At 2:49pm on April 15th, 2013, two bombs went off at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. Three were killed (with a police officer dying later during the manhunt), and hundreds were injured. The race was stopped, and the city shut down for the week while a search was conducted that has been unparalleled in recent memory. While several of my training partners were there (and safely finished) at the time, I was in South Africa, ignorant. Only when I awoke the next morning and the news rolled in did I begin to understand what had happened. It would be nearly 10 years before I could fully comprehend the impact, after reading books and watching documentaries of that fateful day. However, April 16th., 2013 marked the moment I committed myself to return to Boston, undeterred by terrorism. One year later, I toed the line in Hopkinton and tackled the best 26.2 miles of my life. Not only was it a beautiful, powerful day, but I also ran my best time ever. It was my 5th Boston.
To mark the 10-year anniversary of that horrid day, I vowed to return to the Boston Marathon with my friends who were there that day. It would be my 6th Boston, but 1st in 9 years. To get there, I had to qualify, and doing so would take my best effort in many years. I did so in June in Minnesota, nearly breaking 3 hours. I ran several fall marathons, but none had the promise of my former years. Training in earnest from January on, I fought the darkness, cold, rain, and wetness of a Polish winter to prepare. I avoided illness and injury, but my miles and pace did not progress at the preferred rate. In March I flew to London to do a training run with my friend, Kirsten, who would show no mercy. He didn't, but I got a great first 20 miler out of it. I only felt better from there. My workouts never took off, but I never felt sore or tired either. I still had many doubts arriving on the line. It felt like my time to run fast was behind me. While I was happy just to be there, there was a voice inside that said, "If you are going to go to Boston, go big."
My flight to Boston, slightly delayed, left me heading to the expo Saturday afternoon. It was packed, and I hustled out of there, catching a glimpse of the memorial outside Marathon Sports. I did bag a quick jog Sunday before dinner. Marathon Monday arrived as usual, with a long walk to the bag drop, then out to the busses, and the horribly long ride out of town. As usual, Athlete's Village resembled a refugee center, this year more than ever as bags had to be dropped in Boston so anything on a person was going to be left in Hopkinton. It was the most rag-tag bunch of flannel, ugly t-shirts, and broke shoes you have seen at a major race. It all goes to charity, but fashion sense had long left the building.
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| At the finish line but before the race |
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| Site of the 2013 bombing. RIP. |
Just a reminder there is a long walk from the village to the start, and although I was in Wave 1, I was in Corral 8, the last. I was a long way from the line, and the rain came down as we started the walk. I shed the pants and fleece but kept the t-shirt until the last moment. Although the rain was present, it wasn't too cold, and the early miles of running kept me suitably comfortable. I made a promise to hold back in the early (and easiest) miles, and to my dismay, I ran the first (and easiest) mile a bit slower than goal pace. By 5 miles I was on pace but it really should have felt easier to go under the pace at that point, and I was worried. It was here I caught Lindsey, who was going for 2:54 and was a coral ahead of me. He was not feeling strong and made the call early to let off the pace. Just then, I blew a tire. My shoelace was undone and I pulled to the side of the road. My wet, frozen fingers, coupled with the super laces on the shoes made it impossible to get the knot undone. I called for help but by the time a spectator jogged over, I managed to get it set and was off, having lost 40-50 seconds. It took me 2 miles to catch Lindsey again where we fist-bumped and wished each other well. I moved on toward Boston.
I ran very in control for the next 5 miles as the rain had let up into an occasional drizzle. I figured there was nothing to do now but wait. But the anticipation mounted as the inevitable noise neared, and soon enough we were rolling past Wellesley College and the notorious scream tunnel. Articles came out in the week prior asking students not to kiss the runners due to disease control, but it stopped not a single girl from being out there. They were deafening, and in an attempt not to blow by too fast, I swerved over for some high-fives. The pace here always drops a bit and I crossed halfway in 1:28:30, exactly as I wanted. Anything over two minutes fast at halfway is said to lead to a blow. But on the other hand, it is a rare person who negative splits this course, so you have to have time in the bank. I chilled further, cautioning a first-time Boston girl from Canada who qualified in 3:01. She was a metronome, but I advised her to hold back on the downhill into Newton Lower Falls. We did, gained 8 seconds, and yet loads of people flew past, only to face their fate in the coming miles.
