Running
For those of you who politely asked how the Boston Marathon went this year:
The Boston Marathon celebrated its 108th running on Monday, April 19th - Patriot's Day, an obscure New England holiday which is mostly an occasion to watch the traditional Red Sox-Yankees game, drink some beer, and cheer on the crazy runners. Boston, the granddaddy of races, the oldest continuous marathon in the world, and one tough 26.2 mile course: quad-destroying downhills, thigh-searing uphills, and notoriously unpredictable weather. Even getting a bib number for this race is an accomplishment; you have to run another marathon under stringent time requirements to qualify for Boston. I ran Boston for the first time in 2001 and suffered like most Beantown rookies do. To tell the truth, I had no one but myself to blame, having drunk 2 liters of sickly sweet Ultrafuel 15 minutes before the start. The initial part of the race is sharply downhill, so the half-gallon of bug juice sloshing in my gut triggered stabbing stomach cramps. By mile 2 I was hurting. The rest of the race was a painful blur, but I remember hugging my mother (at least I hope it was my mother) who was watching at mile 21 as I shuffled down the road. I finished in 3:28, if only because I couldn't figure out how to take the trolley to the finish, and because I had already purchased $180 of Boston Marathon official clothing. Runner's etiquette dictates that you can't wear the gear unless you finish the race, and I was not going to let my investment go to waste.
This year I was going to get even with the Boston Monster, and diligently trained through one of the worst winters in memory. I painfully remember the 18-20 mille training runs in single digit cold, and the days of slogging through slush, sleet, snow and ice. I had the flu for 3 weeks in February (probably due to the aforementioned long runs) which set back my training, but by the beginning of April I found myself pretty fit and somewhat optimistic. I never had the inclination to do the kind of work I did for last year's NYC marathon, which included months 100+ mile weeks, but I was looking to run a comfortable and redeeming time, fulfilling a lifetime goal of breaking 3 hours in Boston, and finishing with dignity.
By the Thursday before the race, I was starting to get anxious messages from my running club teammates regarding the weather forecast for Monday. I shrugged off the news. What's the line about New England weather? If you don't like it, wait a minute? The prognosticators were sure to be wrong, but even my very dear mother and grandmother phoned me nervously reporting that things looked bad. Of course, when I was training back in January I would laugh on runs with the boys about it being 80 degrees in Boston, even as we would pull our hats down tighter to avoid frostbitten earlobes.
On Saturday, my teammate Mike "the Irish Tattoo" Murphy and I drove up from NYC. First things first- we went to the race expo in downtown Boston, where we got our bib numbers, and spent 5 hours getting free samples, trying out overpriced geegaws, sinking putts for free socks, and meeting running legends like 4 time Boston Marathon winner Bill Rogers. The friendly people from my sponsor, Amino Vital, gave me a hat to wear for the race, some of their drink mix, and wished me luck. It was an exhausting day of expo-ing, Mike and I were happy to relax at my parents' place, which is another way of saying that we ate them out of house and home. On Sunday, my mother and I went to see "The Passion Of The Christ." and I remember thinking during the movie that no matter how badly the marathon went for me, this guy had it MUCH rougher. By that evening we were rested, confident, and ready to run, even if I was still checking the weather report more than Al Roker.
And wouldn't you know it? All the doom-sayers (including myself) were right. The weather ended up being great - for the beach that is. On Sunday it was perfect running conditions (high 50's), and even Monday morning it was in the 40's, but by the traditional noon start a hot wind from the west had warmed it up 30 degrees to the high 70's. It kept climbing, finally reaching 86 degrees as the day (and we) went on. One degree short of the all time record for April 19th. The fifth hottest Boston ever, not quite as hot as the 96 degree "Run For The Hoses" in 1976, or in 1908, when it hit 100, but hot enough for disaster. And the bright, hard sunlight definitely made it feel more like 90 on the road. Even running smart, slowing the pacing, and assiduously hydrating, catastrophe was unavoidable- it was only a question of exactly when the wheels were going to come off.
