Tuesday, February 15, 2005
First day
Three easy miles (8:56 pace), thirty minutes lifting/situps, nine chocolate chip cookies before bed. Two steps forward, one backward. Lance Armstrong says lifting and aeorobic training are like water and oil, they don't mix. Neither does carving off eight pounds and a nightcap of cookies....
Monday, February 14, 2005
3:59 Chicag05
Running under 4 hours? C'mon....what about my age, my limited running abilities (other than I keep going), my history of chronic injuries, training in the South Florida's oppressive heat and humidity through summer, my slow mid-pack times over the last decade (4:25-5:07, save an odd 4:05 in Boston in 1996) and the fact that the last time I slipped into the 3's was 23 years ago (3:38, thank you) -- c'mon, this is nuts.
And not my idea, by the way. It was my brother Kurt's. The guy in the photo above, who ran his inaugural 26.2 in October 2004, and apparently became infatuated. This, despite the usual and grievous distress he experienced with three miles to go. I could see it in his eyes. The what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here look, followed by the this-is-much-much-worse-than-I-imagined grimace. For 23 miles, I was waiting for him to bonk and glazeover and experience the cruel fatigue of the stretch run; he did, and I was satisfied. But then, days later, he shocks me with the 3:59 gauntlet thrown down. Yeah, let's do it again, just faster, he says. Under four. I gotta go under four. Running 26.2 wasn't enough, clearly. He's on the clock. Forget a 26.2-mile tour of the big city marathons -- Chicago, New York, D.C. As he emailed me, "I don't need to sightsee."
Okay. Now, I can appreciate someone wanting a respectable Personal Best, and for some, like my brother, 4:29 (Chicag04's time) isn't it. Not by a long run. Not by 30 minutes, anyway. No, anything with a four in front of it puts you in a category of what? of being somewhat whimpish. Seems a severe judgment, in my opinion, seeing that you've traveled a fairly impressive distance on foot. But there it is. For Kurt, now 47 and over halfway there, deep midpack in a marathon ain't gonna cut it. It's a race, for god sake. Gotta break four.
Now it's true, I've been looking for someone to run with anyway , ever since my 25-year running buddy Roy wore down his cartiledge in his knee to a paper tissue. This whole marathon thing was getting kind of old without him, running off to cities by myself, or dragging my wife Lorraine with me, who tries to spot me running by at some remote corner on the course for, oh, maybe, five seconds and seeya later. She hates it. Running marathons is much more fun doing it with a friend. Your brother. So sure, I'm in. Under four. Against all reason. Freakinuts.
I designed a rather extended program for the both of us that includes a lot of weight lifting, marathon pace runs, intervals, time trials, and so on, all building to a morning's run in October. Today, officially, the training kicks off.
As my brother emailed me this morning, "34 weeks to go. Game on."
And not my idea, by the way. It was my brother Kurt's. The guy in the photo above, who ran his inaugural 26.2 in October 2004, and apparently became infatuated. This, despite the usual and grievous distress he experienced with three miles to go. I could see it in his eyes. The what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here look, followed by the this-is-much-much-worse-than-I-imagined grimace. For 23 miles, I was waiting for him to bonk and glazeover and experience the cruel fatigue of the stretch run; he did, and I was satisfied. But then, days later, he shocks me with the 3:59 gauntlet thrown down. Yeah, let's do it again, just faster, he says. Under four. I gotta go under four. Running 26.2 wasn't enough, clearly. He's on the clock. Forget a 26.2-mile tour of the big city marathons -- Chicago, New York, D.C. As he emailed me, "I don't need to sightsee."
Okay. Now, I can appreciate someone wanting a respectable Personal Best, and for some, like my brother, 4:29 (Chicag04's time) isn't it. Not by a long run. Not by 30 minutes, anyway. No, anything with a four in front of it puts you in a category of what? of being somewhat whimpish. Seems a severe judgment, in my opinion, seeing that you've traveled a fairly impressive distance on foot. But there it is. For Kurt, now 47 and over halfway there, deep midpack in a marathon ain't gonna cut it. It's a race, for god sake. Gotta break four.
