107th Boston Marathon
April 21, 2003 -- Boston, MA

26 Miles, 385 Yards,

http://www.baa.org

My first try at the Queen of all Marathons.

Originally Published to TRI-DRS on April 25, 2003.

Published on http://www.xtri.com April 29, 2003.

If this was a perfect world, I'd have enough time to write an Xtri column and a separate race report for this race.  Lord knows, it might be big enough to support that.  However, please forgive me (I think I've done this once before) for using one to fufill the other.  This will be published with some edits next week for Xtri.com...but I think it'll do for a proper Race Report as well.
 

The Express vs. The Local:  Boston 2003 with Ray Britt and Bob Mina.

So as you know from last month, I 'outed' myself about running the Boston Marathon on April 21, 2003.  Through the good graces of an invite from my friend Dave Decker and John Hancock (the company - not the signer of the Declaration of Independence), I would be in the little town of Hopkinton to take my best shot at the 26.2 miles that have been covered in 106 previous editions; The longest running marathon in the United States.

Of course, I knew I wasn't there on merit.  My marathon PR of 3:53:27 is a mere 42 minutes and 28 seconds too slow for the BAA to consider me a threat, but I did my best pre-race to forget all that.  There would be plenty of charity runners, invited guests, and a bandit contingent that would fill most other races in their own right for me to run with.  I feared I would be last, but soon my Boston-vet friends assured me that there were plenty of people who would be behind me, even though what seemed like 9/10ths of the population of the fastest people in the world would be there ahead of me.

Also attending would be Xtri columnist Ray Britt, running his 8th Boston after finishing in an astounding PR of 2:54:37 in 2002 on the famed course.  Once Ray knew I was coming, he wrote to me with a dastardly brilliant plan:  "You and I need to write about Boston from our points of view!'  I reminded him that our points of view could end up being miles apart (7 to 10, actually, if paces held true), but it seemed like it would be worth a shot.

In his career Ray has run a few marathons sub-3.
In my career I've run three 20-mile training runs below 3.

Ray has been to Hawaii, and has already qualified for IMH 2003.
I have watched Hawaii on TV, and swim with Ken Glah when he gets in my lane.

Ray ran the 2002 Chicago Marathon on one Sunday, then finished IMH 6 days later in 11:17.
I ran the 2000 Chambersburg Marathon in 4:34, and then finished the Pittsburgh Marathon 14 days later in 4:29.

The last time I was ahead of Ray in any Ironman was IMC 1999, when he made quick work of me on the run while smiling.

The irony was perfect.  How could I refuse?

Ray would be starting in Corral #1 - the first corral for the fastest non-elites.  He would be less than 50 feet from the best marathon runners in the world.  I would be starting somewhat further back in corral #17, a mere ½ mile from the start line.  Ray would be taking the traditional yellow school buses used for all the runners to get from the finish area to the start in Hopkinton, while I would be accorded "VIP" treatment - coach buses and a special, indoor resting area once we arrived at the Athlete's Village.

We'd cover the same 26.2 miles, though the same route would surely yield two completely different days for us.


Monday, April 21st.  Patriots Day.  Marathon Day.  6:15am - Room service knocks on the door of Room 523 at the Bostonian Hotel.  Bald figure stumbles across room and greets waiter with pot of coffee.  Signs guest check without contacts or glasses, and misses the signature line by a full 2 inches.  In the darkness, I eat one English muffin and drink a pot of industrial grade, blacker than space, hotel coffee (with cream and Sweet 'N Low).  St. Lynda snoozes, sort of, laughing at me in the dark, as I think that by leaving the lights off and chewing quietly she'll be able to return to sleep.  She flips on the Weather Channel and smiles at me.

7:20am - Bob knocks on door of room 525, the suite of Dr. Dave Jones and his wife, Lisa.  He's running his third Boston - she her first.  Dave plans on running 2:50 or better.  Lisa plans on running 3:50.  Bob plans on pacing with Lisa.  Dave repacks his bag three times, forgets Pop-Tarts.  We head to the lobby, where we meet Mike and April Peerless.  She's running her second Boston; First for Mike.  Also there is Dave Decker - he's running his first Boston, and it's through his good graces that I'm here.  Dave wants a 3:50, so Lisa, Dave, and I are together in this from the start.

