The Road to Boston Stops in Philadelphia

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.