Irish Exits and Entropy

The rain began hitting the walls of the hut with enough force to make me turn around to look out through the window behind me. I can only imagine what my widening eyes looked like staring out from that cozy, bright little room out into the gray landscape covered by torrential rain. I paid for my coffee and the owner laughed at me and said something in German which I clearly didn’t understand. I responded in Italian (because technically this was Italy, goddamnit!), and he pointed at my shorts and then out at the rain and laughed again. I smiled back, bit my tongue, and went outside to grab my pack. “Auf Wiedersehen you fat fuck,” I muttered.  

I started a gradual upward climb through the forest. The trees provided a bit of cover from the weather, but as the wind began to pick up, the rain broke through the thick canopy. The streams swelled, splashing against the failing banks. After my bare legs became wet and the temperature started to drop, I picked up the pace in order to keep my internal engine revving hot. Reaching the boundary of the forest, I felt the temperatures dropping even more and the rain transitioned to hail. Without overthinking the worsening conditions, I left the cover of the forest and began a series of rock-step switchbacks. The hail was stinging my legs and face and it grew in size the higher up the slope I got. I knew it was likely to get worse before better so I didn’t entertain the possibility of taking temporary cover. Besides, the large boulders that hugged the trail didn’t provide much overhead protection. My plan for a snack rest stop turned into me breaking off small chunks of a half-frozen Clif Bar and trying to swallow the tasteless little rocks between heavy breaths. I reached the pass, forcella di Putia, marked with a crucifix, and immediately began the descent on a dirt trail covered with puddles and curving like a snake through dark green pastures. The lush carpet of green on both sides of me disappeared into the swirling fog and lowering clouds. There were no views of towering peaks to distract me from the task at hand. I saw a shepard and his flock of sheep in the distance moving downhill rapidly - the mass of sheep moving like a school of fish, frantically trying to get down the hill while staying as close together as possible. On past treks, I’ve seen shepherds at all elevations, in all conditions, never moving with any sense of urgency. I wondered what he knew that I didn’t. I began a sort of slow jog down the slope, aided by gravity and motivated by the shepherd’s pace.

As I reached the bottom, the first grumble of thunder echoed off the mountainsides. I looked up towards the peaks occasionally visible through the clouds and waited for the next lightning. Nothing after 30 seconds. The rolling grass pastures were not an ideal place to be during an electric storm and there was not one single place to take shelter. Again I was conflicted about what was more dangerous, staying in one place, close to the ground, or assuming the storm would only get worse, and instead try to get to the rifugio as quickly as possible. I decided to keep going because I was certain that I was only a few kilometers from the rifugio. I continued my walk-jog under torrents of freezing cold rain and occasional hail. The shepherd and his flock had vanished from the landscape.    

Up ahead I finally got a glimpse of a trail intersection with several signposts. My legs were red and raw and my boots were soaked through as I reached the junction. And then the snow began. I sometimes talk to myself aloud when I’m trekking alone when the situation warrants it. For example, at this point I laughed aloud, “Oh really, that’s very nice, thank you.” Then I saw the lightning, “Oh shit,” and before the thunder roared a few seconds after, I was running down the path southward trying to put as much distance between me and the metal signposts as possible. The fear-induced adrenaline made my pack feel weightless. After a few minutes I spotted a rooftop (“Praise Jeezus!”) and smoke pouring out of the chimney of Rifugio Genova.

Only later in the afternoon, while watching the snowstorm pummel the mountainside with dry clothes on and beer in hand, did I realize how many people had been behind me on the trail that day. They trickled in for hours - the last two arriving after 9pm, long after the sun had set. This was the end of Day 1. Day 2 began with two feet of snow surrounding the rifugio, waste-deep snow along the first pass (and boot-skiing down the other side, praying I didn’t hit a hidden boulder and break a leg), and ended 11 hours later with me slipping hard in the mud within view of my rifugio and cursing the world. Day 3 was not much easier (e.g. ice-covered via ferrata). Day 4 I finally escaped the snow and by Day 5, I was having the late August Dolomite experience I had been dreaming about (including a bus strike that stranded me after five days of hiking and left me walking, once again, down the road to the next town).  