7:35am - We snag an early AM cab ride to the finish line at Copley Square and the VIP Tent.  The blue and yellow colors of the BAA Finish Line banner seem to quietly glow in the early morning shadows.  I'll be back here later; it's just a question of when.

8:30am - With a coordinator booming instructions over a microphone, we're led to the buses out back.  There are 5 coach buses waiting with a Police escort.  "I'm not worthy of this!" I think.  I wonder if comedian Will Ferrell will be on our bus.  Mike Peerless immediately starts doing Flying Circus sketches by himself, as nothing calms the nerves more than Monty Python this early in the morning.

9:25am - We arrive at Hopkinton High School and the Athlete's Village.  The scene is amazing, much like Fort Wadsworth before the NYC Marathon; There are 21,000 people spread out under the morning sun.  A live band is playing, and HP.com is taking digital pictures to e-mail to folks to prove that you were really there.  Quickly, we're shown the entrance to the VIP area (Hah!) where we have a gym to ourselves, food, and most importantly: 10 Port-a-loos (as well as the regular indoor bathrooms).  I wonder if I'm missing the experience, but since I'm here on borrowed karma, time, and good fortune, I stop thinking and get a bagel.

10:40am - My cell phone rings.  This surprises me, because I don't think I have it on.  I don't immediately recognize the number, so I wait before answering.  I wait so long that I miss the call, so I call the mystery number back - Ray answers the phone.  "Hello?"  I ask.  Ray goes, "Hey.  It's Ray."  I think to myself, Huh?  "Sorry, you must have a wrong number!"  (Think about this - I just called someone to tell him or her that they've called a wrong number.  Hello?)  The voice goes, "Bob - It's RAY BRITT."  Duh!  I snap out of my pre-race mini-stupor and we chat. 

He's outside and asks, "So how's life in VIP land?"  He sounds great - confident, relaxed.  I thought I wasn't nervous at first, but since I can't seem to remember people I talked to the day before, maybe I am.  A little.

11:15am - Time to go!  We head out the door, check our bags, and take the long, long, long walk up the start line corrals.  Ray will be walking even longer - counting down from the last corral (19) to 1.  Once there, I know it'll be another 30 minutes until the gun fires, and closer to 45 until I actually find the start line.  I grab some pavement and sit.  Mike Peerless is no longer rattling off Python, but waiting with me.  That means I have a witness when a young brunette leans over and says, "Excuse me - Are you Hurricane Bob?" 

It must have been the Xtri.com hat, or maybe it was the shimmering bald dome coming through the hat - either way, I found out later that her name was Cindi, and she made my morning (and I had a witness - did I mention that?).

11:45am - Wheelchair start.  We can hear the race announcers trying to get people into their corrals, and we can hear the helicopters overhead.  The energy is building, but I'm trying to keep everything reeled in:  It's going to be a long wait even after the gun fires for us back here.

11:58am - Two F-15's fly overhead as the National Anthem finishes up.  They'll fly over the course and be over Copley Square in about 4 minutes.  Bah - too easy!

12:00:00pm - BOOM!  The cannon fires and the 107th Boston Marathon is underway.

12:00:27pm - Ray crosses the start line with a net difference of 26 seconds from the Kenyans.  From where I'm standing, the sound waves of the gun haven't arrived yet.  It's only by the excited chatter from the PA that we know somewhere up the road, the race is moving.

12:05pm - My 'Bladder Full' light comes on.  I know if I don't go know, it'll be 2-3 miles before I can.  That means jumping a barricade, running into the woods, and getting back.  I look down the long sea of heads pointing downhill - none are moving.  I leap for it.

12:06pm - Ray crosses over the first mile marker in 6:35, plunging downhill with the fast start amid the canyon of noise that is Hopkinton and the early miles.  It's a good start on a warm day for him.

12:07pm - Back over the barricade.  The guy next to me goes, "Welcome back.  You haven't missed anything."  No motion apparent ahead.

