BOSTON ROYALTY

In 2012 I had analyzed every weather station a week before the race, each time with an incresingly sinking stomach.  Predictions for record warmth of 75f would make the PR I had trained in 14f degree impossible.  Each day the prediction rose until a day before the charts showed glaring sunshine and an inconceivable 87f at the race start in Hopkinson.  It became known as the Broilerthon of 2012.

This year I watched the weather charts which showed a row of beautiful foggy clouds and 52f, every day.  Every day that is, except for Marathon Monday, where a disgustingly jolly orange sum emoji was firmly placed with 70f slapped over it.  This time heading into the race with only a month's training I could care less.  The sun would shine on everyone the same, the 3 1/2 hours waiting at the Marathon Village would be more fun in the warm, and as there was no time to shoot for, so no disappointment to be had.

Sure enough we sprawled out in early spring sunshine enjoying a nap before our 10:50 am wave.  We had been entertained by all of the characters on the bus.  Bronson Venables who was setting out to run only his second marathon but had planned on running 2:20 and at mile 26 having the flexibility and composure to adopt a runner's lunge and locate the diamond ring he would use to propose to his fiancee Kate, who would then have a maximum of 30 seconds to reply before he hit the finish line.  A man who had paid $10,000 for a charity bib to fulfill his dream of running this race.  The atmosphere was celebratory and marvelous.

As we walked out to the corrals I bumped into many friends from California, it seemed like a giant party of runners.  However this was our first time back since the bombing and some things had changed.  Like in airports we were only allowed a gallon zip lock bag with everything needed prior to the race in terms of food or sun screen.  In 2012 we had deck chairs and back packs!  there was no hopping off the bus and into the bushes to pee, instead security guided us in long lines along a predetermined route so lines to the porta potties were 45 minutes or more.

Gazing up at the rooftops there were military garbed snipers above our heads.  The runners roared a cheer and waved to the gun men working to ensure our safety. I turned to Q-Less and Merciless, easy to pick out in our vintage 2010 shocking pink and reminded them that I was running alone and not to wait for me.  They were trained, I was not, and I firmly believe that you are born alone, die alone and should always race alone. They were good enough friends to respect it and not demure. The air already felt hot and heavy and my two training runs were not enough to really know what my race pace should even be.  My snazzy new Garmin had an attack of the jitters the day before and the heart rate monitor was now defunct and the watch had lost over an hour of time during the night.  Merciless had helped me revive the darn thing the night before in the hotel - but all trust  and love was gone.  My garmin and I were taking a break.   I decided to run entirely by feel, cautioning myself not to go out too hard in the first downhill 5 miles, the watch might record it might not but I wouldn't be able to trust it.

Paradoxically there was no chance of a fast start.  The race was so crowded an energetic elbow from the side turned the watch off completely.  Then my deranged 235 started a .5 mile split - we were officially no longer on speaking terms.  Plus the race clock was not relevant to our  10:50 plus 6 minute wave start even if I could do that much mental math.

At a mile and a half I watched the hot pink shirts of my friends disappear into the throng and instantly relaxed.  In control of the pace and able to stop for drenching water on my head whenever I needed to I felt much calmer.  I heard my training friend Kristin shout out hello, and responded, but almost two seconds later had to head out of the way of the intense traffic of the aid station, losing her immediately.  I wasn't feeling particularly social anyway.

The crowd out in Hopkinton was noisy, the crowds 5 miles in were noisier still.  It is hard not to get excited in this race when you are being willed along by the locals.  It was a day vacation for them, the first day of spring break, the sun was shining and the college kids were well into their 3rd beer of the day.  So many hands to high five, or 'touch here for power' signs - its hard to resist, but resist you must or you could add hours to your running time.  Before I saw it I heard the wall of sound that is Wellesley. The tradition of the all female college students giving kisses to the runners is well entrenched, and there were hoards of young girls with signs and banners inviting the runners to stop and kiss them.  I had been pretty focused until now, but somehow hitting the half way mark and its cacophany of sound required a momentary celebration.  I scanned the side of the street for 100m and there he was.  A cute brunette in his early twenties with a promising sign 'Kiss me I'm a Wellesley Virgin' - I peeled off for a brief moment and landed him a giant smack on the cheek that made him blush.  I heard the 65 year old runner behind me laughing and shout ' you Go Girl' and with that we carried on our way.