My walk through the Dolomites was maybe the first time I had experienced relentlessly difficult conditions, hour after hour, day after day. I had known the cycle of pockets of challenging weather or steep climbs matched by clearing clouds and flattening trails, but never such a mentally and physically draining experience as those first three days battling Alta Via 2. Where every step had to be deliberate; every step required both my brain and body to be engaged in that moment. When this synchronicity lapsed, even for a few seconds, the mountain gods were merciless - a loose rock, a gust of wind, a rolling chunk of snow. That split-second when your mind anticipates a safe, solid step instead of staying alert and expecting the worst, that is when your foot finds ice, and your body’s over-reliance on that one movement means you quickly shift all your hope into the one hand that was barely grazing the steel cable for the majority of the last several minutes. Your heart jumps into your throat and your mind gives you a glimpse of what your death would look like, but you quickly reign it back into this moment and your throbbing arm attached to your pathetically weak shoulder which has somehow managed to keep you dangling from this steep pass. And the rage, pain, and frustration grows (with your weaknesses, with the conditions), but this is what the mountain gods feed on so you pause, take a breath, and reassure yourself that one step after another your body is capable of getting you to the top or bottom, but your mind must not jump ahead or fall behind.

Besides your wandering mind, your other greatest enemy is what dictates every facet of your life when you are not on top of a mountain: the passing of time. It controls your daily routines and rhythms; it can be a great and terrible motivator. It makes you constantly quantify and compare. I’m late for work. I’m running a few minutes behind. I’m going to own a house by the time I turn 25. I’m going to have two kids by the time I turn 30. I’m going to climb Everest on my 40th Birthday. I have to run faster. The curse of time is you remember everything that has come before but you can never go back to change it. But even if we have a chance to create a different future, there are too many possible outcomes for every situation to be able to attempt anything with certainty. “Next time I’m back on this trail, I will do x instead of y.” Nice thought, but next time the weather will be different, you will be different; your life is not a controlled lab experiment. You will inevitably reach the peak faster when you plan on being slower, and slower when you attempt to go faster. The Boston Marathon has proved this theory to me nine out of nine times. Ah yes.

I pull myself back to myself. Where I must be now. Still in the pouring rain though. A few feet behind the 2018 Boston Marathon start line. I look up at the clock counting down the last two minutes before my wave will start. I remove my thick sweatshirt and plastic poncho, letting the small bit of warmth I’ve accumulated vanish with a gust of cold wind which makes all the people in my corral hunch over simultaneously. A tap on my shoulder, “Hey other girl wearing shorts, would you like some vaseline?” A young woman already completely drenched asks me seriously, offering the rectangular tin. I gladly accept the gift with a grateful “thank you” even though I’ve already slathered vaseline in all the usual places; today demands a more aggressive regime. I smear the substance along my shins and the front of my quads. “Thirty seconds, thirty seconds, Wave Three!” I feel calm as the rain begins to blow horizontally. I feel my mind and body reconnect and finalize their alliance for the day. And I vow to let time control me only now, in these last ticking seconds. Today I have set the terms. “Three...two...one!”

Earlier that morning I had woken up a few minutes before my alarm after a solid night of sleep. The rain was already steadily pouring down as I quietly made my coffee and breakfast. I didn’t blast any pump up jams, I didn’t turn on the TV. I just quietly sat with Federico and prepared for the task at hand. I have experienced Marathon Monday morning nine times before, but this was the first year my stomach wasn’t filled with butterflies and anxiety hadn’t filled every day leading up to the race. Normally I spend the weekend before the race obsessing over every snack, every meal, every sip of liquid. This year I enjoyed my time back in Boston without much regard for what was looming in the distance. Federico and I biked everywhere, we drank and caught up with my dear friends, we ate delicious, cheesy Mexican food. Of course the traditional pasta dinner occurred on Sunday evening, hosted by my sister and her husband and cat, but besides that, I had a pretty unstructured and enjoyable weekend.  

