So I just finished “A la Reserche du Temps Perdu”. Memory is on my mind.

Sometime in the Spring, I’d been talking to my friend Geoff about his qualifying for the Boston marathon. I was impressed. Qualifying for Boston is the gold standard of the urban Everest, a marathon. You don’t just run Boston, you have to qualify by running a marathon within a certain time. Geoff and I are about as evenly matched as we can be in athletics. I said to myself, if Geoff can do that I should be able to as well. Cheek comes naturally. And so with Nicole, a friend of many years biking in France, as my training partner and race buddy, the goal was set. Using a training program published in Runner’s World as a guide we set out (virtually - she lives in Sun Valley) to train over a four month period for a marathon where we would both qualify for Boston. Scheduling issues had us chose a course in Healdsburg. Not ideal as I knew the course to be less than flat but better than the alternatives it seemed.

August found Nicole in San Francisco and together we did a couple of long weekend runs out to Tiburon (it is just 18 miles from where I live making a ferry ride back to the city a great day trip). From there Saturdays were occupied by running with Jane, Rhonda, and Cathy and the rest of the Nike Women's training crew. I found it almost easy getting out to the Marina Green by 8AM on Saturday mornings for those runs despite what-have-you the night before. For those long weekend runs (up to 4 hours), company is key. That the Nike group set up water and food stations through out the training course also helped. Finding food and water “out there” is a hassle. Just ask Nicole. There are no supported training runs in Sun Valley.

Race Day was October 11. On the Tuesday before, I hear from Nicole that she was not joining me in part because of the challenges of running all those training runs on her own. I was on my own. Discouraged to say the least, I kept to my plan. Wednesday, I biked the course I would be running on Sunday. Good thing! It turned out that it was far hillier than described or I’d imagined. There is a fourth category: lies, damn lies, statistics, and a race director’s definition of flat. There was no way that I could run the course within the time cut-off for Boston, 3:30. So over a glass of wine (Healdsburg is in wine country after all) after my ride I weighed my options. 1) Run here and try to qualify in a couple of months at everyone’s favorite qualifier in Sacramento, Cal International, 2) Fly to Long Beach and run the flat urban race there, or 3) Drive to Susanville and run the Bizz Johnson marathon, a course reputed to be pretty good despite being on dirt (which tends to slow you down) and between 4,500’ and 5,500’ in elevation.

With no time, things had to be made to work. The race in Susanville was not full Thursday evening and I found a hotel room (Best Western Trailside -props are due: they let runners shower there after the race), almost instantly. Done, decision made. Except that Friday morning when I went to actually register for the run, I learned that registration was now offline! I would have to go to Susanville (five hours by A4, 1.8T) to see if I could get in. What if it filled up before I got there? And five hours in a car by myself when I am feeling like this? I posted on Facebook for someone to keep me company to no avail. I was on my own.

The drive up the back side of the Sierras north of Reno on Saturday was beautiful. The mountains looked like Middle Earth. Arriving in Susanville, Kelly called to wish me luck with the race in Healdsburg. “Err, I'm in Susanville and I need to see if I can get in.” I did. Leaving registration I saw a couple getting out of an Aston Martin. Nice way to go to a marathon. (I saw them the next day with Alanis Morissette who’d run the marathon as well finishing in 4:17.) Then I run into Samantha, an acquaintance from San Francisco I’d last seen at the Salt Lake City airport a couple of years before. Yes, the running world is small: Sunday I see another friend from my Bay swimming days.

Before going to sleep that night (after dinner at Susanville institution Rose's) I plugged in my GPS watch to recharge. About 4 AM I woke realizing that I'd left the timer running, which meant it wasn't recharging. Corrected that. When I woke I realized it still hadn't charged: the outlet was connected to the room switch which had been off all night. Problem: it is the slowest charging device I've ever seen. Bigger problem: I knew that with only 500 or so entrants there was no chance there'd be a pace group (in the big races there are people running pace for people interested in achieving a certain pace). That and the fact that it was the only watch I had with me made the probability of my being able to run 26 8-minute miles approximately zero.

