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
