Boston Marathon Literary Review

So where do I start? Hopkinton, Mass, I guess. Actually, it started at about mile 24, Brookline, at 5:15am, the earliest I have risen in a long time. I got up, ate three eggs and the bagel I bought the previous day at Finaglebagel where they have a table-saw/conveyor belt contraption that cuts bagels—coolest thing ever! Seriously, the bagel cutter was the highlight of my trip.

Anyway, I ate, then I got on the T (no birthday party singing this time) and rode downtown. I followed the crowd. There was a guy with stakes. He was planning to build his own tent. It was raining. The system was very well-organised. There was a line of about twenty yellow school busses, which loaded up with an odd assortment of both stringy and pugdy folk wearing garbage bags, and then zoomed off, only to be replaced not five minutes later with another line of empty buses.

I got on the bus at around 6:45, I suppose, and in an hour we were in Hopkinton. On the way, we had to stop to pick up stranded passengers from another bus that broke down. I read my newly purchased “Runner’s Literary Companion,” a book I had heard about but was unable to find elsewhere. If the USA is good for anything, it is good for finding stuff. I read the excerpt from Once a Runner, not because it was really applicable (I had read the marathon stories the night before, in an effort to feel something special about the day. No dice), but because I like that story a lot, and it makes me want to run. Wanting to run would be a key ingredient on Monday.

So we rolled into Hopkinton, a town I have now mentioned three times, which is probably three times too many. Caroline, my ride down, said that she really liked the town, but to be honest, I hardly noticed it. Pierre, Caroline’s husband, has family nearby, and he seemed to share my nonplussedness. Anyway, the first thing I did there was take a dump. There wasn’t really a line, contrary to popular legend.

They had erected tents over the two sports fields that they used as athlete villages. Despite this, the ground under the tent was swamp-like at best, from a full day and night of driving rain. Yes, the weather was very bad in the days leading up to the marathon. I wandered to the lower village, after hearing announcements that the school and the upper village were full. I skwooshed into the tent, found an empty table, spread out my garbage bag and sat down. A few others joined me on my perch, which I gladly shared, but most runners had to sit on the ground (if they wanted to sit, which is sort of the ideal position to be in two hours before race time), and I’m not sure their garbage bags really helped much. It got really dark at one point, and there was some lightning. The wind blew the rain around, but mostly, I stayed dry and relaxed.

After some more reading, and some iPod listening (Yer Not the Ocean and World Container by the Tragically Hip were the last two songs I played before heading out), I threw on my disposable rain poncho and walked towards the start. On the way I stopped off at the toilet again (just to piss this time—the woods were being patrolled by siren-wielding sheriffs on 4x4s), and then over to my baggage bus. I was pleased to see my stuff would be on Bus #1. I would regret that later, though…I took off my pants and my jacket, changed into my racing shoes, and put my bag on the bus. Then I jogged (a cursory warm up) the .7miles to the start line.

Once I got there, I looked for people I might know: Jason Loutitt, Louis-Phillipe Garnier…I didn’t see anyone I knew. I had seen Michelle and/or Alison Gates (I saw them/her twice. Not sure which was which, or if it was the same one twice) in the village, but that’s it. No Marcio, no Louise, no Caroline.

I got to the start line at 9:45. Everything was timed pretty well. It was still raining a bit, but not hard. They introduced the elite men, then Sergeant Dan sang a hearty rendition of the Star Spangled Banner, and then away we went. A lot of Americans had their hands over their hearts during the national anthem. It is nice that people care so much, I think, but also maybe a little scary. Perhaps it was appropriate to be patriotic at this moment, not because the Boston Marathon is an American institution, and indeed a historic race (it is), but because of WHY it is so. The original race was 24.5 miles from Ashland, but before that, it was meant to go from Concord to Boston, to mimic Paul Revere’s famous ride (a sort of American homage to Philippides). That, I did not know before reading the first chapter of Michael Connelly’s “26 miles to Boston.”

Physically, I felt good. All of my aches and pains were gone. I hadn’t done any strides or anything, but the jog over had felt good. I really felt like for the first time in three months, I was ready for a good little run. The weather, the much ballyhooed weather, was improving, and regardless, was the best I’d seen in months anyway. No snow. Temp well above freezing, and the wind was intermittent at worst.

My plan was to try to run 2:37. Originally, François and I had thought breaking 2:30 was a reasonable goal, but after a few set-backs in training, and given some race results along the way, I figured this was a challenging, yet do-able goal. The big challenge in the Boston marathon is not to go out too hard. 2:37 averages out to 6min miles, but, given the nature of the course, anything up to 5:45 would have been ok for a first mile. Very relaxed, I ran 6:18. So, good, I thought. I avoided the first mistake. So I picked it up to about the pace I thought was right. Sure enough, I was through 3miles in 18:00 and did my first 5k in 18:38. A “Christina” 5k, I thought of it as, since that’s about what she runs them in.