12:13pm - Ray crosses over the 2-mile mark, feeling good.  He's looking to get into a 6:30 groove at this point and improve on his 2:54 of a year ago.  Back on Grove Street, heads before me start whooping - they're finally moving!

12:21pm - Dave Decker, Lisa Jones, and I finally round the corner from Grove Street onto Main Street in Hopkinton, and descend into a cross between Easter Sunday at the Vatican and the Super Bowl.  It is a holy place, with the volume turned up to 11.  People line both sides of the hills as far as I can see, creating a natural canyon of voices and energy that just picks you up and throws you headlong into the Boston experience.  The timing mat beeps - my watch starts - we're finally running.

Meanwhile at the same time, Ray crosses the 5K mark in 20:19, cruising under control and feeling right on target.  He wonders to himself, "Can this last?"

12:25pm - Weaving in and out of the runners, Dave and Lisa start working their way up to an 8:40 pace.  They plunge away, I hesitate, and just like that they're gone from sight.  With the crowd this big, I'm afraid to press it this early - I hope I can see them later on.  The early miles are steep!  I fight the urge to lean back;I try to relax and run 'light' on the hills.  At 198 pounds, well, it's relative.

12:30pm - I cross mile 1 in 9:12.  Dave and Lisa are 30 seconds ahead (already!), and Ray is somewhere up ahead having his first trouble of the day.  He's feeling nauseous and short of breath.  Is it the warm weather?  "Am I going out too fast, too soon?" He thinks.  He reaches for his inhaler and takes a puff to get things under control.  He's been here before and knows not to panic - there are many miles to get things right. 

The last starter crosses the line in Hopkinton.

12:41pm - Ray crosses the 10K checkpoint in 40:57, approaching the big crowds and wide-open spaces of Framingham.  Dave and Lisa are running together somewhere past mile 2.  Vincent Kipsos leads, crossing the 8-mile mark with 100 meters on the chase pack.  I'm past mile 2 as well, wondering what in the world my heart rate is doing in the 150's at this slow pace...

12:54pm - Ray passes mile 8, but something else unexpected has come up:  His legs are sore, far too early.  How can this be?  It must be the warm weather - dehydration so soon?  Nearing the 8-mile mark, he adjusts his plan working to get into a comfortable place, but the target keeps moving each time he gets near it.

1:19pm - I approach the same Framingham Train Station and the crowds that Ray went past more than 50 minutes ago, and I'm feeling the same 'off' sense of the moment; my legs aren't dead, but they sure aren't at 100%. It's warm (69 degrees), but not hot.  My 10K split is fair at 56, but my heart rate is still off the charts, hovering around 155.  That's usually good for an 8:10 pace or better - today, 9's are all I can manage.  Despite this, the crowds are out in force!  Even in doubt and concern, I can smile at the power of cheers - they haven't dropped off since Hopkinton one decibel.

1:20pm - Ray runs a 7:01 mile 11 - the first 7-minute mile coming 11 miles sooner then it had in 2002.  Calmly amid the pace, in his head he reviews his 2002 and 2003 training logs; "What's the difference?  Wat will it take to get me back into sub-3:00 marathon shape?"  While Ray works on thinking up a solution, Wellesley College sings across the hills in the distance - a welcome diversion for sure.

1:28pm - Ray passes through Wellesley College, and the screams from the half-mile of women lining the road drop his pace to 6:50.  He smiles, and his body lightens.  It is a magic place, as it has been each of his 7 previous trips through here.  He passes halfway in 1:28 - 2 minutes off expected pace, but on an upswing for the moment.

1:29pm - Dave and Lisa are still side-by-side, ticking off the miles at #9.  I'm a half mile behind them now, coming to terms with the fact that my day will either get much better or much worse; I feel like I'm balancing on a knife edge, teetering.  My heart rate is in the 160's, and not dropping.  I'm not breathing hard at all.  What is going on here?

A mere 8 miles up the road, Ben Kimutai leads the men's race as the pack has made the right turn and passed mile 16, entering the Newton hills.