For me the race really began at mile 16 when the hills of Newton rose into sight.  My focus was staying in good shape until there.  Keeping an even effort I finally saw the 16 mile sign, and also  right in front of it was the first casualty, a reminder of the caution with which you approach the marathon distance.  A stretcher was whisking away a female runner, prostrate in pain, with sheets drawn up to her chin being delicately carried into the ambulance.  It was starting to get real for a lot of these runners.  The hills are not hard or high, but they do come at a difficult place in the race.  If you have run the downhills too fast, or if you have stuck to your goal training pace despite the spike in temperatures this is where you might start to unravel.  Strewn ahead of me on the road were discarded bags of ibuprofen, dropped head phones, all kinds of detritus that runners decided was no irrelevant to their efforts.

I had been using the side of the road to keep my pace steady, but now the odd walker was using that spot to keep out of the crowds.  There was still ten miles to go.....  At mile 18 I felt happy when I passed the spot that I had dropped out in 2012 due to heat.  I was still doing OK. I hadn't taken the bus yet.  Mentally I kept telling myself all I had to do was get to mile 21 when the last hill, Heartbreak, would end, the race would flatten out and the cooling headwind would bring a drop in temperatures as we moved towards Boston and the coast. I hit 21 and had to double check that I had passed Heartbreak Hill, it felt kind of small - that was a good sign.  The last four miles the cheering was unreal.  There is no way any walker or runner can not finish the race, no wonder 97 percent finish, that 3 per cent were in the medical tent.  My pace held steady and I could hear the crowds rhythmic cheer of 'ruth, ruth, ruth' like a constant drum beat - a single syllable name is a gift for this race if you put it in big letters on your shirt.  I could hear ' Ruth, you look great' then as I passed I heard 'no she really does',  as I was able to stride past without the usual dinosaur heavy legs you get at mile 23.  I finally got close to the Citgo sign and knew I could pick up my pace.  Running down the middle of the road I was reminded of the first time I had run Boston, falling apart with roaring in my ears and dizziness Q-less had grabbed my water bottle, told me to lock step and mentally guided me through the last mile before I truly fell apart.

I was happy to finish alone, and was excited to see my friends at the end, we had agreed to meet by the Westin so I was already thinking how to get to them.  But up ahead I caught a comforting glimpse of hot pink and saw a chink of the back of Merciless's shirt.  I was so happy to see her and knew that we could share the moment of finishing together, that I ran right behind and grabbed her arm in the air.  We took off together and had a touching moment as we cross the finish line in synch.  It doesn't matter how your race has been, sharing the finish is a very emotional moment and the best feeling in the world.

The minute I crossed the line things started to feel less than stellar.  The few guu chomps I had absorbed were feeling very uncertain in my stomach and somebody had inadvertently poured quick setting concrete down the back of both my legs which made my emergency visit to the porta potty wrestling with my silver cloak quite an operation....My dear friend Karen and Robin were a superb support crew wand chauffeured us off to the hotel despite crazy Boston road closures and traffic. Before I knew it I was sitting at the bar with a large Sam Adams, truffle fries and a lobster roll, having enjoyed a soak in a 5 foot deep bath tub in the room.

After a night of celebrations we got up late the next morning and headed to a tiny retro diner around the corner, The South Street Diner, to be warmly greeted by the owner insisting we were all comp'd our eggs benedict and posing us for photos for his facebook page.  Boston is a city that truly loves its race.   In other cities the locals moan about road closures, in Boston they treat you like a rock star.  As we all went our separate ways there was not one of us that didn't feel a foot taller, regardless of our race experience - Boston treats its runners like Royalty.  I can see why for many it is a lifetime goal to run this race.  Whether you fundraise for a charity, buy a bib, train hard and qualify or use it as an opportunity to propose to the love of your life, you should run this race. Boston was beautiful to all of us that day.

Taper Time, Trashcan Quarters and other such stuff

Wandering around in a slightly grubby bathrobe at 11 am after my last long run of my alarmingly brief training cycle, my husband raised an eyebrow as he took in my hunched form slurping from a large tumber of ruby red merlot looking liquid.  I am still not sure he believe me when I assured him it was my special anti-inflammatory sour cherry juice, and was clearly concerned the pyschological effects of too little training and one last terrible long run had finally driven me to day time drinking.