The course is boring. I’m sorry to say that one small, quaint Massachusetts town looks just like another, and the roads between them are even more so. Still, I was feeling good, and I had a partner to run with. A guy in an orange singlet had moved with me after our first slow mile, and we had been gradually moving through the field together. We had an unspoken agreement, it seemed. He looked for me before he made a move, and I looked for him. We’d move up on a group and feel them out for a bit, then one of us would decide to move on. I would see most of these groups again.

Sometime around 10k, which I completed, again, on target, in 37:03, I saw Jason Loutitt. I hadn’t expected to see him so soon, or at all, and it made me worried that I was running too fast. But he said he hadn’t been running much lately, and that he wasn’t going to push it. He was in the middle of changing his shirt, and then he said he was going to drop back. I didn’t see him again. Around this time I also passed a guy named Laurent Jugant who runs for Vainqueurs. What is wrong with this guy? I passed him at about 22k in Toronto. He always goes out way too hard. He could probably run a decent race (any distance!) if he were patient, but he always goes out of his league. I know what you are thinking. I don’t ALWAYS do that…

Somewhere around here (again, it was all a blur. The towns were pretty dirty, and the spectators, though friendly, were not wall-to-wall, as advertised. I can see why, as it was a miserable day. I was fine running, but I wouldn’t have wanted to stand outside for any great length of time)…so, somewhere around 10k-15k, my gloves got too wet and sticky to deal with. I had my trust straw, but at the first water stop, I discovered that it had cracked. I pulled on it, but hardly got any juice. The second water stop was better, and I managed to make good use of it until about 10k, at which point I accidentally let it fall to the road with the empty cup. I would have to learn how to drink on the run on the run. I spilled a bit more than I would have wanted to, but it actually worked out ok. Still, at this point, the gloves, the nice white official Boston marathon gloves that I had been given at the start, were all wet. So I thought I would be nice, and give them to a kid who was standing there watching the race. I peeled them off, tucked them into a ball, and looked for a kid on the sidelines. I saw a little girl with her mom, so I angled over, looked her right in the eye, waved the gloves, and tossed them. She didn’t move and they bounced right off her face. I was shocked, not sure if I should laugh or feel bad. No time for either, as I was already by her. I yelled “You were supposed to catch them!” I hope she didn’t think she had to return them.

15k in 55:45, but I was starting to feel it. The orange-singlet guy had caught up to me after I broke away for a bit. I was feeling good, and I thought, well, I might as well keep on a good thing. What may have happened is that we may have hit a tailwind. I’m not sure. Anyway, at about 11 miles or 17k, I began to fall gradually off the pace. The orange guy was slowly reeling in the next group. So was I, but I was doing so much more slowly. I thought, if I can just catch the group, I’ll hang in with them and re-group. No such luck though, as they group itself came apart, and we all drifted into a kind of no-man’s land of strung-out, just off the pace runners, easy prey for the groups that were moving up from the back.

One of the first groups to do so housed a small, Japanese runner in green and white. I noticed him because he was so small. I would see him later as well. For now, he moved on, leaving me to my misery.

By the time we hit Wellesley College, I was sorely tempted to take one of the girls up on their “Kiss me for good luck” signs. I was in serious need of some luck. I settled for a bunch of hand slaps. It was way too early to be feeling any kind of trouble if I wanted to do well. My pace had dropped off by a minute (19:42, after my last 5k had been 18:42, and 18:24 and 18:38 before that). Trouble.

I went through halfway in just under 1:20. I thought, well, the worst I can do is toddle in in a 1:30 half…

My mouth was dry from gummi bears. I was doing my best to drink, even though I was depressed because I knew I was not going to run a good time, or crack the top 100 (which last year was just under 2:37, fyi, this year was 2:38:36, so not that much different, despite the weather). It would have been easy to not drink, but I knew I had to if I wanted to finish the thing. My fifth 5k was 20:37.

When we hit the hills, I actually started to feel better. Sometimes I think this only happens because I slow down. Probably true in this case. I was definitely running at sub-maximal effort, but I had long ago abandoned any thought of pushing through. It’s one thing to do it in the last 10k, but another to do it in the last 25. Again, the hills were nothing, really. I slowed down to 21:52 and then 22:47 from 25-35k. I thought I saw Sharlene Cobain at about 30k, but I may have been hallucinating. Sharlene, was that you?

In any case, the hills were not so bad. The third one was the worst, but my heart had been broken long before Boston College, so when the guy in the bathrobe stepped out in front of me, screamed, and flashed open his robe, I was not even mildly surprised to see that he was wearing black soccer shorts underneath. Nothing special was the theme for the day.

