Boston Marathon Race Report

Not even an hour after waking, I find myself sleepily cresting the top of Beacon Hill as Matt, Jorge, and I walk quietly to the buses. Filled with a mixture of dread and anticipation, I urge myself to remain hopeful despite the dreary forecast of wind and rain and 45 degree air. 

With bloggers Chris, Bryon, and Carlos (Source)

Light rain greets us at Hopkinton and we waste no time getting a foil blanket and finding a cozy place under one of the tents. Rain drums on the wall as I regret my decision to accompany the boys at their wave's scheduled time instead of mine, some two hours later. After shamelessly acquiring a pile of discarded warmup clothing for myself and the lady sitting next to me, I'm almost warm enough to stop the shivering. I head to the porta potty and marvel at its unusual warm coziness, trying not to think too much about why it's so warm in there. Matt and the boys dash off to begin their race and I'm left alone. I chat with a nice woman from Valparaiso, Indiana, but soon she disappears for her wave just ahead of mine.

Soon it's my turn. FINALLY. I'm so excited, not for the race, but about the idea of becoming warm again. We're shuttled to the corrals, a sea of pajama-clad adults headed to a group slumber party. En route, volunteers are collecting discarded warmup clothes. Since there's no bag check at the start line, everything discarded will be donated to charity. I secretly wish I could dig through the discarded clothing and update my personal wardrobe. Apparently I wasn't the only one because several women stopped and asked for a sweater, jumping up and down happily when they found something in their size. I pull off my sweatpants as I squeeze into my assigned corral. Just as I consideer dumping off my fuzzy chenile sweater, it begins to rain. Then I make the decision that likely ended up saving my race: I keep the sweater on with plans to drop it later. (Spoiler alert: I've still got it.)

The race begins with a starting gun. Tears begin immediately. I can't believe I've made it to this place. Years of hard work, shortcomings, and triumphs--I'm actually running the Boston Marathon!!! Before I can become too much of a wheezing, sniffly mess, I calm myself down as I high five a long string of children lining the road. I spot an older man ahead of me wearing the shirt from a ski race in my hometown. I chat with him a few minutes  as the pack spreads out and wish him good luck before I pull off ahead.

Mile 1: 8:05
Mile 2: 7:37
Mile 3: 7:37

I pay little attention to my watch other than to record the mile splits. I notice that even with the downhill, I need to control my speed and begin focusing on running slower. A few days before the race, Matt and I made a competiton: Who could run closest to the goal pace at the halfway mark. I may never beat him at a race, but this is definitely a competition I wanted to win. Besides, I knew my legs would thank me later for the conservative start.

Bargoers on the porch of a local tavern raise glasses and cheer as we pass, but otherwise the trip through Ashland is fairly quiet.

Mile 4: 7:45
Mile 5: 7:51 (Shot Bloks x2)
Mile 6: 7:45

Even with two pairs of gloves on my hands (never ditched the warmup gloves either), I find it increasingly difficult to use my fingers. By mile four, I'm already completely soaked and the black fuzzies from my shirt are beginning to collect on the white gloves I use for yardwork and to bring firewood in the house. Two girls wearing team jerseys from my alma mater run by. I quicken my stride to catch up and chat with them, telling them I'm an alum of the very same state college. They tell me they graduate in two weeks and I drop back to my own pace as we wish each other good luck.

Mile 7: 7:45
Mile 8: 8:00 (salt tab)
Mile 9: 7:52

Every few miles, we pass into another town. Each one feels more like a city and I can sense Boston growing nearer. By mile 10, we're running through Natick and as I crest one of the small rolling uphills, I notice that I've lost feeling in my butt. It's gone numb. It will stay that way through the remainder of the race. Frozen legs don't ache as badly, so no complaints here.

We continue on and by 11 miles in I notice an increasing soreness in my right arm from at least two hundred high fives. When I finally hit Wellesley, the spectators are more aggressive with their high fives and I accept fewer as I shake the stinging burn out of my palm.

Mile 10: 7:54
Mile 11: 8:02
Mile 12: 7:54 (Shot Bloks x3)
Mile 13: 8:00

I reach the halfway clock in 1:43:01 (7:51/mi.). Overall my pace feels strong and even. Since each mile marker is also an aid station, I've worked it out in my head to stop at every other one and find myself in a rhythm even with the water stops. (It's cool how you can see those stops in my mile splits, they're in the odd numbered miles.)

Mile 14: 7:52
Mile 15: 8:03 (salt tab)
Mile 16: 7:57

The roadside crowds grow larger with each passing mile and by the time I reach the famed Newton Hills, I can barely hear the sound of my shoes slapping through the puddles. The first hill I actually notice at all is at mile 17 and on the climb out of Lower Creek Falls. My legs protest the sudden change in elevation as I grind to find their uphill gears.

