Last week marked three years since the bike crash that landed me in the hospital, forced me to withdraw from my first attempt at Ironman (resulting in this blog), and set me on a journey to overcome  a new, instantly, impact-initiated bike-phobia and to figure out what this body and mind are capable of. My crash-iversary has me reflecting on the physical and mental barriers I’ve overcome to get here. (Wherever here is; there’s no here here.) I’ve been thinking about how this sport forces me to do things that hurt, that I’m afraid of, and that I just don’t want to do – which sometimes makes it seem like a weird thing to choose as a hobby, I know. After the reflection I’ve come to the conclusion that whatever success I’ve had is a direct result of the years (decades!) I spent confronting and overcoming the same obstacles horseback riding. I learned as (really) little kid how to be afraid of something but do it anyway and I’m so grateful and fortunate for those lessons. (Ohmygosh readers if you’ve made it this far are you just bracing yourself for the overwrought self-examination to come??? Does my philosophical self-help waxing make you yearn for bathroom-focused posts of yore?)

Before  I go any further I’d like to address the equinephant in the room: horseback riding is absolutely the height of privilege. Money, geography, and a desire to keep one’s children away from 1500 pound animals with strong prey instincts are all obstacles that reasonably make riding off limits for many (most) kids. But the things I took away from growing up with horses and in the saddle are applicable to many types of sports or activities that push people past their comfort zones and require discipline to be any good. My parents made my passion for horses a reality for me, we had the means and the access, but they also made damn sure I knew how to muck a stall and got up everyday and rode even when I didn’t want to and got back on when I fell and was afraid to continue.

That fear factor I think was key to the journey I’m now on with cycling. We used to joke that horseback riding was a genetic disposition – it became apparent pretty early on which kids were unencumbered by the (rational) fear most have for horses. (Again, they’re huge and they’re afraid of squirrels.) Some kids in riding lessons just never get comfortable, and falling off was the great arbiter. Everyone falls; not everyone gets back on. It was obvious from the start (and I started at the age of 4 so it was an early start) that I lacked the (life-preserving) fear that held many back. And so I dedicated my childhood (and my parents’ early adulthood and income) to horses. But I still got scared ALL THE TIME.

Learning new skills like flying lead changes, jumping higher fences, riding a new green horse, taking on an intimidating course in a show are all really scary – even if you’re generally a confident equestrian. I didn’t want to make excuses or back away from a challenge though – riding taught me that if you don’t actually try the thing you’re afraid of you’ll regret it when you’re lying in bed later. And so I learned to push through that fear and in turn learned how amazing it feels when you try and succeed at the scary thing. And eventually that old scary thing isn’t so scary. Even into my teens I did often look wistfully at the soccer field across from the barn as my trainer jacked up the fences thinking of my sane friends whose sport wasn’t so life and death-y. But then I would make it over those fences – sometimes it was ugly and sometimes my horse would refuse and I would fall – but eventually I would make it and my momentary futbol inclinations would be quashed.

Not only did I fall frequently and get back on, my friends and I actually practiced falling so we could be safe as possible whenever it happened. My parents and trainers (one of whom is in fact in jail for murder but that’s another story) insisted when I fell I got right back on – sometimes through tears. That same murder-trainer once took my stirrups away for an entire year when I was about eleven which made everything harder and scarier, but ultimately gave me legs and glutes of steel.

Those steely legs and glutes and nerves did lead me to become a complete asshat when I moved to Atlanta as a teenager and I became known at my new barn as the kid (asshat) who would do anything bareback and even without a bridal. I used to take dares telling the other (privileged but less reckless) kids that anything they could do with a saddle and bridle I could do without. (The many concussions I’ve alluded to previously are starting to make more sense now, right?) I guess it’s possible to take a fear overcome too far…but I swear I had a point and it’s that early on in the journey sometimes it’s hard to imagine how far we might go.

Horses also taught me that I wouldn’t always enjoy the thing I loved – a counterintuitive and important lesson. I’m passionate about horses and I’m passionate about triathlon and sometimes I want nothing to do with either of those things. But those grumpy couch-inclined days are the ones that matter most. My mama made sure I went to the barn and rode when I didn’t want to. When it was snowing and so cold that it felt like my toes had disintegrated in my paddock boots, I went. When it was so hot that stuffy horseshows were forced to waive jacket requirements lest riders pass out, I rode. And when I was done I took care of my horse and put that animal’s needs before my own. (My ponies growing up, Suzy Q and Giddy, were the loves of my life much as Koopa Troop now is the recipient of many hugs and kisses. He doesn’t hug or kiss back though. But also he doesn’t spook at rodents and birds!)

