The 118th running of the Boston Marathon on Monday, April 21st, 2014 was the second largest in race history, behind only the 100th running in 1996. This year, there were approximately 36,000 runners, though touring through the city before and after, it felt like more. The BAA (Boston Athletic Association) jacket for this year’s race was a bright orange Adidas jacket, for the bargain price of $110. I may be one of the few people too cheap to splurge, because there was more orange around town than at a playoff Flyers game (probably because there’s more pride in Boston than there is in Philly hockey).
There were runners everywhere. Our hotel in Cambridge was packed. Bars and restaurants showcased BAA gear. I don’t recall ever seeing so many runners around (outside of a race) as I did on my easy run on Sunday morning. The energy of this race was definitely amplified by the city’s passion to “reclaim our run” from the hijacking by last year’s bombers. In short, it was a cool, inspiring event.
In the longer version, it was a painful reminder that it’s tough to fake your way through a 26.2 mile run, particularly on a hilly course with a lot of legitimate runners who trained better and raced smarter. The winter weather sucked pretty much for everyone in most of the country, so it is not a proper excuse. The reality is that I took way too many days off, and did not push myself hard enough on the days on. I knew that ahead of time, yet I was still falsely optimistic about my chances after successfully faking my way through my two previous races this year. By running a 1:23 and change at the Rock n Roll USA Half Marathon, and then following it up with a 1:02:34 at the Cherry Blossom 10 Miler, I convinced myself that I was in decent enough shape to try to go after a sub 2:50 marathon in Beantown. Never mind the fact that my last sub 2:50 was at my first Boston in 1997, when I was still running 80+ miles per week in college. I am not like a fine wine with age.
The race was divided up into four Waves, with nine Corrals in each Wave. I was assigned to Wave 1, Corral 3, with a bib number of 2259. This was my seed, based on qualifying time. It worked out pretty well for me, since I crossed the starting line only around 90 seconds after the gun, and was able to run at pace from the start. My first mile was a 6:31, which was pretty much as fast as I should have gone. I hit two miles at 12:45, which meant that my second mile was faster than the first. At four miles, I was right at 25 minutes, meaning I was still picking up speed. I recognized that I was going too quick, but figured that I would take advantage of the easier (downhill) portion of the course, while the weather was a little cooler, and the legs were fresh. I tried to back off slightly, but was still hammering hard miles through ten miles (64 minutes). It was tough, because every time we’d approach a hill, up or down, I could see an endless stream of runners in front of me. I am not used to seeing so many people in a race, and seeing them all ahead meant that I was losing!
Ahead of the start, we waited in the athletes village in Hopkinton for approximately 3 hours. At the time, it was pretty cold, since I did not have proper warmup gear. Any clothes left at the start were being donated to charity; I did not want to part with any of my good running attire, so I went barebones in my racing shorts, tee, gloves, and a throwaway long sleeve shirt that I hated to part with, but had to sacrifice something. They gave out reflective sheets, which I wrapped around my legs as I sat around shivering, waiting, between portapot trips. However, by the time we were at the starting line, it had already warmed up considerably, to the point where I didn’t even need gloves. I tucked these into the back of my shorts, and was in a good sweat in no time at all. Around three miles into the race, my gloves slipped into my shorts, and it felt like I was running with a loaded diaper, before I fished them out and threw them to the side of the road. I hated to part with them as well, but I did not wish to carry them in hand for the next 23 miles.
Early on, it was noticeably warm. I spent half the water stops dumping cups of water on my head and torso to try to keep cool. For the other half, I’d typically throw the water towards my face and try to catch as much as possible without drowning. Sadly, I’m still not an efficient race drinker.
Crowd support along the way was awesome. There were people everywhere. I read that they were expecting a million people to be out cheering us on this year (double their normal crowds). I didn’t count, but there were a lot! The two highlights, as in years past, were the girls at Wellesley College (just before the halfway mark), and the raucous roar as you hit Boylston Street for the finish. I managed to hold form for the screaming college chicks (can’t let them see you hurting), before basically falling apart for the back half of the course. Halfway split was just under 1:25, which was pretty quick, but where I wanted to be for my ideal race.