1:48pm - Ray finds himself saying, "It's like 2001 all over again;no, wait!  It's worse!"  He ran a 3:09 back then (still a qualifying time!), but is wrestling with this day for sure.  He reaches back for another shot of inhaler to reset things, but it's gone!  Dropped, somewhere in the bedlam behind.  His pace is still hovering in the low 7:0x range, but last year it was in the 6:40's at this same point.

1:49pm - Bob finds himself saying, "It's like Philadelphia 1999 all over again!" a race where a warm day led to a spectacular (and physically complex) implosion and explosion at the same time, followed by a long death march to the end. 

I try to think positive thoughts.  I try to pick my knees up. My knees make faces at that thought.  Who knew that knees could make faces?  Each time I cringe, someone looks at me and cheers as if I was the only person on the road.  If not for them, how could I deal with so much going wrong so soon?

My heart rate is now at 167 - a number usually reserved for a 10K.  Mile 10 passes in 9:23.  I utter, "Uh-oh.." to no one and to everyone around me.  I need Dave and Lisa here to throw me a line, but they're up ahead- I have no idea where.

2:00pm - Robert Cheruiyot makes his move, and takes the lead for good at mile 23.  Ray Britt crosses the Route 93/128 junction, and approaches the Newton Hills, starting to feel better.  He thinks to himself, "I need to drink more, but it would really make me feel better if I could just empty my stomach and start over*" He tucks his head and drives on down the road.  These next 5 miles are the essence of Boston; a gut-check of how bad you want it.  It's the Queen herself rising from her throne saying, "You wanted to come here and take me on - now show me how much you've got.  Anyone can run downhill.  Show me how well you do now, when the easy miles are long gone."

The road could tell 100,000 stories of 100,000 broken hearts.  That's why they call her Heartbreak.  That's why they call come back.

2:10pm - Robert Cheruiyot wins the 107th Boston Marathon in 2:10.  Ray is a mere 10km back, and I'm right on his heels, only 13 or so miles behind.  I run a 9:27 mile 12 through Wellesley, trying my best to smile through what is now very real pain in both legs.  The sign to the left reads, "WELLESLEY.  Life is a lot better at 120 decibels."

The women and their wall of sound make it all better for 5 minutes.  I recover, I soar, I smile.  I stop and kiss one brunette (on the cheek!) that has a sign that says "Kiss Me, I'm Irish!"  I'm in 10,374th place right now, but to them - to the choir of Wellesley College, each runner that comes through here is the only runner.  I surf the adrenaline and power of the moment.

...but the silence as I head for halfway is suddenly deafening.  Back to reality.  Back to pain.

2:20pm - I pass the halfway mark in 2:00:07 on my watch.  I mutter the first, "Aww @#*&!" of the day.  My last sub-10:00 mile of the day is run.

2:24pm - Ray has been fighting on, and the battle is starting to swing back in his direction.  He's approaching "Heartbreak Hill" and knows from experience that once he's over the top, he can bring it home for the 8th time.  Dave and Lisa have split up now - she's 6 minutes up the road, while Dave is coming back towards me, having the same kind of day I am.  He's fighting as hard as I am, thinking about that last 3 hour run we did 2 weeks ago.  "Where did it all go?"  I think the same; I wonder the same.

2:46pm - My hamstrings draw back, and then my right one takes a great big tug backwards; First cramp of the day.  My legs feel like they've been beat with a stick for 2 hours - I run an 10:19 mile 15 to celebrate,but my HR is still an impossible 148.  Ray is coming down at mile 23 and passing people now.  The renewal is on - his legs are coming back!  He persevered and recovered, and I'm now fighting to do the same.  So are Dave, Lisa, and probably, most of the field now.  The temperature is over 70, and there is no shade.  The trees aren't even budding yet - Spring just got here, today.

3:00pm - Both arches in my feet begin to twitch and tingle.  I think to myself, "What the @#*&! Does that mean?"  I've shortened my stride to compensate for my tight hamstrings and sore quads, but what can I do for feet that hurt on the ground?  I have one thing going for me - the crowds continue to be unreal.  I waddle past the firehouse at Newton, and the crowd is 20 deep and as loud as a Space Shuttle launch.  I can smell barbecues, beer, funnel cakes, and all things wonderfully bad for you.  I smell something burning, but then realize that it's just my right leg having another cramp.  I shuffle on.  The Queen's Hills await my fading will.

