Happy TaxDay in Boston

The Boston Marathon, April 15th, 2002

Reported by Steve Thorne
See more race reports

This is the 106th edition of the Boston Marathon and incredibly, only the 30th year in which women (including pregnant women!) have been officially allowed to compete.

Boston, where the public is well transported, where Cuban sandwiches are to die for, where there appears always to exist a tingle of excitement. Cecilia and I are staying with Krissy D in Cambridge a block from the Charles River and 6 blocks from Harvard Square. It is sunny and warm. A massive and pleasant dog ("Wally") greets us each time we leave the apartment. The sliver of the Boston area we see is viscerally idyllic.

10:30 a.m.
It's foggy and in the low 50s after a night of hard rain. It is patriot's day, a holiday only celebrated in the commonwealth of Massachusetts and the state of Maine. Roughly fifteen thousand people are preparing to run. An equal or greater number of co-participants are in Hopkinton for the pretzels, hamburgers, cotton candy, and to witness the start of the historic spectacle of a 26.2 mile run. The athletes' village is comprised of vendors and open spaces of wet grass. I wander toward the clothes bag drop off -- to a fleet, literally a fleet, of yellow school buses brought down from Maine for this purpose. An adolescent garage band playing metal and grunge is set up in a driveway. Elsewhere, locals are sitting on their porches and yelling abuses at runners who pee in their bushes.

The entryway to a closed office building provides an unpretentious venue to hang out in relative comfort. I lie down and kick my legs up onto the wall for 45 minutes, intermittently dozing and chatting with other runners similarly huddled on the cement floor and away from the fray. I feel okay but wonder if my legs will come around after a cranker run in the mountains of Salt Lake City the week before. It was a silly exuberance to indulge, but the trails and canyons there were too compelling.

Strip, lube, drop the bag at the bus, and I'm in my start coral at 8 minutes before the gun. My number is auspicious -- 2442. Very symmetrical, very Buddhist-numerologically hip. 2 and 2 are 4 (the 4 noble truths), 4 and 4 are 8 (the 8 fold path), 2-4-4-2 forms a cycle producing the numerical equivalent of an onomatopoeia of samsara. I'm feeling lucky, and a bit tired, but focusing on the lucky part.

Running, 12 noon
Noon -- this is a sane time for a running race to start! The gun sounds and we stand still waiting for the forward movement of the few thousand runners in front to draw us out onto the course. The first miles are descending and flat and offer a gentle warm-up. I've never done such a big marathon and running with so many other people is both exciting and a hassle. It's an activity somewhere between that of a distance runner and a half-back threading through defensive linemen. By mile 3 the pace settles out and there's space to move. Annoyingly, my mind keeps coming back to projects I need to complete -- working out a structure for a paper, email I need to respond to, solutions to problems. Eventually I am released and can attune myself to this fabulous event.

By mile 8, we are past the last significant "Massachusetts sauvage" green space and are moving through residential neighborhoods, town centers, and full on urban landscapes. Mile 13.1, the magic halfway point, passes and my legs still feel flat. I'm beginning to wonder if the 6:45 pace I've been holding is too fast. It shouldn't be, but legs have a mind of their own and can only be coerced so far. A mile later, my left calf starts to burn and my energy ebbs. There is not much to do other than continue forward. Surprisingly and happily, the situation doesn't deteriorate. I've been engaging my key running metaphor (cheesy as it may be -- it works for me) whenever I can remember to do so -- flow like water -- followed by relaxing my brow and shoulders, consciously smoothing out my stride, lifting my torso, and raising my gaze to the horizon. Somewhere along this stretch we pass Wellesley University where thousands of co-eds are holding signs promising PG rated activity: "I'm a senior, kiss me!", "Stop here for kisses", "Kisses for Californians". I pass up these innocent offers from nubile Wellesleyans and this demonstration of moral fortitude adds energy to my heretofore heavy legs. The Wellesleyans are by far the most boisterous of the marathon fans. They scream, hoot, and howl and their eyes are a-glint with fervor. The volume of their appreciative (and shrill) cries actually drives me to the far side of the course and my right ear rings for some minutes.

Miles 16 through 20.5 mark the up and down section and culminate with the infamous heart-break hill. My heart does not in fact break and I feel quite good through this section as my legs finally come around. Jim S, a cycling buddy from State College (with whom I'll do a duo 24 hour mountain bike race in June), is positioned halfway up the hill and we exchange shouts. He'd ridden on the closed running course from Boston out to Hopkinton earlier in the morning and had then turned around and ridden back along the course until the cops finally pulled him at mile 15 -- imagine riding 40 miles along Boston's more famous avenues traffic free!

Cresting heart-break, with roughly 10k to go, it's time to take the risk of increasing the pace to the maximum I can sustain through to the finish. My two most recent (and fastest) marathons have been just over 2:59 and I am determined to improve this time. The final 10k is flat or slightly descending and provides an ideal finishing stretch. We're in Boston proper now and as I move past Boston College, I catch site of Cecilia jumping up and down with a huge grin on her face. This charges me up and the race to the finish is on.

It's difficult to tell if I'm accelerating or others are slowing down from fatigue, but whichever is the case, I am steadily passing large numbers of runners. A growing number of walking runners are visible which I am discouraged to see. Having put in great runs up to this point, I feel they ought to finish with a good time as we're so relatively near the end.

The sun is out, the BBQs are on, the beer is flowing, and the crowds are heavy. Bostonians are in celebration of Spring (this is the first nice weather weekend of the year, so we are told) and the passing of endless moronic marathoners provides a reason to holler with vein bursting intensity. The final few miles are run on heavy legs but the pace doesn't suffer overly. Rounding the final bend the finish line is in view along the deliriously open expanse of Boylston Avenue. The massive banners throw off the scale of things and make the finish seem closer than is the case. It is only when the timing clock is clearly visible that the close to this effort is tangible.

Timing mats never looked so good. Decelerating, a muggy warmth suffocates and leaves me unsteady. But I'm done running and can take as long as I need to adjust to the ambulatory pace of everyday life.

This is my fastest marathon to date. Given the undulations of the course, I'm pleased and hope to return next year with more lively legs.

 

Addendum on in-race nutrition/fuel
I tried more frequent feeds and this worked well. I used CarbBOOM, a sports gel product, and took one at approximately 35 minute intervals. My friend Tanya C, a nutritionist, suggested slowly consuming each packet over a 1/2 mile period, then washing it down with water. This seemed to work better than what I've done in the past -- taking larger amounts less frequently. I also took electrolyte pills on the hour and this appeared to mitigate cramping (which I felt coming on at mile 14 but which never materialized in incapacitating intensity).