Just
100 yards to the finish line, and I couldn’t help but smile. My quads ached,
and if I hadn’t consciously thought about each footfall, my knees likely would
have buckled. I tried to speed up, just to reflect the enthusiasm of the crowd.
Yet my legs refused to respond. It felt peculiar to let my body give out before
my lungs. With the finish line within sight, my pain simply didn’t matter.
I
could share my data—my average heart rate, my paces per mile, my average pace,
my time—but for such an event as this one, it seems trite. This 118th
Boston Marathon marked the success of a city, a country, and a community of
runners. Banded together in blue and yellow, we invaded the city of Boston. Its
denizens embraced us. Daffodils lined the streets, filled the planters, and decorated
the counters of local businesses. This city lacked nothing in the way of
determination.
Bryan
and I arrived Thursday to a cold, blustery city. Just two days prior, Boston
and surrounding towns had woken up to 2 inches of snow. The snow had thankfully
since melted, but the people appeared frustrated by weather that did not want
to let go of winter. It wasn’t until Saturday that the sunshine began to warm
up the city in preparation for race day on Monday.
Monday
arrived, and Bryan and I felt ready to enjoy a beautiful, sunny day running
from Hopkinton back to Boston. I couldn’t help but pray the 26 miles running
back to Boston wouldn’t feel nearly as long as the bus trip out to the start
line.
Before
we could even toe the line, we spent about two hours in a field full of
thousands of other hobos, or at least that’s what we all looked like. People
wore old sweaters I’d expect to see at an ugly Christmas sweater party. Two
women passed me in pajamas. One man wore a black, wool pea coat as he stood in
one of the likely hundred lines to the porta potties that lined all borders of
the field. It appeared as though a myriad of Value Villages and Goodwills
across the country experienced a sharp upturn in business. As far as business
is concerned, I’m certain they appreciated the onslaught of Boston marathon
participants looking for cheap, warm clothes to keep warm and then toss before
the beginning of the race.
We
quickly acclimatized to our surroundings and decided to help form one of the
lines stemming from porta potties before planting ourselves in amongst the
other participants who’d already staked their claim on the grass. Sunshine
translated to warmth under our warming blankets, and after about 30 minutes of
waiting, we decided to hit the porta potties one last time. The lines had
lengthened. After about 45 minutes in line, the announcer informed us of our
turn to exit the fields for the parking lot. So began our half-mile walk to the
start line.
Volunteers
lined the streets, collecting our trash and clothes to be tossed for donation.
A group of college guys offered beer, cigarettes, and donuts out of a
neighborhood yard. One last park of porta potties waited to serve us, and
runners raced to available commodes. Bryan and I peered into the melee, and we
decided to join in and not risk passing up one last opportunity to void our
nervous bladders.
Our
bladders emptied, we ushered ourselves back into the long line to the start.
The crowds of spectators began to increase as we descended into the town square.
Volunteers guided us through the corrals, and before I knew it, we’d crossed
the start line without any formal prelude.
Ashland.
Framingham. Natick. Wellesley. It appeared the inhabitants of each town had found
the course to cheer us on, kept out of the streets by a barricade that spanned
both sides of the street for the entire 26 miles of the course. People cheered.
Some even handed out water, facial wipes, bags full of ice, orange slices, and
beer. Anything to keep us comfortable, I suppose.
I
felt comfortable up until about mile 15, at which point my quads began to argue
with my head. Even the enthusiasm of the Wellesley college girls couldn’t pick
me up. I giggled at a girl holding a sign asking to be kissed because she still
felt sexually frustrated. Later, I found strength going up all the Newton
hills, but only pain attempting to negotiate the other side. After scaling
Heartbreak hill at mile 20, my motivation to continue slowly waned. Yet I still
had six more miles to the finish line.
Brookline
took far too long for me to run through. I remember passing the cheerful Boston
College undergrads, totally impassive. Magnolia trees on Beacon Street. Kenmore
Square. Where is Boston? I walked. I
ran. I hobbled. I cursed my fatigued legs. When I passed mile marker 24, I
somehow found strength to run more often than walk. The depth of spectators
lining the streets slowly increased. I’d found Hereford Street. Just 100 yards
to the finish line…
…I
couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t a race I can brag about, as far as my race
performance is concerned. Yet I am reminded that my performance hardly measures
up to the significance of the day itself. In fact, I’m happily content finding
success in the fact I am not injured after this marathon (my left knee pain has
nothing on me this time!) Bryan and I enjoyed our first outdoor, nearly three-hour bike ride yesterday. Today's first run one week post-race felt pretty good, too. We both found considerable strength in what the day meant to the
country and runners all around the world. It feels good to revel in Boston
Strong.
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