The Newton Hills make or break runners. Either you thrive or you die. Most die. It is the culmination of 16+ miles downhill followed by 4 miles up and then another drop. Statistically, Boston is a net downhill course and can be fast, but if you run it poorly, you pay dearly. The first of the hills is not bad - it is the longest but the gradual profile makes it runnable. I was through the first without losing a step. The 2nd hill is a bit steeper but the very runnable distance after the hill allows one to get back on track. Two down, two to go. The third is perhaps the crux; it is short but steep and you've now done two and Heartbreak is so full of energy you know you can pull it off. I felt this hill in the past, but this time it was benign. Only Heartbreak loomed. As I rounded the curve and started up it, I struggled a bit. I could feel the pace drop and I did not have the turnover. Perhaps due to the weather, the crowds - albeit still awesome - did not seem as thick as in the past at this section of the course. Still, I passed loads of people and soon I was over the top. I knew there was a false summit here and after a dip, I was on my way up and over the next peak on the way to Boston College. My pace in the hills was solid and I lost no time. I started the second scream tunnel into BC and it was loud. Here I was on the lookout for a former student and there she was, as promised, and snapped a brief video of me. I only just saw her at the last second and the video shows just how quickly I was passing spectators.
I held back on the descent from BC as well, having heard (and experienced) the problems that can come from going too hard here. Still, we were inside of 7K and that was a good place to be. The crowds are pretty consistent and although there were no rancorous Red Sox fans out (yet - they would go on to lose), the energy builds as the city nears. The road is long and straight and it does get challenging to keep plowing forward. It is the anticipation of the end but with that unfortunate distance between you and your goal. But soon the famous Citgo sign loomed in the distance. The journey was nearly over. A quick calculation with 2 miles to go suggested I would make my time barring any major blowout. Crossing the 25th mile, the route takes a nasty little rise over the turnpike. This hill did not register in my memory from previous attempts, but I had read about it recently, having forgotten its significance. Sure enough, it stung and it was just long enough to change the stride. The only solace is that under this gigantic sign is the 1 mile-to-go marker. It is a welcome site.
The last mile at Boston is not an easy one. The little underpass, which at any other mile would hardly register, gives a little bit of sting, and climbing out of that tunnel seems to take longer than it should. For those close to their mark, this can really disrupt the flow. When the mind says GO! the body might struggle to respond. Rising out of that dip, the best 6 words in marathoning bounced around my head: "Right on Hereford, left on Boylston." Unfortunately, it is uphill. My friends expressed feeling this significantly in post-race recaps and, while in retrospect I think my pace slowed, I was still passing people heavily. I had my time in hand, but many who started minutes ahead of me did not. Because of this, I was able to cruise down Boylston with little worry and let people go. I ran firm but certainly not with the same emphasis as before. However, I must say I stuck to the middle of the road, not dismissive of the tragedy on the sidelines of 10 years prior. Seeing the finish line is exciting at Boston, but it looms. While Boylston is probably one of the shorter sections of streets on the entire course, the finish line takes quite a while to reach from when you can see it. Giving the obligatory wave to the many fans that were screaming, and a solemn nod to the site of the bombing memorial on my left, I crossed the line. 2:57:11.
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| Very cold and wet after the race. |
With a howl of accomplishment, I had run under 3 hours for the first time in 9 years, since I was last at Boston. I didn't know if it was possible, but everything went right. My training never missed a day, and while I never ran all that many miles, I did workouts and four - 20 mile long runs and four - 50 mile weeks. As Kirsten says, "Consistency is key." Fueling was an experiment. I was desperate to try Maurten for something new. They were sold out at the expo, so I had to buy 1 Gu. But I had Maurten on the course for the other two gels. I missed the first handout around mile 11 and I was worried I wouldn't have the fuel to get home, but the last two gels helped. It tasted rough, but those, coupled with the shake to start the day, probably did help. Having heard good things about the product, I think it paid off as I never had a sour stomach, which is extremely rare. While my legs were sore, they never locked up. Even with Boston's 2nd half much harder than its first, I nearly negative split this race. Just 11 seconds off an even split with all those hills. I may have run my perfect race, never getting out of control, and always handling what was to come. Buoyed by this achievement, I floated down the road. But after the medals and the mylar blankets were handed out, Boston rebounded. A wicked rain began to fall, ice cold, and the walk to the buses was suddenly far less celebratory. Grabbing my bag, I began limping toward the Irish pub that was the meeting point for our group post-race. By the time I got there I could hardly move, and shaking with frozen limbs, changing was nearly impossible. I tucked into a couple of beers and Guinness soup, but the discomfort was high. We had no place to sit and I began feeling ill; the noise was mounting as more finishers and fans poured in, and we had no plan. I excused myself and stepped outside. Instantly I felt better. The cool air blasted my face and life came back into me. Taking the train back to the hotel, I showered and crawled into bed. Life returned, and medals around our necks, we headed out to the Irish pubs of Boston to bask in the glory of having run (and run well) the world's greatest marathon.