Now it's true, I've been looking for someone to run with anyway , ever since my 25-year running buddy Roy wore down his cartiledge in his knee to a paper tissue. This whole marathon thing was getting kind of old without him, running off to cities by myself, or dragging my wife Lorraine with me, who tries to spot me running by at some remote corner on the course for, oh, maybe, five seconds and seeya later. She hates it. Running marathons is much more fun doing it with a friend. Your brother. So sure, I'm in. Under four. Against all reason. Freakinuts.
I designed a rather extended program for the both of us that includes a lot of weight lifting, marathon pace runs, intervals, time trials, and so on, all building to a morning's run in October. Today, officially, the training kicks off.
As my brother emailed me this morning, "34 weeks to go. Game on."
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Monday, November 03, 1997
Run on, NY97
And it rained. And it rained. And it rained.
My best memories of running the New York City marathon, the race I’d wanted to run more than any other for the last 15 years including Boston, are in the rain. Sopping, drenching, thunder-clapping, sky-falling-in, monsooning, nasty rain. Getting my race number at the Coliseum Expo, it rained. Catching a cab, it rained. Walking down Broadway, it rained. Going out for bite to eat, it rained.
Running the race, it rained. Buckets.
And I loved it. Nothing like a foul, nasty ol’ rain run….
I head off in the rain to get my all-important race number. It’s at the Coliseum, at the west end of south Central Park, near the race finish. What a five-block walk that is.
Bathing on Broadway.
Everywhere you look, ripped and inverted umbrellas blow down Broadway like so many urban tumbleweeds. I don’t have one, but what does it matter. The rain seems to be coming from the ground up, down and sideways. Raining in my jeans. Of course, that could be over-hydration too. I’m drinking like a madman now. My whole existence is about water. Drinking it, peeing it….walking in it. Did I mention the ear infection? I’m putting drops in my ear, so the world echos like I’m 10 feet under water. Drowning is a theme.
The night before.
Feel like shit. Feverish, fatigued, woozy. I take my temperature, nothing. Maybe it’s all the pasta all week, sprinkled with anxiety. Maybe I need more therapy. Lorraine has her opinion. But real or imagine, I am plainly miserable.
This happens every night before a marathon. Making things worse, the Gators are being humiliated by Georgia on TV. I can’t watch. Take an hour to decide which shirt to pin my number to. Weighing all the possibilities of what to wear – in the event of changing cold or hot temps, sun or rain.
I lay out my gear on a chair. Shoes at the foot of the chair – ready to run off. A bunch of other stuff gets packed in a little red UPS bag; UPS trucks will haul the extra things, like dry sweats, from the start to the finish.
I obsess over all this for hours. Then Lorraine and I have one last pasta dinner, in the Hilton. Later, I fall off to sleep during a rented Julia Roberts video for 7 good hours – which is the one big plus of being a head-case the night before marathons. You sleep like a baby.
The Big Day arrives.
At 5:30 in the morning, I am walking down the Avenues of Americas, through shadows and street lights – carrying my little red UPS bag. The air is 50s fresh, cool, dry. The feverish feeling is gone, as is always the case the morning of.
From 53rd Street, I make my way toward the New York City Library on 42nd Street, where busses await to transport the troops to Staten Island. I venture down some side streets, and find a little café for breakfast. Buy a Sunday Times. Over eggs and potatoes, I watch little red UPS bags streaming by. Like a bunch of pod people in baggy sweats making their way to the Mother Ship.
6:15 bus ride: Seeing runners faces now, it’s more like kids on their way to summer camp – lots of anticipation but not knowing what to expect.
The Athletes Village.
Arriving at Staten Island: a tent city, runners gathering in fog and cool dampness, wearing anything from new sweats to garbage bags. More often, garbage bags – as jackets, as shoe protection against mud. These are the ones with experience, who know better, who did it last year or at some other muddy mega-marathon.
No modesty in this group, either, as some unabashedly apply Vaseline to nether parts and stick Band-Aids over nipples. Being too proud or shy is not the order of the day. The cost of not taking these precautions too high.
Pee lines are a United Nations, a horizontal tower of Babel, members of all the nations of the world waiting for port-o-potties.