On B-Day, my mother took Mike and me to an official drop off near Hopkinton, where we caught a quick shuttle bus to the town green. Every year they have a small fair on the green, with Italian sausage booths, fried dough - all the things runners need for the race. Actually, the only things the runners were lining up for were the Port-O-Potties, banks of which sat on nearly every street corner. 17,000+ runners milled around, putting their things in the baggage busses, rubbing on sunblock and vaseline, drinking hydrating potions, making nervous conversation, and trying not to expend too much energy in the hubbub. Johnny Kelly, the Boston icon and Race Grand Marshall, was there - at 96, he wasn't running the race anymore, but after 61 finishes and 2 wins he had already proved his point. Several of our Greater New York Running Team buddies were there too: Warren "Harvard" Adler, "Shoeless" Jake Cooper, John "Special Agent" Mitchell, John "Jackrabbit" Bitzer, Dave "Rookie" Carey - everyone with a cool handle except for me.
Because I had good qualifying time (2:44 in NYC, 2002) I was lucky to be placed in the corral of fast runners right up at the front, so after the jets did a fly-over, the national anthem was sung, and gun went off at exactly noon, it only took me 9 seconds to get to the start line. The Irish Tattoo and I cruised the first few miles, as Warren and Jake blasted away from us - both were much fitter than us and ready to fly. It was hard to hold back on the steep downhill, but I kept telling Mike to slow down even as the whole world passed us by. Lemmings over the cliff, I kept saying. We were very comfortable clicking off miles at 6:32- 6:43 pace, taking as much water as possible, and trying play it smart by not going out too hard. Although Hopkinton is a small town in the middle of nowhere, cheering crowds lined the road, and it was an act of will not to showboat in front of them.
Man, it was hot. By mile 5 we started to pass runners walking (and these were all the fast runners from the first couple of corrals!) - a bad, bad sign. The much vaunted 20-30 mph tailwind was nonexistent. Whatever breeze there was made you feel like you were wrapped in a stuffy down comforter.
As we passed through Framingham, the fans were out in force, screaming "Go Greater New York" thanks to our prominently titled neon yellow singlets. In true Boston fashion, some onlookers seemed more interested in informing us of the Sox-Yankees score (the Sox were down 4-1 at that point), and their opinions of the Yankees (not high), but they were relatively gracious about it. At mile 5 or so, Bitzer and Carey came up from behind, looking like they were going to leave us in the dust. Their qualifying time had placed them far behind us at the start, and they were making up ground fast- way too fast. I "strongly suggested" that they run with us for a while, since we were already on 2:55 pace and going faster than that seemed suicidal. For many miles we all ran together as a group with me shouting out the split times, knocking off the first half of the race in 1:27. Bitzer keep chattering, saying he felt like it was all too easy- he had trained 85+ miles a week for months leading up to this race and he was convinced he could run sub 3 easily. Carey had run 3:02 in NYC 2003 and based on his recent training, was sure he could run sub 2:50. But the weather takes a huge toll - roughly every tick of the thermometer above 60 degrees translates into at least a 1 second per mile slowdown. With temps in the 80's, this was going to be a much slower run, perhaps up to 15-20 minutes slower, so if you didn't account for that and pace yourself accordingly, you were done for.
An always entertaining point on the course is Wellesley College at mile 13. The Wellesley girls come out in force (and thanks to the warm weather, sometimes in bikinis) to cheer on the runners. There have been instances where male marathoners has been lured off the course by the sirens at Wellesley, never to return to the race. We passed unscathed, although Bitzer noted that I did have an extra spring in my step, but I told him that it was only because it was on a downhill.
After Wellesley the hard truth started to sink in, and the distance and heat began to cut us off at the knees. Bitzer was the first to go off the back, then Mike- it reminded me of an Agatha Christie novel, where the weekend guests start to vanish one by one. It turned out that Mike didn't drop too far behind me, but at that point I didn't have the wherewithal to find him and wait. Hanging tough, Dave and I made it through 16 miles or so, still all in that 6:30-6:40 per mile range, before he evaporated. To keep cool I was pointlessly dumping sun-heated water in me and on me, sometimes 3-4 cups per station, putting ice in my hat (thanks Amino Vital!) when I could get it, sponges down my back, etc. but nothing seemed to help. I took energy gels and Gatoraid, and tried to run through the misting stations the race organizers had put up every mile or so. Scorching, foreign legion-type misery.
