There is no such thing as bad weather

I used to feel that after surviving a particularly difficult or trying set of experiences, I was then owed something by the universe. Like some cosmic accountant was responsible for placing events on one side of my life’s scale, and then the other. After a few anvils were seemingly placed in the loss column, I finally realized that I would not be handed compensation for them; I had not paid my dues just because I suffered. I stopped tallying and considering my life “in the red” and all of a sudden I started to gain from every experience.

As Marathon Monday approached, it became clear that Mother Nature was going to do as she pleased. I heard a lot of groaning and mumbles from runners who had already put in an entire painful training season in horrendous weather. But what can you do? And what did one more shitty running day matter? We cannot control every aspect of the storylines of our lives, but we can control the happy ending. That is something we choose.

Without further ado, here is my 2015 Boston Marathon debrief! I hope it gives you all a little taste of why this is my favorite time of year:

• The week leading up to Marathon Monday is always a swell of emotions for me. My nerves awake me every morning, 10 minutes before my alarm goes off. The nerves never completely dissipate throughout each day as more runners begin to trickle into the city, donations continue to be made to Dana-Farber, and preparations along the course progress. The energy of the city and the generosity of all my donors is overwhelming at times and it’s not uncommon to find me wiping away tears standing at my desk at work. This year felt particularly overwhelming, as the donations ($9,400 to date!), emails, and notes poured in. I always want to achieve excellence with this race because I run in memory of so many remarkable people, but this year I felt an even greater pressure as I heard from many, many of you; some folks from earlier stages of my life, others making contact for the first time in a few years, all wishing me well and sending me long distance cheers of support. My new training approach this year also left me restless over that week - would I blow it? The year when the support and donations were through the roof?
• I see Sonya in the days leading up to Monday, she looks me in the eye with all seriousness and tells me she feels really good about the race this year. And she plants the seed of new perspective. Instead of continuing to think about the lack of miles I ran during training, I start to think about how the injury avoidance was successfully accomplished. The 25-mile rides on the stationary bike at the gym and the resulting sweat moats, the hour-long aqua jogging in the pool with screaming children and aqua-aerobicizing old ladies, climbing the stairs of the BU hockey rink during off-hours; these efforts were not insignificant. I decide that maybe I am selling myself short.
• The sky is grey and the air cool when my dad drops me off at the Boston Common Monday morning. The platoon of orange school buses line the curb along Tremont Street. The volunteers milling around are already doing their thing, “Good morning! Good luck today!” The Boston Marathon volunteers all have assigned jobs to do on race day, but on top of that, they all take it upon themselves to be huge fans as well. I listen to the nervous chats between runners; race veterans are talking about the weather and newbies speculating about their times and the course. While every runner’s motivation is personal, we all share the same desire at this moment. Please let this current weather hold. I send one last text, to my sister who is traveling in Croatia, throw my phone in my bag and check it.
• I stare out the window as my wave of school buses start rolling down Tremont Street towards the Mass Pike. All the volunteers are waving from the curb. We pull away from the Common and complete strangers are waving too. A Dunkin Donuts’ employee is waving through the glass while her customer is mesmerized by the stream of buses and is waving as well. An elderly Chinese man on his morning walk looks up and waves his cane. As my breath begins to fog up the window, we pull onto the Mass Pike and start the journey west. A few moments later, scattered raindrops pelt the windows. The bus becomes quiet.
• I’ve gone to zero Dana-Farber team runs over the years. Despite my anti-social running tendencies, however, some runners have become familiar to me at the Dana-Farber refuge in Hopkinton, especially the handful who are time-qualified (as we usually have to leave the refuge at the same time to get to our wave’s start). As I’m lined up with the rest of the team for the group photo, the pre-photo announcements begin to go on for far too long considering how cold it is outside, and I mumble “Please just take the picture…” at the exact same time a short, blonde, very tan older woman standing in front of me is saying the exact same thing. She looks back at me and laughs, “Right?!” As soon as the photos are taken we are the first two back indoors. I introduce myself because we’ve definitely crossed paths on the course in previous years. This was Sarah’s 20th Boston Marathon as a qualifier and as a Dana-Farber Marathon Challenge runner. She was casual and relaxed sitting in that church hall stretching pre-race. We chatted a little about lacrosse and coaching and what the conditions would be like today. Then she got swept up by some of the DFMC staff since she is also a DF board member. Twenty marathons under her belt, holy crap. I remember sitting on the curb in Coolidge Corner for hours when I was a kid watching the marathon and not even being able to comprehend the distance those athletes were covering. As I started to play sports in middle school and high school, the marathon took on a whole other level of mystery because I finally understood what that distance meant. I remember crossing the finish line the first year, thinking about my mom, and right away thinking about running the race again. It’s fun getting older and realizing you are in control of your own realm of possibilities.