With no other options, I let the watch charge while getting ready. My friend Lani texted me good luck. From the bedside information booklet I learned that the trail for the run was sponsored by Rails-to-Trails, a not-for profit supporting the conversion of old railroad tracks to recreational trails that Bet, my mother, had been a big champion of. It occurred to me that perhaps I wasn’t on my own.

At 7:30, the watch battery was 35% full, not enough to rely on for length of the race and I had to get to the start. All the great messages in the world weren’t going to solve that issue. It was then I remembered that in my car was an inverter which converted 12V cigarette lighter power to 110V (years ago my friend TJ had given it to me – I’d never thought I'd never used it but there it was). I plugged it in for the 5 minute ride to the start. Battery charge was 37 % when I arrived. Wait! The bus that takes us to the start (26 miles away on a pretty twisty road) must have cigarette lighter plug! It did, and over the 1/2 hour plus drive the battery got up to 50%. The dawn was beautiful.

About 8:50, we left the bus (it was maybe 40 degrees outside so hanging in the bus was great) and approached the start. The organizer, famed for his crotchetiness, called those interested in qualifying for Boston, to come up to the start line. That was my goal: I followed his direction.

The start was the lowest key start I can remember. Something like, "Ok. go." And I was off, running to Boston. Along with 450 or so others. The first few miles are gradually uphill. I hardly noticed. My main thought was to keep it slow. Everyone had told me, "Don't run fast when you start. It will feel great but every second you run fast then you will regret later." The GPS told me my pace. GO slow, Dave. Ugh. Hard to run slow when you feel great and every one around is running like the wind. Soon, maybe by mile 8, I found no one really around me. I was on my own, again.

The miles went by pleasantly though. The trail was in great condition, the trees and weather perfect. I need not much more. The miles went by. At miles 4, 10, 14, 18, and 22 I ate a Gu. Water was available every two miles. No stopping: just a cup, the top squished together so the water wouldn’t so readily splash out as I ran along. Not a few spectators were surprised when I asked them to take my cups long after most runners had abandoned theirs. The miles passed under foot without complaint.

Around mile 14 or so a number of people passed me. I kept reminding myself, the race begins at mile 20, and let them pass. It worked. I think I caught all of them before the finish. At mile 20 there was a small dip as we went around a burned out bridge. Even that small hill hurt. I don't think I ever fully recovered. (But I did pat myself on the back for choosing this race – the one in Healdsburg would have been brutal). Concentration was getting difficult. "Keep your pace, Dave." It wasn't easy. At mile 21 or so are a couple of tunnels. They are dark, lit by small lanterns. Vertigo after the bright sun hit me. A few words are exchanged with the occasional person nearby. That's about it. Mile 23 my heart rate begins to spike to 170, close to my max. It didn't occur to me until later that that this was the classic sign of dehydration. The now noonday sun is strong at 4,500’. I can’t think of anything except trying to keep my pace up. I knew it was going to be close. I messed up on the display on my watch and couldn’t see my elapsed time, just individual mile splits. Had we started at 9 exactly? If so…I ran the calculations as best I could. It was going to be a close thing. I’d have my PR (personal record) but would I make Boston? Funny, with the exhaustion the thought of not making Boston didn’t bother me much. How deranged was I? Still, I didn’t want to disappoint my friends. I dig deep.

Mile 26. I pour it on. It isn’t much but I get my mile split down to 8:10. It is all I can do. All those 7:50-something miles previously better be enough. I’ve been gaining on a couple of guys but won’t catch them now. The course turns onto a small path into a grove of immense trees. A few people clap and cheer. There is the line! 3:29 and change. I cross at 3:29:33. Boston!

All rights reserved by the author. October 2009, August 2010

Boston Marathon

3:29:47

The three blood blisters on my toes will go too eventually, along with one or two toenails, the last physical vestiges of the run, at least for my body. My quadriceps are now, a week later, almost better. Stairs down have lost their sting. The memories began to fade in earnest Thursday, rudely pushed aside by a classroom of grade-thirsty students, a letter of termination and the cramped anticipation of the plane back to SFO.

