Nahant’s Goldberg reflects on harrowing Marathon

Editor’s Note: Nahant resident Ellen Goldberg ran in the Boston Marathon on Monday. This is an edited version of her race report.I don’t know how to write this race report.What do I want to tell you? This was a race I could not finish. And not because I was struggling, shuffling, cramped, slow, sunburned, and wondering why the sidelines had thinned, but because, at mile 24.8, the metal gates crossed Park Street at the intersection of Beacon and I was physically stopped, told the race was over, that there was no finish line.The day dawned bright and blue; logistics to the start were perfect. I think over the supportive emails I got in the closing days, make us proud, believe in yourself the whole way. Crossing the start of the Boston Marathon means you did something, something probably good, to get there.Mile 8 & 9: Something happens in my calf. I feel a twinge, the beginnings of a cramp, and my mind flies back to Boston 2010, when debilitating leg cramps overcame me. I run to the side of the road, reached into the back of my bra for a plastic baggie full of salt pills – no way was I taking the chance Medical wouldn’t have them – and swallow one dry. I get water at the next stop.Mile 15: 14:13 A cramp really hurts now, and I actually cry out. I walk through a water stop, stretch, take another salt pill. Keep the calf cramps just under the surface.I think, I’m not having a good race day. I think, at mile 16.5 I get to see my kids. Karen will be there with Ben and Sarah and the turquoise lobster umbrella.Mile 16: 11:36And there they are – I throw my arms in the air, hear the joyful There she is! and run to the side of the road. I am wet from pouring water on myself and even too sweaty and disgusting for my kids to touch. They give me more GU, pour water on me. I stay there longer (than) I should. ? I take my inhaler out of the back of my bra, take two precautionary puffs, warily face the road again.Mile 20: 13:07It’s hilly, now, more so than usual, and that means it must be Newton. I feel the hills in my quads, I am shuffling, straining, take another GU, a bystander tells me, this is it, this is the hill, and I ask, Heartbreak? Four years running this race and I don’t remember where Heartbreak Hill is until I feel it under me, see the huge broken heart drawn in chalk across the road, and I stomp right in the middle of it, curse out loud.And then it’s Boston College, behind the crowd barriers, Ellen! Ellen! If I don’t move to touch them I will fall down, what I need is them, whatever they have, because I have nothing. I talk to them in my head, please, give me what you have, I need you, and every hand I touch gives me something I can hold for later.Mile 21: 14:00 Some odd behavior on the course. Runners start talking on their cell phones. Water station volunteers call out that there was an explosion at the finish. The race is being diverted. People are walking, talking on their phones, the bystanders start to back away.Mile 22: 12:25 Choppers overhead. Sirens.Mile 23: 13:26 One more mile and I can see my kids.Mile 24: 13:10 A half mile more. But Beacon Street is usually much more crowded. Spectators are walking on the sidewalk. Army guys start barking instructions, “Off the road! Off the road!” I assume he means pedestrians? Police cars zoom past me.There they are: Karen, Mike, Ben, Sarah, Cynthia. I know there’s only a mile and a half to go. I yell, run over to them, hug Ben and Sarah. Cynthia is not yelling, does not look happy. She tells me she thinks I should get off the course. I have no idea why she would say this to me, 24.5 miles into this thing and I don’t care how I get there but I’m finishing this painful race. “No!” I yell happily, “I’m going to finish! Yeah! I’m going to finish!” I jump back on Beacon Street, and a New Republic reporter hops in next to me, asks if I’ve heard what happened. I say, “they tell me there’s an explosion and the race is being diverted.” She asks if I will keep running and I say, “Well, who i