve ever felt before a marathon, both

<4 Joe Findaro ran Boston with his son Mark and Mark’s girlfriend, Ana.

physically and mentally. We enjoyed the camaraderie of the Tufts team prior to the race, everyone taking photos. We were feeling high as we entered the pens at the start in Hopkinton. We met many international runners. Particularly moving was a Polish runner with a prosthetic leg.”

As a runner, Findaro could not begin to imagine what it must be like to lose a leg.

Eo * * Carissa Von Koch of Portland, Oregon, described the first mile as a crowded mile: “My plan was to start conservatively. I had no desire to weave through the crowds. Passing would have been impossible had I tried anyway. We were packed in tight.”

Von Koch would remember: “The experience of running Boston was amazing. I kept tearing up, overcome by a surge of emotions. From the start, the crowd support was unlike anything I had experienced before. Each mile I ran, my heart filled more with the support of the crowd.”

George Karaganis felt the same: “Every single house seemed to be celebrating with us. Smoke blew across the road from massive barbecues on front lawns. Kids offered high-fives, and it was hard not to respond, despite the energy drain.”

“What always touches and inspires me about Boston are the people who come out year after year,” said Amanda Cronin of Norwood, Massachusetts. “And year after year, they stand on the sidelines and offer their support and encouragement. They want to scream and clap. They want to call your name. They want to offer you orange slices and Gummi Bears.”

The craziness of the crowds would peak as runners reached Wellesley College near the halfway point. ““We entered the town limits, and soon I heard their cheers,” Mary Gorski of Milwaukee would recall. “The noise literally was ear-piercing. Then there were the ‘Kiss Me’ signs. The students offered to kiss for causes, to kiss men and sometimes other women, depending on their hair color. Kiss, kiss, kiss! It was all in fun and it brought smiles to everybody’s faces. That was what the day was supposed to be: all in fun.”

Among the signs held by Wellesley women, noted Jessica Reed of Athens, Ohio, was one that said: “Stop running after your dreams. I’m right here.”

“The cheers were so enthusiastic and emphatic, they took my breath away.” Kara Zech Thelen would blog. “And the tears soon followed. I prayed for all the people standing there along the course. I was overcome with gratitude for them and their jubilant support. For the few moments of my passing, we no longer were total strangers.”

Eo * * But there was the course, Boston’s ever-challenging course—the downhills, the uphills, the terrain constantly challenging runners, particularly after they turned at the fire station near 17.5 miles and encountered the infamous Newton Hills. Heather Lee-Callaghan of Halifax, Nova Scotia, wrote: “I kept chipping away at

A Kara Zech Thelen (17193) rode a wave of love from cheering spectators.

the hills, relaxing at the top of each hill as the grade started to plateau.” One hill, two hills, three hills, four hills until finally she saw the arch stretching overhead: the heartbreak is over!

Kate Johnson of Lansing, Michigan, took Boston one timing mat at a time, knowing that friends and family were tracking her progress online. The first Newton hill, being a half mile long, was the hardest for her. She remembered her mantra, “The faster you run, the sooner you are done.” She continued to look forward to the timing mats, feeling the cheering continuing through the Internet back home.

Diane Di Stefano of Norwich, New York, reminded herself what it had taken to get this far: “The Boston Marathon is the Holy Grail of running. Some people spend years trying to achieve their Boston-qualifying time. Then once you qualify, you spend months in cold weather training, paying careful attention to do the specific workouts that will help you attack the tough miles towards the end.”

Running in the closing miles on Beacon Street, Patti Labun of Laguna Niguel, California, decided that she was both well trained and well paced. Nevertheless, with two miles to go, Labun did not quite hit the Wall, but she brushed up against it: “The last few miles were hard. It was the combination of head wind and downhills. It got so much colder.” She was thankful that she had kept her long-sleeve shirt and long compression pants.

© Kara Zech Thelen

Jen Marr of Ridgefield, Connecticut, reverted to basics: the sheer animal act of placing one foot in front of the other.

OK, I can do this, she told herself at mile 22, and then told herself that again and again as she continued on Beacon. “It was frustrating, painful and exhilarating, all at the same time.”

Mile 23: Keep running.

Mile 24: Just gut it out.

Mile 25: J really want to run this last mile at a good pace, but I can’t.

Then: Only 385 yards to run!

Even the most fatigued, the most foot weary, the most despondent, those who seemingly have drained the last grams of glycogen from their tortured muscles, suddenly discover that that there will be a tomorrow. They realize that with a concentrated effort, they can summon the will to go faster, or at least offer the appearance of running faster.

Whitney B. Wickes would finish in 3:16:17 and credited the support of the crowd: “For us runners, it is such a privilege to have fans on the sidelines cheering us on: people who stand on the course for hours yelling our numbers and names, offering words of encouragement to someone they will never meet. Their love and support constantly puts a smile on our faces and keeps us believing in ourselves through their faith. They expect nothing in return, but they offer us a most unforgettable experience.”

Boylston is the happy street for runners. It is our field of dreams. Heather LeeCallaghan was among those who felt swamped by emotions as she approached the end of her long day, en route to a 3:37:32 finish: “I turn a corner, then another, and there it is: Boylston Street! The finish line remains an eternity away. Push. Push. Push. | shift the sunglasses onto the top of my head, so I can see and be seen. Arms waving in the air. Screaming. Smiling at the cameras. J did it! This is marathon bliss. I step on the first chip mat, walk across the second, and break down, sobbing cries from the pain. Limping. Searching for water. Crying. So happy for my hard work and sense of accomplishments. I felt like a warrior.”

Lee-Callaghan would add: “Who knew that moments later, I would feel as small and vulnerable as an ant?”

The digital clock above the finish line read 4:09:43 when the first bomb exploded near the finish line. Shelby Freeman Harris of Tarrytown, New York, turned the corner onto Boylston in time to see the first explosion. “The ground shook,” she would recall.

The world of long-distance running shook with it.

Eo * * Among those closest to the bombs was Tracy O’Hara McGuire from Portland, Oregon. Approaching the finish line, McGuire directed her attention toward the grandstands to the right. She knew Chris, her husband, would be seated there.