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| The day before the big race. That's the finish line and arch on Boylston. |
When the mid-April weekend before Marathon Monday came, I was pumped. I came off a fantastic training block, I had high, high spirits (though I tried to keep most of it on the inside), and everyone around me--family, fellow runners, co-workers, my 3rd grade students--was lifting me up with cheers and well wishes. I felt like I was going to crush it. I even dismissed the looming weather reports that called for warmer temperatures and headwinds. I had raced in warm weather before, and the winds didn't look too bad, right?
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| Me and Coach Greg McMillan |
The day before the race, I attended a small race meeting held by Greg McMillan of McMillan Running and his team of coaches. I used a custom made McMillan Plan for Marine Corps Marathon in 2014, and have trained off of his plans (or variations thereof) ever since. Coach Greg was extremely approachable, and his info session solidified the race plan I already had in my mind. Like a true running geek, I scribbled notes. Here's a partial transcription:
Tonight
Dinner
Timeline
Gear Check
Alarms!
Sleep (or don't...)
Weather tomorrow consistent 60s, headwind
Race Day
Bathrooms!
5-10 minute warmup
Stay loose in corral
First 12 miles = Autopilot
-->Follow Plan Wellesley = wake-up call
Newton --> lean into the hills
FLY into Boston
--no pity parties
--use crowd, use Citgo sign
--look up, ahead
--BE THE PASSER
Finish
--right on Hereford (hill)
--left on Boylston
--LONG finish straight
--SMILE
These notes went through my head in the evening and morning leading up to the start, and at various times throughout the race, so they kind of serve as headers for the actual sequence of events.
I met running friends John, Mike, Tommy, Rick, and Jose at the bus loading area in Boston and we passed the pre-race time together in the Athletes' Village in Hopkinton. I felt great. My head was right, and everything was good physically. All of us save Rick were in the first wave (departing at 10am), but only John and I had the same corral assignment. Of that group, I had spent the most time training with John, and we had very similar plans for the day, so we intended to race together for as much of the race as possible.
After the race announcements, the national anthem, and the hyped-up crowd in Hopkinton, I was getting tingles. I almost wanted to shoot for an outright PR while waiting in the corral, but the fact that we were already sweating at the start line checked that fleeting aspiration. When we did cross the blue-and-gold start line, John and I settled into a rhythm right away. I like to think we're both pretty shrewd racers, so having each other there was especially comforting. We wouldn't get too far out of hand on those sharp, early downhills, and we almost tacitly agreed on when we could afford to give a pinch more effort to steal back some seconds. Despite being surrounded by thousands of people who were pace peers with us, we avoided weaving around and wasting energy, and we figured out a fairly minimally damaging way of getting through the over-crowded aid stations. Every time we crossed over a timing mat, we were aware of all of our friends back home tracking us through the B.A.A. website or Boston Marathon app.
The day was hot, and there was no cloud cover, so the bright sun beating down on us seemed to add to the taxing effort. But before we knew it, we were through 11 miles in just a hair under 76 minutes. We were on pace for a 3:01, which was a pretty solid goal, given the temperature. Both John and I would have preferred a sub-3, but the conditions and course made chances of a negative split slim to none.
Just after that mile 11 mark, I faced the truth that I was going to have to stop and relieve my bladder. Maybe I would catch up with John, maybe I wouldn't. After my 15-20 second break, I got back on the road. John was still in view, but far ahead. I could barely make out his red shorts and blue D9 Brewing singlet. I was feeling physically relieved, and I had a little pep in my step, maybe too much pep. Maybe I would catch up with him...
Wellesley = wake-up call
Not long after the 12th mile marker, I could hear the ruckus that was the infamous ladies of Wellesley College. Coach Greg had told us that we would hear this scream tunnel from a half mile away, and he wasn't kidding. I was surprised at how long it took to get to Wellesley after first hearing them. The ladies did not disappoint; they shouted loudly and crazily, calling runners out specifically. Many cheered me on saying things like "Go Reckless, we love you!" after seeing my Reckless Running singlet. I have to admit, I did pick up the pace a bit.
Throughout the town of Wellesley, I could still pick John out in the crowd. He was still a ways ahead, but I was closing. When I got to within 5 seconds of him, I went ahead and motored on up to close the gap. Not my wisest move. At marathon pace, closing a 5 second gap should take a lot longer than it did. Come to think of it, I probably should have left John alone until Newton or Brookline--or not caught up at all. But the camaraderie of racing/suffering together was too much of a draw for me. John was a bit surprised to see me, but he did a good job of not telling me how much of an idiot I just was. I didn't need the telling anyway; I had developed a nice little side stitch for my efforts. I was going to have a long back 12 miles...
