The 111th Boston Marathon
April 16, 2007
-- Boston, Massachusetts
26.2 Mile Run
On my 4th try, I finally figure out how to run a good, smart marathon.
Originally Published to TRI-DRS on April 23, 2007.
Appeared on http://www.xtri.com on April 23-25, 2007
PHOTO CREDITS: The on-course photos below are from my friend Susan McCarthy; you may recall that she ran past me during my meltdown in 2005. While we didn't run together, her images really capture what it was like out there from a runners-eye view. The Kenmore Square picture (one mile to go) is courtesy of Peter Rufo, http://www.eliterunning.com.
Click on any image to see the full-size picture.
The guy next to us said, "Wait, are you Bob?" I said, "Yes, why?" (while at the same time thinking, "I hope I'm the Bob he thinks he's talking to, since Bob could be his gardener or something...") He smiled and said, "You have to keep running Boston. You have to go back." I laughed and said, "Dude, the race has tried to kill me three times. Why?" He replied, "Because it's hysterical."
Maybe time does heal, or at least, allows you to forget the pain. Last October, I found out that I’d be going back to Boston for the 111th edition of the greatest marathon in the known universe. I had applied to run with the Dana-Farber Marathon Challenge, and they had granted me one of their 500 charity entries. I would be running in the memory of Ed Hutchinson, brother of one of my closest friends and mentors, Art Hutchinson. I have known Art since my first Ironman Canada in 1998; he had lost Ed in 2005, the day Lynda and I brought Katie home from the hospital. Ed was only 39.
As you might already know, Boston and I have a long and contentious history. It’s the only marathon in the world (other than the Olympic trials) where one needs to qualify in order to attend, and the qualifying times are for only the fastest of the fast. My marathon personal record of 3:53:27 is still 37 minutes too slow to meet the 3:15:59 standard I’d need to reach, but I had been able to run three times previously (2003, 2004, and 2005) via invitational entries. Getting a charity slot meant that I’d get to run again, no qualifying needed.
In the past, apparently for my willingness to accept such gifts, Boston had shown me zero mercy. In 2003, I faded in the heat and finished in 4:33. 2004 was even worse – a high temperature of 86F wilted me to a near personal worst 4:55. In 2005 I decided to do some good with my ‘invited runner’ status, running as a member of the Dana-Farber Marathon Challenge to raise money for the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston.
I was in shape, and gunning for 3:40. Sadly, the race proceeded to once more kick my sorry ass all the way from Hopkinton to Boston. Yet another 70-degree day led to yet another spectacular, part-shedding, contrail-spewing, flaming death waltz, that ended with me completely shattered when I crossed the line in 4:40.
Out of 26 total marathons, my Boston attempts make up 3 of my 5 slowest (with only the first two marathons I ever ran in 1996 and 1997 managing to be slower). So I guess you could say Boston was approaching mythical status for me: I needed to try again.
Through the winter I endured the usual challenges of a runner in the Northeast US: Ice, snow, and even doing 8 miles worth of speedwork every Tuesday ON A TREADMILL. The piece de resistance was a solo 22-miler through the endless hills of Chester Springs, PA, a run so hard and so completely evil, it took me 3:58 to finish – nearly the time I expected to spend on Patriot’s Day.
When I looked back over my training logs I noticed something funny; my total mileage had nearly equaled my 2005 total leading up to Boston, and I’d done that without an 18-month old that hadn’t slept in, well, 18 months.
But as race-day approached, I was beginning to think that might not matter. First there were calls for a cutoff low – a storm that didn’t move. Then that turned into a strong, winter-like storm. Then it became hyped into a Nor’Easter, before being finally billed as a “100-Year Storm.”
Friends who knew my history with Boston and my other battles with horrific weather immediately blamed me. One went so far as to defer his entry until 2008. Then the Boston Athletic Association started sending out emails like this four days pre-race…
“Wednesday, April 11 - As the Boston Athletic Association continues to make preparations for Monday's Boston Marathon, we are monitoring the upcoming weather conditions forecast for this area. Based on the National Weather Service's most recent report and in cooperation with the Executive Office of Public Safety (Commonwealth of Massachusetts) and the Massachusetts Emergency Management Agency, together with the eight cities and towns along the 26.2-mile marathon route, we are planning for likely heavy rain and windy conditions on race day. However, all race day plans remain the same. The Boston Athletic Association advises participants in Monday's race to plan accordingly for their run, bringing with them gear and apparel to suit the conditions.”
