A few years ago I sat down and wrote a "5 year Plan" of running goals I wanted to achieve. "Complete 5 consecutive Boston Marathons" topped my list. And just before 1pm Boston, MA time this past Monday I achieved my goal.
PRE RACE:
As I bounced back relatively quickly from a February injury, I was able to still get many quality weeks of training in and hoped to minimize any "lost" training time. There were certainly days in March and April when I questioned how much, if any fitness I lost during my weeks of cross training, and I think had it not been for the undesirable weather conditions this would have undoubtedly been another PR Marathon for me; but that is the nature of the marathon. You train for over 4 months specifically for one day, and hope that on that one morning, all the stars will align and the weather gods will shine on you (but not shine too hot!) My last few weeks went by ideally, hitting all my targeted workouts, sometimes even faster and easier than I had planned. I skipped a tune up 20K five weeks out, as I was still unsure if that would push me back into an injury. With a few weeks to go I was sure of a PR, but just how much of a PR I didn't know. There was little room for error in my race plan.
On Sunday, April 19th I started my solo journey up to Boston. Just me, a cooler full of carbs and fluids, and some tunes on the radio. I'm not one for car magnets or stickers, but just before leaving I taped my previous 4 Boston 26.2 stickers to my rear car window. I always enjoy driving on the Mass Pike and seeing the other 26.2 stickers as we pass the exits for Hopkinton, Newton, the giant Citgo sign that marks "1 mile to go" and finally exiting near Boylston Street. As I got closer to Boston, I began seeing other cars with their oval stickers and honked my horn and waved, which most times was met with a look of confusion followed by amusement. The things you do on a solo 5 hour car ride to sane...After a quick visit to the crowded expo, I checked in at my hotel, un-packed, pinned my bib to my race uniform, ate more carbs, drank another couple of gallons of water, and walked/jogged around my hotel's parking lot when, before I knew it, it was time to go to bed.
I checked the weather report one last time. It called for a 40-45 degree day, overcast with a slight headwind, and a decent chance of rain as we were making our final descent into Boston. “Not bad,” I thought. I'll tuck into a pack and draft a bit if the winds picked up, and all would be good. After 9 marathons, I was excited to have a cool crisp forecast. The next day everything would change.
THE MORNING OF:
I had set my alarm for 4:45 am, and usually I sleep surprisingly well the night before a race, but at 3 am I was wide awake and tossing and turning. Not before long, I was boarding the "T" towards Copley Square in the crisp morning sunrise. I always enjoy seeing the other runners slowly filling the cars along with all the locals on their way to work (Hey, I thought no one worked on Patriot's Day). It's a weird fashion show that combines last decade’s torn jackets and paint splattered sweatpants, with the newest and lightest (and brightest) racing flats. Throw on an unwanted race hat, and some dirty gardening gloves for that "been there, done that" look. Some choose to top off their ensemble with a banana and a bottle of Gatorade in hand, but let's face it, that just screams "first-timer" since all of that will be provided ad-nauseam in the athlete's village. Now at this point you are in Boston, about 2 blocks from where the race ends. The funny thing is, you board one of hundreds of yellow school buses (whose windows will promptly fog because of all the well hydrated runners and the cool morning air) and get driven out 26.2 miles to the tiny town of Hopkinton where, you guessed it, you sit and wait to run the whole way back to Boston. Only the very last few miles are actually run in Boston, but I guess the “Hopkinton/Ashland/Framingham/Newton/Wellesley/Brookline Marathon” wouldn't have the same ring to it.
Usually hanging out in the athletes village is one of my favorite mornings of the year. There's a special energy in the air, so I like to stroll around taking in all the sights and sounds, hydrating, and chatting with all the other runners - many who have traveled great distances for the honor of standing in this port-a-john line. But this year we all made a beeline to one of the three large white tents where we sat shoulder to shoulder wrapped in whatever we could find to keep ourselves dry and warm. 40 degrees with a light, steady rain and not knowing anyone around me, I began to think about just getting the race over with and beginning my long journey back home. Definitely not the energy of previous years. Before long, Wave 1 was called to the starting corrals, which are about 0.7 miles from the village. By now the rain had tapered off, and the streets were barely wet. There was hope for good race conditions after all. By the time I got into my corral I had bumped into a few teammates, and was finally getting into the spirit of the day.