But there it was, 3:29:47, 14 seconds off my previous best marathon time, and good enough to qualify me for Boston in 2011. At the finish was a finch squawking congratulations incongruously from his perch inside the support of a surveillance camera, the only possible refuge on the otherwise inhospitable wall of an office tower, enough to make me smile. It was a feat.

The scene at the finish line was orchestrated beautifully. With 25,000-odd runners coming in you needed organization. The buses which contained our bags were strung out in numerical order at the end of the food stands garlanded with only bananas and hard bagels. The plastic foil sheets, and our hard earned finisher’s medals were handed out by armies of dazed volunteers. I was about the 7,000th person to cross the line. Their day was not yet half through.

I crossed the finish line spent but elated. The last stretch on Boylston St. seemed long. It always does. At the end of a race like that my world is very small. Maybe a person near me comes into focus but only enough for me to avoid them. The rest is a fog. The finish line itself I only remember from photos. At this point though I was able to run close to 8 minute miles. Better than at Bizz Johnson where I’d qualified. Experience matters.

There were a few little ramps in the road over the last couple of miles, in a car you wouldn’t notice them. I felt them acutely. I was done with up.

The done had happened earlier. Miles 21, 20 and 18 had all been at least 15 seconds slower than my desired 8 minute mile pace. They are hilly miles and the downhill part are the worst, eating into your strength with the illusion of ease. Your quads never again have the same spring to them. The ups were really nothing, especially since I’d spent many training miles focusing on just that in the Presidio. The sky was overcast by now, the Eastern weather proving its ability to change in the space of a couple of hours.

At Wellesley, where Bet went to college, I got a kick from a stranger. I stopped to kiss one of the many, many girls screaming at full volume with signs begging to be kissed. I’d been warned by my friend Julianne to not do so but I couldn’t just run by, could I?

In the miles between 12 and 1, the course winds through a number of small towns, forests and ‘burbs. The sun was out, a cool breeze blowing: a classic New England Spring day. The trees were in early bud, waiting perhaps for 27,000 runners to pass before they jump out in full bloom celebrating our feat? The crowds here were thinner here than towards the finish but still just as energetic. The tradition is to hold your hand out to get a friendly 5 from the runners. I’d given up by mile 15 but in the early miles I tagged a few. I almost went back at about mile 3 to tag an old invalid woman in front of a hospital I’d passed before seeing. She looked so forlorn there with so many people around, her hand out and no obvious connection with runners or others. It wasn’t the first time I would choke up on that run. Running with so many others is a weird thing. Few really see you as an individual. Those that I could connect with I did. A quick look in the eye, a pointed finger and a smile. It worked both ways. But mostly you are on your own. Just part of the stream.

One of the most notable aspects about the first few steps in the run is that everyone is running the same pace, eliminating the usual bump and weave of most running races. There is a downhill section immediately after crossing the start line, marked by the drone of beeps indicating that your timing chip attached to your shoes was registering. It took about 10 minutes to get there from where my group’s staging corral was located. Each corral contains people with approximately the same qualifying time, allowing that even paced start.

As pair of F-15s buzzed overhead at the end of the national anthem, I ditched the last of my extra clothing to the gathering pile on the side of the road. I would run with only gloves and arm warmers as extra protection. The rest of my clothes had been packed up and dropped off. Good thing I had them though: the 2 hour wait before the start had been cold. Fortunately, it’d been sunny and I’d heeded the advice of friends to bring a plastic sheet to keep the damp from the lawn at bay. It’d been a cold time but wearing everything I had and lying down I’d enjoyed as much of the sun as possible and stayed out of much of the wind. I knew a few friends might be there at the start but I wanted my quiet and stayed anonymous.

The flotilla of buses lined along the edge of Boston Commons were a sight to behold. After being loaded, they left in waves of 20 or so for Hopkinton. Waiting to board were legions of very fit people, I among them. The atmosphere buzzed with the nerves of runners in the early morning light. The anticipation was physical. I was going to run Boston!

David


All rights reserved by the author. April 2010