Running on Faith

The call comes to go to the Boston starting line, so Doug and I shed some of our outer layers that will get collected for the homeless, and dispose of the ground cover we were sitting on. We drop our gear check bags in buses parked on the street to the starting line. We walk in a constant stream of people about a half mile to the starting line. Just as we get there, they are singing the national anthem, so we pause and take off our caps. Fighter jets fly over, and there is a cheer from the crowd of 13,000 runners in Wave 1. The corrals are organized by every 1,000 runners, so Doug and are both in corral 12. Oddly though, there is not enough room for us. No one seems to mind, and we wait for the official start, and then are funneled in as the 11,000 runners ahead of us start on this epic course, with the simplest of directions –From Hopkinton, take Route 135 until it turns into Commonwealth Avenue in Boston. After you pass the giant Citgo sign, go right on Hereford and left on Boylston.

At first it’s a slow walk, and stop and go, but there is plenty to soak in – the ambiance of this quaint New England town, the warming sun, the wind at our backs. After about 5-10 minutes, we are passing under the cameras and the starting line. It is a steep downhill at first. The field is crowded on this narrow rural road, but we move pretty fast, because everyone around us is seeded because they can run at our pace, and everyone ahead of us can run successively faster. The hometown crowds are cheering madly. With the kids off school, there are a lot more families lining the course, some with probably no connection to any runners, but following a long tradition of treating the Boston Marathon as a cross between a patriotic parade and the Super Bowl.

As we head out of the small town, a lot of runners are darting into the woods to relieve themselves, mostly men, but some women, too. Doug and I swap stories about bathroom breaks of ourselves and others during other races. Pretty quickly I declare a change of subject to block the power of suggestion on either of us. It feels like the first mile is fast, but we are actually a little over 8:00, which is our goal pace to finish in 3:35. I try to make up a little time in the second mile, and end up going to fast trying to get around blocks of runners. I also get a little too enthusiastic high-fiving kids along the way, and hit a sub-6 minute pace for a hundred yards or so, giving us a mile two split of 7:43.

It is great having Doug at my side, he holds my cap when I take off my long-sleeved cotton shirt in the third mile, which I toss to the side of the road. Yesterday on the course tour, Dick Beardsley talked about his “Duel in the Sun” with Alberto Salazar in 1982. In spite of jockeying for first place most of the race, they would share water with each other when it was handed to them by spectators or support people, since there were no official water stations in those years, even for elites. When I miss a Gatorade handoff, another runner grabs one for me without missing a step. Doug and I make this effort for each other a few more water stops down the line. My hydration/nutrition strategy is water in one mile, and Gatorade another. I take a Gu every 45 minutes or so. Doug is skipping the Gatorade, and taking a gel every 30 minutes.

After Hopkinton, the next town we go through is Ashland. The first 4 miles have been mainly downhill, and only the first mile was above an 8 minute pace. There are a ton of people in this town. Yesterday at the expo, I took part of my race packet envelope, and I made an extra “bib”. I wrote my name, and then ”I Love (heart) Boston”. The markers I used were red and blue, the Red Sox colors, which I make an effort to mimic the Boston Sox Script “B”. all along the route people yell back “We love You, too, tom!” or “I Love Boston, too, Tom” “Boston Loves you back Tom.” I wave, and sometimes yell “I love you more!” or, just “Thank You”. Sometimes people say “Go, Tom from Boston.” It is a huge boost, and sometimes takes away the pressure to yell something back to them, which can wear you down throughout the race.

I really do love Boston. Of course, the race holds a mystique for marathon runners, and I have been lucky enough to achieve my quest for this Holy Grail. My affection for the town goes back to my twenties, before I was any kind of a runner. My first job out of college was with an economic forecasting firm called Data Resources, Inc. It was headquartered in Lexington, Mass, back in the pre-PC days when Route 128 was known as Silicon Highway. We had a bunch of mainly 20-30 year olds working out of the Chicago office, and trips to HQ were a mix of rural New England office complexes, and hanging out in Cambridge and the Bull and Finch pub that inspired the TV show Cheers.. As a first-generation Irish-American, I felt right at home in Boston. I even got over the chip on my shoulder from seeing University of Chicago’s reputation overshadowed by Harvard. DRI was founded by Harvard economists, and had a lot of top people from U of C, Harvard, MIT and other great schools. At that time, I would have moved to Boston in heartbeat. Now I’m content to visit once a year in April.

