The year the Boston Marathon swiped left on me

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.

― Herman Melville, Moby-Dick

I’ve been running (without a field hockey or lacrosse stick in my hands) for over ten years now. My motivations for each run, for each Boston Marathon, are far more dynamic than I could have ever imagined when I first started; they evolve and expand, reflecting where I am and who is in my life at the moment. Looking back at my first blog entry sparks memories of how those first few training seasons felt. I was running from something. From guilt and loss, from new responsibilities, from a seemingly unquenchable pain. Similar to Ishmael taking to the sea, whenever I felt like knocking people’s hats off, I put my sneakers on and hit the pavement.

This year’s Boston Marathon was the most physically painful to date. Every year I cross the finish line feeling a moment away from an out-of-body experience. This year I had the feeling of being on the precipice of total collapse many, many times. It was a combination of factors, several of which were in my control and my fault. But this is partly why I am addicted to this race. Every year the course remains exactly the same yet I am attempting it as a different person. And some years I’m more compatible with the race conditions than other years.

My performance two weeks ago was nothing remarkable. My 3:19 finish time was both a little faster and a little slower than my other seven marathon attempts. Actually, what was remarkable was the extreme level of discomfort I felt almost the entire race (more on that below). But that aside, the people that day - the volunteers, the other runners, the fans - they certainly were remarkable. They gave me the finish.

Without further ado, here is an abridged summary of the highs and lows of Marathon Monday:

You all know how this marathon mania began. Many of you supported me back in 2006 when I was a charity runner trying to raise the minimum amount and just hoping to survive the race. This effort has evolved over the last eight races as I’ve transitioned into a qualifying runner who chooses to raise funds for Dana-Farber. You all allow me the privilege of continuing to do this. Your extreme generosity each year is what made me boost the goal to $10,000 this year and as I sent out the initial email-plea about two weeks before the race, I was a wee bit nervous about whether this could be achieved. On my bike ride to work the Wednesday before the race, I’m feeling a little panicked. I have $7,000 left to raise. I wish I had more to offer my wonderful donors. How could I provide greater motivation to those friends, colleagues, and acquaintances to pull the trigger? Have I asked too much, too quickly from people who are already stretched thin? And as my anxiety spiral gains momentum (which is really good for my pre-race nerves ulcer that I seem to get every year), I get to work, open my email, and see a handful of donation emails. And then a torrent a few hours later. An avalanche of generosity raises $4,500 in less than two days and buries my doubt. It is an overwhelming level of magnanimity and kindness that I have never experienced in such a short amount of time. I start believing $10,000 before race day is within our grasp.

This year’s training season concluded without a big golden bear/retriever greeting me at the end of each run, putting his head in my lap after each workout, gladly walking a little slower each morning when I was sore or tired. I miss his sweet face. His golden eyelashes. It may sound silly, but Leo is in my thoughts constantly during the week leading up to the race. He never understood what I did every April, but I know he sensed the emotional energy that engulfed me each year at that time. I like to joke that Leo was the best coach I ever had. When he would push his big head into my body, near my heart, it was usually the most serene part of each day. He provided the perfect balance to my race anxiety. I’m missing that daily relief.

Sunday morning the butterflies in my stomach wake me up earlier than I’d like. The first thing I do is grab my phone and see a handful of new emails - all fundraising notifications. I open my DF fundraising page and an enormous wave of excitement passes over me. I exhale deeply and then squeal loudly. More than $10,000 raised in 10 days. I can’t stop smiling. And then the weight of the faith that people have placed in me settles on my chest; it will be my fuel tomorrow.

Vlad drops me off Monday morning at the corner of Arlington and Boylston. He has a huge smile across his face and vows to run the race again next year. Another victim of the highly contagious Marathon Monday virus. Runners are everywhere. We look like a ragtag army; people are wearing their least favorite sweats, weird outfits from Goodwill, anything that will keep them warm but can be thrown away before the start. I see one guy wearing his hotel bathrobe. Another is wearing oversized stone washed jeans and a neon windbreaker.

I encounter - unexpectedly - several people I know at the Dana-Farber refuge in Hopkinton who are also running. I love how small New England is! I love how tangled all our threads are! Everyone is all smiles. This building is filled with people who have trained hundreds of hours and raised millions of dollars for a myriad of reasons: mothers, fathers, daughters, grandfathers, best friends. Many have survived cancer themselves and they run because, well, because they are alive and they can.