Banking time in the marathon has been disproven time and again, including by me in 80% of my races. Time saved up front does not offset time lost later. It just exponentially adds time after the fatigue sets in. My goals for the race were: 1. Perfect race – 2:50. 2. Solid race – 3:00. 3. Disappointing race – 3:10. 4. Unacceptable race – DNF. One of the pre-race announcers said that the success rate of the first wave runners was better than 97%. I did not want to hurt this statistic.
With a 1:25 done, I recognized I could not repeat the effort to hit 2:50. I tried to do the math to figure out what pace I needed to hold to stay under three hours, but really, I was just continuing to move along and take what the race and my body would give me. I passed 18 miles at 2:00:30, which was still not bad, but I knew I couldn’t hold seven minute miles to finish under 3:00. Somewhere around mile 20 we passed a bank on the main street, and the temperature reading was 61 degrees. To me, it felt closer to 80. I was feeling fried. Later, my sunburned neck, arm, and legs gave proof that I was being fried, but for some reason, it was only the right side of my neck and my right arm, but both legs. I wanted to hang on to beat 3:10, since that is the qualifying time for my age group, and to me, justification that I belonged in the race. With two miles to go, this was still within grasp. Even with a mile to go, I only needed around an 8:30 mile to hit it, but I couldn’t hang on. There was a sign with 1 mile to go. Minutes later, another sign ahead read 1000 meters to go. I had expected this second sign to say 800 meters to go. The extra 200 meters broke my spirit. We went down a slight decline under a road overpass, and this was the only point in the last mile where there were no spectators. I took this short stretch as my opportunity to walk for the only time all day. It was at most 30 seconds of walking, but it was enough to signal my defeat. The quads were cramping, and I just felt terrible. However, the sign ahead said Hereford Street, which I knew meant the proximity to the finish: Right on Hereford, Left on Boylston! I resumed my semblance of a trot, and pushed through the end to clock a 3:11:11.
Part of what was so inspiring about this event was seeing the struggles of others through difficulties more serious than my own simple fatigue. There were plenty of people limping along or stretching at the side of the road, holding their hamstrings or other strained muscles. I could relate to them. Then there were the people out there with prosthetics or crutches for missing limbs. There were people pushing wheelchair-bound family members, including the always-inspiring Dick Hoyt, at 73 years old still pushing his son. There were blind runners with course escorts, as well as a little person, taking three steps for every one of mine. I felt terrible, but I knew that there were thousands of others who would still be out there working hard, long after I was done for the day.
Crossing the finish line, we had a long walk to receive our medals, then to the first post-race water station, followed by a long walk to Gatorade, followed by an even longer walk to Boston Commons, where I was to meet the family. Before the first stop, I had to stop and sit down. Immediately, medical personnel swarmed me, telling me I had to get up and keep going. I arose with their help, staggered along another block, and sat down again. This time, they put me in a wheelchair, and rolled me to a medical tent. They brought me a bottle of water, and after a few minutes of sitting down, I told them I was okay to walk on. A few blocks farther, I again sat down, for fear of fainting / vomiting / I don’t know what, but I couldn’t keep going. I was given another wheelchair, and someone brought me a few cups of Gatorade. After the next stop, I was brought to another medical tent, where they checked my vitals (blood pressure was good, heart rate fine, temp close to normal, I was coherent enough to know what day it was, what my time was, etc.), they gave me more fluids to drink, offered light massage, and kept me for long enough to recover the energy to finish walking to Boston Commons. I can’t recall how many people asked me if this was my first marathon. No! This was my tenth, and I had no explanation for why this one had me in such worse shape at the end. The race really kicked my ass! Eventually, I caught up with dad and Sai, and they managed to escort me back to the hotel. After a nice hot shower and some of Sai’s evil Thai massage, I was a lot better, and ambulatory again for the evening. The first beer further helped.
I have now run Boston three times (1997, 2003, and 2014). I am not sure if I will continue to run it once every decade, meaning I don’t have to worry about it again for another six years, or if I’ll come back more frequently. The race has never duplicated its magic from the first time, but it is still an awesome experience.
Boston Strong!!
Traipse Reports - Trips and Races 