Marathon morning I woke up around 5:00 a.m., well before my 6:30 alarm. I dozed in and out of sleep for a bit, but with my stomach churning and my legs anxious, I was up and ready to go – but not before checking the weather for the 50 millionth time in the past 10 hours. I was more stressed about what to wear than the marathon itself. I had decided to go with shorts, but I couldn't decide between the long sleeve, short sleeve, or tank. I REALLY wanted to wear the tank – my race mentality is the less clothing you wear the faster you feel. I decided to bring several clothing choices and make the final call once I met up with the group. A handful of Kashi, a chocolate power bar, and a banana, and I was out the door.
The Boston Marathon starts in Hopkinton which is 26.2 miles outside of the city, so runners take yellow school buses from downtown Boston to the starting line and the athletes village. I, however, am way too important to ride a yellow school bus. Not really -- its my coach, Joe, who is in fact too cool to ride a school bus (he is the one wearing sunglasses inside during our group shot), so we took a private car. “We” is the Running Spot training group. The Running Spot is the shoe store in Cincinnati for serious runners – they also have marathon training groups. About 20 of us made the trip from the Nasty and we were going to do it right and forgo the yellow school bus.
On the trip to the starting line everyone chatted – low voices, nervous with anticipation. After polling the group I decided on a short sleeve shirt. The decision had been made and now I could relax. The ride seemed to take FOREVER – I tried to pretend like I wasn’t paying attention, because I knew I would have to run the entire distance we were driving, but I was definitely nervously checking my watch. When we arrived the group scattered. Most of the group brought gear bags to store excess warm weather clothing that could be picked up at the finish line. I choose to go bagless – having to worry about “stuff” made me nervous. Instead, I was warmly dressed in throw away gear and looking HOT. Grey sweatpants with a matching grey sweatshirt – head to toe grey is what is hot in the streets these days and I was rockin it. Grey sweatshirt and grey Abercrombie sweatpants from the 8th grade. Seriously.
After a walk through the athletes village (a local high school with thousands upon thousands of runners sprawled out on the school grounds stretching and just generally making me nervous), my group dropped off gear bags and we headed for the pot-o-let line. Don’t be fooled, properly navigating the port-o-let line is an acquired skill. Pre-race port-o-lets present a very stressful situation. You don’t want to get in line so early that you have to go again before the race, but then again you don’t want to wait too long and have to rush to the starting line. My strategy is just to get in line go to the bathroom and get right back in line, continuing this fun game until it's time to make your way to the starting line.
The starting line was nothing like what I had imagined – we were in what looked like the equivalent of Cheviot. Modest single family homes flanked narrow roads. Many homeowners had card tables set up in their front yards with free running necessities – band aides, gatorde, powerbars, and bananas. I made my way to my proper starting corral – I was in the first wave of runners (top 13,000 in the first wave with a 10 am start time and second 13,000 in the second wave with a 10:30 start). My number, 11811 (I know you’re jealous of my awesome palindrome number) put me in the 11th corral. My corral was filled with mostly 40 year old men with a few females who appeared to be my age. The corral filled quickly and I shed my sweatpants. I was calm and ready to get the show on the road.
The gun went off and we all stood still. After a couple minutes we started walking. I couldn’t see a thing and had no idea how far we would walk before we got to the starting line. Clothes were flying through the air and I watched a volunteer get clocked in the head with a sweatshirt.
Finally we reached the starting line and I started my Garmin – or at least I thought I did. It was mass chaos. I choose to run on the far left – mostly in the gravel shoulder of the road and in grassy front yards. These roads were NARROW – not at all what I had expected and their were people all over me. Before I knew it I saw the 4 mile sign. I had been concentrating so intently on navigating through the masses without stepping on anyone that I wasn’t paying any attention to my pace or how far I had gone. I glanced at my Garmin. It read 7:17. SHIT. I shouldn't have been running any faster than 7:45. How long had I been running this pace? My pace and mileage totals were working but I screwed up my settings and had no idea what my overall time was and with the chaos at the starting line, I had no idea what the clock read when I crossed it.
I chucked the gray sweatshirt and tried to slow down. People were passing me left and right and before I knew it I was back running a 7:30 pace. I tried to ignore the time and enjoy the race. There were spectators on either side of the course – you could always hear a cheer or a cow bell – but it wasn’t crowded with spectators. I slapped a couple high fives with some kids. We were in the country.
At one point we were running alongside the interstate with only a thin row of trees and guardrail separating us from the highway. All of the spectators were on the opposite side, but I was running along the guardrail. My side of the road was completely empty. That’s where I spotted my favorite spectator. It was around mile 8. He was in a lawnchair sitting behind the highway guardrail. He was the only person on that side of the street for as far as you could see – and for good reason, he was about 5 feet from the interstate in knee high grass. He was sporting his Sox jersey and hat, drinking a bud light, and listening to the Sox game. It wasn't even 11 a.m. He cheered for me. God bless America.
Around mile 10 I started to hear a roar up ahead. With each step the noise got louder and louder. I looked around and saw a barn, a couple spectators sitting on their porches. What the hell? We had arrived at Wellsley and those girls were not there to mess around. They had a reputation to live up to and they did not let me down. I felt like a superstar – they were seriously screaming their little heads off all sporting “free kisses” shirts. I couldn’t help but break into a huge grin as I watched all the guys, their heads spinning to the side to check out the girls on the sidelines, It's a miracle no one fell. I saw several guys get kisses and even a a couple girls went in for a cheek kiss. Despite rumors I had heard about the Wellsley women being rather large, I found them to be quite energetic and petite.
