Written in 2012, shortly after the Philadelphia Marathon
The
Road to Boston Stops in Philadelphia
So this is it. The moment I have been waiting for. I have been training, running, sweating
all summer for this day. I have
missed on outing with friends, went to bed early on Friday nights, and obsessed
compulsively over the summer, all for this day. Today is the day I will run a marathon in less than three
hours and five minutes. I have to
do this to qualify for the world’s mot prestigious marathon, the Boston
Marathon! It’s my last chance this
fall before the long, brutal North Eastern winter.
Those
are the first thoughts that run though my mind as I roll out of the king sized,
way to comfortable for my taste, Hilton Hotel bed. It’s 4:30 am and I don’t think I slept a wink. All my clothes and gear are
laid out on the floor next to the bed, a ritual I do before every big
race-every runner has there own rituals.
Mine are subtle in comparison to the crazy things I see people do the
night before or morning of the big race.
I slip on my shirt from a previous marathon-another ritual, some of the
shortest shots you’ll ever see a grown man wear, my lucky blue bandana, and
some warm gloves just in case. The
shoes, worn out from hundreds of miles of training and a 26.2-mile race just a
month before go on, laced tight.
Last to go on is my Garmin GPS watch. This thing has tracked every mile for the past year and a
half. I quickly make a cup of coffee that might as well be brown water. It will have to work. It’s the middle of November, and it’s
only 5:00 am. I need to get warm
fast and stay warm!
There’s
a sense of chaos and pandemonium around me as a calmly walk to the race
area. The frost is on my breath
and my legs are tight. It’s way
too cold to be out here in thin short shorts. But I am not alone.
Over 50,000 other brave people are out here this very moment warming up,
stretching out, and trying to figure out where to start. Taking their last minute bathroom
break. That reminds me, another
ritual, I have to use a Porto Potty and do a number two. The lines are terribly long and I
am always afraid Ill miss the start of the race, but I always have to go as
soon as I get out there, it never fails.
After
emptying the bilges, I make my way to the start line. So calm, so collected, at least that’s what I tell myself. I impress myself at how confident I
am. I know I got this one in the
bag! It’s time to meet up with my
friends who are also running today.
Normally, it would be nearly impossible to find someone in a crowd of
over fifty thousand all dressed alike, but I know exactly where to go. I know because they have they same
dreams I have. They do want to
qualify for Boston. I lightly jog
to the start line, warming up and stretching out as I look for them. Eventually we all find each other
and head to our spots, somewhere near the front of the sea of thousands. There are only a few hundred people up
here. All veterans of the race, or
hopeful qualifiers like myself.
As
soon as the national anthem has been sung, the gun goes off! It’s time to go! Time to reach my goal! Time for all the hard work to pay
off! The few friends and I pack
into a tight group and begin to pick up the pace. It’s almost impossible to get
to your race pace right off the start line; there are just too many
people. We dart in and out, pass,
the slower ones; avoid getting run over by the faster ones. It is inevitable that someone will trip
over me, or kick me in the back of the legs. Imagine all of that a stadium can running down a street wide
enough for only two cars! Now
imagine trying to make your way through all of those people, all with one goal
in mind, keep moving forward at all costs.
One
of the best runners I know keeps the pace strong and steady. She’s petite, maybe 130 pounds, dark
chocolate hair pulled tight into a bun, and even darker eyes. Her eyes show that determination that
many of us have, but she has something that others lack. She has this bright, perfect smile that
spreads across her sun kissed, freckled face. She’s more excited and determined than all of us. There’s no doubt she will get her
personal goal. I hope I can keep
her pace for at least half the race, but I also know she will eventually pull
away. She’s just so fast, like a
gazelle, she seems to stride across the asphalt with perfect form. I’ve ran with her in many races, that
is to say, she’s passed me in many races, but every time she slows down for a
brief moment to say hi and flash that bright smile of hers. This time I will match her step
for step. Maybe I’m being a little
too ambitious.
With
the exception of the starting line and finish line, the first ten miles are the
best. The sidewalks are usually
littered with cheering family, friends, and fans. Some people bang drums or play instruments, some yell
motivating phrases. I have even
seen a couple dressed like bride and groom zombies holding signs that read,
“run faster or I’ll eat your brains!” the signs are the best. “Pain is temporary, Pride is forever.”
“26.2,because 26.3 is just insane!”
I feed off all of this energy as I complete miles eight, nine, and
ten. It’s almost like gasoline
keeping the fire in my heart burning.
