The 120th Boston Marathon
The Road to Boston
My last big race was at the beginning of July and at the end of that month I had an unfortunate skateboard accident that rendered me in the hospital with a severe concussion. I took 6 weeks completely off of running. This was a very difficult period and one that I am just now beginning to fully process. Part of my recovery involved weekly biofeedback sessions which trained and re-focused my brain. During these therapies I was visualizing: runs, races, running, red lining, all of it. This therapy, and the concussion in general, brought my mental health and process into the front of my understanding. I knew that this would lend itself to proper training and racing in the future. I began sporadically running in October, about 30 miles a week and built to 60 by the end of November. Going into the Holiday season I wanted to maintain fitness, but mostly prepare myself to begin earnestly training for Boston in January. At the end of the month I received the news that my Father had unexpectedly died. There is a lot to say here but I’m not going to go too far into it, suffice to say that, this training block and race is dedicated to the grief process. I kept my running together through January, barley, this included a 10 mile run through a blizzard the day we had scheduled and then canceled his memorial service. As I tried to recalibrate my life during this time I made the decision to change my running schedule from the mornings to the evenings. This shift necessitated a change in coaching so I joined the same group as Jackie: Team Rogue PM aka: The Night time is the Right Time, aka Ashish and the Heartbreakers, coached by the wonderful Amy Anderson. The new team runs with greater variability in their pace. Our easy runs were much easier, close to 9min/miles. When it came time to open it up for speed work I felt like a goddamned demon. I was running much faster than I had before. In general the easier-easy pace allowed my training to feel more relaxed. I ran countless 20+ long runs at a very easy effort and my body was able to take the abuse just fine. I also kept a steady dose of 1-3 weekly trail runs. Keeping on the trail kept everything more fun, the ground is softer, and the pace much, much slower (oh yeah, lots of climbing). I knew that I wanted to run a 2:45 at Boston (6:17 avg). I was hitting most of the workouts.
The Race
The course of the Boston marathon is arguably the most significant detail of the race. The route is a long line stretching point-to-point from Hopkinton to Boston. The marathon is run on Patriot’s Day and depends on school being on holiday to free up the busses necessary to bring 33,000 to the starting line; the ride is longer than expected. Truth be told, there are runners and there are runners who have run Boston. The bus ride is the crucible where this transformation begins. For my part I rode with dozens of runners who I know and train with. But when the doors opened I stepped out not as myself but as 3220 and vanished into the mass of people. We were screened, patted down, detected for metal, and marched into a fenced yard overlooked by snipers and helicopters. It felt very “walking-dead”. This race strips you down to the bare minimum, what you bring to Hopkinton either stays there or is carried with you to Boston. For my part I was wearing a once favorite pair of vintage Adidas track pants. I saw these pants not as a “throw away” but as a sacrifice. My jacket was given to me two nights before by an old friend, “something borrowed”, it bore the name of my New England alma-matar Green Mountain College. I felt connected to the collegiate legacy of Boston running. As I paced the yard of the local school I saw thousands dressed in thrifted clothing, funky costumes, and garments of races past, everyone laying together in grass resting their feet for the task ahead. I know what each of them must have done to be there. Many who have dedicated portions of their life to running know the standards that it takes to be atop the hallowed ground of Hopkinton on Patriots day. It is a humbling, almost democratic feeling. I spent most of these, I think like 2 hours, pacing around looking at everyone. The sun was beating down on me. I knew that I should not be walking around. I was staying calm and feeling the vibe. There was also a pretty fantastic Boston heckler on a PA system. I enjoyed that. For a long time. After a while we are allowed to make our way towards the start in our respective wave and corral. Waking down the quaint streets I started to reap the bounty of the Boston spectators right away. Some resident-fan gave me water and sunscreen. I think they were with Greyhound adoption. (Note: I had to pee. There is a massive, 2nd chance port-a-potty situation before the start.) Once in the starting chute proper I began to focus. It was warm out. Like too warm. The weather report read 58 and cloudy, but it was more like 70 and full sun. I think we all knew we were fucked, no one said a word. Helicopters, military, America, starting gun.