Walking to the starting corrals, I see a couple outside their home setting up some lawn games and having a beer (time stamp: 10am) and as the guy turn towards the road I see he has a Wesleyan t-shirt on and I yell out that I went to Wes and he yells back “Yahhhhhh! AWESOME! You’re going to do amazing. Congrats!” As I’m walking into the final port-a-potty village before entering the corrals, a woman places her hand on my back and says “Your mom is looking down on you today and is so proud.” A complete stranger said this to me. She read my “Miss you Mom” note on the back of my singlet and based on that alone decided to reach out to connect to me. Such a small, simple gesture, paired with kind, genuine words becomes a moment that I will never forget.

Standing in corral 1, right behind the start line, it feels far warmer than expected. Unlike last year, everyone has already stripped off their extra clothing. A few people are already dumping water on their necks to cool down. I am one of only a handful of women amongst a sea of men. This year’s race marks 50 years since the first woman unofficially ran the Boston Marathon in a one-piece bathing suit and bermuda shorts. Bobbi Gibb finished the race even after her application was rejected by the BAA. At the time, the Amateur Athletics Union (the sanctioning body of the Boston Marathon) prohibited women from racing more than 1.5 miles. The BAA added that “besides, women are not physiologically capable of covering 26.2 miles on foot.” [Insert laughing so hard that I’m crying emoji here]. Standing shoulder to shoulder with all these men in my corral, I draw strength and inspiration from the women who blazed the path before me.

The start is fast and I struggle to stay around 7 minute miles. By mile 3, I know the race is not going to be one for the record books. It's a hard pill to swallow so early. I start to have small stomach cramps, from what I’m still not sure. Sometimes they’d go away after hydration, other times they became worse. After years of missing one another, I see my college RA, cancer-survivor, and all-around wonderful person around mile 4. She is cheering for me like crazy and I feel invigorated after seeing her excitement. The cramps fade with the small adrenaline boost from her smiling, familiar face.

By mile 10 or 11 I feel my left glute on the precipice of a cramp, which spreads to my hamstring. The good news is my leg and glute pain are distracting me from my stomach issues. Two crazy fans are really aggressively screaming my name from the opposite side of the course, which usually means it’s someone I know (I wear my name across my singlet which guarantees personalized cheers the whole race). I look over my shoulder and I see two friends I recently made at my best childhood friend’s wedding flailing wildly. I had no idea they’d be there - what an unexpected treat! And again another boost from some familiar faces to distract from the pain.

I approach the Wellesley College scream tunnel which is encouraging because the Wellesley girls are hilarious, but also because the 13 mile marker is shortly thereafter. The pace of many runners, especially the male runners, gets jacked up while approaching this stretch. I restrain myself as guys whip by me on both sides. A tall, dark-haired man wearing a singlet with the Italian flag passes closely on my right side, looks over at my name, and exclaims in heavily accented English, “Ahh Marrteena! You are beeyooo-tee-ful! You are running excellent!” I laugh aloud. He gives a thumbs up and smiles excitedly before speeding off. I watch him dip into the crowd along the barriers for numerous kisses from eager Wellesley girls. I roll my eyes and have to smile. Italians. They are totally uninterested in defying stereotypes.

Crossing over 95, right before the most challenging, grueling portion of the race, my right hamstring decides to adopt the same the semi-cramped state as my left hamstring. In an odd way, it’s nice to have the pain balanced, even though there’s more of it now. I’m thinking to myself, “how the fuck am I going to get through the hills.” It seems like a physical impossibility right now. I’m wondering if I will even be able to achieve a qualifying time this year? What was happening to me?!? This was one of the lowest points of the day. I feel so low that I stop believing all the kind strangers along the course telling me I’m “doing great!”

The crowds at the firehouse are fantastic and I really don’t want to be forced to stop in front of this many people. I start up the first incline anticipating the full cramp that has been brewing for the last five miles. But it doesn’t come. Then the second hill, and nothing (beyond the continuous throbbing pain). One of my best friends from grade school and her wife are waiting for me right before Heartbreak Hill. She’s just had ACL surgery and is standing and cheering like a boss. Again, a boost at just the right time. And I find myself passing other runners for the first time all race as I chug up Heartbreak Hill.

Going down Heartbreak Hill feels as equally painful as going up it, but the worst is officially behind me. I stay to the right to make sure I give a wave to the Mile 21 hydration captain who is a former colleague of mine. I see him right away and grab the gatorade cup from his hand. Perfect execution. The frenetic energy coming from the BC kids makes the downhill feel faster than it is. At the very bottom of the hill, by some miracle, I spot one of my former lacrosse players - now a freshman at BC - and there is something really uplifting about seeing her. Something about having watched her go from an angsty teen to a confident young woman who continues to find strength and satisfaction from playing sports. I am so proud of her.