The biggest concern I really had about running Boston on so little training was actually whether I might just stop caring at a certain point.  This was Boston, a big deal, a race I have always loved. however you know the race is going to hurt, that is part of the experience, feeling that pain, but if you are untrained and you are going to run a personal worst, is it still worth the pain? A visiting friend advised me to set a shiny new goal - ie just finishing, but even that seemed a bit hollow.  Then after a Friday practice with the distance runners on the track team I had a more interesting revelation.

I had resurrected a workout I had heard of from Laurence's Middle School Coach back in Pennsylvania.  Coach Bialka was a young enthusiastic collegiate runner who was teaching English and keen to connect the kids to effort over result.  He had let them run 'unlimited 400's' they would begin with one and run at a pre-determined pace solely based on their race times until they added time, although they each had to do 5, they could easily tank the 6th one and be out of the workout,  Several of them did just that, but many went on.  I got an excited email from the Coach that evening telling me that Laurence and another boy had amazed him with their tenacity as they ran 7 seconds ahead of pace for a total of 16 laps, with only a short rest interval. He actually had to pull them in from the rain as practice should have been over half an hour ago and the rest of the watching team was anxious to leave. He wondered if he had been right to stop them, but he was worried about the  backlash if parents came to pick up kids and he still had them out on the track running in the rain in 7th grade.

So five years on I decided to try the same workout.  I had all the runners commit to doing 8 laps at their goal 2 mile pace, which was 15 - 30 seconds faster than their current two mile race time. After that if they were 5 seconds off pace they would have to stop but would stay to cheer on their team mates.  As the workout went on, my expectations kept shifting like quicksand.  I had produced charts to record the splits that had 16 boxes as a maximum - soon the volunteers were adding boxes within boxes as the team continued  far beyond the 16 required.  Suddenly I realized beating 16 was going to be possible for many of them. A few younger runners started to drop off, some that had been injured decided sensibly to bow out.  A freshman girl said she felt unwell so we dramatically dragged over a giant trash can and asked her if she had one more repeat; turns out she had 7 more  One boy fell to the ground in sheer disappointment and punched the ground in frustration as at 19 he was out and he had desperately wanted to get to 20.  The track got quieter as the sprinters and jumpers and hurdlers headed out for their Friday night entertainment.  Still we had 3 girls and 7 varsity boys still keeping pace, the other runners started to take bets on who would be victorious and win the gatorade for the last man or woman standing.  At 25 we started dropping the pace for the boys as we were worried this could go all night; they now had to run 2 seconds below their average pace for the workout, which was in some cases already ahead of pace.  At 20 we did the same for the girls and at 25 laps the girls jointly ground to a halt having completed an impressive 10k of 400m.  At 27 we dropped pace for the boys again by another 2 seconds, still they hung on. Finally at 31 we told the boys they were done; they did not drop out we had to stop them.  Many of those runners reported feeling levels of exhaustion and effort they had never felt before, but they were proud of their accomplishment and felt that they would always remember how tough they had been that day. Perhaps prouder than they had been of any race.

When I asked the team the next day what they would have done if  I had told them they were going to run 31 X 400m at an average of 70 seconds per lap getting increasingly fast they said they would have either thought it was Aprils Fools and laughed, or turned and fled the track.  Not one of them thought they would be capable of such a feat.  So why was it they all achieved such dizzying greatness on the track that night.  They had not considered further than one lap at a time.  They had moved as one large group, in a pack, with the same order repeated almost every time.  They were running not thinking in a hypnotizing, mesmeric moving meditation, without fear of how many more they would have to do.  At any point they could have dropped out or ran so slowly they were eliminated, but they chose to run each time.  There were occasions when one might end the quarter and say they were 'done' and but after the recovery jog of 200m they were back in it again.  Without being aware at the time it turns out they totaled over 13 miles on the track that day.They had eaten the elephant one bite at a time but they had no idea how enormous that elephant would turn out to be.

It made me realize that as runners we often pysch our selves out of races.  We consider too far ahead how much pain we might be in down the road; trying to project ahead instead of focusing on the here and the now.  I decided that was how I would run my most untrained Boston  - one mile at a time, not considering what might come next, nor worrying about how many miles I might or might not get to. Who knows maybe at 26.2  I might throw in a few cool down miles back to the hotel this time for a celebratory glass of cherry juice.