Mile 17: 8:11
Mile 18: 8:22 (Gu)
Mile 19: 8:05

As if part of some cruel cosmic joke, the wind picks up just in time for the most difficult spot on the course. I tuck in behind a very tall man in a neon green shirt. We trade the lead through the crest of Heartbreak Hill at mile 21. Even though I can tell by my footfalls that I'm slowing, we begin passing people as if they're standing still, including those two super-intimidating college runner girls I talked with miles earlier. Some people up ahead have even begun walking. I spend the next few miles thinking about how my hilly training runs in the wind and rain were good preparation for this race. Yay, soggy Humboldt County!

Mile 20: 8:14
Mile 21: 8:35 (Gu + salt tab)

I breathe a sigh of relief. That wasn't so bad! From here, the hills are over and the course dips downhill. I pull up behind not one, but two women who have literally been having a shitty race and make it my goal to pass them, just because I'm uncomfortable with the fact that I just can't help but stare in horror at their soiled shorts. I wish I had the ability to dig THAT deep.  By now, my hands are so frozen that they have become useless. After pulling to the side for the third time in the race (again fighting with those bags containing my salt tabs), I vow to drink my calories until the end. No point in letting it suck up any more time.

Mile 22: 7:57
Mile 23: 8:16

By the time I reach Boston College, the course is packed with drunk college kids that give spirited high fives and are literally screaming at runners. Their energy pushes me along and I catch glimpses of my watch registering in the 7:30 range on the downhills. We enter into the town of Brookline, the final before Boston. Lined with brownstone buildings and the Boston skyline up ahead, I feel my own excitement building despite the mounting fatigue. I spot Santa Claus somewhere in this area but I'm tired enough to question whether he's a mirage or real. Ahh, story of our childhood, right?

Mile 24: 7:59

The cruel, cruel, dip under a bridge in mile 25 practically knocks the wind out of me. Even though my inhaler has been tucked in my glove the whole race, I haven't thought about using it until this little hill. I hate how tiny little rollers become mountains this late in a marathon and laugh to myself about how ridiculous it is that I'm struggling on something this small.

There's another tiny uphill as we pass over the highway next to Fenway Park. My calves finally seize up completely and beg me to stop. I shorten my stride and will them to keep going. I notice myself reaching that dizzy bonk line as my vision begins to blur. I pull back on the pace to keep from heading to that dark, dangerous place I've found a few too many times at the end of a marathon.

Mile 25: 8:19

"ONE MILE TO GO!!!" is painted in a great blue and yellow stripe across the roadway. FINALLY! Back on the streets of Boston, I mentally chart out the remainder of the course. Other than a tiny uphill on Hereford, it's smooth sailing from here. Since I've had too many mile 25 meltdowns, I don't begin calculating a possible finish time in my head until I turn the corner and pass the mile 26 sign, the finish line now in sight.

Taken on Saturday afternoon.

Mile 26: 8:27

Just two minutes left, tops! I tell myself. Left, right. Left, right. C'mon legs! As I approach that golden finish stripe on the road and the timing mats, I peel back my soggy warmup sweater in the hopes of having at least one finishing shot with my bib number visible.

Mile 26-26.2.: 1:51

I cross the final timing mat feeling strong, proud, and suddenly really EFFIN' COLD.


3:30:26
8:01/mi.

I don't even realize what has just happened, all I can focus on is getting warm again.  My cramped calves force my walk to a hobble as I walk alongside my Newton Hills buddy. We hug and thank each other for the help and motivation. We part ways as we wait for finish line volunteers to wrap us up like little foil burritos.

My body shivers uncontrollably as volunteers place a medal around my neck and usher me on down the line. I'm handed a bag of food and finally, FINALLY, a lovely deluxe foil blanket, complete with hood and velcro closures. Every volunteer beyond the finish line is amazing. Someone helps me find the arm holes on my new superhero cape, I see others peeling bananas for people---all of them with genuine smiles despite being as cold and soggy as we all are. I grab a cup of coffee, stylish foil skirt for when the wind kicks up, and head for home.

It isn't until the mile long stumble back to the hotel that I can begin to process the race. After years of hearing about how it's hard, almost foolish, to go for a PR on the Boston course, I couldn't believe that I not only requalified, but actually ran a PR there myself, dropping 59 seconds from my previous one. I would later learn that five out of the seven Humboldt County runners ran new PRs, so there's something about our local climate and topography that helped us run strong in these particular conditions.

Matt dueled it out with another local runner, Kenny, over the last 10K. Both came away with new PRs, Matt edging him out by 20 seconds for the win. Despite some early season Achilles tendon issues, he dropped about 40 seconds from his PR to finish in 2:47:36.

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As for our first half split competition, I ended up winning. I was two seconds slower than goal time, Matt was three. He ran the most even paced marathon of his life, with just one minute positive split. Mine was more like 5 minutes. Given the hillier second half, both were pretty good.

Thank you for all your support through this process. I thought about each and every one of you following along as I crossed each timing mat. :)