BAA Boston Marathon 2019
BAA Boston Marathon 2019
Everybody knows about the Boston Marathon. I somehow knew about it before I ran my first marathon—Detroit in 2007 (3:40). It was only my fourth road race, but I already knew what time I would need to qualify for Boston, and that I would have no shot of ever running it. I remember quite vividly a conversation I had with a bar patron at the bar I was working at a few months after running Detroit.
“You run Boston?”
“Nope.”
“You should do it. It is unreal.”
“I get that. I just can’t get in.”
“You just gotta work at it. It will be worth it.”
“Yeah… maybe,” I lied. The idea left as quick as it had come to mind.
I didn’t run another step for 18 months after my first marathon except for an untrained 25K in 2008.
Nearly four years later, I ran a pair of 2:44 marathons, but was no longer interested in Boston. That is, until a friend from graduate school began training with the intention of qualifying. I told him that I would join him in Boston if and when he qualified. Consequently, I have been careful to run at least one BQ every year. Just in case.
Last year he ran 3:00:xx and qualified by the skin of his teeth, so I punched my own ticket to the 2019 BAA Boston Marathon.
The registration fee was substantial but manageable. The hotel and flight was what made me queasy. I was upset about that expense for… I’m still getting over it.
Erica and I flew into Boston early Friday afternoon, and used the public transit system to get to our hotel on Harvard Square in Cambridge. It is a neat college town with plenty of restaurants, bars, stores, and parks. We definitely chose the location well.
On Friday, we toured Cambridge. Saturday, we went to the race expo downtown, explored the shops on Newbury Street, and went to an afternoon Red Sox game.
Vegan 26.2 Boston Cream Donut at VeggieGalaxy
Fenway
I saw Dathan Ritzenhein and Jared Ward out doing their recovery runs with their teammates on Saturday.
Ritz 
Ward
Ward
Sunday, we met up with Gary and his family, and visited little Italy. We were in bed by 8pm every night while we were in town.
Tiramisu Gelato in Little Italy
THE MARATHON
Without realizing it, I got a taste of what the marathon experience would be like at the race expo on Saturday. A line extended outside of the conference center nearly a quarter of a mile. Erica knew what it was immediately, but I told her that that was impossible. That it was probably a line to get a photo with Des Linden or Meb Kelflezghi. Nope, she was right. It was for the expo.
There was a 30-minute line just to get into the expo. I recognized Amby Burfoot in line (the winner of the 1968 Boston marathon). He looked like he has for 50 years. I geeked out and talked to him for a bit, thanking him for his book A Runner’s Guide to the Meaning of Life.
The line continued through security and up two flights of stairs to the bib-pickup, getting the race t-shirt, and finally into the zoo that was the expo. For the entire time we were there, our steps were dictated by the pace of the crowd we were in. This literary device is called "foreshadowing."
We were relieved to finally get out of there and be on with our day.
I had learned that the race would be rainy before we left for Boston. I had done all of my marathon pace stuff and long runs in my running sandals, but decided to leave them home because they would be worthless if there was even a slight drizzle. I brought my beat-up trainers with me instead. They already had around 2000 miles on them.
To prevent chaffing, I wore a pair of compression shorts on the bottom and a lightweight singlet on top. I put my phone in a waist pack to make sure I could reconnect with Erica after the race. I stashed three gels in the pocket. I could wear a jacket or gloves for as long as necessary and discard them when I warmed up. As soon as I stepped outside that morning, I realized that it would be too warm to need sleeves or gloves.
I walked down to the Harvard Station at 6:15am in the rain along with a few other runners in their full-body, dollar-store rain-ponchos. The train came by within a few minutes and before long we had made the switch and arrived at Arlington station, which was right beside the finish-line bag drop-off.
There I found two full city blocks of buses that were divided by race-number. These were the buses that would hold one bag for each runner until after the race. I didn’t want to get hypothermia after cooling down from the marathon so I had packed a jacket and t-shirt. I regretted my decision to bring a bag almost instantly. It would have been nice to avoid the crowds there. To drop off my bag, I had to navigate a sea of anxious poncho-clad runners milling about before getting to my assigned bus. It was the last one. Then I had to walk back through the sea and towards the buses that would be taking runners to Hopkinton. What had been a slight drizzle turned into a heavy rain. The sea of runners were directed through the park and into roped-off lines for each bus.
Everything was a queue of people waiting to get somewhere. It was like the series of lines you go through in an airport. Everybody is in a hurry to get to the next line so that they can get to the next line. Repeat.
I boarded a bus at around 7:15am. By now I had already walked a little over a mile. It was nice to be out of the rain for a bit. The bus ride took about an hour, and I listened to runners nervously talk about random topics like whether or not the bus-driver worked for a school district or if she was a volunteer. Whether there would be a tailwind on the course. What their travel plans had been to and from Boston. What the elite runners were doing at that particular moment. Where and with whom they had stayed the night before. And so on.