Maia and Federico (bless their hearts) dropped me off at the Boston Common a little after 6am. The rain was unrelenting as I scampered to the buses wearing my trashbag rain jacket. The excited chatter at the beginning of the bus rides always eventually subsides as runners begin to realize how far we will be running and how miserable it can be on a school bus with no bathroom. This year I think people were listening to the rhythm of the rain as it came and went in waves, beating the metal roof of the bus. The lady bus driver got on her loudspeaker as we approached Hopkinton high school and in her thick Boston accent sent us out into the storm, “You all have a great day. Today is a gift. Not everyone can get out there and do what you’re about to do. Boston strong and God bless.”

Although this was my tenth year running and fundraising for Dana-Farber, I decided to spend the hours leading up to the start in the “Quiet Room” of the Dana-Farber refuge. There were a few other runners lying quietly on the floor in the darkened room and I was grateful for the opportunity to calmly prepare myself. And I thought about why I was lying there. Was I choosing that peaceful setting away from the rest of the team because maybe I was ready to move on from this chapter of running for Dana-Farber? It felt strange thinking it and I still feel a little weird writing this statement because Dana-Farber is kind of where this whole running thing started. I went to the bathroom before the team photo and there was a woman waiting in line in front of me and on the back of her singlet she had written the following:     

“34 month survivor.

I went through chemotherapy while pregnant.

What’s your superpower?”

And I sat down on the toilet and cried because holy shit, the strength of people is overwhelming and humbling at times. And losing my mother still hurts. Do I need an annual reminder of how beautiful and painful the journey has been? [I still don’t know the answer.] I went back to the Quiet Room after the team photo and decided to stop thinking about next year. Then I realized part of the calm I’ve been feeling all week was due to me perceiving this year’s race as potentially my last.

“Three...two...one!”

As I cross that beautiful blue and yellow startline, I look out in front of me at the small group of runners leading Wave 3 and I am overcome with the urge to laugh and cry because it has been such a honor to run this race ten times. There is a long and emotional history between me and these 26.2 miles. I love this race for what it has taught me and how it has healed and strengthened me. It feels perfect that if this was to be my last race, it will be filled with cold rain and smiles all the way. The first training season as my mother was sick and dying, I ran everyday to give my mind some peace and the marathon itself was an attempt to outrun the grief. Every training season and race since then has been an annual opportunity to examine my motives and learn from mistakes. I’ve spent a lot of time in my own head running hundreds of miles along the snowy Charles River. I am a different person than that angry, grieving 24-year-old. I control the running now.   

As we leave the crowds of Hopkinton behind, the course becomes quiet. The first three or four miles, although there are pockets of crazy, excited, enthusiastic fans, are mostly the sound of the rain, the swishing of people’s ponchos, and the splashing sounds of sneakers in puddles. The small hills have torrents of water rushing down them and eventually we all realize there is no avoiding wet feet. The acrobatics to avoid the puddles ends around the mile 3 marker. The first few miles of the race always feel deceptively good because they are a gradual downhill, but today they feel good because both my body and soul feel loose and light. My body is purring during these fast miles, but my mind is also right there with me - not at Heartbreak Hill, not scanning past training runs, not obsessively doing the pace math - looking down at that little mitten-covered hand on the side of the course demanding a low five and happily obliging.

I know usually this post-marathon debrief is filled with some mile-by-mile analysis of how my pacing was going, how my body was feeling/failing, etc. This year I don’t have much to share, which is maybe why the race was such a fucking blast. Every mile marker comes and gos and basically the only internal analysis I complete is figuring out if I should take fluids or not.

Thirsty?

Nope. Enough of the water falling from the sky is pouring down my face into my mouth.

Ok, cool. Maybe the next mile.