Regardless, I was going. So were 22,000 others who would bring layers, hope for the best, and hit it on Patriot’s Day, Monday, April 16th.
On Friday the 13th (seriously), I stepped onto Amtrak’s Acela train for the trip from Philly to Boston for the first time in two years. Many of you will recall the last time I tried to take an Acela to Boston, and how that trip never actually happened thanks to cracked brakes that stopped all train service on Friday, April 15, 2005. This time, the trip actually got underway, at least, for a few miles.
When the train went dark just shy of Newark, New Jersey, you might say it got my attention. The thing suffered a complete power failure, and spent 25 minutes sitting perfectly, quietly still, while the engineering staff tried to bring it back to life.
During this whole break I just started to chuckle. It must have been one of those, Pre-Nervous-Breakdown chuckles, because the gent across the aisle from me asked, “Everything okay?”
So since we weren’t going anywhere fast I proceeded to tell him my history of trying to get to Boston using the Acela, in three-part harmony, using 24 full-color glossy pictures, with circles and arrows on the back of each one. He paused and said, “So this is your fault. Can we just leave you here? Better yet, can you call me when you’re going to take the train so I know when to fly?”
I didn’t even get to tell him about the 125-year storm I was also hand delivering to the East Coast. Regardless, I was still going. It wasn’t like the race had tried to wipe me out three times, and that every method of transportation I used to try and get there had a history of breaking down, and that there was a winter storm brewing in the MIDDLE OF FREAKING APRIL threatening to cancel the race for the first time in its 111 year history…oh, wait. Nevermind.
I arrived in Boston that night to continued gloom-and-doom about the 140-year storm due to hit Boston for Marathon Monday, so when Adam Alper (my roomie for the weekend) arrived, we proceeded directly to the nearest pub to take care of things properly.
After a good dinner, three pints each, and a Red Sox win, life was much better. At least, it felt better.
As the weather continued to look worse with every update, I continued to self-medicate using several glasses of red wine with dinner on Saturday night, as the weather people prattled on about this amazing 171-year storm coming into town. My cousin Mary Beth called me to let me know that my mother (who had already called the BAA to ask them to cancel the race on her own, and been politely declined), had called her mother, who then called and asked Mary Beth to talk to me out of running because I might drown.
I was looking at things in a completely different light: Compared to the average Boston Marathon runner, I actually had BODY FAT. I was insulated, and if the going got particularly lousy, I was also buoyant. Grab my singlet, I’ll tow you to safety. Huzzah!
When I woke up on Sunday morning with my head somewhat slightly foggy, I was quick to realize that perhaps consuming more alcohol in the previous 48 hours than I had in the previous 48 days might not have been so smart. But then again, neither was running into the teeth of a 250-year storm, complete with snow, rain, sleet, hail, sheep, etc. In the grand scheme of things, a little red wine was hardly a bad thing.
I had packed my entire closet for the trip, and by Sunday I knew I was going to wear everything I’d brought. Tights, jacket, gloves, hat, long-sleeves, the works. I would look like a Day-Glo Michelin Man out there, but I wasn’t going to let hypothermia get me. With the forecast now for heavy rains, a steady 20-30mph headwind for the entire race, and high temperatures in the mid-30’s, at least I knew that this year I was definitely not going to overheat.
After a surprisingly good sleep Adam and I were awake at 5:30AM, and the wind and rain whipping against the windows was impossible to miss; the storm was at its peak. We got dressed, and exited the hotel at 6:30 for the walk to Boston Common and the buses. When we walked out of the alley aside the Bostonian we both looked around, then looked up.
It was quiet. The rain had stopped.
As we made our way to the
common in the twilight, there were hundreds of shadowy, bundled-up runners
coming from all directions, each with an orange BAA bag draped over their
shoulder. We all followed the orders of the volunteers and lined up as the
endless procession of yellow buses marched in to take us away. Whenever someone
near us would start to say, “Hey, this is great! The rain might…” I’d cut them
off. “Don’t even say it. Don’t even talk about it. It’s like Fight Club.
Rule number one about the weather is that you do not talk about the
weather.”