Newton --> lean into the hills
As John and I descended the last big drop before the infamous Newton Hills, I tried to repeat the "glide, glide" mantra in my head that kept me in line for the first half of the race. Already, I could tell the the smoothness was gone and I was making my way toward a survival situation. When we hit Newton Hill #1, I leaned in as Coach Greg told me, and John and I fared pretty well compared to the field around us. Some folks were walking, and others were backing off profoundly. John was looking too good in fact. Well, too good for me. This is where my antics in Wellesley were coming back to bite me. We ran the whole first hill together, but I knew I had used too much effort for this point in the race. John started pulling away, and I bade him to go on. Here, I resolved to ignore my time goals and just try to "enjoy" the last 9 miles of the marathon and take in the experience that is Boston. I wish I could say that I just took it easy and everything felt great, but after 17 hard miles in warm weather with some beat up legs, enjoyment was a very relative term.
The hills in Newton were legit. From the pre-race briefing and countless conversations with Boston veterans, I knew just how many there were and where to expect them, but that didn't make them any more forgiving. Still, I leaned into them, and even though I walked through an aid station or two, I ran up every hill. Even Heartbreak. I was not going to walk a single step on Heartbreak Hill. The loud Newton crowds reached a new decibel level at the base of Heartbreak, which was 21 miles into the course. I settled in and just started turning the legs over. As I passed people, I beckoned some of them to come on, and some lifted up their heads and joined me for a while. As long as Heartbreak was, I actually enjoyed grinding it out. When I saw the sign at the summit that marked the top of Heartbreak, I jumped up with what I imagined to be NBA-caliber vertical to slap the top of the sign.
FLY into Boston
--no pity parties
On a good day, with a well-executed race plan, I would have some gas in the tank by the time I crested Heartbreak Hill for the descent towards Brookline. Obviously, this was not that day. I actually dreaded the the downhill that followed Heartbreak because my legs were trashed. There were 5+ miles left, and I wasn't going to get through them without walking through at least a couple of aid stations. There was no way I was going to fly into Boston like Coach Greg said, but I sure as hell was not going to have my own pity party. I forced myself to run and made myself earn my walk breaks. If I walked every time I wanted to, then I may not have done all that much running.
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| Morning of. Pumped up and ready to go! |
First 12 miles = Autopilot
-->Follow PlanI met running friends John, Mike, Tommy, Rick, and Jose at the bus loading area in Boston and we passed the pre-race time together in the Athletes' Village in Hopkinton. I felt great. My head was right, and everything was good physically. All of us save Rick were in the first wave (departing at 10am), but only John and I had the same corral assignment. Of that group, I had spent the most time training with John, and we had very similar plans for the day, so we intended to race together for as much of the race as possible.
After the race announcements, the national anthem, and the hyped-up crowd in Hopkinton, I was getting tingles. I almost wanted to shoot for an outright PR while waiting in the corral, but the fact that we were already sweating at the start line checked that fleeting aspiration. When we did cross the blue-and-gold start line, John and I settled into a rhythm right away. I like to think we're both pretty shrewd racers, so having each other there was especially comforting. We wouldn't get too far out of hand on those sharp, early downhills, and we almost tacitly agreed on when we could afford to give a pinch more effort to steal back some seconds. Despite being surrounded by thousands of people who were pace peers with us, we avoided weaving around and wasting energy, and we figured out a fairly minimally damaging way of getting through the over-crowded aid stations. Every time we crossed over a timing mat, we were aware of all of our friends back home tracking us through the B.A.A. website or Boston Marathon app.
The day was hot, and there was no cloud cover, so the bright sun beating down on us seemed to add to the taxing effort. But before we knew it, we were through 11 miles in just a hair under 76 minutes. We were on pace for a 3:01, which was a pretty solid goal, given the temperature. Both John and I would have preferred a sub-3, but the conditions and course made chances of a negative split slim to none.
Just after that mile 11 mark, I faced the truth that I was going to have to stop and relieve my bladder. Maybe I would catch up with John, maybe I wouldn't. After my 15-20 second break, I got back on the road. John was still in view, but far ahead. I could barely make out his red shorts and blue D9 Brewing singlet. I was feeling physically relieved, and I had a little pep in my step, maybe too much pep. Maybe I would catch up with him...
Wellesley = wake-up call
Not long after the 12th mile marker, I could hear the ruckus that was the infamous ladies of Wellesley College. Coach Greg had told us that we would hear this scream tunnel from a half mile away, and he wasn't kidding. I was surprised at how long it took to get to Wellesley after first hearing them. The ladies did not disappoint; they shouted loudly and crazily, calling runners out specifically. Many cheered me on saying things like "Go Reckless, we love you!" after seeing my Reckless Running singlet. I have to admit, I did pick up the pace a bit.
