|
 What I Learned at the
109th Boston Marathon
Boston Public Garden
Patriot's Day, April 18, 2005, 9 am
A line of marathoners a quarter mile long waits apprehensively to board a
chain of orange school buses that will shuttle them to the starting line
in the bucolic town of Hopkinton three hours before the start of the 109th
Boston Marathon. "It looks like we're going off to war," a fellow runner
and 10-minute friend named Craig observes as athletes are sectioned off
into groups of 40 and disappear into the buses, never to be seen again.
Craig's wearing a green mugger's cap, white sweats and, like the 21,000
other participants, carrying a dark blue plastic bag filled with clean
clothes he'll wear after the race is over. "Yeah," I reply, "but there are
no wives or children to see them off. No tearful goodbyes." Craig may have
a penchant for hyperbole-we're not going off to fight an actual war with
some media-hyped but imaginary American enemy-but he's right about one
thing: a battle is about to take place and the mood is somber this
morning, as each runner makes a mental note of the rising temperatures and
cloudless sky and lapses into respectful silence, brooding about the
unknowns of the task ahead.
Craig's comments recall a conversation I had with a Chinese woman on the
plane from Detroit to Boston two days earlier. I assured her I wasn't
nearly talented enough to compete for a victory in the world's oldest and
most prestigious marathon. "I hope you get first place," she offered
encouragingly anyway, failing to comprehend why anyone would participate
in a race he couldn't win. "To battle with yourself," I would have replied
if I'd been more willing to cut through the meaning behind her words. "If
we didn't suffer," as a character said in Richard Linklater's film Before
Sunset, "we wouldn't learn a thing."
A 50-minute journey west on I-90 and we arrive at Hopkinton High School.
Today, the school's athletic fields are sectioned off exclusively for the
marathoners. There's a massive white tent to shield the legion of runners
from the sun and an inadequate collection of green porta-potties lining
two sides of the field to accommodate the whims of our nervous bladders.
Two hours might seem like an intolerable amount of time to wait before a
marathon but I pass the time trading marathon training stories with Craig,
searching for sunscreen, adding sport-drink mixtures to my Fuel Belt and
reading from an old Tom Robbins novel while waiting patiently for my own
turn on the plastic toilet. I chew on a Clif Bar or two and swig mouthfuls
of Supergreens, a powdered mixture of green plants designed to keep my
body alkalized, thereby reducing lactic acid buildup in my legs later in
the race. Three quarters of an hour before start time, I locate a support
tent with clear packing tape and a black marker. I use the tape to attach
three Power Gels to my Fuel Belt and Craig offers to write my name on my
forearms with the marker. After three marathons, I've finally learned that
spectators will cheer for you by name if you write it somewhere on your
body, which turns the anonymous crowd lining the course into supportive
friends. Another man decides to fish for dates instead; his blue tank top
reads: "Interested? (and his telephone number)."
Craig and I walk three-quarters of a mile past suburban homes to the
starting line, pausing to stretch on a black-topped driveway, and dodging
policemen and disapproving homeowners to furtively urinate between pine
trees. The route is like one big Sunday afternoon market, homeowners
peddling various running-related products (I'm interested, even though I
didn't bring my wallet with me, but what am I going to do with what I've
just bought?), people picnicking on their front lawns, even a three-piece
garage band tuning up for a performance on its driveway.
We find corral number 1, the front of the pack reserved for those with
qualifying times under three hours. As we stretch our legs, we strain to
get a glimpse of the elite group of male runners less than 300 feet in
front of us who will battle for the $100,000 first prize. Race volunteers
hand out dollops of Vaseline on sticks. I take one and spread it where my
legs meet my black running shorts (to prevent chafing) while I wait for
the national anthem to end. The temp hovers in the low 70s and I try to
shield myself from the oppressive light of the sun. Fortunately, I'm
prepared for the weather. I'm wearing a white running hat with visor (a
souvenir from a half marathon in Japan) and a royal blue Nike Dri-Fit
t-shirt (a gift from a good friend in Morocco). The crowd is so thick at
the starting line that it feels like a parade is about to pass by. The
announcer pays a respectful, two-minute homage to America's war
veterans-after all it is Patriot's Day-and Boston's beloved hero, Johnny
Kelley, who competed in 58 Boston marathons between ages 21-84 and died
last year at age 97. Two F-15s fly overhead, the crowd's patriotic fervor
swells, and the race begins a few minutes later.