There are times when the rain pours down so aggressively I end up breathing in a nose-full of water. The weather is laughably terrible. I find myself running even faster during these downpours. The crowds lining the course through Ashland and Framingham are smaller than usual, but the people who have chosen to spend their day off in the freezing cold rain are insane with enthusiasm. There are families of all shapes and sizes bundled up and trying to keeping dry under umbrellas. Some have set up party tents along the side of the road. They have committed to being out here for the whole day, weather be damned. There are drunk college kids with not enough clothing on screaming at the top of their lungs. There is an adorable golden retriever in a full doggie rain-suit holding a Boston Strong flag in his mouth and I have to fight every instinct in my body not to go over and hug him and tell him whaddagoodboy he is. I absorb it all and cannot stop smiling back at them and collecting high fives (even from the police!) and it keeps me feeling powerful.

I’m running once again with my name attached to the front of my singlet (how could you not?!? Personalized cheers for 26 miles!) and a sign attached to my back that reads “Miss you, mom.” I’ve worn both for every race. I will have runners who see my back and will come up next to me and let me know they are sorry for my loss, that my mother would be proud of what I am doing, that they have suffered a similar loss, or sometimes they will just put their hand on my shoulder. It is always an emotional moment, and there have been marathons where a hand on my shoulder at mile 26 is the only thing that keeps me putting one foot in front of another. But this year, as the runners thoughtfully share their words with me, I feel an imposed sadness that has no place here anymore. That loss stole my innocence and naivete and at times deplenished my hope to almost nothing. Today is a celebration of gratitude. It’s an important realization. Not that I don’t miss my mother, but today I want to scream “Thank you, mom!” Because enough time has passed and that loss has dipped below the horizon. It harshly and brutally guided me to who I am and where I am today, but it is no longer my north star.

The course is flying by. Before I know it, I can hear the Wellesley scream tunnel. I look down at my watch for the first time because I am in total disbelief that the halfway point is approaching. This is followed quickly by the complete disbelief in my very basic math which has determined that my pace is sub eight minute miles. I laugh aloud. Because the weather is ridiculous and my physical condition is questionable and all I can think is that if this is my last Boston Marathon, it’s going by too fast! I crest the small hill before Wellesley College and the girls sound more energized than ever. They’ve also upped their sign-game in response to the weather:      

“Chafing the Dream!”

“It’s too cold for excuses, just KISS ME!”

“Kiss me, I’m wet already”

Although the Wellesley girls love the whole kiss routine, I think more than anything they love screaming their hearts out for the female runners powering through a course that didn’t always welcome them. It is, as usual, one of the most awesome and uplifting parts of the race.

I make the turn onto Commonwealth Ave and begin the most challenging part of the course: the Newton Hills. This is usually a point when I do an honest self-assessment - how sore am I, how is morale, etc. But I feel fantastic! A little cold, granted, but my legs feel loose heading up the first hill and I’m beginning to wonder what the fuck is going on? The hills feel the easiest they’ve ever felt and I’m passing other runners both on the uphill and downhill and fans are telling me “YOU LOOK SO STRONG” and for once, I feel so strong. I reach the start of Heartbreak Hill and slam the brakes to scoot across the course to hug and high-five one of my oldest and dearest friends and her wife and I am officially over-the-moon happy. They look like two soggy fishermen in their foul weather gear. What a treat to have a boost of support right before the toughest climb of the race. The rain lightens a little bit during the ascent and I look up the hill (which as a rule, I never do) and I realize that the hills I’ve been running in Luxembourg for the last seven weeks could eat this hill for breakfast. I reach the top and for the first time during the whole race, I let myself visualize finishing.

The rain picks up again as I pound through Cleveland Circle and continue down Beacon Street. Finally, my hometown and the homestretch of the Marathon. Everyone on the left side of the course is getting high fives from me whether they want them or not! (Helps get the blood circulating back into my hands as well.) As I descend into Coolidge Corner, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so cold, so wet, and so happy and satisfied. Normally I am in desperate need of the sight of familiar faces in order to get the last boost of adrenaline to take me to the finish. This year, I’m desperate to see them because I want to give back the joy and love they have bestowed upon me year after year, both along this course and off it. The first familiar face pops into view and then the rest, and their cheers and smiles send me flying down the course.   