Ray has 1 mile to go, and passes the "Welcome to Boston" banner that Adidas has hanging next to the "1 MILE TO GO" painted in giant yellow letters on the road.  The crowds are insane, and he's flying now.  Not as fast as he wanted, but this is magic time - Boylston Street is just ahead.

3:07pm - Ray Britt finishes his 8th Boston Marathon in a time of 3:06:01, stopping to find his wife Wendy and son Eric on Boylston Street near the finish.  His time qualifies him for the 2004 edition, but he's got another race on his mind already: His flight home to Chicago leaves in just under 2 hours.

3:08pm - Somewhere in Newton approaching Heartbreak Hill, Dave Decker is fighting to keep his race moving.  Somewhere in Newton approaching Heartbreak Hill, Bob Mina is fighting to keep his race moving.  They share the same road for perhaps a minute, and pass one another without even knowing it.  Bob is now ticking off 11:32 miles with military precision, having plodded to three consecutive such splits whilst holding a heart rate suited for an 8:30 mile.  

Ray has his chip off, his medal on, a Mylar blanket, and is still motoring through the post-race corral.

3:21pm - Mile 19.  My 4th consecutive 11:32.  I mutter my 12th "Aww @#*&!" of the day.  The hills have me in their teeth now.  I'm slumping over, fully absorbed by the pain an ecstasy of the Boston experience.  Each time my stride breaks down, the crowd picks me up; "Go awn theh!  Yaw' doin' a foine jawb!  Good jawb!"  I think to myself, "How can I phonetically spell out a Boston accent in a race report?" to amuse myself (there you go).  My race is coming apart in big flaming chunks; I can barely lift my head, and each step is pain.  In the deepest, darkest clutches of the toughest part of the race, I was still alright. 

It was like New York, but so much more intense.  The crowds are as big, but the road is ¼ the size.  You can't take a step without having someone try to high five you.  The winners passed through where I am more than 2 hours ago, but the noise is the same.  I'm embarrassed to be having such a bad day on such a historic course, but I understand why so many people try, fail, but turn right around to come back and do it again.  She's the Queen of the Marathons - I am just a mortal, trying to understand her ways and prove myself worthy.  I am not the first, I will not be the last.

This time, on this day, she has broken my body and reduced my spirit to a spark.  I feel small, slow, and helpless.  I wonder what I'm doing here, and why I'm taking so much pain, but then I just have to look around and be renewed - that's what the crowd is for.  One step at a time, Heartbreak Hill makes its way into my memory, and into my past.  My shadow is long.  My shoulders are slumping.  I am still moving.

3:49pm - I pass the Hash House Harriers station on Heartbreak Hill's final test.  They cheer in unison, "Beer near!  Beer Near!"  I pass by- one beer now would end me.  I hear the chant change to, "Joe!  Joe!  Joe!  Gojo!  Gojo!"  I guess that Joe has stopped for a beer.  The cheers erupt - Joe has chugged and is coming on.  The crowd near me starts yelling, "Go Joe!  Go Joe!"  Joe passes me.

Joe, for the record, is about 6 feet tall, maybe 175 pounds.  Joe is also wearing a dress.  He's got a 3-foot tall red wig, and looks remarkably like Kate Pierson from the B-52's (that is, if she didn't shave for 2 days).  He's on a cell phone telling someone, "Yah, sorry - stopped for a beah back theah.  Where are you now?" 

At the same time, a guy with a TV made out of cardboard on his head chugs up the other side of the road.  My plunge through the field continues, but at least it's really entertaining.  Ray had warned me that things like this might happen along the way, relating a story about what passed him in 1996; that would be the Old First Church, running backwards, uphill.

My 21-mile split is 12:53.  With a nod of my head I crest Heartbreak Hill, and know now that it's all (mostly) downhill from here.

Back in the city of Boston Ray is in a taxi with his wife and son, headed for Logan Airport after the world's fastest shower and express checkout of his hotel.