A crazy thing happens
on the way to The Start
The Verrazano Bridge: Once the longest (2 miles) suspension bridges in the world, it connects New York City to Staten Island. The start of the Marathon. About 40 minutes before the gun, I’m staring up at the bottom of the Bridge, from the south side, where runners are now forming a massive crush. I don’t like this. Not only claustrophobic, I’m in the "Green" staging area. But I have a "Blue" number, which means I’m suppose to be in the "Blue" staging area. Which is way, way over there. Way, way.
What to do? I move to the edge of the crowd for air, where I find a barricade to begin stretching on.
Then this crazy thing happens: Some runners JUMP the barricade. Trotting off underneath the bridge and disappearing on the other side. Others follow. Now a stream of runners are making this move. Should I? Probably not, but I do. I jump the barricade, walk under the bridge, and within five minutes, I've not only moved in front of the 32,000-runner pack, I've hooked up with the elites and the NYPD and firemen, who lead the marathon at the start.
4 minutes to go, the announcer says….
I chit-chat with the firemen….stretch…..helicopters whirl overhead….the place is buzzing….the energy compressed in the assemblage of carbo-loaded and hydrated bodies…..ready to explode…God, would Roy love this, I’m thinking….The New York City Marathon start…..running capital of the universe for a day…..a 15-year-old dream run about to lift off…..
And look here……I’m standing in the fourth row!!!!!!
CANON BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Charging up the Verrazano Bridge with a bunch of Firemen and Cops, I’m floating up and up….running freely…..up into the damp morning mists….the pack at my heels, and I’m thinking…..how cool is this?
Running the Bridge
The bridge scene turns wild: Gaining altitude, winds whipping up to 30 or 40 mph; hats flying everywhere; I clutch mine and hold my number against my chest, the wind is tearing it off the pins.
More threatening were the Pissers. Guys hanging it off the bridge, relieving themselves – into the wind. C’mon, guys! It’s a basic rule of life, Don’t pee into the wind. It’s spraying back at the rest of us!!!
First mile, up the Bridge: 10 minute pace. Second mile, down the Bridge: 8 minute pace.
To a lesser degree, the whole race was like the Verrazano Bridge: one uphill linked to a downhill…ultimately, linked to another uphill. Flat sections seem few and far between. That makes it difficult to settle into a rhythm, to run efficienctly. You’re always adjusting pace and effort, which is exhausting over 26.2 miles. Best plan – don’t think about it. Find some level of comfort and do the best you can.
Brooklyn and Queens
Coming off the Bridge, the first crowds: All-leather rock ‘n roll warehouse bands provide the soundtrack for the early Brooklyn stretch. Older Italian and Irish neighborhoods, Latin and Chinese. Somewhat depressed and broken. But the people are pumped, excited, raucous. The little ones looking at you with big bulbous eyes, wanting to touch your hand.
By the 6 mile mark, I settled into a 9-minute pace (averaging the hills). But by 8 miles, my right knee is getting sore. Probably from running on the side-slope of the road, rather than the flatter crest. A stupid mental mistake. But the move to center is too late. I fear the ligament outside my knee, the IT-band, may be sore for the duration.
Run through the edges of Bushwick, Toni’s and Skip’s old neighborhood. More African-American faces in the crowds. More autumn trees. More steep hills. It blurs. I recall a stretch with clusters of Hassidic Jews; many fresh scrubbed faces -- I kept expecting age and saw youth.
"Why do I run?"
People always want to know this. So does Nike. So we run under a huge black & white billboard, by Nike, posing the question -- "Why do I run?" -- next to a woman’s stoney face. The answer: "So I can join a 32,000-member team."
The road is laughing all around me. It may be a stretch, but there’s a team connection between the runners: the effort to get here is individual, but the sacrifices are shared.
Or maybe Nike is just referring to the all-Nike Apparel Team…..ah, yes.
Queens: Here comes the rain
At the half-way point, I’ve fallen behind pace at 2:01. I’d hoped to be 5 minutes faster. To break 4 hours, my time-goal, I have to run a reverse split – meaning a faster second half than the first half. Could be tough: my sore knee is wobbling funny, causing a sloppy gait and stiffness in my right calf and hip. It's spreading...
Something else too: The winds pick up, dark clouds move in, and a sprinkle turns into a deluge in the space of 100 feet. The race changes: everything is chilled and soaked, shoes included.