The race begins. It is downhill, quite down hill. Narrow. Crowded. I found it difficult to hit the pace I needed to. People everywhere. lot‘s of noise. High-fiving spectators en masse. I ran past a guy who was wearing what I thought was a Basque flag jersey. I tried to talk to him in Spanish and saying Basque-y words. I don’t think he was Basque. He kept yelling, “English! 2:55”. I sped up awkwardly. My first mile was slow. Okay, but slow. The heat was kinda freaking me out. I went right into the early water stops and downed big cups of gatorade. Friendly dagger. At mile 3ish I had a side stitch and my stomach was sitting uncomfortably. In hindsight I think that the water stops were pouring a concentrated gatorade pre-mix. Mile 6: cramping and sharp stomach pain. I know I am in trouble. I was slowing down. Just in time for Framingham, my vote for the rowdiest fans on the course. You can’t really train to handle the Boston Marathon fans, they’ve been at this for 120 year too and they have the day off of work. They party with a true Boston surliness. It was good to be back. The town was an all out assault on the senses, overpowering. People, pre-11 am, from Massachusetts who probably don’t go into Boston very much. Lots of Dropkick Murphy, specifically “Shipping off to Boston”. Beer kegs in front of the firehouse (I think). Grill smoke was a constant. I gave myself permission to puke but only if I really needed to. My 10k was off, but not too bad. I was trying to push the pace but not getting anything. My stomach was limiting my top-end. Mile 8: Gu time. I charged on and took the gel in true beaches-of-Normandy fashion. It was time for me to puke. A graceful puke. Deliberate. Honed in undergrad, now of doctoral quality. Reality set in, this was not going to be an A race. It was going to be a suffer fest. Thing is, I was trained for a sufferfest. Hello darkness my old friend.
EEG Nuerofeedback therapy is essentially scientific meditation. An electrode is placed at various points of your skull and the micro-volts of activity are measured at each region of the brain. After an injury the activity of the brain is dysregulated. Through meditation the activity of various regions of the brain can be controlled. The brain, like a muscle, can be trained and through long training new connections are made to the basic structure of the brain. I found that rocking myself in a cradle of affirming thoughts yielded the best results. “You’re okay, keep going, everything is okay.” From mile 10 on this race was run in my mind. All of my race-planning was gone. I just had to keep it all together, “can you hear me major Tom?”. The legendary Wellesley College is at the half point (students give out kisses to marathon runners) I was expecting girls gone wild, it was not like that. I did see one person get a kiss. I thought about puking in front of them. I hurried it along and got it out before I got too close to the horde. To be honest the cheering here was very over-hyped, but it was before noon. Get to Newton. I wanted a climb, I wanted an excuse to change my pace and go slow. I was running ugly, completely out of control physically. I kept my thoughts trained on happy and powerful memories. Running barefoot in the summer. Fresh grass and dew. Willowood. The E-town fair. Cast parties. Sneaking out. Running home at night. Rollerblading all day. Ridgeview ice cream, cake decorations, butter milk. A steep downhill at mile 16 welcomes you into the infamous town of Newton. Which known for a race-make or break three climbs that culminate in heartbreak hill and mile 21. Time to go to work.
No one works harder than Jackie. She operates at a standard that I can’t wrap my head around, and she pulls it off. Her resolve is unwavering and she can get it done. During my training I watched her deal with a nagging injury that built and eventually stopped her from running an A-race in March. She had built a mountain, then there was no mountain. Her loss melded well with my training cycle and I started to commit to more of my training. I stayed well on schedule and felt my resolve harden . Her strength completed the training cycle for me. I went into the race with the hope to honor her specifically in Newton. I wanted to run this section right. And I did. By this point I was battered. I poured every cup of water on my head as I ran through aid stations. Swishing gatorade, still puking my mile 16 gel. The race narrowed in my mind and focused on the yellow lines of the road and just let it all happen. Hills are great, the ground meets your foot sooner. Your form is different, full body, more like a swimming stroke. I made it a point to enjoy Newton, and I did. After heartbreak there is a very generous downhill. It’s really freaking fast.
I was still puking about every other mile. My stomach was just totally off kilter. 10k to go. The immediate downhill after heartbreak is a bit deceiving. I thought I was going to have the kick of my life, my stride was back and I was feeling aggressive again.
Turns out that was just a false sense of confidence spurred on by the decent. The crowd support from here on out is just insane. Walls of people. At this point my legs were pretty shot up, but not destroyed. At one point I took a few steps and felt that sweet stinging pop of the blisters bursting on my toes. The sting helps to keep a nice cadence in your step. It’s not a serious pain. My groin was tightening up too, I was breaking down. I just held it together. I wanted to run a sub-40min 10k to close, but I didn’t. At this point it was just all about maintaining. The end was near. Puke at mile 25. Right on Hereford left on Boylston. Empty the tank. The race is over. 2:55:30. Somehow I was able to still run a PR.
My Dad always thought of himself as a great hockey player. We even once road tripped up to his old boarding school to see a trophy with his name on it. Athletics gave him something. He left home at 11 and lived away from his parents at boarding school. He loved this, didn’t see it as sad at all. Sports, football, hockey, and lacrosse became his caregiver. Validation and acceptance came through athletic achievement. It’s no surprise that when it came time to parent me he looked to sports again. I cannot remember a time without athletics and it has shaped my life too. Guiding me, discipling me, educating me, giving me the space to figure it out on my own. I can see now that he loved me the way he was loved, the only way he knew how. Even though he is gone his love is still here, my next race is in December.
