Running in the Footsteps of an American Hero

I suddenly realized I was in over my head – out of my element, 3,000 miles from home – awash in a sea of humanity, packed shoulder-to-shoulder, on a street in Brooklyn, New York, under the shadow of a deserted freeway ramp. The big city loomed off in the distance, well beyond the entrance to the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel just a few hundred yards in front of us. The National Anthem. A quick announcement. And a gun. The crowd trudged forward. Walking at first, then shuffling. Soon I was at a dead run – scurrying as fast as my not very lean legs would take me. I followed the masses down into the tunnel.

It had happened a little more than 5 years before. September 11th, 2001. Everyone remembers what they were doing that morning. I spent the day, like everyone else, taking in the images; planes hitting towers, towers crumbling, aerial views of smoke and ash. Iconic towers reduced to a smoldering pile of rubble. It wasn’t until later that day that my story diverged a bit from the norm. My mom called. I remarked how her sister Jackie and my uncle Russ were fortunate to live on Long Island, far from Ground Zero in Lower Manhattan.

“Yes, Mike.” She said. “Jackie and Russ are fine. We’re just concerned about Stephen.”

We were kindred spirits, Stephen and I, separated by a continent and a couple of years. Come holidays and summer vacations, we would bond. He, being older, was a role model for me. Strong and athletic. A city kid. Confident and outgoing. We would play sports for hours and I found myself practicing, wishing that I could be as good as him someday. Stephen was Russ’ youngest brother and had come to live with my aunt and uncle after losing his parents at too young an age. There was trouble – as is easily found in late nights in the Big Apple - and then finally peace, when he married his childhood sweetheart and settled down to raise a family. He wondered how things had turned out so well for him. He wanted to give back. So he joined the Fire Department of New York.

They hold a run there every year now. It starts where he started. It finishes at the end. I went because I was now a runner, trying to find some fitness. Life had taken its toll. Day-in, day-out. “Desk job,” I blamed. My once lithe, athletic physique became 50 lbs. heavier than it should be – and not so lithe nor athletic. I made a choice and gradually (and inconsistently) made it back towards what I figured was respectability. Still hovering around 200 lbs., I could run five miles (if I took some breaks). I emailed Jackie and told her that I wanted to do the run.

Stephen had left the fire station earlier that morning. Off for a few days. Looking forward to spending the day playing golf with Russ and their two other brothers. Later, there would be time with the family – Sally and the 5 children. But there was confusion on the scanner. A plane hit one of the towers? And another? Golf plans were interrupted. Stephen headed towards Manhattan, but the tunnel was shut down. No vehicles were being allowed through. No matter, he parked his truck, grabbed his gear and headed down into the tunnel.

That was my first road race. The Stephen Siller Tunnel-to-Towers 5k run/walk. September 26, 2006. I finished…barely. Clad in an XL cotton memorial t-shirt, baggy shorts and shoes that “looked good so I bought ‘em online”, I did as advertised and “followed in the footsteps of an American hero”. The first mile was ok: I chuffed along in the tunnel, running much too fast, downhill in the dark, amongst the patter of footfalls and the occasional whoop. The second mile was difficult – made bearable only by the encouragement of the 343 flag-wielding firefighters that line side of the tunnel, each representing one of their brothers lost that day. Up out of the tunnel, still running, but not much left in the tank. A mile to go – “are you kidding me?” Cheerleaders, people lining the streets. Out around the Embarcadero and I’m gassed. Encouraged by other runners, I pick it up and push on through to the end. I’m humbled and relieved. My own disappointment is washed away by the sheer volume of support the family has received from the community.

Still, Stephen is gone.

Almost four years have passed and I am now a runner. The excess weight is gone. I have run several marathons, including Boston twice (Jackie and Russ were there at the finish this year). I have completed an Ironman. It is September 11th – nine years after we lost Stephen somewhere in the ruins of the World Trade Center. I ran a race today – a half marathon on the Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton. I ran with the leaders for the first couple of miles (once again, over my head – not out of my element, but running too fast, downhill, amongst the patter of footfalls). The first half was ok: I cruised along through the valley. The second half was difficult – made bearable not by a multitude of encouraging firefighters, but by the memory of one. I am not religious. I have never considered myself especially spiritual. But towards the end of the race, no longer running with the leaders (and overtaken by a handful of other runners, my podium hopes dashed), I needed some help. I thought of the courage it must have taken to run towards Ground Zero when everyone else was running for their lives. I may have been suffering, running by myself and out of contention, but I was not alone. There were some tough times out on the course today. There were hills. And heat. But this time there was no stopping. We pushed on through to the end.