When explosions rocked the finish line last Monday afternoon, I was barely shaking off the grog from my wee hours’ bike ride along the marathon route. Jerked out of drowsiness by the nightmare reports, my mind leaped to wonder how the attack would reshape our city. The same thoughts ricocheted around my head as I watched the manhunt unfold from Thursday into Friday. Even as specifics continue to emerge from the bombing, there is a very real risk that city authorities and residents alike might target the unfamiliar, unwieldy and unorthodox as threats to security.
This would be a dire mistake. Grassroots-led, impromptu, and seemingly chaotic projects like the Midnight Marathon Ride distill the very best of Boston, those aspects of our city that ought to be magnified in wake of tragedy. As the city wrestles with grief and self-assessment between now and next Patriots’ Day, the security conversation must not obscure what we ought to protect: the unique (and often unpredictable) community energy that runs through Boston.
This time last year, I am proud to report, I was in an incomparably sorrier state, my legs reduced to pitiable jelly after tackling the Midnight Marathon bike ride with only naïveté, bacon handed to me by a stranger, and a three-geared Hubway bike to sustain me through the 30 miles from Southborough to Boston. With the benefit of a year to mature and plan, I faced the 2013 Midnight Marathon with unmerited confidence that I could make the journey without incident or surprise.
Fool me twice.
This being the fifth annual Midnight Marathon Ride, the event’s organizers rightly expected record turnout despite the chilly forecast. After a second commuter rail train had to be called in last year to carry the full parliament of nightowl riders to the starting line, Boston Society of Spontaneity negotiated with the Massachusetts Bay Commuter Railroad for a dedicated 700-seater just for this year’s event, to leave South Station at 10 p.m. on Sunday night.
All available train tickets sold out in about 10 minutes, leaving the less nimble scrambling for a ride out to Hopkinton. Some of the more enterprising arranged for charter buses or even did the reverse commute by bike. I, on the other hand, swindled my way aboard by volunteering to oversee one of the 13 cars commissioned for the trek. The commuter rail staff—all of whom volunteered their time, by the by—have the loading process down to a tight science, quickly jam-packing all 700 bikes and eager cyclists aboard for the quick trip to Southborough. Hardly a hiccup so far.
It’s a short but hilly two-mile ride from the Southborough commuter rail stop to the starting line, a stint that quite nearly broke my Hubway-hauling calves last year and which shattered my hopes of riding with any speed or dignity.
This year’s climb had me huffing, for sure, but confident that the ample gear set on my road bike will carry me through.
Once at the starting line in Hopkinton, I caught up with ride founder and organizer Greg Hum, who asks if I’d like to “sweep” at the tail of the ride for anyone with equipment issues or injuries. Laden heavy with dozens of spare tubes, miscellaneous tools and a makeshift drum kit at its bow, Greg’s bike is not outfitted for a speedy ride. He estimates that we’ll get back into Boston around 4 a.m., riding behind the pack to make sure no one gets stranded with a flat tire at an ungodly hour many miles from help. This ride is Greg’s darling, and although clearly exhausted from the unthinkable logistical effort of herding its pieces into place for the fifth year running, he is hell-bent on making sure everyone makes it back into the city safely.
Boston Midnight Marathon Bike Ride – 2013 from Vorpal Chortle on Vimeo.
Greg may have perfectly orchestrated the commuter rail trip (down to individual goodie bags on all 700 seats), but even Mr. Hum couldn’t swing a warmer night. Despite all my planning to prevent repeating the shivering schlep of 2012, I’ve forgotten to wear decent socks.
My just-took-the-tags-off performance wear is cutting all kinds of mustard on my torso and legs, but my toes have already begun their dull slide into numbness.
I’ve never quite gotten the hang of dressing for New England spring, but I convince myself my feet will warm up as the ride goes on.
After last year’s bacon handoff, I’m on a sharp lookout for well-wishers with snacks. Less than a mile from the starting line, an enthusiastic homeowner along the route waves our sweeper group over with shouts of “FREE BEER.” We obligingly stop for a drink (it would have been rude not to accept a 1 a.m. lawn beer, and the invitation, while friendly, was more of a jolly command). The cold Corona does little to warm my belly, but the beauty of this rest stop is its own reason to pause: I am a guest in a strange driveway, sipping beer offered for no other reason than they have some to spare and I looked (and likely sounded) thirsty.
A masochistic soul on a unicycle briefly interrupts our beer break, pausing only briefly to say hello and catch his breath. I resolve to hold all complaints from here to the end of the ride: I have two wheels.
A few miles on, I’m relieved to hear that I’m not the only one with anesthetized feet. Mark this down as the night as the night I’m excited to hear, “We’re almost to Framingham.” Greg and the rest of the sweep crew dismount for a hot coffee at Tedeschi, and start swapping leg cramp cures while warming up. The burliest of men approaches from across the store to offer his own: “Eat a pickle.”
Since theories are made to be tested, we purchase a two-pack of gas station deli-style dills, which the braver scarf down.
[Note: Greg, for one, reported zero cramps post-pickle.]
After our various gas station snacks and coffee, the group knows another pit stop is in the near future. Sure enough, we stop to liberate a marathon Porta Potty at an undisclosed location between Natick and Wellesley. We’ve begun to catch up to the slower contingent and those who’ve lost their way. Approaching Newton, we pass an unaffiliated squadron of longboarders, some of whom hitch a ride up the first segment of Heartbreak Hill. Again, masochists, every one.
After Heartbreak comes the healing downhill of Comm. Ave. and Beacon Street for the last few miles to Copley. As the skyline comes into view and we whir past familiar blocks, my mind turns to two things: sleep and hash browns. The finish line is empty save the unicyclist (curled on the pavement muttering about hills), a police squad car, and a couple recent finishers.
We roll toward South Street Diner along empty streets, comparing aches and noting the silence on Boylston Street. It’s over.
In his April 18 memorial speech in the South End, President Obama looked forward to the 118th Boston Marathon in 2014, when he knew that “the world will return to this great American city to run harder than ever and to cheer even louder.” From what I know of Boston and its cyclists, expect a 6th annual Midnight Marathon for the books.