• I stay in the warm refuge a tad too long and get to my corral two minutes before the gun goes off for Wave 2. Whoops!
• A little girl is standing in her red raincoat at mile 2 as the rain begins to sprinkle down, screaming and clapping as her parents stand on their porch for cover: “You are all champions! You are. And you are. You are a champion!” I didn’t give out a ton of high fives this year, but she definitely got one.
• Second place award for the best cheering section goes to dark horse Framingham State students at Mile 5. The Wellesley girls’ screaming and the BC kids’ chanting is pretty consistently awesome year-to-year, but Framingham State is a crapshoot. I reached the group after the second major torrential downpour so I was officially soaked through; water dripping into my eyes, and the course had temporarily cleared of fans as they scampered for cover. Out of nowhere the howls and flailing limbs of the Framingham State students come into view. Something about the rain and wind empowered this year’s especially large student turnout who was spilling so drunkenly far out into the street that the police had to gently hold them back. Many of them were underdressed and dripping wet. They were jumping up and down reaching into the street for high fives, police tasked with the tough job of protecting runners but also not stifling the excitement of these exuberant fans. I move a little closer to the right side which gets them even more riled up as they reach over police shoulders for high fives or red-faced shouts of “HELL YES, MARTINA!”, spilling the contents of their solo cups without a care. One of the last girls I pass who is part of this riot of happiness screeches “Martina sounds like margaritaaaaaa!” and I give a thumbs up as I head down the road to Natick and they erupt again in my affirmation of their brilliant realization. This is the contagious nature of energy along the course that makes the Boston Marathon one of the best races in the world.
• The first 10k I came out fast, hoping to gain a little time on the front end of the course. I pull back a little for the next 5k, knowing that a sub-7 minute pace may get me a little extra time, but will also legitimately kill me before I crossed the finish. I assumed with my low mileage training season that the second half of the race, already the tougher half, would mean a pace more along the lines of 8 minute miles especially given the conditions, which were worse than most people expected.
• As I turn onto Commonwealth Avenue to approach mile 17, my quads and arms numb, I am feeling a little dejected. The soreness creeping into my hamstrings is almost a relief because it gives me some indication that there are still two legs pounding the wet pavement. This was the start of the most hellish part of the course, the Newton Hills, and as I make the turn near the firehouse the conditions are comically miserable. There is no point in trying to avoid the streams of water pouring down the hill. The annoying breeze during the first half of the race has matured to an adult headwind, with gusts strong enough to make my exhausted body take a few lateral steps every so often, a tremendously difficult feat when you are putting all your energy into moving forward. Each uphill I conquer steadily and each downhill I push myself hard to gain time back and stretch out my legs. The volume of the cheers increase and I know I’m approaching the start of the ascent up Heartbreak. I look down at the wet, shiny pavement in front of me. My legs don’t seem like my own. Left foot, right foot, one in front of the other. And then things finally come together in my drifting, exhausted mind: I JUST wrote about the last time I felt this uncomfortable (when I was hiking Kepler Track in New Zealand). This was why the winter training had been so challenging this season. This was some sort of positive feedback loop of discomfort (and subsequent success). I had completed Kepler and I could complete this race, and in full cycle, it was memories from previous marathons that had inspired my effort on Kepler. Cause and effect, start and finish, ends and beginnings start to disappear. The weather was not bad luck, it was not unfair; the race conditions fit into the larger picture exactly as they should have. And right on cue, a woman yells from the sideline pulling my mind back to the task at hand, “Martina, looking SO strong!” I pull my eyes away from the pavement just as the top of Heartbreak comes into view.
• My mind and body feel separated as I near Coolidge Corner. My pace is slowing, but I don’t think I’ve sunk to the 8 min/mile threshold yet. Coolidge Corner was where my official cheering section was located. I knew reaching them would give me a huge boost, as it always does. I really needed it. I was having trouble opening and closing my hands to take cups of gatorade and water. Blisters were enjoying the soggy swampland of my sneakers. My arms were too numb to even lift a finger to my nose to blow
  
  a snot-rocket. Finally I cross the intersection with Harvard Street and drift to the left where The Best Cheering Section in the Whole Wide World (TBCSWWW) resides. I finally let my eyes focus after miles of looking down at the pavement and I see the first familiar face, and then the second. They are all bundled up against the rain and cold but screaming my name as loud as they can. And I am home. Without realizing it was possible, my arms manage to lift up and collect high fives from the long line-up of the usual suspects. The jolt from those beautiful faces was all I needed. The unicorn is suddenly back on the course in front of me, and I am in hot pursuit. I want this race to be over, but more so, I want to bring something back to these amazing people who support me endlessly every year.
  