The Newton Hills (miles 18-21) approached in the distance, culminating in Heartbreak Hill. It's always a bad sign when a hill has its own name, and Heartbreak is no exception. In Newton there are 4 hills in succession, and the undulations destroy what is left of your quadriceps. Leaving you to face Heartbreak with burning, cramping thighs. I don't really remember much of the hills, mainly as I was just focused on keeping a steady rhythm and cranking it out. There was too much going wrong with my body to fixate on any one particular problem- the blisters forming due to the water soaked shoes, the battered legs, the heat, my throbbing brain- so I barely noticed climbing the hills. It was a small miracle. Mile 19 was my last sub-7 paced mile, but it still looked like I would hit my sub-3 hour goal all the way through mile 23-24 as I approached downtown Boston. That's when the sky finally caved it. I was dehydrated and heat-exhausted, and my whirling brain couldn't concentrate anymore. I would forget the mile markers as soon as I passed them. With no idea where I was on the course, I started to lose hope of ever finishing. The road seemed to recede cartoon-like into the distance, and the crowd noise throbbed in my ears. I started walking at mile 25, staggering down the road. Somewhere around there was the famous multistory high Citgo sign, but darned if I saw it. I grabbed some oranges from a little boy on the sidewalk, took some Gatorade, and kept moving. Someone shouted that the Yankees had lost, and that I, labeled as being from NYC, also "suck." It was a high point of the race. I was convinced that I only had 3 miles left to go.
A couple of eternal minutes later, Mike came from nowhere, passed me and barked "What are you doing, man!!!" in his thick Irish brogue (walking, of course, was the obvious answer). In the recesses of my brain he words threw a switch, and I started jogging again, eyes fixed on the back of Murphy's head. I would be damned if he was going to beat me to finish - which he of course did, but only by a few seconds. I'm happy with my 3:05 under the circumstances- without Mike it would have been much slower. After I got my finisher's medal a volunteer came up to me and asked if I was feeling okay, as I was barely moving. "Yes, yes, I'm doing great, don't worry about me," I lied. She instantly assessed the situation correctly, threw an arm under me and helped me over to a wheelchair. In the medical tent, I got a cot next to one of the top Kenyans, who looked like a dying refugee minus the swirling flies. He was completely still, eyes wide open, with multiple IV's in him. By those standards I was lucky- I had a body temp of 103, blood pressure of 90/70, but at least I was relatively lucid and knew where I was. After several bottles of fluid and some ice-packs on my neck and in my armpits (glad they didn't go for the groin) they discharged me, although it might also have been for the comment that it was nice being waited on by so many beautiful women (doctors and nurses, that is). Mike got my bag from the bus and we hobbled over to the Sheraton where some of our team had rented a room. There was pizza and beer for all, although I was happy just getting into a cold bath and drinking some water (well I also had 6 slices of pizza, but I didn't want to seem impolite and turn down the free food). Then I went to the hotel gym and got on the stationary bike to get a REAL workout in- well, actually just to get the blood moving in my beaten legs.
Back in the hotel room, we shared war stories with our other teammates. Warren had dropped out at mile 5, saying it was too hot for him, and that if he wasn't going to run 2:30, then he would save it for another day. Wimp! John Mitchell ran the smartest race of all, a 3:16 off a consistent pace. A couple of days later he revealed that he was having post-race nightmares about burning in hell - an aftereffect of the heat? Or did he feel guilty about not running faster? John Bitzer came in with a 3:12 and seemed disappointed with his time. A 3:12 is an excellent time for a 40 year old under any circumstances. Dave Carey was on pace to break 3 hours with me until 18 miles, but it took him 3:42 to get to the finish, which means he spent the next 8 miles slowly hobbling at death's door. Sometimes you have to learn respect for the conditions the hard way. Finally, Jake managed an excellent 2:55, and spent an agonizing afternoon with his muscles cramping in a friend's apartment. Evidently he was screaming at the top of his lungs, only to discover that his friend's roommate was sleeping in the next room. She seemed surprisingly unperturbed to have a howling stranger in her home. After the reunion, my mother, Wendy "the Chauffeur" Davis picked Mike and me up (thanks, Mum!!), and took us home.
The woman's winner, Catherine Ndereba aka "Catherine the Great" won her third Boston Marathon in 2:24 and promptly fell to the ground with cramping legs. There were lots of pictures in the Boston Globe the next day of her curled up in agony at the finish. The men's winner, Timothy Cherigat ran a spectacular 2:10, and was still vomiting when the reporters where trying to interview him. All in all, a fine time was had by all - looking forward to next year!
Best
A.