4:04pm - I'm rumbling downhill now through Boston College towards Cleveland Circle.  A pack of 6 "BC Bandits" in matching yellow T-Shirts come flying up the right side of the road and get a reception that nearly shatters my right eardrum and contact lenses.  The fans of the BC Bandits have probably been drinking since 11:00am this morning, and are in sharing mood.  After a brief stop for hugs and high fives, the BC Bandits tear up the road as one, each carrying a newly full 16oz. party size cup of beer. I think to myself, "How can they run that fast and not spill?  That's a gift."  I look down at my shadow - even it looks tired.  The sun has been behind us all day, and only now do I feel the burn on my ankles, elbows, and neck. 

Ray and family enter the United Airlines terminal at Logan Airport.

4:22pm - Dropping from the top of Heartbreak my quads are in total agony; each step is nearly blinding me with pain as I take on the plunge to the finish line.  The "Citgo" sign across from Fenway Park looms on the horizon - I've been looking for it all day long.  I was hoping to be finished by now - I think about stopping and finding someone with a cell phone so I can call the waiting St. Lynda and the finish and tell her, "Sorry I'm late!  I'll be there soon!"  I can shuffle no better than a 12-minute mile now, but the crowds won't let me back off.  When I walk they yell, "C'mon!  You can run!  Only 2 more miles!  You've come this far - don't quit now!" 

As I focus on just moving one step at a time, A bride and groom - she in a dress and he in a tux (she with white shoes, he with black) split me.  To my left, the Green Line subway (the "T") trundles past full of spectators headed back from the Newton hills towards the finish.  I look up at them and wave a feeble wave.  The entire car claps and gives me a thumbs-up.  Over the clack-clack-clack of the rails, I can hear them yelling to me.  If I had the energy, it would have made me cry.

Instead I smile, but then my arches (both of them) cramp up and take my toes downward.  I try to run without using my feet, but since that would be flying, I stumble and stop.  I lean on a Boston Cop and go, "Sorry!"  He responds in the traditional, "No prawblem.  Good Jawb!  Yaw gawna' make it!"

God Damn, this is an amazing race.  Even the cops are behind you.

4:31pm - Running on her own since Mile 13, Lisa Jones finishes her first Boston Marathon in 4:10:02.  Not the day she'd expected, but that's okay - waiting for her is her husband, Dr. Dave Jones.  Having run a 2:57 here in 2002 he finished his Boston in 3:40, after holding a sub-3 pace for 14 miles before the Queen struck his wishes aside.  Also waiting here are Mike and April Peerless - he having run a PB of 3:48, and she laying down a 3:39!  They all wrap up against the late-day chill, and wait.  Dave and I are doing the best that we can, rumbling for home.

4:40pm - Mile 25 passes beneath my trashed legs. The "Citgo" sign is right there, and Fenway Park passes to my right.  I'm here, but I have never been in so much pain in any marathon before today.  This is my 16th, and I cannot recall this kind of pain.  Each step is a huge effort, but I will make it.  I have been fighting all day to keep moving, but here it is - the last mile.  The crowd chants in unison, "One mile to go!  One mile to go!"  Ahead of me is the Adidas banner that Ray passed almost 2 hours ago.  Adidas had put up one for each town we passed - I tried to remember all the phrases, but through fatigue and pain they've all been washed away.

This one, however, sticks.  It reads, "BOSTON.  'Boston marathon finisher' has a nice ring to it.  In one more mile, that's you."

The goosebumps come in one huge wave.  "One more mile!  One more mile!"  What little energy I have weeps from the corner of my right eye - One more mile.  Just one more mile.

4:50pm - After 25.8 miles I make the final left turn onto Boylston Street and move to the right to find St. Lynda.  She spots me immediately, and because I'm approaching her at 4 miles per hour she takes 4 pictures, takes a drink of water, puts the camera away, applies some ChapStick, and waits for me to get there.  When I do, I don't crash into the wall, nor do I head-butt her.  I stop and shout, "Sorry I'm late!  Forgot my legs!" and give her a kiss.

I put my head down on the railing; it feels so good to stop...