Riding also taught me to get my ass out of bed before the sun. I didn’t like it then and I still hate my 4 and 5am alarms but I learned young how to do it and the rewards that discipline brings. (Nowadays I don’t even need my mom to come in and yell at me three times before I heed the wake up call!) Riding taught me to get dirty and live and function in the dirt and the sweat (and manure [and we all know how comfortable I am barefoot in porta potties now]) and not be self-conscious or prissy about it. As prissy as ponies may seem, there’s a lot of poop involved, and I also used to get paid to clean sheaths…look that one up if you have a sec and don’t believe me that riding is much less stuck up than you may think.

Riding taught me both humility and how to get over embarrassment. Like I said, I used to fall a lot – and that included in the show ring. I fell and cracked a rib in a show once – and I got back on and finished out the course despite the DQ I’d earned. (And despite the break because I’m bullheaded [read: an asshat.]) When I was eight I was competing in a cross country team event called a hunter pace and I let the crowd’s cheering for me as the smallest, youngest competitor there go to my head. My bitchy pony, Suzy Q, taught me a life lesson and bucked my ass right off in front of the crowds. At all of probably 3’6″ I had to figure out how to get back on in the middle of a field with a hundred people watching. Suzy wasn’t helpful but eventually I scrambled up after balancing on a jump. I have since then fallen off my bike in downtown DC, lost a wheel in a race, fallen off in my first 70.3, and in front of countless others. And I feel fine shrugging it off.

I could go on and on about the gifts riding has given me. (And if you have any horse people in your life you know it’s hard to get us to stop once we get going about ponies!) I’ll stop here though and conclude that those childhood lessons last a lifetime. I’ve heard some of my friends and colleagues who are parents recently discuss the virtues of having kids do lots of different activities vs one or maybe two really seriously – I vote the latter. Learning discipline early, and the rewards of trying and falling and getting back up are essential to grown up success. I still sometimes wish I had a hobby that wasn’t so scary, sometimes I think I’ll throw in the towel and stick to running  and stop pushing my limits so hard, and then inevitably I have a great ride or bust through a hard-to-get finish line and I know I’m not going anywhere. And when it comes to horses and bicycles, just do what my mom used to always say and try to keep one leg on either side. (And wear your helmet!)

 

3:50:34. Not my best day. (Not my worst – right smack in the middle of my [admittedly short] marathon career.) Considering all the math I’d been doing over the last five miles working out whether I could turn in something in the 3:forties it’s frustrating to have been 35 seconds off the mark. In my Tuesday morning quarter-backing it’s hard not to think I could have made up that time over 26.2 miles but then again, as I crossed the finish line I had less than nothing left.

I was in too much pain anyway to bemoan my time; I needed to focus on putting one foot in front of the other convincingly enough to deflect the attention of the race officials waiting with wheelchairs and medical transport. This was not easy.

Those last few miles had wrung every drip of functionality out of my quads and glutes – on both sides – and my left foot felt like a gnarled claw in my sneaker. Affecting a limpless, forward-moving gate took all my concentration.

A few meters after we were handed our medals and space blankets through the fog of right-left-right-left-be cool I heard someone shouting my name. I scanned the crowd and found my friend Jill – actually little sis to a college bestie. She lives in Boston and had kindly come out to cheer me and the other crazies on. Seeing a friendly familiar face was an immediate boost and I hobbled over to give her what must have been a rancid hug.

She had been texting with my mama and directed me to go down another block to where my mommy would be waiting. She then promised she’d meet us back at the hotel since security in the area was tight and neither of us could cross the barricades over which we smellily embraced. I thanked her profusely for being there and telling me where to find momalach because in my state I hadn’t yet even attempted to work my phone or make sense of the many waiting text messages. We parted and I joined the sea of slow-moving Marathoners heading  east and away from the finish.

I made it about half a block and had to stop and try to stretch my seizing muscles. I awkwardly leaned against a piece of barricade and displayed my embarrassing lack of flexibility to the world. I must have looked truly pained because a police officer approached and asked if I was ok and if I needed a wheelchair. Oh no! They’ve caught me! I don’t know why, pride probably, but I was horrified by the idea of having to be wheeled out. I’ve never judged anyone who needs the post-race medical care but I was desperate not to be one of them. I told him I was fine just needed a little stretch before continuing. He looked skeptical but walked away. After that meet-not-cute I put a lid on the stretching and kept shuffling east.

When I got to the intersection where Jill told me I’d find my mom – a block from the finish line that had taken me about fifteen minutes to traverse – I couldn’t take being upright any longer. I found myself a patch of sidewalk and sat my ass down. Once grounded I finally pulled out my phone and texted my mommycakes to tell her where to find me, ironically using the SoulCycle I was sitting next to, (SC is the butt of many of my jokes and a source of much elitist cyclist disdain) as my landmark.

It only took her a minute or two to locate me – I made sure she knew to look down…even lower than usual – to find my face in the crowd. I assured her I could make it back to the hotel on my own two busted legs, but needed to sit at that moment. She waited patiently as I summoned the strength and will and equilibrium to stand. I rose slowly and piteously, wrapped my reflective blankie around my shoulders, and soldiered on. Slowly.