Sure enough once we were secure on a bus, the skies opened again. With the storm anchored off the coast and parked in-place, there was a chance of the on-off-on-off rain for the rest of the day; any dry patch had to be assumed to be temporary at best.
When we arrived at
Hopkinton after a
far-too-long-how-the-hell-are-we-really-going-to-run-all-the-way-back-to-Boston
bus ride, Adam and I went our separate ways for the day. He was a qualified
runner starting in wave 1, corral 4 (he’d qualified
with a 3:06). I would be in
wave 2, corral 20. He would start at 10:00AM; I’d go at 10:30. He headed to
the athlete’s village, which was basically the Hopkinton Middle School athletic
fields. Normally there were runners scattered all across the grass, soaking in
the sunshine, getting ready. Today there were no athletes on the grass – they
were all crammed underneath the tents, trying to avoid a completely different
kind of soaking.
After the usual ceremonies
and announcements over the P.A. that nobody could understand, at 10:30AM my 4th
Boston Marathon finally got underway. The rain was light, the wind was so-so,
and I was dressed for whatever Mother Nature was going to throw at us. I’d gone
with a regular hat instead of a thermal, and I was wearing tights and a jacket
during a race for the first time in 10 years.
I was surprised to see that even though I was in the second wave, and even though the weather was pretty miserable, the spectators at the start line were out in full force. It was just as loud and frantic as any of my other sunsplashed starts in Hopkinton, only without the sunshine. It made me smile – even in bad conditions, the crowds weren’t going to let us down.
Keeping things conservative
I crossed mile 1 in 10:17…albeit with a 35 second pit stop into the woods before
the first mile marker, accompanied by about 75% of the men in wave 2. Hey, it’s
a long morning, and you drink, drink, drink…
The Boston Marathon course is an absolute seductress. She starts out with a steep downhill, and then keeps descending for nearly 5 miles. The combination of rested legs, gravity, overflowing nervous energy, and the early speed of the pack will almost always suck you along far more quickly than you should go. Of course, you won’t know this until the Newton Hills that start at mile 16. Until then Boston will pull you downhill and whisper in your ear, “You’re so fast! You’re so fit! You’re so strong! Run! Fly! Don’t worry about what’s to come – you feel great right now! Run for the moment!”
All it takes is a little bit of ego, and she’s got you. What you don’t know is that as she’s carrying you along, every downhill has a slight rise. You don’t climb as much as you’ve descended, so on the course profile you just see this nice, steady, dropping line. Behind that nice, steady line lurks a Lady in Black – taking a little bite out of your legs with each ignored rise. So if you keep running faster than you should because it just feels so easy? Go for it; flirt with her at your own peril. It usually works out that she’ll have the last word.
After 3 such seductions and demolitions, I knew what to do. I sat back, and watched runners pass me by on both sides. No way was I listening to anyone today other than the voice of my friend John McGurk, whose advice was one simple line:
“Don’t race like a dipshit.”
Mile 2 passed in 9:07, and mile 3 in 9:10. I took my first hit from my gel flask, having settled into a rhythm that felt right. It felt slow, but I knew that’s how it had to be. My plan was simple: I was going to be as steady as I could until the Newton Hills at mile 16, and then just hold on. I wasn’t going to pick it up – I was just going to not slow down.
Approaching mile 4, I had to make my first serious decision of the day. I’d started running with my Voler Rain Jacket, a cycling jacket that didn’t breathe at all – it was a total sauna, designed for cold, windy, wet conditions. The rain wasn’t heavy enough to be soaking, and I was overheating, big-time. I knew this might happen – I had planned on potentially tossing it later in the race, but not this soon. I tied it around my waist to try and buy some time, but within a half-mile I knew that wasn’t going to work. The endless “swishswishswish” was driving me crazy, and I had to swing my arms way outside to keep from brushing it and sanding off my elbows.
At mile 4 I folded it up, and tossed it to a group of volunteers. “It’s a great jacket – I loved it. Wash it, and wear it well.” Mile 4 was a 9:18 – steady.
As I approached Framingham,
the sprinkle picked up. The clouds darkened, and I gulped. Sure enough, the
rain came back less than 5 minutes after I got rid of my warmest gear. I was
wearing a long-sleeve base layer, and a singlet – not enough if the rain
stayed. As the rain picked up, the wind swiveled around to a full-on headwind.