At the Boston marathon, you expect miracles. You expect something great to happen or some revelation or to cry or to laugh a great joy. At 23miles, I thought that it was about to happen to me. In my case, finishing the Boston marathon is no big deal. I know I can run that far, and I know that you can put even bigger hills than Newton in there and I’ll do it. It could have been raining much harder, and I would have finished. So you have to understand, performance is important. It’s not win or lose, but it is not simply how you play the game. It is somewhere in between. So when, at 23miles, I thought I saw the clock read 2:20:00, I had my moment. I did some quick math, and realised that all I had to do was run about 22min for the last 5k, and I’d have a PB. A PB is always a cause for celebration, a sign, no matter what else that you can say, today I ran the best race of my life. So I went for it. I started hammering. And to my surprise, I found that I had it in me. I hammered and passed a good dozen guys in the next mile. Funny how people were falling off the wagon. I mean, they were jumping off head first. I was well-rested from the 12miles of jogging I’d done in the meantime. Then I hit 24miles and saw the clock: 2:36:18. It was one of those good news/bad news moments. The good news: I didn’t just run a 16min mile. The bad news, I just ran a 6:18 mile, which means that I misread the clock at 23. Dear John: Shit. Signed, Heartbroken in Brookline.

Right about this time, I passed Payton and Kirsten on their way to Fenway. Kirsten got a good shot of me, and you can tell by the look on my face that I am right pissed. Not tired after having run 24miles, not hitting the wall, no, pissed. I tried to turn it into something good. I did. I picked it up a bit again, convincing myself for a moment that, hey, 2:51 is better than 2:53. Right? Right? I played this game with myself, mostly losing, until the last mile. Someone once said: Everyone’s got heart on the final straightaway, or something like that. In the marathon, maybe the last mile is that straightaway. Then again, there were a lot of people, as I said, who were clearly enjoying themselves even less than I was.

Case in point: just after crossing under the bridge at Commonwealth (a course adjustment they made last year), I noticed, not too far ahead, the green and white-clad Japanese guy. I gunned it again. I passed him, and several others, and kept cruising onto Boylston street. I was now in the final stretch. Please pass the heart. The streets were lined with screaming people, and some idiot in front of me was even playing to the crowd, encouraging them to scream louder. I was not in the mood. I passed him. I passed one of the elite women who had started 15min ahead of me. She was not having a good day, either. I caught sight of a guy wearing a “Snickers Marathon Bar” singlet. Snickers? Gross. You are the weakest link. Actually, he was Pepi Peterson. Not pleased, didn’t speak to me after the race. Sorry, dude.

So I finished. I crossed the line, a little more tired than when I had crossed it the night before with Chris and Kirsten on our walk downtown, but I crossed it. I was…underwhelmed. The lady who removed my timing chip seemed hard-done-by to tie my shoe back up. They gave me a bag of potato chips, a banana, an apple and a granola bar. I had to walk three or four blocks to get my bag. Luckily, I was able to get a massage and a chiropractic treatment (my back felt ok, and feels ok now) quickly. But the rest of the post-race experience was frustrating and boring. I could see it in the spectators who were looking for their family members who had run. It was impossible, or nearly impossible to pick someone out of the crowd, even with the lettered family meeting area signs. I waited around for Caroline (and Pierre and Laura as spectators), but at 3pm I decided it was futile. I took the T back to Chris and Kirsten’s and they were just getting in from the Sox game. Sunday’s game got rained out, but when we find out when the make-up game is, I’ll probably go back and visit again. They were really great hosts, by the way. It started and ended at Mile 24, Beacon and Kent.

A few positive notes: I beat Pepi. Yes, it is about beating people. It is a race. That is the purpose of racing, really. It’s not a time trial, it’s not the Boston Fun Run, it is a race. But I suppose everyone has their reasons (see Adidas marketing campaign—actually, really, what it is, is a big fat advertisement, but anyway…positive things).

I did not bonk. I believe that a combination of good training and smart racing (or at least smart racing making up for earlier foolish racing) saved me that ignominy. 2:51 after all is not that different from 2:44, in the fuel consumption scheme of things. So I feel I can be proud of that. It does seem that in general times were slower this year, but I don’t want to use the weather as an excuse or play the game of well, the leaders were 7min slow, so that means you can take 8 or 9min off your time, or it’s worth this or that. I ran what I ran. My fitness is likely a little faster than that, but exactly how much faster I could only say if I had gone out slower. I don’t think that I fell prey to the course at Boston, as I did go out slower than planed, and I did stick to my plan. I just over-estimated my fitness. A mistake nonetheless.

I did run the Boston marathon. Apparently this impresses people. I’m happy that it does. It does mean that I have done something a lot of other people have done. A lot of other people have not done it, either, and really really want to do it. So, yes, finally, I do feel a little bit special.

Will I do a marathon again? I probably will, but not any time soon. Running a marathon is not hard, despite what some might tell you. Training properly for one, when one is a pretty fit and mildly successful runner with competitive ambitions, however, is quite difficult, time-consuming, and ultimately, life-draining. If this, or any other, marathon teaches a lesson about life, it is that if you make a plan, and carry out the plan, you’ll probably make your goal. There are no miracles. Just hard work. Steady, simple, straight ahead hard work. It can be applied to anything: to your job, to your love relationships, to your family. It should be applied to those things. Simple, get-out-the-door-and-do-it-everyday is what got me to the finish line, the same as Robert Cheruiyot, and the same as this guy: http://www.whatwouldjacobdo.com/. So there you go.