We made it another block before I had to sit again. I don’t usually do a separate post-race post-mortem like this but the pain I was in immediately following Boston was so beyond anything I’d ever experienced in this sport it feels like it merits attention. (As badly as I didn’t want to be wheeled away, I’m totally fine telling everyone now what a disaster I was. Go figure.) So two blocks from the finish and just one away from the hotel I sat again.

In the middle of all the pedestrian traffic on the dirty, city sidewalk. Mama stood over me and waited once more, unquestioning and without pushing me to just make it that last block. I appreciated her acceptance without objection that these pitstops were what I needed. I watched other tinfoil-cocooned athletes as they embraced friends and family and smiled and milled around as if their legs weren’t the obsolete pipe cleaners that mine had become. Their at least sort of functioning quads and glutes left me feeling a little ashamed of my apparent lack of preparedness for the course as I sat like a ripe lump in the middle of the hubbub.

Eventually I again willed myself to standing and mama and I made it the final block back to the Plaza Hotel.

Where I sat again. This time indoors, but still on the floor as the lobby was chaos. Jill was on her way to meet us so we waited for her before heading up to the room. I half expected hotel staff to tell me to get up off the ground, but no one bothered me and Jill arrived shortly. We headed up to the room where I finally got a good (terrible, nightmare-enducing) look at myself.

I had salted through everything, and the white mesh shirt I was wearing had gone brown around the middle because apparently my sweat has melanin in it.

One of my french braids had also come undone a few miles into the race and in the moment all I’d been able to do was shove that half of my hair into the rubber band still affixing the other braid. Now I could behold the birds nest dreadlock situation I’d created. It took almost two full travel-size bottles of conditioner to separate the clump.

I worked that situation out while my mom collected another Boston friend, Anni, from the lobby. Anni, Jill, and mama waited as I scrubbed myself – being mindful of the chafing. (I won’t get specific about that.) I poured what was left of my legs into a lose, pajama-like romper, sans-undergarments, and waddled back out of the hotel to find food. (That romper is coming to all races from now on – I highly recommend having something that comfortable and non-binding on hand for when you’re done endurance sporting!)

I also recommend:

• Staying at the Plaza or the closest place you can to the finish line – if you can financially swing it it’s worth the extra change to have a short walk home.
• Knowing how to read an elevation chart.
• Wine.

The Boston Marathon ended up being one of the most difficult race experiences I’ve had so far. That shouldn’t be a surprise, but the difficulty of the course (and the weather) caught me off guard. As I put some distance between myself and that day, I expected to become more disappointed with my finishing time, but I’m not. I feel fine about it – even about those 35 seconds. My glutes came back quickly, and my right quad eventually started speaking to me again – it took almost a month though! With those key muscle groups back in action I hope very much to return to Boston soon – shooting for 2019. I have big goals to get there and I think if and when I get to run up and down those 26.2 miles of hills again it will go better. Till then, lots of swim-bike-running to do, and the best news is that poor performance got my head back in the game and since then I’ve had a good season. More on that soon!

We crossed the start sensors, I hit go on my Garmin, and we were off.  With such a large crowd I’d expected to be relegated to a couple slow miles in the beginning, but this is one race where everyone is seeded in the corral where they belong and race volunteers diligently police the crowd for cutters. As soon as corral 7 crossed the start we were immediately holding a solid 8 minute mile.

With Josh’s instructions in my head I very intentionally held my pace back and let those who wanted to pass do so. Pretty quickly the course heads downhill; I opened it up a little but tried to stay focused on a controlled and easy heart rate and gate. As gravity pulled us down that first decline, I tried to lean into it keeping my hips open and making sure to land on the center of each foot. I felt like I was doing well not riding my heels down the hill, but I also felt an unmistakable ball of undigested pain in my lower left abdomen. As I leaned into the descent it felt like gravity was tugging at an unhappy wad of calories.

Instantly I knew the Imodium had been a mistake. I didn’t need it that day – instead what I needed was to be able to normally process the huge glut of fuel I was going to be continuously intaking. Minding the pain in my side, and the difficulty our bodies have digesting when they’re working hard, I held my pace back even more. I was mad at myself for taking the Imodium, but I wasn’t too concerned yet – I felt sure that if I stayed slower the first couple miles, it would pass and I’d be able to open my pace up later. I frequently negative split* so really this approach felt natural. (*Mostly because I still don’t know how hard to go out the gate, not because of my brilliant race planning. Thankfully I now have a Josh to fix all these issues.)

