A Boston Story
Few races possess the aura of Boston. Since I started running road races in 2003, The Boston Marathon was a race that seemed out of reach. This was a race that only the best runners in the world could run (unless you raise money for a charity, or unless you’re Will Ferrell). It was like a special club, and I dreamed of being a member. On April 21st, 2008, I became a member of that club. And membership is sweet.
Before I even got to Boston, I’d been given a novel’s worth of advice. Go on the Duck Tour. Visit Boston Common. See Fenway Park. Eat here, shop there. I managed to do just about everything on my list, and when food was concerned, I went overboard. Carb-loading is the best thing in the world when going to Bova’s Bakery in the North End. The Cracker Jacks at Fenway also proved to be useful, as did a large box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Trust me, it works wonders.
On race day I woke up at 5:00AM, and my dad drove me to the finish line just after 6:00. For those that don’t know, buses take runners from Boston to Hopkinton starting at 6:00. What I didn’t know was that the buses didn’t leave from the finish line. They left from Boston Common. It was roughly 6:30 by the time I got to the buses, and then had to wait in line for another 30 min. But, the organization was great. After one line of buses left, another was ready and waiting to take on passengers. The bus ride took longer than expected due to heavy traffic. Once I got to Hopkinton and the Athlete’s Village, I had all of 30 min before being called to the start line.
Here’s another example of GREAT organization. You’re given a red bag for your belongings. You put a sticker with your bib number on it, and put in your warm ups, a change of clothes, anything you’ll need. Then you give your bag to people on buses marked for your bib number. Mine was 3864, and my bag went on a bus for #3500-3999. Once filled, those buses drive to Boston and are waiting for you at the finish line. So once you finish, you find your bus, get your bag, and you’re on your way. Clock work.
Once I ditched my bag, I had more walking to do. I walked at least a mile along Hopkinton’s roads until I reached the start line. Once there, I walked around a bit taking in the scenery. Hopkinton is like a little historical town. Think Granbury, if you’ve been there. Right next to the start line was a little festival, complete with games and carnie food. True to Yankee form, funnel cakes were called Fried Dough. YES!
Now, up until this point, the sky was overcast. I didn’t give it much thought as a result. Apparently, no one else did either. About 30 min before the start, the clouds started to break. Once I saw that, I went on a hunt for sunscreen. First Aid stations, Firemen, spectators. No one had sunscreen. After my initial amazement, I just accepted that I was getting burned. And burned I got. My shoulders and nose got the worst, and now I have wonderful tan lines where my singlet covered me.
So, the national anthem is played (F-22s flew over!), and the gun went off. Now, up until this point, I’ve only done White Rock. Last December 4000 people did that marathon. Here, 25,000+ runners registered. At the start, it was wall to wall people. The first 4 miles were downhill, and from that vantage point, all I saw was bobbing heads. This mass of people didn’t really thin out until mile 18, after the first nasty hill. Up until then, if you needed to stop for any reason, you were guaranteed to hit someone making your way to the road side. Even at the finish, the pack was huge.
Crowd support was another amazing aspect of this race. 500,000 people come out to watch and cheer the runners on. Even in a small town like Hopkinton, the crowd support was better than White Rock. I don’t think there was a single person at home. Young and old, spectators lined the streets hoping to get a high five. Even though I lost time doing so, I was happy to oblige and spread some marathon cheer.
I initially didn’t plan on going more than 7:30s. Well, that idea got thrown out early. I started out going 6:45s (downhill the first 4 miles), and tried slowing down every time I caught myself going that fast. Once the road flattened, I started going anywhere from 7s to 7:10s. Eventually I accepted that my body didn’t want to go 7:30s. It wanted to go faster, and I had to listen. Once I realized that I could qualify for Boston 2009, I simply shut up and let my body do the talking.
At mile 12, we came up on Wellesley College, a girls school. The students are notorious for being the loudest crowd along the entire course, and they earned their stripes on Monday. I could hear them 5 min before I saw them. Now, the “rule” is that you have to kiss the girls. Not being one to break rules, I lost some significant time at Wellesley College.