Heading into Brookline, my gait feels constrained by my leg pain. Usually I’m the one passing runners at this point in the race, but today I feel like I’m the runner that people are passing by and thinking to themselves “no way she makes it to the finish.” But this is my literal homestretch. My friends and sister in Coolidge Corner are my mental finish line - if I can get there, I will get what I need to finish. I pass a friend’s sister - another unplanned spotting and adrenaline kick. Parents of some players I used to coach in Brookline scream my name as I near the intersection with Harvard Street. And then finally I see them. All I want to do is fall into their arms. To explain my pain. To stop and stay with these beautiful, kind, smiling faces who every year cheer so hard and who everyday love and support me. I collect some well-needed high fives as my legs stay on auto pilot down Beacon Street.

I’m trying to digest the race in small pieces at this point. I trick myself into not stopping.

You can stop at the next intersection.
Well, you’re at the next intersection, but you may as well keep running until the next gatorade stop.

Don't be a pansy, you can’t stop before the Dana-Farber cheering section!

I chip away at the mileage ever so slowly. I reach the huge Dana-Farber cheering section right before Kenmore Square and I get a reminder about why I do this.

During the last mile, I must look as miserable as I feel. But as I finish shuffling through Kenmore Square, something happens that feels planned, orchestrated by someone watching my deterioration. Five or six other runners all within a few minutes of one another, as they’re about to pass me, take a moment to put a hand on my shoulder and share a few words:
“You’ve got this.”

“We’re almost there.”
“Here we go Dana-Farber. Thank you.”
As I approach the last dip under Mass Ave before turning onto Hereford, a female runner puts her hand on my back and leans towards me.

“Your mom is so proud of you.”
I take my eyes off the pavement for a moment to look up into her eyes and say thank you. She smiles and continues on at her brisk pace. Luckily I’m too dehydrated to shed a tear. The phrase “besides, women are not physiologically capable of covering 26.2 miles on foot” rings in my head. This is how even the worst runs can turn into finishes. This is why this race is the best in the world. We - women, men - truly run together.

I turn onto Boylston Street with the goal of keeping my eyes on the finish line and not looking down anymore. The crowds are hanging over the barriers screaming and I focus on their faces. My legs are annihilated. My stomach is churning. I pump my arms as hard as I can - they seem to be the only body part not fighting me today. I finally reach the finish line completely depleted. Shocked that I made it. Disappointed with my performance. Thankful and grateful for each person who helped me reach the end.

I’m awkwardly making my way down Boylston Street to collect my medal and blanket. I’m offered medical attention several times because I look like crap. I reach the runner exit and feel the sweetest release and relief as I put both my hands on Vlad’s shoulders. It was finally over.

After reaching the bar back in Brookline and starting my re-hydration regimen (shandy is technically part juice), some of my friends and I scoot back out to the course to cheer on two friends who will be passing by shortly. I love being able to step/hobble into the role of spectator after running because I know exactly how important this role is. We see one male runner limp-walking along the course on our side and lucky for him, he has his name pasted across his singlet. My friends are pretty much all former collegiate athletes so we never miss the opportunity for a good chant. First softly, “Chuck, Chuck, Chuck…” He gets closer and is smiling. We start clapping and screaming “CHUCK, CHUCK, CHUCK!” And when Chuck starts jogging again, we erupt with excitement. What a rush. What a day.

A few final statistics:

Total raised: $11,586.20 from 138 individual donors

Finish time: 3:19:33 (qualified for next year - phewph)

Place: 4,842nd (top 18% of finishers and top 6% of female finishers)

Heart at finish: Full

Body at finish: Destroyed

Another race under our belts. I will remember it as the most painful, delicate balancing act. The year when my physical pain was matched mile for mile with kindness and support from both complete strangers and people I knew. Just when you think you have a process or routine down, just when you’ve begun to understand your capabilities, you’ll have an experience that stabs you in the gut like a cramp on mile 3 of a 26.2 mile race. This is the plight of anyone who is attempting to reach a little higher, a little beyond where they’ve been before. There are slips and missteps. And you realize how there will always, always be new lessons to be learned even along an unchanging course.

More often now, as compared to ten years ago, I hit the path along the Charles River or wherever I may be, not to purge out the bad memories, the hard times, the cruel intentions, not to run away from something, but instead to run towards something. Running has become more than an escape from the December in my soul. I take to the road to be challenged, to honor my body, and to celebrate whoever I am in that moment.

Thank you all for giving me something to run towards. Until next year...