Despite exercising extra determined restraint, and despite the heat and the burgeoning GI issues, my first 5k clocked in at 25:46 which I thought was perfect. I imagined Josh and Kim and my mom getting that tracking alert and thinking things were right on target. I could feel the extra gas in the tank just waiting to be burned as I continued my easy pace and I started doing the math. I was averaging mile times in the 8:teens and had big plans to pick up the pace – if not at the halfway point, at least after the Newton hills. I still knew it wouldn’t be a PR or anything in the 3:20s, but for my first few miles I was pretty sure I could turn in something in the 3:30s, and I also knew I would be thrilled with that.

Those aspirations were pretty short-lived as the day quickly heated up and the pain in my gut didn’t pass. It wasn’t so bad heading uphill – probably because my pace slowed when I climbed – but it reemerged on the few flat patches and really asserted itself on the downhill bits, which meant I couldn’t make-up enough of the time I lost on each ascent. Every time I tried to push a little downhill the wad of Imodium radiated pain through my belly and I pulled back. My second 5k average was nearing 8:30. I saw my 3:30something finish slipping away, but I still had big plans for a negative split and a giant final 10k. I imagined people tracking me wondering if things were starting to fall apart.

The third 5k was a little slower still, and then the ten mile mark hit and the day started to feel really hot. It became all I could do to hold my miles in the 8:40s as the pain in my left side replicated itself on my right. I was sweating and working really hard, and despite the bilateral pain I was also getting really hungry. The day started to feel scarily reminiscent of Chattanooga. That whole day the heat (not Imodium because I wasn’t that stupid during Ironman thankfully) made digesting impossible – but the inability to digest didn’t eliminate the need to take in calories. So here I was again: hungry AND nauseous with my heart rate up too high and the sun beating down too hard.

I still believed at some point I would be able to pick up the pace but at the same time I was growing concerned that I would just slow down the whole way home. So thank Sappho for the Wellesley Scream Tunnel around the halfway point. It was unequivocally the best part of the race. On a course filled with exuberant crowd support these young women are the stars. Their signs are hilarious , their screams are infectious, and I totally got kisses! (Not as many as an ecstatic guy a few paces ahead of me but I leaned in for a few – namely from the women holding “I voted for Hillary” signs.)

The Scream Tunnel section is also in a mercifully shady spot so between the contagious joy from the co-eds – well actually I guess they’re not “co”-eds? – and the brief heat respite I started to pick up my turnover. ‘Here it is!’ I thought. ‘I knew I would negative split! It’s all downhill from here!’

Except that it’s not. I did manage a stronger couple miles thanks to Wellesley, and more important than picking up the pace, miles 13-16 were just happier and more enjoyable. Those were the miles that fed my athlete’s soul. For twenty-some minutes I was pretty blissed out on the experience and confident that my difficult first half had broken through to a much more pleasant – and faster – second half.

Those good feelings even hung on as we hit the first of the famous four Newton hills between miles 17 and 21. The first one is about a 1/2 mile and I’d been anxious to get to it and see if it was as bad as some race reports make it out to be. Josh’s race plan had instructed that if I felt good over that first big hill I was in good shape for the rest of the course so I was hanging my negative split dreams on a good climb.

Near the mile 17 marker the path began heading up. I asked a man next to me if this was the first of the big four and he confirmed that it was. I felt pretty strong and generally I have faith in my uphill abilities so I thanked him, smiled and charged ahead. I let my pace drop to the low 9s to conserve for the next three climbs, but even at that pace I passed a lot of the field around me and I felt like I was making good on Josh’s race plan predictions. My sides were still stitch-city but that had been going on so long I was able to bury the pain below other more positive or at least neutral sensations. As I had all day – and do at all endurance runs – I stopped at every aid station and took in at least two cups of water: one to drink and one to dump over my dome. I also deliberately walked each water station, giving my high-up hot-day heart rate a few seconds to collect itself.

It was a long hill sure, but compared to the 16 previous miles of never-ending rollers it didn’t feel so extreme. I had been shocked by just how ceaselessly ascent-y and descent-y the course had been for 17 straight miles and here I was, without much fanfare, at the top of what was supposed to be such a terrible climb. With that first of the four done I felt – not Wellesley good – but solid and not intimidated by the three big (final?) climbs to come.

Immediately following the descent we started to hoof it over another hill. I was surprised that the first two of the big four Newton climbs were so back-to-back. It left little room to mentally and physically re-compose myself but on the plus side, at least we were knocking these bad boys out quickly. I did wonder how it could take five miles to fit these four in when they were one right after the other.

The obvious answer of course, which still took me several miles to work out, is that this second immediate hill was not one of the big four, but just another of the billion or so regular hills that comprise the Boston Marathon. This should have been immediately apparent to me given my aforementioned shock at the course’s hilliness but sometimes when I exercise I turn into a real meathead. And so my good will and optimism toward the big four dissipated some. I reassured myself though that this setback didn’t change the fact that mile 21 was a few miles away and then, surely, these brutal ups and downs would be over for real. (If you’ve run or cheered at Boston, feel free to laugh here.)