The rain had mostly stopped by the time we arrived at what they call “Athlete’s Village.” There was about a half-mile walk from the bus stop to the village. Athlete’s village was a high school campus with baseball and football fields where giant tents are set up with bagels, coffee, Gatorade, water, and several hundred port-o-jons. Since it had been raining all morning, it also had about four inches of rain and mud on the grass. It was a mess. Within 30 seconds, my shoes were as sopping wet and muddy as they have ever been after a rainy ultramarathon trail race.
The race still didn’t start for another 90 minutes. I used the bathroom and found a spot to wait for Gary. We had planned to meet between 8:30-50 at a particular part of the village, and I got there around 8:25. I waited until 9 before giving up and getting back in line to do my business before the race start. He walked by shortly thereafter and was able to get his attention.
At 9:15 they let runners make their way the .7 or so miles to the start line for the Wave 1 start at 10:02am. It seemed like everyone in the village was in wave 1. A herd of runners started walking towards the exit which was about forty feet wide. The bottleneck to exit was 100 yards in every direction. It took 15 minutes to get 30 feet. There were several bottlenecks just to get out of the village, then at each poncho-discarding station where runners could remove excess clothing to be donated. The herd then made its way into the starting line corrals which were organized based on qualifying times. I started at a corral further back in order to run with Gary. It was already jam-packed.
I didn’t even hear the gun go off, but we eventually starting walking forward. We were pretty much forced to go the speed of the people in front of and behind us because of how tightly we were all bunched together. This was a slow walk for 100 yards. Then it became a slow jog. Then we crossed the start line.
The first half-mile is a steep downhill. I looked at my watch and expected to be running 6-flat. Even on uphills like in the NYC marathon, the first mile is always too fast. Boston’s first mile is downhill. My watch said 7:30. Hmm. There was no real way to open up with that many people around. Within three minutes, Gary was fed up and decided to start zig-zagging his way through the crowd. He had hoped to break 3 hours for the first time, and had a careful pacing plan to follow. Looking down the road I could see another half mile still: it was absolutely full of runners. There was no “opening” to run towards. He would be searching for an opening for 26 miles.
It is strange to run with that many people for an entire mile when I am used to being with very few runners by the first mile marker. In the Albany Marathon (which I’ve run three times now), I could run almost 3 miles without seeing another runner. There it is easy to find a rhythm and stick with it. The first few miles of Boston felt like I was running on a sidewalk through a carnival. Even though we were organized according to qualifying time, which means the paces should have been pretty similar, there was a wide disparity in speed.
If you wanted to speed up, you had to dodge runners.
If you wanted to stay the same speed, you had to dodge runners.
If you wanted to slow down, you had to dodge runners.
It didn’t help that I do all of my training runs alone on a wide-open country road, and have almost no experience running in a crowd.
I tried to keep up with Gary for a little while but eventually gave up. It took too much extra focus to avoid clipping heels or bumping shoulders with runners. Moreover, those are not the miles of a marathon you want worry about being hyper-focused. They are the miles to find a comfortable rhythm and zone out for a bit. Nothing about the sea of runners was comfortable. Then I heard a voice behind me: “Patrick!”
It was Jen Perkins, the 3:00:xx marathoner from my running club. She was a few paces behind me. I slowed down a bit and then we ran shoulder to shoulder for the next 12 miles. I explained how I had already been ditched by Gary and that I couldn’t believe that the field hadn’t yet thinned out. She told me that it would thin out by mile 6 or so.
Running with Jen (Photo by Katie Jolie Phillips)
Mile 6 came and it was the same. But we had found a comfortable rhythm and clicked off a bunch of 6:40s, dodging runners with grace.
I could tell early on that it was going to be a difficult day for nutrition. I had been a little nauseous the night before and couldn’t eat much for dinner. I also hadn’t been hungry for anything that morning. I tried to eat a muffin but it didn’t sit right. By mile 6, I could tell that I was already sodium and carbohydrate deficient. I was getting light-headed and irritable. I took two cups of Gatorade (about 8 ounces) at the next aid station. It was as much Gatorade as I had ever consumed during a marathon, and I wasn’t even a quarter of the way finished. I perked up a bit after that.
By the next aid station, I was ready for more. It was only one mile later. Instead of only taking nutrition at 2 aid stations the entire race (like most marathons I have run), there were only 2 stations where I did not get something to drink (and there are about 26 stations on the Boston course).
Jen and I continued to run together through the screaming tunnel at Wellesley which gave me chills. That many screaming women had a strange and arousing effect on me, but I kept that to myself. I understand why many runners unconsciously accelerate through that section. After the excitement waned, it was onto the charming town of Framingham.