• The Dana-Farber Marathon Challenge cheering section lifts me along the overpass after the final hill at mile 25 and they erupt, squeezing one last smile out of me. I frantically look up ahead for the “1 Mile to go” marker. I am on track to qualify, and although my faculties are failing at this point, I also know a new personal record is still on the table. The river of runners is a trickle heading through Kenmore Square, but the cheering crowds are dense and throbbing with excitement. It feels like they understand my urgency and what I am chasing. So many people are cheering my name. I want to stop and hug each of them and let them know how critical they are to each runner’s success.
• I am ready this year for the distance on Boylston Street as I make the tight turn on the left side of the course. The crowd is providing the most perfect symphony of deafening cheers. I look down at my watch and realize at this pace, I probably won’t make it in time to PR. I look back up at the finish line. All the donations, all the love, all those faces along the course today. “Fuck it. GO.” I actually think I say the “go” aloud as I push my legs into what feels like the fastest sprint ever but most likely looks like a grandpa shuffle. I vow to not look down at my watch again until I cross that blue and yellow banner. It takes all my energy to pump my arms and lift each knee as the grandstand and the finish line volunteers come into focus. I reach my right leg out as far as I can for the black rubber timing mat and cross the finish line right before I feel like I’m about to have an out-of-body experience. I look down at my watch and before seeing the number I hit the stop button. I continue to walk forward through the finish line gauntlet of volunteers, breathing hard, trying not to cry. I look back down at my watch. 3:12. My fastest marathon by 73 seconds.
• The aftermath is not as pretty as my new time. I am hypothermic as I collect my medal and mylar poncho, which does nothing to warm me up. I’m still having trouble opening and closing my hands. A volunteer seeing me struggle with the cap on a bottle walks over to me, gently takes the bottle out of my shaking hands, twists the cap off and hands it back, softly whispering “congratulations.” As I cross Arlington Street my legs are shaking. The gusts of wind make me want to find the nearest wheelchair. A pedestrian walks up next to me and hands me his tea to hold, while taking the bag of snacks I forget I’m holding out of my hands. He walks me all the way to the Common. I’m claiming my bag and am fantasizing about immediately getting out of my wet clothes. I find a bench and try to unpin my bib from from my shorts, a task that has become impossible with my shaking, frozen hands. A complete stranger unpins me, smiles, asks if i need anything else, and walks away. A huge, burly cop yells at some Japanese tourists to get out of my way as he lets me through the Boylston Street T gates for free. I’m offered multiple seats as I pull myself onto the train. I cannot for the life of me stop shivering. My teeth are chattering. After a few stops, one lady slides in the seat next to me and another sits behind me. “We’re going to try and warm you up, if you don’t mind.” The one behind me wraps her scarf around my neck, the other pulls up right next to me and starts rubbing my arms. They’re on their way to Coolidge Corner to watch one of their husbands come through. I thank them profusely as we part ways in Coolidge Corner. Threads of kindness abound across this city today.
• I turn to enter the bar where I’m meeting the members of TBCSWWW and to my surprise, they are plastered against the glass windows banging their fists and shouting for me. The bouncer laughs and lets me in. I enter the bar and everyone is on their feet cheering and clapping. It was awesome.
  
• At one point during that glorious afternoon of celebration, I walk over to the restroom and a girl standing in line says, “Please, go ahead,” and I thank her. As I’m hobbling over, she continues, “You must be ‘the beast’ all your friends have been talking about!!” I laugh. “They seem like great friends,” she concludes, genuinely. She was not the last stranger that afternoon to draw that conclusion. They certainly are.
  
• In the early morning hours of Tuesday, as I restlessly slept and Leo took cover under my bed during the thunderstorms, Maickel Melamed, a Venezuelan with muscular dystrophy was wrapping up his 20 hour journey from Hopkinton to Boylston Street. He looks amazing in his interview right after finishing. Happy, eyes bright, heart full, he declares, “Human beings are here to connect to each other.” Ain’t that the truth.

We control the values of our experiences. When I think about Monday, even the hypothermia, the pain, and the exhaustion can be distilled down to an effort I am proud of. And I hope you are too.

Much love to you all and see you next year!