The next town we come through is Framingham, at about mile 6. The course is flat and wide through here. I am expecting to see Melanie and Sherri here. Melanie came along from Illinois to get inspiration for her quest to qualify, and stayed with her high-school friend, Sherri. Right before the start, Melanie told me on the phone that they would be holding a sign that says “Go Yankee Runners!” to cheer on the group of runners that meets in Oak Forest at the Yankee Woods Cook County Forest Preserve. I see them next to the railroad tracks. They are on a wide shoulder, all by themselves. I angle away from Doug, throw my arms wide, and yell “Hey! Yankee Runners!” as I run right in between them, barely slowing down, while I through an arm around each of them. Melanie is yelling, holding the sign, and Sherri is snapping pictures furiously with a zoom lens. I just take a few steps in place, and say a few words, confirming that they are going to meet the runner with the stomach problems. Later on, I found out that Boston area locals did not appreciate the reference to “Yankee Runners” on their sign, not knowing that it was an arbitrary place name, and not connected to the baseball team at all. I probably compounded the resentment by yelling out “Yankee Runners” and then abruptly left them holding the bag, so to speak (Oops, my bad!)

For the next few miles, we hover between an 8 and an 8:10 pace. Doug has been talking about his stomach not feeling good, and I suggest slowing the pace down for a while. Of course, the next time I look we have run another sub-8 minute mile. We both seem to be feeling good otherwise, but we know that our pace has been too fast early on. Around mile 10, Doug decides that at the next chance, he is going to stop and use the bathroom. Meanwhile, we approach Wellesley college around mile 12. I don’t hear the girl’s screams as early as I last year, possibly because this year there is tailwind, and last year there was a tailwind. I had decided not to stop and get any kisses from the girls like I did last year, but they start yelling out my name from seeing the sign, saying “We Love You Tom!”. I run to the side, and hold my hand out for about 20 high fives in row at what Doug later told me was under a 7 minute pace. (My Garmin showed my fastest pace in the marathon was 5:36, which was probably on a downhill for about 25 yards). Back to my almost 50 year old reality and the rest of the race, I escort Doug into the town of Wellesley, and he founds a Port-a-Potty. We wish each other luck, and I press on towards Laura at mile 17 in Newton, that’s where I’ll get my kiss – one that really means something – everything to me.

I’m running okay for awhile by myself, but after about a mile, I feel my focus start to falter without Doug to distract. I start to feel the pounding of the early miles add up. My right foot feels like the sock is bunching up in between my first 2 toes, or that the powder that I use is wadding up. As I get closer to mile 16, I get some more speed on a downhill, looking forward to seeing Laura. She told me she would be at mile 16.8, where she could get off the “T” rapid transit line. It is right before the route turns at a right angle around the fire station in Newton, where the dreaded Newton Hills begin. All of a sudden, I notice the sign for the T-station, and I look at my watch, which says 16.94 miles. OMG! I must have missed her! But I remember that the Garmin has been counting the miles short, or maybe I started it before the official start. I stop and look right into the crowd. Half the people are chanting my name because they see it on my shirt. I want to tell them to stop, because I need to hear Laura calling my name! Then, looking straight ahead, I see her leaning out in the street, yelling and taking my picture. I am so relieved I did not miss seeing her at the only spot in the course. I kiss her, and explain to her where Doug is. The high school football coach from our town, Greg, is here to watch his girlfriend , the track coach run. He raises both his hands up for a high five. The dude is a couple of inches taller than me, and I think he is standing on a curb, because I feel it when I lift my hands up. Next time Greg, down low for a fist-bump. (That’s the way me and "terrorists" like Michelle Obama roll.)  I head back into the steady flow of runners, knowing exactly what I’m up against in the next 4 miles.

