‘We moved to Wellesley from Chicago 33 years ago. Then we learned we lived on the Boston Marathon route.’
For more than three decades, Susanne Dowdall's house has been used as a bathroom and supply stop, a water and chili station, and home base for a particularly vociferous cheering squad.
After moving our little family to Wellesley from suburban Chicago in March of 1985, we were surprised to learn we lived on the Boston Marathon route, and that the event was arriving soon. It seemed a mixed blessing — a chance to meet new neighbors and invite others to a spot of real estate that was in high demand for those several hours, but also an experience of having space, otherwise understood to be ours, trampled like a well-used public park. Before long, we learned to happily anticipate the day. Now each Marathon Monday, we wake to the quiet sounds of bird calls instead of traffic, then ply the National Guardsman posted nearby with coffee and treats. We feel that particular hush before the vanguard of police vehicles heralds the wheelchair runners, then that second wave of expectation before the chaos of overhead choppers and the elite runners flash by, and then that slow-growing sound of sneakers that promises the oncoming river of humanity. Since that first hot, sunny marathon, we faithfully hang red, white, and blue bunting, line up folding chairs, and feed all those who come to our porch from a bottomless pot of chili. We join in the cheering until we become hoarse. In the beginning, we made some rookie mistakes. Now there are tents with bottled water readily available, but in the mid-1980s, it was the self-assigned job of residents along the route to provide hydration. We hosed water into Dixie cups. When it was hot, we also hosed the runners themselves — to the annoyance of some athletes who would have rather not run another 11 or so miles wet.
Marathoners make their way past Dowdall’s home in 2017.
After 33 years, matching the weather to the year isn’t possible, but some marathons have been blistering, while others have required hot cocoa.
Another thought on blisters: It’s so moving to see people hobbling on them, essentially bloodied and battered, and still only halfway to the finish line, but determined.
Our lawn has seen friends take brief respite. Our driveway has become a race course for children who are jazzed by all of the physical energy but forbidden from getting too close to the street. Over time, our home has been used as a bathroom stop for friend and stranger alike and a place where midcourse snacks and supplies could be stored for anyone who asked.
Martin Richard’s track coach, Vicky Shen, watched the runners from our doorstep the year of the bombings. Since 2013, her family has joined us to cheer for her marathon runs to benefit MR8.
We stay to watch and cheer until the bitter end, no matter what the weather holds. We’re pulled by the fact that those last runners really need us, and we’re reminded of why we always end the day with a feeling of tired satisfaction: Our role as spectators means we have a job to do, too. It’s not as hard on the knees, perhaps, but it’s not every day that you get to send your love and encouragement out to everyone who passes by your door.
We moved here with a kindergartner, and now his kindergartner waves and cheers.
Susanne Dowdall is a retired psychologist and a Museum of Fine Arts guide.
