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4/30/08 - 112th Boston Marathon Story I woke up at 5:00 a.m. to the alarm and the wake up call. I took a shower, put on my running clothes, ate some chocolate covered matzah, packed my bag and went downstairs to the circle outside the Westin and waited in line for the bus to the Boston Common that the Westin promised us. The air was crisp and clear and the sky cloudy. I waited for the bus for about 15 minutes, and then gave up, and took the T. I followed the swarm of runners to Park Street, and wandered past a row of buses until I saw Ian, with his ski cap and his warm up pants. Damn! I forgot to bring warm up pants! I waited with Ian, who was waiting for Suzanne and Sal, while directing them to the Common on his cell phone. Suzanne and Sal eventually showed up, and Sal started taking pictures of everything in sight, including our running shoes. Sal then left us, and Ian, Suzanne and I boarded one of the buses on the Common. I sat with Suzanne and Ian sat with a woman from Alaska with a pink shawl who had run in -32 degree weather. Ian started to talk politics, and two guys from Chicago sitting in front of Suzanne and me chimed in. I shared my chocolate covered matzah and some chocolate macaroons with the Chicagoans, one of whom promised to cast two votes in the election for my candidate for President. Suzanne remarked about the length of the bus ride, and that she would have to run back the whole way. After a long, slow ride, we started to see runners in the woods by the side of the road facing away from us and standing or squatting, and we knew we were in Hopkinton. We arrived at Athletes’ Village, and joined crowds of runners surrounded by rows of port-a-potties, and we got in the shortest line we could find. Ian and I, who were in Wave 1, separated from Suzanne, who was in Wave 2, and then noticed Allan Metsky sitting on a piece of cardboard and sat down with him. The time went quickly, and we soon heard an announcement to all Wave 1 runners to head to the starting corrals. I saw Leo on Grove Street, and walked with him for a few minutes until he left me to find a port-a-potty. I realized a few minutes later that I had to go, and picked the shortest line in a row of port-a-potties on Grove Street. It was 9:50, and the line was moving slowly. I heard the national anthem and the traditional F16s fly overhead, and worried whether I would make it to the start on time. At around 9:55 I finally got in and out, and rushed to Main Street and Corral 8, where I showed my bib and was allowed to squeeze in. The gun went off, and after a couple minutes the crowd started to shuffle forward toward the starting line. The shuffle became a walk and then a jog, and finally a slow run as I passed the starting line and smiled for the camera. After running three flawed Boston marathons, I was determined to run it well this time, which meant heeding Bill Rogers’ advice that if you think you’re going too slowly in the beginning, you’re probably just right. Competing with this strategy was the recognition that the second half would be slower than the first because of the brutal Newton Hills, and that if I ran too slowly in the first half, I wouldn’t be able to make up time in the second half. The first mile was about 8:15-too slow. I picked up the pace to low 7s and high 6s, and recognized that was too fast. I noticed how steep the decline was and how good it felt to run free, and then realized that giving in to this feeling was the mistake I had made in my past Bostons. Like the land of the lotus eaters in the Odyssey, the beginning of the course deceived me into abandoning my strategy. I told myself to hold back, and did, a little. There were some rolling hills, but the overall grade was downhill, and I felt good, but tried to hold bank and drink in the small town New England surroundings. The early miles went quickly, with the perfectly manned water stations, past the signs for Hopkinton, Ashland, Framingham and Natick. My Garmin ranged from the high 6s to the mid 7s. I felt fine, but knew that would change. As the scenery became less small town New England and more suburban, I saw a billboard that announced that Wellesley was up ahead. Then I heard a faint roar, which got louder and louder until I started to see the rows of Wellesley girls, some with signs, up ahead. Many held their hands out, and their hands were met by the hands of runners. I was totally captivated by these sirens. I held my hand out, and high-fived dozens of cheering Wellesley girls in rows that went on and on. What a rush! At the mile markers, I was comparing my time on the Timex on my right wrist with the time on the 3:20 pace band in front of my Garmin on my left wrist, and noticed that I was averaging a 3:20 pace. I wondered how long I could keep up the pace. I knew that the euphoria would not last, and that Newton was coming soon. Then came the dreaded sign at a fork in the road: Newton to the left, Newton Upper Falls to the right. Scylla and Charybdis. We were heading for Scylla. The pain that was in store crossed my mind. Perhaps I could dull it by inducing a sense of intoxication with the experience of running Boston. I thought of what women go through in childbirth. Then came the first hill. I remembered the advice of the speaker at the seminar yesterday at the expo, to take the hills slowly. It was hard work: I pumped my legs with short strides and tried to run tall. It seemed so long before I came to the crest, but it wasn’t that bad yet. Then the second hill, and the third. It seemed to take so long to get to the crest. After one of them, another runner asked me if that was the big hill, and I said no. Poor schmuck. He had no idea. I knew Heartbreak was coming soon, but was not prepared for it. The crowds became quieter, but more intense. They knew where we were, even if some of us didn’t. This hill was different. The other hills were hard work; but this one sucked the strength from me. I determinedly pumped my legs, with short strides, knowing that I had slowed down significantly, but couldn’t go faster without a supreme effort that would leave me with nothing left. Then I saw the walkers: clumps of top runners, on both sides of me, among the better runners who had qualified for Boston, walking in the greatest running race in the world. I thought of casualties on a battlefield. I wondered how far I was from the crest, not knowing how long I could keep pumping. Then the grade started to become slightly gentler, and up ahead, I saw a runner leap up into the air with his arms and legs apart, at the crest of the hill. I lifted my arms, with two thumbs up and a huge smile. I was coming to the crest of Heartbreak. However I was a different runner now. The strength of the first half of the race was gone. I was working hard for every mile now. A subway car appeared on the train tracks on the left. There were brownstones on the right. The temperature dropped. I noticed that my Garmin had lost satellite reception. I looked at my Timex and my pace band and noticed that I had fallen behind the 3:20 pace that I had averaged over the first half of the race. I wondered how far I would fall, and whether I would better my 3:27 time from last year. Then came the right turn onto Hereford Street and the left onto Boylston. The crowds were getting louder now, and I saw a blue banner off in the distance, but my legs started to feel rubbery. Like Odysseus coming home, I felt betrayed. Could I finish? I was coming to the end of the Boston Marathon, but felt tired, sore and rubbery. Pump the legs! Soon I could hear the announcer reading the names and home towns of the finishers. Somehow I found the strength to pick up the pace a little and kept it going, if only from inertia. I then saw the double orange rubber finish lines on the ground, and pushed myself forward until I crossed them. My Timex said 3:25. My best Boston time by two minutes. - Gary |