The turn by the firehouse is slightly downhill, and the crowds and the atmosphere sort of slingshot me around the corner. But soon enough, the road starts to rise. Between crossing the highway overpass in mile 16, and stopping to look for Laura, my pace was already close to 9 minutes. Now it is slowing even more. I know I can get through this, I did it last year. I remember some advice I read and keep my eyes focused 15 feet in front of me, about 3 runners, so the road does not look so steep. My legs feel heavy, my stomach is sloshing, but I am determined not to walk the hills. It takes me awhile to pass people who are walking, but at least no walkers pass me. The crowd keeps me going, “C’mon Tommy, You’re looking awesome.” It reminds me of hanging around traders from Bridgeport at bars around the Board of Trade like Alcocks. Within 5 minutes of learning your name is Tom, they call you Tommy like you went to the same parish school together. I love that about Chicago, and right now Boston is making feel at home, even though it hurts.

Last year, Laura was stationed just on the backside of Heartbreak Hill, so that carried me up the hills. Today, I have nobody until I get to the finish line, so Heartbreak is a tougher climb. But, I recognize where I am at, so I know I am done with the worst. I pass Boston College, and I hear my name chanted by fraternity brothers “TOM! TOM! TOM!” That’s awesome, and I get a few more times on the course. Just across from BC is the main spot where Mel’s group hangs out, with a printer banner saying “Yankee Runners, Illinois” I give them a shout out, although I’m not sure of any of them personally know me. People warn you about overdoing it on the downhill past Heartbreak, because there are 5 more miles, including a few small uphills. I don’t quite have to worry about that. but there is some effect. My pace the mile before heartbreak 9:44; for the mile including Heartbreak Hill – 10:30. the mile after Heartbreak, 9:46.

The course changes quickly from rural/small college town to quasi-urban. The streetcar tracks that the “T-“ runs on cross the street, or run parallel for the remainder of the course. It also feels like the pavement is much harder. Maybe these streets were underlain with cobblestone and paved over with asphalt. Or maybe there is just so much more traffic. Or maybe the last 21 miles of hills have just beat my legs up. It just feels like the pavement has less give, until right near the finish.

The crowds are crazy these last few miles. I wish I had something left in reserve, because they could really push you to a strong finish. I come within spitting distance of a 9 minute pace for a mile, but most of the last 4 miles is slower than a 10 minute pace. At some point I try to make 3:45 a secondary goal, but maybe I should have done that at the start. I’m not disappointed, but feel lucky to be running in this crown jewel of the marathons, to be running marathons at all, and to be able to run and be active altogether. People are passing me on both sides, and it makes my pace seem awfully slow. The mileage on my watch is too long, but the time is accurate. I know I am going to be close to my time of last year, and I really hope that it reads 3:48 something at the end. But for now, I don’t look at it. I go by Fenway, and I can see the Citgo sign and the Prudential building. When I go under the last underpass that gives us our final hill, I can see the turn onto Hereford street. I try to get a good stride, and make sure I am smiling. This brings back so many memories. I cut the right-hand turn corner, and angle towards the final (and only ) left turn on to Boylston street. I pass a woman in a pink cowboy hat. I remember that the corner of Hereford and Boylston has a pothole, and sure enough, they have a cone in front of it. I squeeze in between it and a couple of runners. It’s a few hundred yards to the finish, I am keeping stride, but I can’t really say it’s a finishing kick. I hear them calling out runners names, but I don’t notice mine as I cross the timing mats. I stop my watch and it reads 3:49:32, which is one second within my official time, although the distance on the watch says 26.7 miles. I’ll trust that the BAA got it right. I did run on both sides of the course at times, but I tried to cut the tangents when I could.

It has been great to be able to run Boston 2 years in a row!  It has been awful not having a job for over a year, but my running has kept me sane. It’s hard to believe I re-qualified while not working. I feel guilty for having the expense of travelling to Boston. Laura seemed to love the experience last year as much as I did - in part because she shared in the joy that I had accomplished one of my dreams. Last year I said that she “bought me the ticket to my dreams”, like Dick Beardsley's Dad buying him a plane ticket to Boston for his high school graduation. This year, she punched my ticket again when she challenged me to re-qualify so I could run with Doug after he qualified in Twin Cities. We found a way to afford it, and she has had faith that I could run, and that we would make do on her salary until I get a job. Sometimes when you run on faith, it gets you farther than you could imagine.