Only 20 seconds pass before Craig and I cross the faded red carpet
stretched across the starting line. All runners wear a timing chip on one
of their shoes which subtracts the time it takes them to pass the starting
line and records their time with an audible chirp as they pass various
places on the course. Interested fans who cannot attend the race, can
visit www.baa.org, enter someone's name or race number, and track his/her
progress online. The collective chirping of chips reminds me, briefly, of
the dozen or so friends around the world watching my progress from their
home computers. I'm grateful for their support. But I wish they could
experience the charged atmosphere of these rural streets, the strident
support of fans lining the course five rows deep in the towns of Ashland,
Framingham, and Natick. A shiver of excitement passes through my body each
time I remind myself of the history of this race: after all, people have
been running this same route from Hopkinton to Boston since 1897. And
because I had to turn in a respectable qualifying time just to
participate, I feel lucky-privileged-to be here.
There are water/Gatorade stops every two miles but the fans supply almost
anything else a runner could possibly want-orange slices, peeled bananas,
plastic tubes of grape-flavored ice, red licorice ropes, lifesavers,
potato chips, pretzels, clear plastic cups of water, sponges to mop your
sweat-encrusted brow, even brownies. Countless runners show their
appreciation by slapping the outstretched hands of children who express
their delight with an astonished, "He took it! He took it!" whenever a
runner accepts whatever they're offering.
Craig and I are aiming for similar times and had planned to join forces
for the first 13 miles of the race. But we abandoned our team strategy
once we began to feel the rising heat and unpredictable crosswinds. The
topography of the course map seemed deceptively manageable until we found
ourselves climbing over the actual hills, unable to find a smooth rhythm
on the rolling road. The surface of Route 135 is also hazardous and
unpredictable. My feet sometimes slip on freshly painted yellow lines, the
metal of railroad tracks, or wet sponges. Occasionally, I stumble over
crushed water cups or other discarded objects strewn across the road.
Craig confesses at mile 2 that he can't feel his legs and urges me to
continue without him. I forge ahead, running just beneath my intended
6:30-per-mile pace for the first half of the race despite the queasiness
in my stomach-the likely result of the ragged 3-4 hours sleep I managed
the night before.
At Wellesley College between mile 12 and 13, the fan support reaches a
fever pitch. We pass a half mile of attractive, tank-topped and
short-sleeved, 18-22-year-old females screaming their support while their
hearts throb from the sight of the sculpted male bodies passing before
them. The women stand four rows deep, leaning over the metal barricades,
bright smiles on their faces, shouting wordless encouragement. My right
ear begins to hum from the wall of noise they're making-as though
earplug-less at a deafeningly loud rock show. I pick up the pace-everyone
does-while reading the signs they've brought with them. One reads: "Need a
hug?" Another: "Kiss me if you're from Texas." A few runners stop to test
their sincerity. One wraps his sweaty body around a wide-eyed but
expectant beauty. Another seizes her startled friend by the arms and
plants a kiss on her cheek before returning to the race. The thought
crosses my mind to follow their lead, but I have no intention of stopping.
I simply get into the spirit by slapping a few outstretched hands without
breaking my stride. Shortly afterward, I leave the Wellesley women behind
and cross the halfway mark in a brisk 1:23:46. Slightly ahead of my
intended pace but confident about my start, I respond with my best mile of
the race.
Just after crossing the Charles River at mile 16, the more challenging
hills begin. A stiff headwind kicks up and my body shows the first signs
of weakening. Then, suddenly, as if I'm a machine charged solely by the
energy of the crowd, someone removes the plug. I expected my legs to turn
to lead at some point on the course-the relentless hills and the
uncomfortably hot temperatures (now hovering in the upper 70s) almost make
it inevitable-but a wave of fear washes over me because I didn't expect
the suffering to begin so soon. Did I run the first half of the race too
quickly? Was I fooled by the gentle crosswinds into thinking I wasn't
sweating as much as I was? Is it physically possible for me to run a 2:48
marathon in this weather? These questions are useless to me now but they
keep coming, in rapid succession, distracting me from my body's procession
of protests. "Did I drink enough water? Should I drink more Gatorade even
though I'm feeling nauseous and risk the public spectacle of vomiting on
the side of the road?" I eat my second Power Gel and wash it down with a
cup of water. A half mile later, I reach for a plastic bottle on my Fuel
Belt and lift it to my mouth, swallowing six ounces of Shaklee
Performance-a lemon-flavored mixture of salts and sugars-and my painful
fate along with it.