I pushed on, a few mental reserves still in tact. Hill-after-hill, up and down, never really sure which climbs constituted those infamous four. Until signs and mile markers let me know I was finally at the dreaded, anticipated, fabled, foibled, Heartbreak Hill.

My feet started treading uphill again at the same time as the day’s thermostat absolutely peaked. When I think about that day, this climb is the first memory that comes to mind and the sensations associated – proud and painful – will epitomize my first Boston. It was nearing 80 with no shade. I felt good-not-great and bad-not-terrible. The crowds were amazing. Screaming and proffering anything you could possibly want. They had fruit, wet towels, pretzels, ice, popsicles, beer, gummy bears. I sampled some of the offerings. (Not the beer. Never the on-course beer.) Most crucial were the hoses and sprinkler systems set up along the sides. I ran through every last one; at one point realizing I’d really doused my headphones I ran the cost-benefit of five more miles sans music vs. a few seconds of watery relief and even in the face of 45 silent minutes the hydration station won handily. I was slower than I wanted to be, but I managed to run it – which was better than a lot of the crowd, so I let myself feel good about that, staying wary of my way-over-threshold BPM.

The crowds at the top of Heartbreak rivaled the Wellesley women. Their support was race-affirming and I was ready for the kickass, fast, and comparatively easy last five miles that had been promised me. A few easier miles felt well-earned. Every race is a mix of happy and not-so-happy stretches. You know going in that you’re going to experience physical and mental discomfort but you also know there are those runner highs, those moments when the sport feels so transcendent – if we didn’t have those moments we probably wouldn’t do this. (Right? We’d stop doing this , wouldn’t we?) Miles 1-21 had been mostly discomfort and worse, it seemed 22-26.2 should be transcendent…or at least more comfortable.

Turns out they were transcendent in ways, but also the most uncomfortable-no-actually-agonizing part of the day. Cresting Heartbreak and heading down my quads were on fire – especially the right one. I thought to myself, ‘it’s a good thing these hills are done after this!’ (Hahaha, maybe now I will learn how to read an elevation chart!) The aggregate downhill slope of the first 21 miles tears the hell out of the fronts of your thighs and DC running makes it difficult to prepare for this. In that post-big four moment as the road flattened out I really didn’t think I could handle anymore descending. My right quad was actually twitching which I knew  was the muscle breaking down. During strength workouts I aim for this sensation but mid-Marathon it meant that muscle would need a bit of reprieve to get over the finish line.

But as I’ve been none-too-subtly hinting for at least five paragraphs, the last few miles are not flat. I’ll give organizers and Josh that the hills at the end aren’t so steep or long as those that came before, but suddenly I was climbing again, and I immediately felt so betrayed. At least uphill I got out of my quads – or left quad since that’s only remaining front-of-thigh I had left- but now my glutes were starting to rebel too – right side in particular. I hadn’t been able to hit [solidcore] as often as I like over the winter and now I was paying the price for my resultant lack-of-ass.

At the top of this first roller the work transitioned back into my quads and my right leg just said NO. I realized I would have to stay as slow downhill as I’d been going up meaning as long as there were hills – whether going up or down I was rocking a 9 minute mile. To take pressure off my overworked right side I tried to run harder into my left leg which helped some but trying to correct this right-v-left imbalance in the middle of race day was too little wa-ha-ha-hayyy too late. (Not like I didn’t already know how much I favored the right before this, I just had ignored it not thinking it was such a big deal.) So I loped one-sidedly up and down hill-after-why-aren’t-they-over-yet-it’s-mile-22-23-24-25-26-hill.

One not-small mercy was that the temperature became overcast over the final 5k. I’d been hot since before the race even started, and had really overheated on Newton Hills, but all of a sudden with the sun dipping behind some clouds – probably looking at my miserable form and telling herself that she’d done sufficient damage – and the air becoming misty, I actually started to shiver.

The thermostat hadn’t dropped low enough to merit shivering, but when my bloods sugar is low I get cold and I knew that was happening. That seemed to be the final confirmation that I had done myself a real disservice with the digestion-disrupting Imodium.

I was a mess. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other as best I could: right-LEFT-right-LEFT. I knew I was really hammering my left leg and foot but that seemed like it could be Tuesday Liz’ problem.

Ah but no! By mile 24 it was Monday Liz’ problem as my left foot began to cramp. At this point I was “running” on willpower and nothing else. I was constantly doing the math in my head and checking my pace. I wanted to walk so badly – many people around me were walking – but I knew if I could maintain this 9 minuter I would still be sub-4. I also realized if I could dig some 8s out I could potentially still finish in the 3:40s. So I tried to pick it up, but uh-uh, I didn’t have it. My belly still ached, my right quad no longer existed and my left foot was threatening a similar exit. So I grabbed those 9s and death gripped that pace counting down every hundredth of a mile and reminding myself, “this is Boston, this is BOSTON!”