I lowered my head. I was wet, cold, freezing. My race was barely 45 minutes
old, but I knew that if things didn’t improve rapidly, I wouldn’t last much
longer.
“Oh, man…” I thought, “I am a little, little man, and I have just made a big, big mistake.” I kept running – it was the only thing that would keep me warm. I pulled at my gloves, kept my hat brim lowered against the rain, and kept hoping.
Mile 5 – 9:22.
Once we were in Framingham running past the Train Depot, I couldn’t see much: My glasses had totally fogged over. I just followed the colorful parade down the road, and felt a little better when the heavy rain turned back into a sprinkle. I knew that the first hour of the race was almost over – only about 3 hours left to go if I could keep moving. The sky looked lighter to the right, and since that was the East and this 217-year Storm was a Nor’Easter, that light sky was coming our way, right?
Mile 6 passed in 9:15, and the rain continued to get lighter and lighter. I took a second hit from my gel flask, and chased it with Gatorade. This year I was carrying 7 gels in my flask, and I planned on grabbing two more on the road before Newton. I wasn’t going to wait – one gel every 3 miles, all the way.
Running through miles 7, 8,
9, and 10 I kept to my mantra, “Steady to Newton, steady to Newton.” I ticked
them off in 9:25, 9:25, 9:23, and 9:22. I was on cruise control, taking it as
easy and steady as I could. Passing through Natick, I knew that in only 2
miles, we would enter the greatest mile of the race – Wellesley.
Mile 11, 9:17, knowing Wellesley is just up the road. With the headwind this year, you could hear it even farther down the road. I turned to the woman next to me and said, “Can you hear that?” It was off in the distance – it started out as a distant wail, but just grew louder and louder with every step. All the guys around me seemed to stand up a little taller, suck it in a little tighter, and suddenly find the strength to drop 10 seconds per mile. Why?
It’s what you do when you’re faced with half of a mile of 10,000 screaming women, the proud women of Wellesley Women’s College: The Scream Tunnel.
Whether you’re first, last,
or somewhere in the middle, the women of Wellesley treat all who pass the same.
The noise is the same, the love is the same. A sea of extended high-five hands,
the cheering, and most of all, hundreds of “KISS ME!” signs. In 2005, I’d
arrived at Wellesley so worried about my pace, I didn’t dare slow down – I
didn’t kiss a single co-ed.
For my foolishness, the marathon gods did smite me, mightily.
This time, I stopped twice – two kisses (on the cheek, of course). One redhead, followed by a brunette. In the middle of this sea of adoring women, I saw something I’d never seen before: The smartest man in America. I always wondered if the women running through the Scream Tunnel feel left out, and I guess so did this guy. There he was with his one sign, “Kiss a BOY!”
Brilliant. Brilliant!
Leaving the screaming joy behind, I floated to mile 13 in 9:28, and hit the halfway mark in 2:03:52. Not that fast at all, but unlike in previous years I wasn’t starting to wonder if, “Perhaps that was too quick?” This time I knew my pace was right, and as I took another shot from the gel flask, I also knew my nutrition was working – I felt good.
The rain had been holding off, and the roads were starting to dry. The wind was still pretty strong, but since you’re never alone at Boston (unless you’re leading), I wasn’t really fighting it at all.
By now I was really starting to think about Newton. “Just three miles – three more miles.” Mile 14 was another steady 9:18. Mile 15, an uphill mile that I’d never run better than 10:19 (and as slowly as 12:44), took 9:29. Mile 16 – 9:13.
With 10 miles to go I
entered the town of Newton, running. For the first time in my Boston Marathon
career, I was running to the Firehouse at the base of the Newton Hills, and I
was looking forward to it. It was very weird. Extremely weird. It was here
for the first time I looked around and thought, “What’s going on here, exactly?
When do the wheels come off?”
As I hit the first of the Newton Hills, the long, nasty rise over I-95/Route 128, I just dropped my head and kept things steady. I knew there were 4 hills – this was just the first. “You’re still running…keep running.” I’d walked every time I’d been here – not this time.
Through Newton, I passed mile 17 in 9:48. I cut to the right side of the road, took the inside line through the right-hand turn past the firehouse, and said out loud, “Time to go to work!” After waiting, waiting, waiting for all those early miles, my legs were absolutely ready to run at the hardest part of the course.