Comic relief eventually comes from a brief exchange with two runners who
seem to be enjoying themselves and the beautiful spring day that's perfect
for almost everything but running a marathon. One man drinks water from a
plastic bottle before passing it to his friend. His friend pours some of
it over his head and turns to me, offering me the remainder of the
half-empty container. "Do you want some?" he asks. "No, thanks. I'm cool,"
I curtly reply, which makes him smile. "Yeah, 10 people have probably
drunk out of this by now." And then his friend joins in: "Don't worry,
man. The rash inside my mouth has almost cleared up." It's cathartic to
smile again, to release some anxiety with my laughter. As we're about to
separate, I hear a parting question pass between them. "Did you get
flashed by one of the Wellesley girls?" "No," the other responds with an
unmistakable disappointment in his voice.
Just before mile 21, I hear the enthusiastic entreaties of my brother
Brian and his blond-haired, six-foot fiancé Brage standing on the crest of
Heartbreak Hill long before I see them. Brian is jumping up and down,
pumping his arms and probably secretly wishing he could carry me over the
hill while Brage deftly operates their digital camera. I'm so happy to see
both of them that I want to stop and hug them; I've been waiting for this
moment for the entire race. But a half smile-or smirk, according to Brage-is
all I can manage in return. My heart secretly inflates with a mixture of
pride and gratitude, supplying me with enough power to climb the remainder
of the last major hill on the course. Brian breaks into a run, following
me over Heartbreak Hill while chanting a helpful mantra I'll adopt for the
rest of the race: "It's all downhill from here, Joel!"
The last five miles of the marathon pass in a blur of exhaustion and
amnesia. I stop slapping spectator hands, my field of vision narrows to a
small square of the road in front of me, and I make peace with my tired
body and the series of race goals evaporating with each lethargic step I
take. The self-talk, if you could hear it in my head, proceeds something
like this: "There goes the 2:48 marathon I planned to run… My PR of 2:53
is gone, too… Oh, man, finishing in less than three hours is now in
jeopardy… Oh, shit! Who cares about your goals? Can you finish? Keep your
legs moving or it's not going to happen."
The crowd knows what's happening to my body, too. Every year, they witness
the same dramatic scenes of demoralized runners fighting the hilly course,
the rising temperatures, and their own thoughts. As my pace decreases, the
cheers from the crowd increase in frequency and intensity. But the
language and the intonation of their pleas are distinctly different.
Shouts of "Looking good, Joel," turn to "Come on, Joel. You can do it!"
Perhaps silence would be worse but their words begin to sound like taunts
to my inexperienced ears. Each one reminds me that I'm suffering and,
though I ran 45-60-mile weeks for the last three months in cooler
climates, foolishly unprepared for the race. "Man, I must look like hell,"
I mumble to myself. But I'm still self-aware enough at that point in the
race to know that my internal response to their ingenuous encouragement
stems from the embarrassment I feel from being passed by droves of other
runners-of failing to meet the expectations of my coach, my brother, and
myself.
Eventually, I reach Copley Square in downtown Boston. I lift my head up
one last time and try to savor the sights and sounds of the enormous
crowd. I realize this may be the only time in my life I run this race and
just finishing is the culmination of a 15-year-old dream. But my
self-confidence is wounded and I begin to doubt whether I'll ever be able
to achieve my ultimate marathon goal of 2:39-a six-minute mile for the
entire course. With a sarcastic thumbs up to the professional cameraman
stationed behind the finish line, I cross the final faded red carpet. My
time: a personal marathon-worst 3:02:40. My place: 765th. I'm too tired to
laugh about my poor finish. But my suffering is almost over and so my
thoughts turn to the almost 20,000 runners behind me struggling to the
finish (I found out later that Craig finished with a time of 3:35). My
blue t-shirt is lined with salt stains. As I walk to the end of the chute
to return my timing chip and claim my "Finisher" medal, my legs begin to
wobble. The physical rewards will have to wait, I decide. Now I must
search for a place to escape the sun. I crouch in the shade of a large
semi-truck, leaning on the front bumper to stretch my legs. My forearms
are tingling. My head is spinning; my stomach is churning. I decide to lie
down on the pavement long enough for my body to shake off the immediate
effects of the race. Another volunteer in a red windbreaker asks me if I
need any assistance. "Yes," I reply. "Can you help me stretch my legs?"