The minutes limped by in a blur and finally we were turning right onto Hereford meaning we were almost to Boyleston and almost done with this nightmare. I’d be allowed to walk soon! The crowd was pumped in the final mile and screaming and my iPod had just dropped The Score’s “Where Do You Run” on me in a moment of shuffle brilliance and kismet. Between the screams and the beat and lyrics I was interpreting very literally I finally felt the adrenaline and inspiration I’d been desperately seeking.

I was able to pick up my feet a little faster – not much faster but a touch – as we turned left onto Boyleston and I could see the finish line ahead. My “sprint” the last few blocks was somewhere in the 8:40s but that small surge felt like a victory.  I kept reminding myself, ‘it’s Boston, it’s BOSTON’ and tried to smile through pain and tears and overwhelming feelings that were somehow both physical and emotional as I crossed the finish line.

I dropped to the walk I’d wanted for miles but with muscle breakdown like I’d never experienced before, even as I picked up my medal and water I had to keep focusing on right-LEFT-right-LEFT. I wondered embarrassingly if I was about to join the several people being wheel chaired out of the finish area…but whatever happened and however I left Copley Square, I was a Boston Marathon finisher!

Ok I’ve been working on and off on this report for a while and it was so long that I’ve broken it into the pre-race, the race, and the aftermath. Here’s the lead up to the race – distinguished from the angst-filled pre-port I posted punctually the actual weekend of.

PREPORT

The few days before Boston passed similarly to the few before Ironman Chattanooga. I wasn’t nearly as terrified without the specter of having to swim and bike and gearing up for (hopefully!) a max of four hours of work is a lot less intimidating than a half-day plus. But I still had the feeling I was headed for something really momentous. And I had more time in the race city and hotel to get worked up than I usually do. Most ominously, I was obsessively checking the forecast, and every time I opened my weather app the projected high for Monday, April 17th, 2017, had inched at least a degree higher.

A week before race day, the forecast called for highs in the upper 50s. That would have been perfect, and I felt like I was lucking out for my first Boston – knowing the event’s penchant for weird weather. By seemingly small increments, the predictions nudged higher each day until the Friday before we were staring down mid-to-high 60s. I started to get nervous.

I arrived in Boston early Saturday morning and my mama got into town that afternoon. Her presence both calmed and heightened my nerves. She tried to sooth me but just having another person there meant I had someone to tell my fears out loud, which made them more real.

Around her arrival the forecast crossed the dreaded threshold into the 70s, and through Saturday night and Sunday it kept climbing until Al Roker was predicting mid-to-high 70s. And the complicating factor with Boston is that the race is late – my wave (the second of four) was scheduled to depart at 10:25am – so however high that thermostat got I’d be running through the peak of it.

As much as it felt like Ironman repeating itself – that’s a truly sick dejavu – I used that hellish experience to assuage my fears: I would be running – just running! – in temperatures literally 40 degrees cooler than I’d swum and biked and ran through. I already wasn’t approaching Boston expecting a marathon PR – or even another BQ – so I just had to finish as well as I could under race conditions that weren’t nearly the worst I’ve encountered. And my mama was in town so if nothing else I got to spend the weekend with my favorite woman on the planet!

We went out and had a great dinner complete with a little too much wine on Saturday night at a French Brasserie called Gaslight. On Sunday we did a little retail damage/therapy and hit CVS and a small grocery near the hotel for everything I’d need fuel-wise between Sunday and Monday evening. We got bagels and peanut butter, bananas, apples, pretzels, and gatorade. I normally don’t go for sugary sports drinks like that but Josh had advised me to up my Sunday-electrolyte intake to try and head off the added depletion inherent in a hotter-than-planned run.

As we busied ourselves buying things we needed and didn’t need around the city, it was hard not to notice the heat. That Sunday warmed up quickly and stayed hot in the mid-80s until after the sun went down. It was a shock to the just-out-of-winter-hibernation system. Monday was supposed to be a little cooler, but it was hard to imagine the temperature would drop too much when it was still so hot as night fell.

My cousins Carol and Mike also arrived from New York on Sunday. (Having each run Boston a couple times before they didn’t feel the need to come up Saturday to buy all the things and panic in the city like I had.) Carol had discovered my mama’s and my hotel was doing a pasta buffet and had secured us a reservation. Not having to travel any farther than the lobby for dinner was great – and the pasta was bland and plentiful, which was also great! For anyone running Boston in 2018, I highly recommend the Boston Park Plaza’s pre-race pasta pig-out!

Over dinner I peppered my pasta and my cousins (that was lame, not sorry) with last minute questions mostly about logistics. Boston is a point-to-point race so despite the 10:25 start time I would have to be up early to catch one of the billion shuttles to the start line. I had the usual butterflies about leaving myself enough time to arrive and bathroom (at least once), but I didn’t want to show up too early and shortchange my sleep or sit around Athletes Village too long.