To be running well this late in the race was very confusing.
Even though I knew how I’d gotten to here, a part of me kept asking, “Okay, wait. So when do we come apart again?” It just wouldn’t be Boston without some kind of disaster, so I kept my head down and kept on moving. As I focused on the road ahead, I saw someone holding a roll of paper towels at the side of the road. My glasses were all speckled from the rain earlier in the day, so I thought, “Having clean shades would be great!” I swerved over, and the kind fellow handed me a towel immediately.
I said, “Hey, thanks!” He replied, “Bob?”
Since it’s not really normal for someone you’ve never met to actually know you, I looked up, and it was my friend Stephen Dragoni! We’d run the NYC Marathon side-by-side in 2001 (to date, he’s the only person to ever sing a chorus of “Knees Up Mother Brown” to me when I was coming apart mid-race), and have been together in countless races since. He said he’d be out there on the course somewhere, but I hadn’t really been thinking about it – I’d nearly run right past him.
“You look great!” He lied to me. “Slow down so I can take a picture!” Slow down. Huh. Someone actually told me to slow down. Stephen ran ahead and took a few pictures, chatting the entire time. “I’ll send these to you! Cheers!” It was a perfectly British sendoff from a perfectly British fellow.
Heartbreak Hill is the one that everybody talks about, but that’s just the last of the Newton Hills. By the time you get to Heartbreak, you’ve been climbing over rolling terrain for nearly 5 miles. I knew that, so I just focused on running the hill I was on, keeping the pace steady.
I could see that people were starting to come back to me – I was moving up, even though I wasn’t running any faster. In January my friend Debi Bernardes wrote to me, “This year, you’ll get it right. You’ll run your own race, and Boston will come to you.” I didn’t believe it at the time, and I didn’t believe it now - I didn’t dare.
Climbing through Mile 18 – 9:45.
Still climbing the steeper Mile 19 – 9:41.
By now, my thoughts were starting to really wander into a strange place. Could this really be happening? I’m running steady miles through the hardest part of the course. I can think. I can see colors. I can do math. I can remember my name.
“BOB!”
Right. That’s my name. That woman just said my name. My name is Bob. Wait, what?
I turned around, and chasing after me was Helen Hutchinson, Art’s wife. “Helen!” I called out, “I’m so sorry! With your hood up, I didn’t recognize you!” Everyone alongside the road was bundled up – everyone looked alike. “Wow, you look great!” Helen lied. I smiled and said, “Yeah, I feel alright! Been steady, been eating, and I actually feel okay. Should finish about 4:10 if I don’t race like a dipshit.”
There were still 7 miles to go, and therefore, plenty of chances to do just that.
Helen wished me well, and I got back to grinding my way through the hills. I crossed mile 20 in 9:55; with 10K to go, I was entering the final hour of the day. If I didn’t slow down, I could probably finish in 4:10 – faster than my 4:15 at Philly in November, and way faster than my 4:33 from 2003 on this course.
At the base of Heartbreak Hill there’s a statue of Johnny Kelly, a former winner of the Boston Marathon, and a 61-time (SIXTY ONE!) finisher. In my three previous runnings, I’d never seen it. This time I had my eyes wide open, looking to the right to see it…
…which is too bad, since it’s on the left side of the road.
Knowing that when I saw the statue I’d be starting Heartbreak, I just kept on going. When I saw Boston College, I was wicked confused. How can I be seeing B.C. when I haven’t run…
…Ohmigod. I just ran up Heartbreak. I’m done. I’m done with the hills. Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot? Did Boston forget I was here? Where’s the tornado? The volcanic eruption? The lawyers, guns, and money sent to keep me from finishing? Where’s the usual drama?
I looked down at my watch – it read 9:30. I could see the “MILE 21” sign down the road – it looked awfully far away. I hadn’t run a 10-minute mile since my pit stop during mile 1, and I didn’t want to run one now. Like Elwood Blues, my right brain leaned to the left and said all that needed to be said.
“Hit it.”
I opened my stride, using the downhill for all it was worth. I knew it was going to be close – I didn’t want to look when I hit the split…BEEP!
9:58.99. Yeeha!
