A Chance Encounter With The Hoyts
A Chance Encounter With The Hoyts
by Barbara Zirl
I read the sad news this week of the passing of Bryan Lyons, the 50 year old New Hampshire dentist who was a member of Team Hoyt. Dr. Lyons took over pushing Rick Hoyt in his wheelchair in the Boston Marathon, when Rick’s father Dick Hoyt retired in 2015. The father and son Team Hoyt have competed in the Boston Marathon since 1981 and have been an inspirational fixture at the race ever since.
I want to share a little story of my brush with the Hoyts.
The first time I got to go to Boston was in 2006. I had run a qualifying time at the Philadelphia Marathon in the fall, in late November. I debated whether to apply for the spring race, just 5 months away, or wait a year and apply for the 2007 race so I’d have more time to train. In 2006, you could simply submit your qualifying time to apply and if there were entry spots available, you could get in, first come, first served. I applied. I got in. Welp!
The short window between qualifying in the fall and the April race meant hotel rooms would be scarce. I quickly connected with Marathon Tours & Travel, who managed all the hotel arrangements for the Boston Athletic Association and participants in the race. I got one of the last rooms left in Boston’s Back Bay at The Midtown Hotel, kind of a dive, no frills place, not even a step up from The Best Western on the Parkway, where I’d stayed in Philadelphia in November. There was a communal refrigerator in the hallway, where we’d all stash our beverages and hope they’d be there come race morning on Monday. The hotel guests were mostly international runners, tall, impossibly lithe guys I imagined would populate the first two corrals, while I would be towards the back in corral 19. The hotel was located on Huntington Avenue, which ran parallel to Boylston Street where all the race-day activities would take place, and tucked in behind the Christian Science Plaza.
I’d been chasing a Boston qualifying time for the previous three years, coming close each time, shaving off a few minutes with each subsequent marathon. This time I stuck with a pace group and I did it. I had a handful of running friends who did marathons but none of them had ever run Boston. I didn’t belong to the Essex Running Club in New Jersey yet. So I had to do my own research to learn everything I could to prepare for the race. This was before social media was anything other than some Runner’s World and Running Time’s forums or early Internet Usenet discussion groups and message boards. I read articles and joined discussions where veteran Boston Marathon runners talked about their experiences, shedding light on what to expect in the race, what to look for, what to bring, etc.
On Monday morning, race day, the sky was clear and cool. The Midtown hotel was about a mile and half from Boston Common where you’d catch a bus to the race start in Hopkinton, Mass. I didn’t know you could just hop on the T, ride two subway stops, and get to the buses in few minutes. There weren’t Ubers or Lyfts. So I decided to walk, figuring I’d loosen up my legs as I strolled along and take in the building excitement of my first Boston Marathon.
The race started at noon, but you needed to be at Boston Common to board the buses at 6 a.m. before the roads closed. I left the Midtown hotel, dressed for the race and carrying my gear in the clear plastic bag I got at the expo. Way too much gear! But I was prepared for whatever weather situation I’d encounter.
As I walked along Huntington Avenue at dawn, I felt giddy about being in Boston, full of anticipation of what the day would bring and just thrilled to be participating in the iconic race, even if I wasn’t entirely certain I belonged there amid the 2:30 and 3:00 hour marathoners. There was no one else walking to the buses. Where was everyone? Did they all pick a different street? Or was all the action happening a block away on Boylston Street? My bag was getting heavy on my shoulder. How much farther was the park anyway? These thoughts were going through my head when I came upon a small group of people clustered around a wheelchair. A man in a wheelchair. That’s Rick Hoyt, I thought. And there’s Dick Hoyt. And an entourage of handlers. I’ve reached the back of the Boston Marriott or maybe the Westin at Copley Place where the parking garage is and they are preparing to get in their van. I’m star struck and mulling over appropriate greetings. I can’t exactly ignore them and keep going. I don’t want to seem goofy like the man who meets Bill Murray in the hotel hallway and asks, “Off to see the groundhog?” Or clueless and ask, “Are you the Hoyts?” when it’s obvious they are. At that moment, there was nothing else I could say except, “Good morning!” I said, “it’s so good to meet you both, I hope you have a great race!” I must have said a little more, probably, “it’s my first time at Boston, I’m so excited!” I remember, we shook hands (when we could shake hands in the not too distant past) and wished each other well. I didn’t ask for an autograph. I didn’t take a picture (this was well before smart phones). And I didn’t post anything on social media or even tell this story to too many people.
They proceeded to help Rick into the van. I continued along Huntington Avenue for a few more minutes, coming to the end where it met up with Boylston Street. Boston Common was straight ahead and there were the rows and rows of waiting yellow school buses. I got in line behind other runners and I got on a bus for my first ride to Hopkinton.