Once we’d fully hashed and rehashed logistics and eaten as much as we could stomach, Mike and Carol headed back to their hotel a few blocks away, and mama and I headed upstairs so I could lay out my clothes and freak out about the weather some more. We distracted ourselves with Sunday night HBO and I reviewed my race plan from Josh a few more times.

I’d gone over the plan repeatedly but now armed with the unwelcome forecast, Josh had advised I’d need to adjust his original numbers. The key would still be to hold back and resist the inevitable adrenaline. Now though it was anyone’s guess what that holding back would look or feel like.

Around 10pm momalach and I tucked ourselves in and I sleptish till the alarm sounded at 6:30am, race morning. Race organizers had suggested athletes in wave two arrive at the shuttles – conveniently a block from the Park Plaza – between 7:00 and 7:40am. As I was in corral seven of eight I was aiming for the tail end of that window.

I spent an hour dressing, changing my top, applying sunscreen and an extra liberal layer of body glide, and dementedly refreshing the weather app. At 7:30 I bid my mama adieu and joined the throng of runners excitedly vibrating to the shuttle queue. I boarded a big yellow school bus at 7:45 and at 7:51 we pulled away from Boston Commons, officially on our way for the day.

The ride took almost an hour during which our driver blared an eclectic oldies station – my seatmate was particularly put off when Come Sail Away hit the speakers, sure it would now sit in her head the whole race. Driving past highway exit signs for Newton and Wellesly forced us to confront the fact that we were driving very far away from Boston and we would in fact have to run all this way back.

After the musical trip down (someone’s) memory lane, we debussed at 8:45am at Athlete’s Village. The energy walking into this crowded outdoor holding area absolutely buzzed. People were noting how warm it already was (it had been 65 when I got up at 6:30 and was already starting to push 70) but nonetheless veterans and first-timers alike were ecstatic to be there.

Carol and Mike were in wave three so I knew they weren’t there yet. I posted up on a spot of grass near the porta lines and force-fed myself half a bagel and peanut butter, water, and gatorade. (I’d already had half a bagel and PB and a banana at the hotel.) After studying the bathroom lines, at 9:30 I got in the one that had seemed to be moving the quickest. There I met two women from Minnesota who were also running their first Boston. They were so happy that just a few minutes talking to them eased my remaining nerves. I shared my bagels with them and when we got to the front of the line they insisted I go in front of them as they were in wave three.

After I’d bathroomed and said goodbye to my new friends, the race announcer was calling wave two to head to the corrals. I felt like I’d timed the morning pretty well, and as I made my way out of the village on the .7 mile walk to the start line, I was just really happy to be there. No more anxiety, no nervous tummy, just happy gratitude – to my body, my support team, my fellow racers, and to all the Bostonians already lined up on the route handing out water, food, and high fives.

Right before the corrals there’s a massive set-up of porta-potties, and while my stomach was feeling remarkably settled, I stopped to make use of my last opportunity. I got in a short line, and as it was about twenty minutes till go time, I threw back a heavily-caffeinated gu while I waited.

I used the bathroom and my belly felt even more settled, and for some stupid reason, I decided to still take the Imodium I’d been carrying in my sports bra. That lil digestive depresser had been crucial when I BQ-ed at Mountains 2 Beach last May, so I just figured I should stick with what had worked. But I had been so so much more nervous that morning. And that day had also been about 20 degrees cooler, necessitating a smaller caloric haul to get through the race. I didn’t stop to consider any of these obviously important factors though before I threw that tiny innocuous-looking white pill back…(more on this obviously to come in the actual race report.)

I floated on air and enthusiasm to corral seven and only had to wait a few moments before we were being called toward the start. As we shuffled forward I took it all in, cued my music and my Garmin, and I felt ready. It was already hot, and impossible to ignore how strong the sun felt on my exposed shoulders and back, but the whole thing felt eminently doable. It was the Boston freaking Marathon!

 

So I’m on sitting a plane somewhere over the northeast/mid-Atlantic crying. It’s 48 hours until the Boston Marathon and it Is finally sinking in that this is happening. That this is happening to me. That I am running the Boston freaking Marathon.

In my last post reporting on the Cherry Blossom Ten Miler I wrote about how blasé I’ve felt for months. How my training isn’t where it was this time last year; how devoid of motivation I’ve felt. Then I got a mental boost from Cherry Blossom, but within a day of that happy surprise I was most of the way back to mehhh. Everyone I know has asked me if I’m excited for Boston. Friends, colleagues, students, teammates, spouses, have all enthusiastically inquired about this upcoming culmination of goals-accomplished, and I’ve tried to muster a smile, a ‘yes,’ but I think it’s been clear that all those good people in my life have been more excited for me than I have been.