The 59th Street Bridge
This is the bridge between Queens and Manhattan.
The symbol to a better world for the John Travolta character in Saturday Night Fever. The Simon & Garfunkle song. A bridge of dreams. The point of transition.
This is Mile 15.
Everyone here is pushing uphill, grinding it out, working hard, reaching down, being a runner…. moving through the massive complex of steel girders and cathedral-like spires, through strength and beauty, arching across the East River, one gliding step at a time, toward a fog-shrouded Manhattan skyline.
Moving toward some promise you’d made to yourself in the long hours of running to get here.
The beginning is ending. Now the idea of finishing begins.
Suspended here between worlds, everything is strangely serene and quiet. No cheering crowds. No music. No distractions. Nothing but yourself and soft foot patter, the harmony of a thousand runners, moving together.
Then:
Mile 16.
In a flash of a flash, all that internal musing stuff is gone….as you lose yourself in sudden mayhem. Thunderous, wild crowds are waiting for you, as you come off that 59th Street Bridge, they form a tight gauntlet for you to pass through before spilling out on First Avenue and you run under a giant arch of red, white and blue balloons.
As far as you can see: cheering New Yorkers, under a sea of umbrellas, throngs of them, 10 deep on each side, frenzied mania….
As the rain’s coming….harder now….
Flashes of lightning and thunder rolling in….
And the crazy New Yorkers thundering back….
Drink it in, I’m thinking…..just drink it in.
Meeting Lorraine. Part I.
The plan: Meet on First Avenue between 83st and 84nd Streets, about five blocks directly east the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Central Park, where Lorraine wanted to spend the morning. It seemed perfect.
My right leg is a mess now. Nothing serious long-term, but short-term it’s cramping and sore and tightening up. Some sciatica from my hip too. It’s all forcing me to stop every mile or two and stretch out the hamstrings, calves, hip and knee – giving away a couple minutes each time. The stretching is keeping me going, though. So I’m resigned to the stopping/starting, and a slow finish.
I’m dragging my leg up to 83rd Street, saving a nice deep stretch for the moment I see Lorraine. We found each other in Boston. Took pictures. I could use that extra shot of adrenalin seeing her now.
I’m looking….looking….looking….through dozens of faces.
Where is she? Where is she? Maybe she didn’t make it because of the rain. Where are you Lorraine? Could I have missed her?
Finding inspiration in the Bronx.
Around Mile 20, my energy is flat. Knowing I won’t break 4 hours, the bum leg, not seeing Lorraine – I have to make these mental adjustments before the final push, or pay a price. I try everything. Extra energy GU. Piece of candy. Gatorade. Anything to get my sugar up. Then there’s the Wall: It’s lurking around here. All the pain, the mental games, the legs turning to stone – up ahead, soon. I keep it out of my mind, try to stay positive….
I fall in behind a guy with a strange, chaotic gait. His right leg is circling forward, rather than stepping directly forward. I look closely. The leg….it’s not…..his. But a prosthesis, from the knee down. And he’s run 20 miles, circling it like that. God, that must REALLY hurt…..
In that moment, all my petty problems vanish. I find fresh, live, bouncing energy in this man’s courage.
Another Nike billboard. Mile 21. Why do I run? "Because I can run forever. But I know there’s a rest stop 5.2 miles ahead."
Is this Harlem?
I had to stop, ask a black women: "Is this Harlem?" And she smiled back, rain streaking down her face, "Yes, honey, THIS is Harlem." Maybe what I expected was a broken, graffiti-scrawled ghetto. But what I found on Mile 21 was alive and rich and beautiful. The Harlem of elegant old brownstones. Sprawling open parks. Funky stone churches. And the glowing, welcoming faces of hundreds of African-Americans, some with umbrellas, most without, standing out in the hardest rain yet. Torrents of rain. Flashes of rain. A cold rain. And with every sudden downpour, harder than the last, their cheers only grew louder and louder. And, during the worst of it, when the streets splashed at your ankles and the rain pelted your skin, there they were…..a Harlem Baptist church choir in electric blue-and-yellow robes, singing and swaying under an elevated church portico, like some kind of Rain Angels, who knew all about rising up in a hard rain, who sang it big and sang it loud, who filled the streets with their soaring soulful gospel rhythms, who lifted everyone passing by to some other heavenly place beyond the pain and rain, uplifting to a free space, above it all….just for a moment.