I store as much of this as I can because I know I will need it later,
when the crowds thin out and the streets grow quiet. I’ll need those signs to keep moving forward when the pain
sets in.
It
takes a little over an hour to finish off the first ten or so miles. They go by lightning fast. I’m on a real good pace. My trusty GPS watch beeps and vibrates
every mile, as it should, notifying e of my pace, and prompting me to take a
sip from my neoprene covered water bottle. Every mile is another body system check. My breathing is good, no pain in my
feet, and no pain in my legs (well slight pain, but I can handle it). “A couple more hours to go,” I say to
myself as I keep up with the pace group.
It’s
not the being out of breath that slows me down anymore. I’ve beaten that. It’s the muscle pain that slowly sets
in after 12 or more miles. Lack of
nutrition, hydration, training, whatever it is, it can be completely disabling,
and gets the best of us. “A
little early this time” The sharp pains, and dull aches begin to spread through
me leg muscles. Every mile now, I
notice that I slow down a couple seconds “That’s ok tough, I’m five minutes
ahead of schedule, I made room for this as planned.”
My
group is now far ahead of me, and it’s mile 16. “Only ten to go. Just like the first ten….. only not.” I do my body system checks. Water, none left. I’ve been drinking at water stops,
slowing my pace even more. Legs
are on fire, but I’ve felt worse.
“just keep moving. Pain in
temporary, Pride is forever.” The
3:05 pace group is right behind me, and if I let them pass, I will not qualify.
Mile
20. I know this because of the
sign. My “trusty” GPS watch lost
connection in a tunnel and for miles after that, and is now no longer accurate
or useful. The crowds are sparse,
and the other runners have thinned out.
It’s lonely across the bridge and painful. The 3:05 pace group passed me soon after mile 16. “I guess this wasn’t your race
Ryan, but don’t give up!” My
stride has gone from a clean, efficient one, to the stride that resembles one
that an 80-year-old man would have.
I know the last 5 miles are going to be hell. “Why do you do this to yourself? Just stop and get a
burger.” “I don’t know just keep moving. You can at least finish this with a
personal record” My mind is starting to go to war with it’s self. As I hit “the wall”, I become my
own worst enemy.
This
is when I need that energy that stored fuel the most. The last, hellish five miles. I am in the most pain of my life. For some reason, I haven’t grasped “that second wind” yet. It takes all of my will and energy to
throw one leg in front of the other. “ I don’t know how I got like this. What happened?” I try to imagine that my legs are the
ones of a robot and my torso is sitting on top. “Maybe these robot legs will get me to the finish line, and
there will be no pain” I’m delirious. All I can think about is getting to the
finish line now. Or just quitting.
Who cares about Boston? I
just want this to be over with. “Just don’t quit Ryan. The pain will be worse if you
quit. You don’t know how to quit.
Just keep moving forward.”
Every once in a while a person from the street calls out the number
pinned to my shorts, and shouts “Don’t give up! You got this!” Thank you random person. You have no idea how much you are
helping.
It’s
now mile 24. Just two miles
left. Well, one really. The last mile doesn’t count because for
some reason, the crowds, cheering, and signs all come back it goes by so quick. I can hear them now and my pace begins
to pick up. I am at a brisk
walk now, but with a runner’s form.
It’s all I can muster out of this carcass I call an athlete’s body. I
pass a man handing out cups of beer and grab two. Some of it actually makes it into my mouth. “Delicious, cold beer- can’t wait to taste you when I
get back home.” “Let’s finish this Ryan” Like shackles breaking off my legs, my
stride begins to open up.
Mile
26, finally! Thousands of people are now pushing me that last .2 miles, I can
hear the announcer and see the finish line. I just want to reach out and grab it! I raise my head up, squint my eyes, and
pump my arms. “My legs are
robots!” Tears well up in my eyes as I spread my arms out and cross the timed
finish line. Three hours and seventeen
minutes, and fifty-nine seconds.
Just 12 minutes from qualifying from Boston, but five minutes faster
than the marathon I ran last month.
My lucky, blue bandana is sopping wet, and salt is encrusted
to my face. I look like one of
those people dressed like zombies as I stumble pass the volunteers handing out medals. As I grab my complimentary bottle of
water and banana, I slowly make my way back to the hotel. My mind becomes
cluttered with anger, and disappointment.
“There’s always the next marathon. Maybe next time Ryan. At least you didn’t give up.” I try to cheer myself up. As the pain begins to subside, it
is replaced with that pride. I
didn’t give up. I know it’s going
to be a long, quiet, thought filled drive back home to Baltimore.