I think the problem has been an inability to believe this is really happening. The Boston Marathon is this epic mythical bucket race of all bucket races. It’s an icon. It has a history – good, bad, tragic. It’s a day when even people with 0.0 bumper stickers pay attention to our sport. And I just could not conceive that I was going to get to run it.

Well good news: I believe it now.

Bad news: I’m on an airplane and my belly just started believing it too.

—–Break—-

You were afraid I was going to start talking in depth about my digestive system weren’t you? Lucky for you right as I typed the line above the break our plane started its descent and I had to put my iPad away. Then I cabbed it to my hotel, checked in, changed into tights and sneakers so I’d blend into the sporty crowd, and hoofed it to the expo.

There I endeavored to spend my entire tax refund on gratuitously priced and branded items. And also on flavored beef jerky. The free glass of Sam Adams they hand you when you walk in definitely helped loosen my already loose purse strings Especially since my funky tummy issues this morning kept me from getting a good breakfast in. (Hence the appeal of all the jerky. Also, jerky is delicious. Especially mango jalapeño jerky. Which obviously I bought. [Not to worry Josh: I will not add it to my race day nutrition plan.])

Actual useful note to all who run this race (because I’ve realized most other athletes’ race reports offer much more helpful guides than my indulgent run-on sentences): budget what seems like an extreme amount of time at this expo. I arrived at 10am and the line to get in was down the block. (A long block.) Within ten seconds of my joining the line it had grown so long it disappeared around the corner. Fortunately the line moved pretty quickly, but it took about fifteen minutes just to get in the building.

Once inside the line meandered – and I do mean meandered (it’s crazy how slowly really fast runners can walk!) – two flights up at which point it was another ten minutes on yet another line to get to packet pick-up. The volunteers kept things moving as well as they could but it’s just a massive sea of people so you have to plan to do some waiting. At least that’s the case at 10am Saturday before the race.

Once I picked up my bib (14111) and shirt I made my way into the expo itself and wandered, mouth agape for over an hour. Intermittently buying things I wanted more than needed – the aforementioned jerky, shorts, a tank, a sweatshirt, a jacket, Boston Marathon-branded hair ties for ten freaking dollars, (seriously, how stupid is that?) and a new phone case. That last item probably sounds wacky but it’s the only one I actually did need.

While wandering waves of ‘yes-this-is-real’ washed over me. With them alternating sensations of excitement and apprehension because 26.2 miles is really long, no matter how well the day goes. And this will only be my fourth full marathon. Unless you count Ironman Chattanooga – and I’m asking you nicely not to. (I’ve actually had a fear that those online race sleuths who suss out BQ cheaters were going to find my Ironman stats and turn me over to Boston authorities because how can some who ran a 3:26:41 qualifying time last May have then clocked in at 5:27:30 less than four months later!)

But IM embarrassment and hell be damned, I did earn my bib and the right to be here. And I worked really hard to do so. Eschewing happy hours and sleep and office pastries and so many things normal people think are fun (and that I actually think are fun too!) to run and train and eat well. This time last year I had the fire in my belly (the good kind! Not the three-trips-to-the-porta-potty-plus-Imodium-pre-race kind!) to earn my way to Boston. My head and heart were in the game along with my belly and ultimately my legs.

As I’ve struggled to relocate the (good kind of) fire, finally being here has lit the flame. (Haha! Eww.) I know it’s finally real for me because, like I said earlier, I can’t stop crying at inopportune moments. Places I’ve cried so far today: boarding the plane. On the plane before taking off. On the plane in the air. On the tarmac in Boston. The women’s bathroom in terminal B at Logan International Airport. In the taxi. Boyleston Street walking to the Expo. While being handed my bib. Thirty seconds later as a volunteer took my picture with said bib. At least three times wandering the Expo. Again on Boyleston walking back to my hotel. While eating lunch and writing this blog.

I’m going to try to stop crying now as I dont want to be dehydrated for the race, but I think I can safely say this has finally sunk in. I’m really nervous for Monday, but I’m getting so pumped. And I’m really proud to have gotten here. There is a cool sense of camaraderie that, as a Yankee fan, I’ve never felt in his city before. I’m in awe of being around all these very fast-looking people, but I feel like I’m part of this event and not just watching the community from the outside. Above all I’m very grateful to my family and support team, especially my husband who makes this possible on many levels, (his sherping deserves its own post at some point,) my mama who I insisted come all the way from Mexico to be with me this weekend, and my coach, Josh, who helped get me here physically but who also talks me off a training ledge before every big event. (Also he let me use his Normatec the last two weeks.)

And thanks as well to all my friends who have sent me words of encouragement, who joined me for workouts, and who have let me know that they’ll be on the course or will be tracking me. I will try so hard not to embarrass you. I mean, I will try not to embarrass you with my running. I’m still 100% going to talk about the (bad) fire in my belly and how many times I went/go to the porta potties before/during this and every race to come.