THE RACE:
The elite men were introduced and announced over the PA. Meb Keflizighi was announced as "the only man who can ever lay claim to being the NYC Marathon champion, the Boston Marathon champion, and an Olympic marathon medal winner". And here I was, standing less than 100 feet away from him about to start the same race. Quite a feeling.
The race began, and I tried to go out slow, which is not too hard being that you are literally running on a narrow suburban road with only one lane of traffic going in each direction, and no shoulder or sidewalk. By Mile 6, the initial descent (and the steepest downhill section of the race) was over. I was perfectly on target to race a 2:51 marathon, actually getting quite comfortable as my core temperature rose in the chilly morning air. Soon the rain started, and it would not stop for the rest of the race. Next the winds picked up. What was advertised as a westbound headwind, in fact felt as though it was coming from every angle- except from the tail. As my jersey, shorts, hat, and gloves slowly became wet with perspiration, and spilled fluids from the hydration stations, my clothes felt heavy, the rain started picking up, and I began to feel colder and colder with every wind gust. There were two tactical choices: try to find a pack to draft off of, but who never seemed to run the tangents, or breakaway and run into the wind and take the tangents. After trying to tuck in and draft for the early miles I realized that no matter how close I am drafting, no matter many runner flank me, the wind was still a big part of the equation.
By the middle of the race, I caught up to another runner I train with, and we matched each other step for step. We chatted a bit, maybe too much, as I slowly started to feel the tightness in my hamstrings and hips. The "Scream Tunnel" of Wellesley caught us slightly by surprise, but provided a refreshing burst of energy. If nothing more than getting your mind off the race and pain for a few minutes as you read all the signs, and watch the faces. By the halfway point I was perfectly on pace for a mid 2:51 finish, exactly what I was hoping for, if not a tiny bit fast. I was soon reminded of why I decided to wear my USA Olympic singlet once again this year as I started hearing chants of "USA, USA". Something I would have found quite corny a few years ago, but after the 2013 race, I don't know who liked hearing it more, me or the spectators themselves. Speaking of spectators, someone was holding up a pre-peeled banana, which I devoured, and partially attribute to the fact that for the first time in 10 marathons I finished not feeling like I hadn’t eaten in a week, Thank you banana woman, whoever you are. By mile 16, I was trailing my friend, only a few seconds behind, and still within striking distance, but feeling the cold rain tightening up my legs, and wishing I was closer to the finish. I was starting to just want to be done with this race.
The last and third part of the race started at roughly mile 16 with the first of the 4 Newton Hills. I feel the hills less and less every year, and have been affected by the undulating course less and less, although I still do enjoy the downhill breaks where my lungs and arms get a little break, while my quads are taking the brunt of the pounding. I was actually able to stay focused and knew when we were cresting heartbreak, unlike my first Boston when I kept asking other runners around me "Is this heartbreak hill?" on every hill (for the record it is the 4th and final hill). As you crest heartbreak you make a pretty steep decent down past Boston College, which is usually a nice psychological lift. In years past the crowds here were huge, and you could smell the beer in the air from half a mile away, but either the weather kept the crowds smaller this year, or I was too exhausted to feel any mental lift at this point. As we make our way into Boston you can usually see the giant Citgo sign , which unofficially marks the one mile to go mark, from about 3-4 miles away, but the low lying grey clouds and rain kept visibility low this year, meaning I actually didn't see the sign until the appropriate one mile to go mark. By this point I was hurting bad, and my pace had slipped to an overall average of 6:36 pace. One second behind my PR pace, but I was still convinced that I could bang out two hard last miles and get my PR by a sliver. If only I didn't add yet another second per mile, and slip into a 6:37 pace in the 25th mile, now hitting my first and only 7:00 mile. It was clear that today was not going to be a PR, but it wasn't going to be a total failure either. As I passed the 26 mile marker I gave it one last shot at a final 0.2 mile sprint at 6:25 pace. I crossed the finish line, no arms raised, passed on water, received the medal around my neck, and kept trying to move, until after refusing three medics, I got taken to the medical tent.
POST RACE:
to be continued...