In the days leading up to my tenth Boston Marathon, there was something undeniably missing: the doubt. It weakly crept in one or two times, but only briefly before disappearing into the laughter of friends, the singing birds in the early morning, the noises of the city as I biked through its busy streets. More than the doubts, I felt an unusual calm. Even the handful of email weather alerts from the Boston Athletic Association didn’t do much to rattle the peace. The excitement of being back in Boston definitely played a small part. But there was also something internal, something different about me this year.  

I am passing runners who have been wrenched by the course and the weather and I know that feeling all too well. I reach Mile 25 and the Dana-Farber cheering section erupts and their cheers of “Thank you!” and “You are so strong, Martina!” make my heart explode for the 100th time during the last three hours. As I chug into Kenmore Square, I think the soaked, screaming crowd is excited to see at least one runner with a shit-eating grin on their face and I feel a huge swell of support as I reach across the barricades for a few cold high-fives (seriously, check out the Marathon Foto website - I’m smiling like an idiot through it all, including a few snaps from Heartbreak Hill).

My chin is up and the rain is absolutely torrential as I turn onto Boylston and see the blue bridge of the Finish Line. Without expectation or doubt, I give myself one last kick for one last Boston Marathon finish. I’m cruising along the left side of the course and the screams are deafening. I am laughing and smiling and trying not to cry. My legs are finally feeling the last 26 miles and are doing their best to carry me home. What a day. What a race. What an era this has been for me. I cross the finish line and let my body slow. I stop my watch and realize that despite the rain and wind and lack of actual training, I have run the race only one minute slower than last year, and have qualified once again. A gift from the Marathon gods.      

My marathon-specific training was about seven weeks long, but what I was only capable of realizing after the race was that I had been walking marathon distances over and over again for the last six months. My 50 miles through the Dolomites, the 26 miles to Machu Picchu, the 21 miles I trekked accidently in one day in El Chalten; although clearly not 26 miles running in one day, the hundreds of miles I covered on foot were experiences that counted for more than I was giving them credit for. Step after step, day after day, of keeping my body and mind aligned. But also hundreds of miles of pushing myself to finish with strength - not to be confused with speed - had been more important to my marathon success than I could have imagined at the time.  

And it’s hard not to confuse speed and strength, because how do we prove strength? We are a society of quantification. We fight the disorder and death that are inevitable and we measure our success by time passed or not passed. This is kind of setting ourselves up for failure. We don’t control the slide towards chaos and deterioration - that’s literally a law of physics - and maybe that is why, when we have moments of disengagement with time, we feel a greater sense of accomplishment. It’s like we’re no longer fighting the movement towards disintegration. What if we accepted reaching the ultimate end in a joy-filled way? How would each mile of our lives look? And would we be so concerned about our pace?

As a woman, I think we are pressured by time in different ways than men. My physical strength is already assumed to be less, my perseverance doubted; my accomplishments have been minimized over and over again (I wish people had a greater understanding of how their words can dampen even the fiercest of internal spirit!). After hiking hundreds of miles across multiple countries I think I finally started to associate my pride and fulfillment at the end of a trek with my actual strength - the mental fortitude to match my body’s muscle. Maybe I had never been equally strong in body and soul. Maybe I let the past doubts from external forces seep into my head because I knew I could easily turn them into fuel for success. As Marathon Monday approached, I purged the doubts. I didn’t need them anymore. My mind and body confidently worked the course together, and the result was the strongest finish I had ever had.

This entire year has been about overcoming inertia. I had to learn how to close a chapter. I’ve never been good at that. That's why I love Irish goodbyes - a quick exit without anyone noticing. But we need to be able to definitively walk away from people and places and things, from time to time. For me, it was about having an opportunity to walk away from my childhood home (that my sister and I had spent far too much energy protecting) and my job, but on my terms. This is an important difference. I dictated the change, rather than waiting for someone or something else to force my hand. And before the race, I couldn’t help but think about the end of my Boston Marathon era as a part of this change. But now, if I choose, it too will end on my terms.

I’m not sure what will happen next year. But thank you all for your support during this year’s journey. The Boston Marathoning chapter of my life, whether it is ending or only beginning, wouldn’t be the same without you.