By now, the crowd at Boston College was out in full force. The roads had dried, the rain was holding off, and the temperature had reached 45F – nearly tropical compared to what we’d expected. Add to that the usual refreshments available on any college campus in the U.S. on a day without classes…and it was party time. I pumped my fist in the air, and got back a roar far louder than a mortal like me deserved.
After mile 21 the course starts descending, big time. I’d heard others talk about how you can use last miles of Boston to pick up time if you’ve got the legs, but as you can imagine, I’ve never really had the legs, the head, or the heart to do that before. After picking it up to make the mile marker, I knew that I was running faster than I had been all day long. There was no reason to slow down now – there was nothing left to save it for.
Mile 22 – 8:47. My fastest mile of the day.
I’m moving up through the pack like a skier, looking ahead for gaps to weave through the people like gates. I’ve got the “T” to my left, and I can remember that I’ve always ended up crying through here. I haven’t walked yet today, and I’m not doing it now.
Mile 23 – 8:54. Second fastest mile of the day.
It’s now that I allow myself to believe that today is the day I get it RIGHT. I was patient; I fueled early and often. I didn’t chase the rabbits, I didn’t run harder than I had to. For the first time in 27 marathons, I’ve got the strength I’ve always wanted in the last 5K – and it couldn’t come at a better time. The crowds are here – the day has turned out to be perfect, and I’m getting faster. Descending to Cleveland Circle, I know there aren’t too many turns left to go – soon it’ll be a straight shot to the CITGO sign, and the finish.
Just then, I notice the family running to my left. They’re on the other side of the crowd control barricade, and in a well-timed reality check, I can see they’re running faster than my version of “fast”, despite one of them being in red heels. They sound Japanese; they’re calling after someone. In slow-motion, I realize what’s about to happen: Sure enough, the target of their affection hears their calls, looks left, and turns hard left…right into my path.
Of all the things I expected to go wrong in my marathon, getting taken out by a wayward Japanese runner didn’t even make the top 15. At 191 pounds with poor depth perception, enough momentum to make Sir Isaac Newton proud, and no time to react, like the brave, even-tempered man I am…I expressed my warnings in no uncertain terms:
”HEYHEYHEYHEYHEY! NO BRAKES! NO BRAKES!”
He froze. The family froze. I rumbled through the gap, crying out, “Domo Arigato!” on my way past. Only then do I notice the gigantic, embroidered SOUTH KOREAN flag the guy was wearing. D’oh! In hindsight (and for next time I get cut off by a Korean), now I know I should have said, ‘Komapsumnida’ instead. But enough of the language lesson – back to the race.
By now I’m between the brownstones on Beacon Street. The race will be over in less than 20 minutes, and in a strange twist, I don’t want it to be.
After so many horrible moments on this course, so many long walks under a hot, joyless sun, it took a near hurricane for me to finally see the light and run this race the right way.
It took worrying about everything else except my run to run well. Like the boy who chases a butterfly all afternoon, gives up, collapses from exhaustion upon the grass, only to watch it land on his nose…Boston finally came to me when I wasn’t chasing her. And now that I finally understood her, I didn’t want her to go.
I high-fived spectators. I waved my hands to anyone and everyone. I grabbed a beer from a roadside party, and soaked up the roar as I drank it on the run, loving every second of it.
Mile 24 – 9:03. Must have been the beer stop.
I could now see the CITGO sign looming far ahead. The lights were still on at Fenway Park as they came into view – for the first time ever, the Sox were still playing when I got there. Sure, the rain delay in the morning had a lot to do with that, but it didn’t matter – I was running, and the Sox were still playing. Usually a full Fenway Park is a sight that only the elites get to see –And to make the day complete, of course, the Red Sox were up 7-1.
At mile 25, I run past the Dana-Farber
cheering section. There are 500 of us running the race for Dana-Farber, all
running for one cause. We each have our own stories of why we’re here, but on
this day we all share the same simple goal – FINISH. Now that I’m at mile 25, I
know that even if I make a complete mess of this last mile, I’m going to do just
that.
Just past Dana-Farber, painted in the middle of the road in bright yellow letters:
1
MILE
TO GO
I hold up a single finger, and smile
my way past the crowds. I still can’t believe it – I finally got it right!