Throughout the town of Wellesley, I could still pick John out in the crowd. He was still a ways ahead, but I was closing. When I got to within 5 seconds of him, I went ahead and motored on up to close the gap. Not my wisest move. At marathon pace, closing a 5 second gap should take a lot longer than it did. Come to think of it, I probably should have left John alone until Newton or Brookline--or not caught up at all. But the camaraderie of racing/suffering together was too much of a draw for me. John was a bit surprised to see me, but he did a good job of not telling me how much of an idiot I just was. I didn't need the telling anyway; I had developed a nice little side stitch for my efforts. I was going to have a long back 12 miles...
Newton --> lean into the hills
As John and I descended the last big drop before the infamous Newton Hills, I tried to repeat the "glide, glide" mantra in my head that kept me in line for the first half of the race. Already, I could tell the the smoothness was gone and I was making my way toward a survival situation. When we hit Newton Hill #1, I leaned in as Coach Greg told me, and John and I fared pretty well compared to the field around us. Some folks were walking, and others were backing off profoundly. John was looking too good in fact. Well, too good for me. This is where my antics in Wellesley were coming back to bite me. We ran the whole first hill together, but I knew I had used too much effort for this point in the race. John started pulling away, and I bade him to go on. Here, I resolved to ignore my time goals and just try to "enjoy" the last 9 miles of the marathon and take in the experience that is Boston. I wish I could say that I just took it easy and everything felt great, but after 17 hard miles in warm weather with some beat up legs, enjoyment was a very relative term.
The hills in Newton were legit. From the pre-race briefing and countless conversations with Boston veterans, I knew just how many there were and where to expect them, but that didn't make them any more forgiving. Still, I leaned into them, and even though I walked through an aid station or two, I ran up every hill. Even Heartbreak. I was not going to walk a single step on Heartbreak Hill. The loud Newton crowds reached a new decibel level at the base of Heartbreak, which was 21 miles into the course. I settled in and just started turning the legs over. As I passed people, I beckoned some of them to come on, and some lifted up their heads and joined me for a while. As long as Heartbreak was, I actually enjoyed grinding it out. When I saw the sign at the summit that marked the top of Heartbreak, I jumped up with what I imagined to be NBA-caliber vertical to slap the top of the sign.
--no pity parties
On a good day, with a well-executed race plan, I would have some gas in the tank by the time I crested Heartbreak Hill for the descent towards Brookline. Obviously, this was not that day. I actually dreaded the the downhill that followed Heartbreak because my legs were trashed. There were 5+ miles left, and I wasn't going to get through them without walking through at least a couple of aid stations. There was no way I was going to fly into Boston like Coach Greg said, but I sure as hell was not going to have my own pity party. I forced myself to run and made myself earn my walk breaks. If I walked every time I wanted to, then I may not have done all that much running.
--use crowd, use Citgo sign
--look up, ahead
--BE THE PASSER
After walking through an aid station, I made sure to get all my fluid down, then I waved my arms at the crowd, and they would make damn sure I was running again. On that, you can count on the people of Boston. Racers ahead of me and behind me were walking in droves now, but more of them were running, and I was going to be a runner, not one of the walking dead.
Finish
--right on Hereford (hill)
--left on Boylston
--LONG finish straight
--SMILE
After passing the Citgo sign, which marks about 1 mile from the finish, it was all about surviving and maintaining. I was counting down minutes. Still, even a mile can seem like an eternity in the right (or wrong) context. When the course passed under the Massachusetts Avenue overpass and away from the screaming spectators on each side, there was an eerie silence except for the footfalls and labored breaths of the other runners. I admit that I gave in a little bit here and allowed myself one last walk break. Sure, it would make my last mile last even longer, but I wanted to finish with a smile on my face. Once I came out of the underpass, I used the crowd once more to bounce me back into a full running gait. I turned right on Hereford and didn't even notice the bit of incline leading to Boylston. When I got to the final left turn onto Boylston, I remembered what I always tell my 3rd and 4th grade run club runners whenever they run a 5k: "explode through that last turn!" And I did. The crowd was deafening, and the giant scaffold arch loomed far ahead of me. Coach Greg's words rang true again; this last straight was LONG! I soaked in every bit of it, screaming and beckoning the crowd as I went.
The moment I crossed the finish line, 3 hours, 16 minutes, and 3 seconds after starting, I went from an elated fireball of emotion to a withered husk. Instantly, I felt the pain of the whole race, and I had nothing left to hold myself up. I threw my arms on the scaffold and puffed out breaths that were a strange mix of laughing, sobbing, and dry-heaving. One of the pink-jacketed medical volunteers appeared next to me and offered me a wheelchair. "Do I need that?" I asked myself, "do I look that bad?" I declined, but stayed doubled over on the structure for another moment. When I finally rallied myself for the long, long, walk down the finishing chute, I thought about how nice that wheelchair would have been.