She watches me unsteadily get to my feet, and then offers to take me to
the medical tent in a wheelchair. I agree without a moment's hesitation.
In the tent, one doctor takes my blood pressure while another asks me a
series of questions. Two physical therapists message my legs. As my body
cools, I begin to shiver and they wrap me in two warm white blankets. A
few potato chips and a sport drink later, I'm feeling good enough to make
my way to the exit. But I'm reluctant to return to the sun and the
cloudless sky, even though I know Brian and Brage are waiting for me
somewhere in the family meeting area two blocks away. So I sit on a
folding chair and talk with another participant who borrowed a friend's
number minus the timing chip to anonymously guide another friend over the
hilly last 12 miles of the course. She was recovering in the medical tent,
too, while he waited patiently for her to return. "She ran beautifully
until mile 24," he tells me with pride in his voice. "Then, it looked like
a heavy curtain fell on her." "I starting suffering much earlier," I offer
in consolation. "And for the first time ever, I reached a point in the
race where I told myself 'You don't need to do this anymore.' " He lets my
words sink in for about 30 seconds and then looks me square in the eye.
"Don't you dare quit!"
I thank him for the encouragement and leave the tent in search of my
brother. A shroud of disappointment from another race of unrealized goals
hangs from my body for another half hour. Then, the memories of the
race-specifically the energy of the crowd, the kindness and assistance of
the race volunteers, and the memory of my brother and his camera-toting
girlfriend at mile 21-makes it easy to leave the imaginary garment behind
me-like a ghost-on Boylston Avenue. I walk gingerly back to the finish
line to claim my medal and retrieve my clothing bag, before heading to the
family meeting area on Stuart Avenue. Brian and Brage have my cellphone
and wallet but we can't find each other in the throng of people milling
about near the Boston Public Library. I borrow a stranger's phone but
can't remember either of their numbers. Instead, I call my brother Brad in
Seattle, who agrees to look them up for me, forgetting to simply call my
own phone which Brage is still holding. Stabbing pains race through my
legs as I lower my body to the cement steps of the Boston Public Library
entrance. After a short conversation with another marathoner named
Bridget, he mother gives me $1.25 for a subway token and then guides me to
the station.
 I'm an unknown rock star for the remainder of the evening. The crowd on
the subway bursts into applause when a few marathon survivors, including
myself, board the train, offering their seats to us and questioning us
about our performances. Everyone genuinely wants to hear our stories. I
trade race experiences with another friendly marathoner named David and
his girlfriend Sita on the Red Line back to the DoubleTree Hotel. Once he
discovers that I've lost my brother, David invites me to his house for
dinner. I meet Brian and Brage unexpectedly at the JFK/U Mass stop moments
after I've exited the train, so I eventually decline their offer. They
write their address and telephone numbers on my clothing bag just in case
I change my mind.
It's the angelic kindness of the Boston people that makes this marathon
memorable. But have I learned anything else about myself from the spacey,
sluggish self-reflection that follows every race I've run? 1) Of course. I
learned that my friend at the medical tent is right: I can't quit now-not
after one bad race. I haven't reached my goals yet. 2) I also learned that
the suffering is worth it; for the privilege of running in the presence of
so many supportive strangers and fellow runners: this race really brings
out the best in people; for the mental toughness I continue to develop
that carries over into some many other aspects of my life; and for the
stories that remain long after the pain in my body and the disappointment
of unmet goals evaporates. Thanks to all of you who took the time to email
or call me about the results. The race may be over but the stories about
it are endless.
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Photos courtesy of Brage Anderson (from top to bottom):
Joel, third from
right, struggling up Heartbreak Hill at mile 21; Brian and Joel near
the Doubletree Hotel after their "interview." |