Along the way we went up and down slight hills, none of which were very difficult. Mile 16 put a stop to that. Here began a series of four hills over four miles, each without much of a break before the next began. I probably lost 30 sec on each hill, and barely had enough time to catch my breathe before the next. Heartbreak Hill was the last of the four, and by the time I had conquered it, I was convinced that I’d start crying if I had to go up another.
Once Heartbreak was over, I was running on pure determination. My hamstrings and calves were on fire and wanted to quit, but I simply told myself that I’ll rest when I’m done. As the huge Citgo sign came into view a couple miles out, I was giving everything I had left. I turned on to Boylston St and saw my father cheering me on at the corner, and that gave me the drive to gun it the last half mile to the finish. My pace was sub-5 min/mile as I crossed the finish line, and as I looked at my watch, I saw 3:08.
Once I crossed, I didn’t have time to reflect. Volunteers herded me towards water, foil, medals, and food bags, and 2.5 blocks later, I finally sat down and smiled. I’d finished Boston, that unicorn that seemed so out of reach five years earlier. Later on I celebrated with my family at dinner, and then, sore and sunburned, I crawled into bed a happy man. I knew that I’d run a great race that day, and I’d be coming back in 2009.
--Nick Beers
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The Runner’s Soul
By Lorri Allen
I may not run with a group in Atlanta yet, but I run with people every Saturday morning. The five-mile loop around beautiful Stone Mountain gets crowded early, and the joggers/walkers/dogs/cyclists are as interesting to behold as the birds, carvings and flowers.
So today, in an effort to avoid a human traffic jam, I jumped off the sidewalk and ran on the ground near the mountain side of the trail. It was a mistake. I tripped over a tree root and crash… bam… in slow motion I thought, “I can’t avoid this fall.” And I tumbled, rolled and stopped.
“Are you OK?” two women asked in unison.
“Fine,” I smiled, knowing they wanted to be on their way. But I wanted to cry, “No! Come help me up!” If I were with the Running Family, someone would’ve offered a hand and lots would’ve offered advice. But alone and missing Texas, I knew the quicker I rose, the better I’d be. I had dirt from shoulder to ankle on one side and blood trickling off my elbow and knee. I was unaware of it, though, until the next woman I passed asked, “Did you fall?”
I smiled again, “I wrestled a big bear.” She was past me then, but I imagined she smiled, too.
A worry was that my husband, who was walking the loop in the opposite direction, would come upon me before I could wash up. He gets crazy when I am clumsy and threatens to make me quit running. But I finished the loop and found a restroom to wash the evidence away before I encountered him. He didn’t even notice anything amiss. I ran another loop, a little slower than usual, starting to feel the damage.
I’m scraped, a little swollen, and I’ll probably be sore tomorrow. But you know, I’ve had worse falls and worse abrasions. As a runner it’s not if, it’s when you will fall, and it’s not how many times you fall, but how many times you run again.
And aren’t falls like life? They offer many lessons: We need to be a little more careful when we get off the regular path. And perhaps when someone offers help, we can be quicker to accept. It might be smarter to run with friends. And husbands will be less anxious to threaten if they see no scary evidence to make them worry. But the biggest lesson of all… we will fall sometime--whether it’s a breakup, job loss, car crash or illness--but will we get back up on the trail and keep going?
Standing left to right: Jennie Atkins, Sam Caricato, Annetta Maxwell, Lie Testa, Sophia Mitchell, Steve Stahl, Jennifer Bonner, Carla Mullen, Doug Newell, Darrel Mitchell, Richard Postma, Lori Shea, Carol Murray, Laura Wilson, Tela Isik, Mitzi Ellington, Marilyn Menchaca. Sitting left to right: Curt Holliday, Nancy Templin holding the Family Pie, Louise Weston-Ferrill, Rosemary Holliday.
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