I thanked every volunteer I saw. Literally, every one. It took me nearly 15 minutes to hobble the couple of city blocks out of the chute with gear in hand, but it seemed like hours. I had no idea where John or anyone else was, and I couldn't muster the dexterity or mental capacity to call or text anyone. I kept walking until I found a traffic light post to prop myself against at Stuart and Arlington. There I lay for the better part of an hour until I could gather my bearings and meet John, Tommy, and everyone else at the Commons to begin our celebration.
The heat and headwind affected everyone. Many of the Boston veterans, John included, ran much better times in 2015 with relentless rain, and daunting headwinds, but much cooler temperatures. In fact, in 2015, over 12,000 runners re-qualified for Boston. In this warm 2016 race, that number was about 1/3 as large. I was over 16 minutes slower than I would have hoped, but that margin was consistent with many (I daresay most) of the racers that day. Tommy, who also had hopes for a sub-3, finished with a high 3:16 as well. John finished strong with a 3:04, including a nice negative split on the last 2 miles. He was the exception to the rule. Even the winners were a good 3-4 minutes slower than an average winning Boston time, and that's quite a large margin at the world class level.
As I've said to my family and friends, this was one of the toughest days I've ever had as a runner, but the experience of running Boston is still unmatched. The stories we marathoners hear and tell about the crowds, the history, and singular personality of this race are all true. It's too early to say whether I'll run Boston again, but one thing is for certain: it's not just another marathon!
After passing the Citgo sign, which marks about 1 mile from the finish, it was all about surviving and maintaining. I was counting down minutes. Still, even a mile can seem like an eternity in the right (or wrong) context. When the course passed under the Massachusetts Avenue overpass and away from the screaming spectators on each side, there was an eerie silence except for the footfalls and labored breaths of the other runners. I admit that I gave in a little bit here and allowed myself one last walk break. Sure, it would make my last mile last even longer, but I wanted to finish with a smile on my face. Once I came out of the underpass, I used the crowd once more to bounce me back into a full running gait. I turned right on Hereford and didn't even notice the bit of incline leading to Boylston. When I got to the final left turn onto Boylston, I remembered what I always tell my 3rd and 4th grade run club runners whenever they run a 5k: "explode through that last turn!" And I did. The crowd was deafening, and the giant scaffold arch loomed far ahead of me. Coach Greg's words rang true again; this last straight was LONG! I soaked in every bit of it, screaming and beckoning the crowd as I went.
The moment I crossed the finish line, 3 hours, 16 minutes, and 3 seconds after starting, I went from an elated fireball of emotion to a withered husk. Instantly, I felt the pain of the whole race, and I had nothing left to hold myself up. I threw my arms on the scaffold and puffed out breaths that were a strange mix of laughing, sobbing, and dry-heaving. One of the pink-jacketed medical volunteers appeared next to me and offered me a wheelchair. "Do I need that?" I asked myself, "do I look that bad?" I declined, but stayed doubled over on the structure for another moment. When I finally rallied myself for the long, long, walk down the finishing chute, I thought about how nice that wheelchair would have been.
I thanked every volunteer I saw. Literally, every one. It took me nearly 15 minutes to hobble the couple of city blocks out of the chute with gear in hand, but it seemed like hours. I had no idea where John or anyone else was, and I couldn't muster the dexterity or mental capacity to call or text anyone. I kept walking until I found a traffic light post to prop myself against at Stuart and Arlington. There I lay for the better part of an hour until I could gather my bearings and meet John, Tommy, and everyone else at the Commons to begin our celebration.
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| Me after getting some color back in me. That finish totally killed me. |
The heat and headwind affected everyone. Many of the Boston veterans, John included, ran much better times in 2015 with relentless rain, and daunting headwinds, but much cooler temperatures. In fact, in 2015, over 12,000 runners re-qualified for Boston. In this warm 2016 race, that number was about 1/3 as large. I was over 16 minutes slower than I would have hoped, but that margin was consistent with many (I daresay most) of the racers that day. Tommy, who also had hopes for a sub-3, finished with a high 3:16 as well. John finished strong with a 3:04, including a nice negative split on the last 2 miles. He was the exception to the rule. Even the winners were a good 3-4 minutes slower than an average winning Boston time, and that's quite a large margin at the world class level.
As I've said to my family and friends, this was one of the toughest days I've ever had as a runner, but the experience of running Boston is still unmatched. The stories we marathoners hear and tell about the crowds, the history, and singular personality of this race are all true. It's too early to say whether I'll run Boston again, but one thing is for certain: it's not just another marathon!
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Nearly 27,000 finishers received coveted BAA medals on Monday, but none of them had this waiting for them when they got back to their 3rd grade classroom! My students are the best!
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Congrats and welcome to the "Sybil of all marathons - AKA Boston"
ReplyDeleteWhether a great or crappy race, first time Boston Virgin or veteran, the race is like no other! Great blog post, look forward to meeting you