"Ohh, no!  You can't stop!  Go!  Go!"  She picks my head up and swivels it towards the Blue and Yellow Banners of the BAA.  If I had a key in my back, she would have wound me up and kicked my @ss to get me moving.  I shuffle away, looking at 400 yards to go.

4:53pm - Ray and the family Britt board their flight for Chicago and home.

Dave Decker turns left onto Boylston Street.  The sun disappears - the block is in the shadows now.  We're both running in the twilight now, almost home.

I try to pick up the pace, but I can't.  I try to kick it in, but my legs won't listen.  I try to smile, but since my facial muscles are the only ones left not ready to cramp, I can't do it.  I shuffle the best that I can, and cross the finish line, unable to lift my arms over my head for the first time in any race - I was too wiped out to even think about it.  The Queen beat me today, but she knows I'll be back.  Perhaps she even nodded as I finished, but I couldn't see that far.

I'm proud, but all I want to do it stop.  I do immediately, and my abdominal muscles cramp in an instant.  I bend over at the waist, completely unable to stand up.  I think to myself, "While I'm down here, I might as well start working on my Champion Chip..." I go to untie my laces, and on cue both of my triceps start cramping.  I'm now stuck bent over at the waist, with my arms straight out in front of me like I'm trying to dive into the pavement.  I look like a scarecrow on crack.


4:57pm - Dave Decker crosses the line, thinking to himself, "It's not supposed to feel this bad, is it?"   He walks through the chute, past some guy who's bent over, waving his arms, cursing at the pavement.

I wave to a volunteer who comes over, and helps straighten me up.  "Good jawb!  Wawk with me!"  I lean, and I get wrapped up in a few feet by another volunteer.  I, Bob Mina, have finished the Boston Marathon.  The blue and yellow medal is draped over my salt-covered head, and it's real:  I have finished Boston.  Thank God.

Not too much later, we all met up and started the long amble back to the hotel as the sun disappeared behind the buildings of Government Center for good on the 21st of April - Patriot's Day; Marathon Day.  A long day, a bad day, a good day, a great day, all the same to us - a day where we all finished what we'd started.  It may not have gone as some of us hoped, but a day that ends with a medal, a blanket, and applause from passers-by on the street who get out of the way of your stumbling, trembling legs?

I get it now.  I understand.

6:48pm - The Britt clan lands in Chicago and heads for home.  Ray has work tomorrow, but not before a little party.  This one is not for Ray, and not for the marathon - It's Eric's Birthday today!  A little cake never hurt, eh?

8:15pm - My hobbling Boston crew heads out to dinner.  We share stories, more stories, and empty three bottles of red wine to ease the growing soreness.  As we're all sitting around the table (not moving at all), I feel that really bad 'twingy' feeling from my right hamstring - then it goes BANG!  Snap cramp, right there in the middle of a bite of a perfectly good sirloin.

I yelp, and instinctively kick my leg forwards.  This results in my kicking the base of the table with enough force to propel my chair backwards 4 feet at 10 times the speed of sound.  I stand up as fast as I can to straighten out the little hamstring that couldn't, and my abs (sensing a coup d'etat) join the fray and resume their finish line buckle. 

So there I am in a fine Boston restaurant, surrounded by friends and my lovely wife, dancing like Elaine from Seinfeld while my muscles take turns twisting me to and fro.  Of course Mike Peerless is right there with his camera shouting, "Cramp! Cramp!  Yes!  Alright Bob!"

It wouldn't be the last.  I cramped again getting into bed that night, getting into the car the next day, eating dinner Tuesday night, and even starting the lawn mower 3 days later.  Out of the 16 marathons I've run, this was the 3rd slowest.  I was never in so much pain during, and after. 

If you were to ask me now would I do it again?  You bet.  In a heartbeat.  I'd love to qualify - Can I get this body to run a 3:10?  I once said I'd never run a marathon.  One may ask why, when I think I need to be asking, "Why not?"

It's Boston.  I never used to understand what people who had run it meant when they said that phrase, but now I do.  

It's Boston.  If I never run it again, I'm thankful to have been there once. 

There's nothing else like it.
 

Hurricane Bob
* 2003 Boston Marathon Finisher *

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