I felt like I had to use the bathroom and began looking for a race-side jon. The first few I came to were for spectators and were on the other side of the barricades. Jen pointed to one that was accessible through the barricade, but there were only two and both were occupied. I let her go and waited. It opened up in less than a minute and I was in/out of there pretty quickly. I calculated that I had lost maybe 2:30 on that pit stop, and figured that it would take me nearly 10 miles to catch back up with her, so I stepped on the gas. Maybe a bit too much. I caught her inside two miles and before we reached the Newton Hills. Oops. While it felt good to open up, I had had to focus extra hard and run a lot further in order to run around the clumps of people.
The number of sidelined runners who were nursing leg cramps and abdominal cramps began to increase.
The first Newton hill was nice, and Jen and I ran it together. She was starting to feel the heat and predicted the need to slow down before too long. I thought I could still have a shot at sub-3, but knew that I would have to really elbow my way through the crowd and push people out of the way at water stations in order to make it happen. I decided that it wouldn’t be worth going to the well for no other reason that barely breaking 3—a time that would still be a good 7 minutes slower than my BQ time. So, instead, I began looking for beer.
“I was told there’d be beer.”
Jen decided to take a break and walk on one of the Newton hills and instructed me to let her go so I kept the pace we had been running which was a low 7. I began scanning the sides of the road in search of free beer. Nothing.
I enjoyed that stretch of jogging the hills. I would get chills every time the crowd roared. The water stations continued to be a gauntlet of elbows and people suddenly stopping in front of you. But now without a time goal, I didn’t mind all the stopping and dodging.
I realized that I had accidently lost a gel at the toilet which I had tucked in the waistband of my shorts. That was too bad. I had packed one more than I thought I would need, but knew early in the race that I would be needing them all. Fortunately there were plenty of Gu stations on the course.
I found my beer station at the bottom of Heartbreak hill. Not where you want to chug a beer, but I was determined to get my BAA beer. They were handing them out like an aid station in little 4-5 oz pours, so I took two. Thank you Hash House Harriers. May God bless and keep you. May he shine his face upon you. May the wind be always at your back. And so on.
I had a satisfying burp at the top of Heartbreak and enjoyed a nice, warm alcoholic buzz on the way back down.
After Jen and I split (photo: Katie)
The downhills were really starting to wear out my quads and feet. The downhill sprints I had done were not sufficient preparation. It felt more like a mountain trail race than a road marathon. In a road marathon, you’re running at the edge of your aerobic threshold all day then reach past it over the final 10K. At Boston, and many of the mountain ultra’s I have run, I seldom approached my aerobic threshold except on steep uphills. The limiting factor was the screaming quads and feet.
Sun came out! (photo: Katie)
With 5K to go, I had another gear but no real incentive to go to it. There was no reason to get there 1 minute faster other than to be done, and I was in no hurry to be done. I just kept moving and really trying to soak in the crowds. The sun even came out and made for a nice final stretch.
In the final miles, the field of runners was still as dense as the beginning of the race, except that now there were a lot more people walking. A few were vomiting, and some were being monitored by medical personnel or the police. Many runners fell on the wrong side of the fine-line between working hard and overworking. It was a rough day for that.
I had told Erica to stand on the outside of the second-to-last turn (on Hereford and Commonwealth), and looked for her there. I took that right-hand turn extremely wide, running the inverse tangent along the far left-side in order to see Erica and get a smooch. I was so far left that some blond girls were yelling at me to get back on course, worried that I was about to miss the most obvious turn of the entire race. I was just looking for my lady lumps. She had been on the course about a half-mile earlier and I just hadn't seen or heard her.
Having missed her, I was bummed going into the final turn, but it was still nice to see the famed Boylston stretch. It was the least exciting finish of a marathon I have ever experienced. I wasn’t happy to be done, and I certainly wasn’t happy to walk through a sea of zombie-fied runners to get water, food, finisher medals, and space-blankets.
After nearly a mile of being told “keep moving, keep moving” I finally turned to someone and asked “How do I get out of here?”
“Where are you going?”
“Away from people.”
“Keep moving, then.”
I hobbled over the barricades and down an empty alleyway. I ended up at Arlington Station and called Erica. She was a mile away. We met in the middle. I covered about 200 meters of that distance, and she covered the other 1400.
We sat on a bench for a little bit and caught up on all that had happened. I mostly complained about being in a sea of runners for the last 7 hours. She complained about being a sea of people for the last 3 hours.
“The goat-to-people ratio here is too low” she said.
I agreed.
We walked back to the station and took it back to our hotel. I showered and we got some burgers before heading back into town so she could do some shopping. Later that night we had some more beers and pizza near the finish-line which had finally emptied of people. Boston had gotten its streets back (and I had gotten my appetite back).
And I shall be telling this with a sigh,
Somewhere ages, ages hence:
I crossed the big one off my list
Ne'er to return and not to be missed.
See you in Al-binny 2020.
And I shall be telling this with a sigh,
Somewhere ages, ages hence:
I crossed the big one off my list
Ne'er to return and not to be missed.
See you in Al-binny 2020.
Boston
Home
No comments:
Post a Comment