The last mile of a bad marathon is always one of relief. When you get to the last mile, you know the pain and suffering won’t last much longer. Even when the race has gone really, really wrong, the last mile goes a long way to helping you forget the pain, and reminds you why you run these races. Marathons don’t always have a happy ending, but you know that. If it was always going to be easy, why bother trying?
But the last mile of a marathon when the race has gone right - When you have the strength to spare, the legs to power you, and the mind wide awake to capture it all? If it happens one time, just one time, it can make you run marathons over and over for the rest of your life, just so you can have a chance to taste that brilliance once again.
And there, as the final mile passed beneath my feet, I drank every last second of it.
I thought of all the cold, lonely runs. I thought of all the times the treadmill speed workouts reduced me to near tears. I thought of all the long, slow runs when I asked myself, “How can I ever be ready?” I remembered all the times people asked me, “Why do you do this to yourself?” All the worries about the weather. All the doubts about myself. All the fears that I’d get my heart broken again.
All gone. All better. All worth it.
Commonwealth Avenue ends, and turns right onto Hereford. I run up the little incline that always took the last fight my legs had to offer…but not on this day. Hugging the barricades to the left with my stride wide-open, I can’t stop smiling. Before me is a wall of people, leading me in only one direction: Left onto Boylston. Finally.
Since the day I found out I would be coming back to Boston, it has been 6 months, 13 days, 4 hours, and 4 minutes. I have run 414 miles in training. I have doubted myself almost daily. I have been worried, scared, nervous, and I have questioned how I could ever hope to run a good race on this course. I started the race to try and prove to myself that I could do it, and in the middle of mile 26, the doubts disappear for good.
In those last 500 meters, I high-five. I wave. I laugh. I pump my fists over my head in a celebration that would make Arsenio Hall proud. So much so, in fact, that I give myself a freaking side-stitch, and for the first time all day, I have to walk 50 or so meters to work it out.
While I’m walking and rubbing the stitch, with spectators leaning over the fence screaming, “RUN! RUN! THE FINISH LINE IS RIGHT THERE!” the voice of John McGurk reminds me, “Now THAT was some fine dipshit racing right there…” I have to laugh as I finally get moving again, and head for the line.
I don’t want it to end, but it has to. The blue and yellow banners draw closer and closer, and the lights get brighter. I can see the line painted across the road; I can see the photographers on top of the finish line. I make sure I run under the clock because for once – for the first time here, I WANT it in the picture.
I leap, I laugh, and just like at Ironman Canada in 1998 I jump high enough to slap the clock on my way past.
Thanks to the photographers at the finish line, this sequence tells the story of the last 100 yards. You work so long to get there, and it never lasts long enough.
4:07:07, a new best at Boston by 26
minutes: My fastest marathon in 5 years.
I won’t know it until later that night, but I’ve also just run my first negative split in any marathon – the second 13.1 miles were faster than the first 13.1 miles. 2:03:52 – 2:03:15 (even with the short walk on Boylston Street).
I get wrapped up in a Mylar blanket, and two volunteers tape it in place. A short walk later, another volunteer holds out a blue and yellow ribbon, and that ribbon holds the most beautiful medal I’ve seen at Boston; unlike the previous pewter editions, this one has yellow and blue painted accents throughout.
He drapes it over my head and says, “Great job. Those were some awful conditions out there.” I smile at him and reply, “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
I get my gear bag from the buses, and put on my jacket and warm pants. As I make my way up through Copley Square, I can see the mass of runners trying to make it into the “T” station at Arlington. I can see that by the time I get on the train, it might be another 30-40 minutes. It’s not raining, and the hotel is only a mile away – I start walking.
I pass a quiet and empty Boston Common; I wince my way down the steps at Government Center. I stop off at Quincy Market for my first café mocha in 3 months, and blush when everyone in the shop politely applauds as I hobble for the door.
I want to explain that I’m not worthy; unlike so many here, I didn’t qualify.
I want to tell them that while I ran a 4:07, I’ll be recorded in 14,188th place out of 20,230.
I want to say, “Please…this wasn’t even my best marathon…”
But I don’t, because they don’t care about my excuses. All they know is that I ran the Boston Marathon – their Boston Marathon, and I finished. And for that, they just want to cheer some more.
And that is why Boston is the greatest marathon there is.
And that is why someday, I’ll be back.
You just better check the forecast when I return. You never know.