I continued to run too fast. I hit the half way point at 1:39. I knew I would implode at some point but slowing down just didn’t seem to be an option, every time I tried I just got swept back into my pace. I was starting to get pretty warm despite the 47 degree temperatures and wind and really wanted to take off the long sleeve cotton throw away I was wearing. It was wet with spilled Gatorade and water and was starting to feel rather uncomfortable -- but that shirt ended up being a blessing in disguise. It was a Hanover long sleeve t-shirt and little did I know but there is a Hanover near Boston (Hanover, New Hampshire) and everyone seemed to recognize it. I didn’t care that they thought it was some city, when it is in fact, as we all know, the Harvard of the Midwest – they were ALL yelling go Hanover. Around mile 17 I got my first "Go Hanover College." I smiled and chucked the shirt.
Around mile 18 I saw my parents on the sidelines cheering. The crowds were getting thicker and louder and my legs much heaver. This is not good. I still have a L
ONG way to go. Just as soon as I was starting to slow down I spotted The Hoyts. My heart skipped a beat and I had instant goosebumps. I really did feel like I was running next to movie stars. I had just watched Team Hoyt compete in the Florida Ironman 70.3 on Easter and have watched them compete on many occasions in Kona. Team Hoyt is a father (Dick) and his son (Rick). Rick has cerebral palsy. Dick pulls him in a special boat when they swim, carries him in a special seat up front as they bike, and pushes him in a special wheelchair as they run. It is truly amazing. This was their 26th time running the Boston marathon. I was officially inspired – enough to get me up heartbreak hill without walking and boy did I REALLY want to walk.Did I mention I hate hills? I hate hills. I have a mental block against hills and the hills in Boston were no exception. Despite the fact that the hills I had been running in Cincinnati were much steeper and much longer, the hills in Boston destroyed me. People were passing me left and right. I felt like I was standing still. I saw several runners stop to take shots of beer with the drunk Boston College kids – every time someone stopped the students went absolutely insane. A guy in front of me was running with huge fake boobs, a Hooters top, orange shorts and a long blonde wig in pigtails. He stopped and did a shot. The street went absolutely insane. Thank God. Not only did the noise get me up the hill but more importantly the guy with the wig and fake boobs was no longer beating me.
Mile 21. Please shoot me. There is no way I’m going to finish this thing. I pulled the bag of sports beans out of my shirt desperate for a pick me up but I couldn’t open the damn bag. I was having visions of tearing the package open and the sacred beans flying all over the place. Luckily I was able to open the bag in my mouth and down the beans. I think those beans saved my life.
Mile 22. Bathroom break. I couldn’t do it – I couldn’t break the marathon curse of always having to stop to go to the bathroom. A cop guarding the port-o-lets so none of the drunk spectators would use them gave me a look of pity as I opened the door. “Do I really look THAT bad?” I remember thinking to myself. My legs were shaking uncontrollably when I resumed my plight toward the finish line. In all honestly I don’t remember too much about those last four miles except that there were a lot of people screaming and there were a lot of people passing me. I was concentrating on repeating my standard mantra in my head “relax and flow, relax and flow” anything to block the “I have to stop and walk, I have to stop and walk.” My body was on autopilot and my brain had checked out.
Finally the turn to the finish line. A feeling of relief quickly turned into a feeling of panic. I assumed that when I made the last turn the finish line would be near and the end in sight. SIKE. All I remember was seeing two really bright lights which looked to be at least 5 miles down the road. It was very similar to what I imagine I will see when I die. I sure felt like I was dying. I concentrated on the bright lights, but after what seemed to be an eternity I felt as if I must be running backwards. I focused on the ground. Relax and flow, Relax and flow. People were passing me on all sides. This was not good – I ALWAYS had a kick. Yeah, not so much. Finally I arrived at the finish line. I managed a smile. I had no idea what my time was – I
was just happy I to be done.I walked through the finish line chute, and walked, and walked. The chute must have been another 3 miles long. I gathered the standard metal, water bottle, power bar, mylar blanket, and made my way to the family meeting area. It only took about 5 minutes and I was FREEZING. Maybe pouring water over my head in the 45 degree weather was not such a hot idea. Maybe deciding not to pack a bag with warm clothes was not such a hot idea. By the time I made it to the "M" meeting spot I was violently shaking, teeth chattering. A spotted a guy who was also waiting at the "M's" without his bag of warm clothing. We huddled together, each remarking that we were idiots to be standing soaking wet without clothing in freezing temperatures. I must have looked pretty pitiful - generally the chattering teeth will do it - because a mom handed me her coat and insisted I wear it. I'm pretty sure she regretted that decision when I gave it back all wet and smelling like roses.
Finally my family arrived with my warm clothing. My dad reported a 3:27:39 official time - a PR! After a quick shower, massage, and minor surgery (lost 5 toe nails -- pretty standard), it was off to dinner. With a belly full of lobster mac & cheese and ice cream I called it a night.
Will I do Boston again? Absolutely.