Thank you, Rain Angels, thank you….over 26.2 miles, including the finish, and perhaps including all five other marathons I’ve run, nothing has touched me quite like the beauty and grace and joy in your chorus of voices, warmly embracing us all as we ran by.
Central Park.
Among Algonquin Indians, Manhattan means "island of the hills." The killer hills are in Central Park, where the last three miles are run. Now add rainwater rolling off the rocks and into the streets, and you’re running in a stream. Upstream. Like suicidal salmon. Add a wobbly leg, depleted energy resources, losing body heat – and hey, this is why you run. To see what you got.
There’s no other way to explain the end of these things. Why are people doing this? Why go through the agony? Why am I?
Don’t think. Think later. You’re within reach. Push on….
Everything here is basic. Nothing cerebral. Mainly, you’re confronting all physical and mental limitations….and trying to push them further out. Rain or snow or sleet or cold or heat or humidity, forget it. Mere distractions. It’s much more primal now; existence stripped to one elementary thing: your Will.
How much are you willing to take. You can walk if you want. Nobody cares. People walk. So what. Nobody gives a damn….in fact, nobody here sees beyond themselves and their own struggle. The last miles of a marathon is total self-absorption. A tunnel of Self. So whether you stop or walk or pick up the pace, it’s personal. And frankly, it’s the thing you’re here to find out about your-Self.
When every fiber, every impulse is screaming Stop, You Idiot!……what will you do?
Meeting Lorraine. Part II.
The back-up plan is to meet Lorraine at Mile 24, behind the Met Museum, on the right side of the road. She’s wearing a 100-watt orange poncho – can’t miss her.
So as I approach Mile 24, I am thinking.…seeing Lorraine will be a perfect excuse to stop this insane madness. A lot hurts: IT-Band stabbing, sciatica shivering down my butt, calves tightening like snare drums.
I’m thinking…..you know, to hell with all this bullshit about persevering during the Big Struggle, about proving something, about the steeliness of my own Willpower and the triumph of Self, about toughing out these stupid marathons, all that garbage.
Damnit, I wanna stop….. So where is she? Where the hell is Lorraine???
I almost grab a Chinese girl in jeans and a 100-watt orange poncho. Along the roadside of a marathon, we’re all searching for something, someone.
The Big Finish.
Rounding the last bend, going uphill (of course), I spot banner Mile 26, at last YEAH!, so I juice the gas pedal one more time…..and now, the most amazing thing of all happens. Breaking through the rain and clouds, a blue hole opens in the sky. A soft Monet blue.
Two-tenths of a mile to go, I run in sunshine.
Crossing the finish line is The Photo Op. Make sure nobody’s blocking your number or next to you. It’s Over. Got a medal and a rose for Lorraine. As the long silver snake of tin-foil blankets wends another three-quarters of a mile north through Central Park, no one talks. Just 32,000 painfully quiet celebrations, amid the sounds of vomiting.
My time: Four hours twenty-seven minutes four seconds. I can’t think about it. Very disappointing for someone looking to break 4 hours. On the other hand, it was an extraordinary day: I was about the 16,000th finisher. With 32,000 in the race, I’m a true middle-of-the-packer. Same thing in Boston. Dead middle in mid-life.
And, because I started in the fourth row, it’s true 16,000 passed me -- but hey, I held off another 16,000.
Extra mustard, please.
Lorraine and I find each other, finally, under the giant "V" (first letter, last name) sign in the Great Lawn of Central Park, where families meet the runners. Turns out, heavy rains turned her back from our rendezvous at First Avenue. And, at Mile 24, she was standing in the rain – but on the left side of the street. (I was looking on the right side.) She was very worried too; watching thousands go by long after my anticipated arrival. She thought the worst.
"I’m out there for two hours in the rain," she says to me. "What’d you think I ducked into a café or something. I thought about it, but I took a bath in Central Park instead, and worried to death about you. How could you miss me….I mean, I’m ORANGE as orange gets!!! I said the left side of the street, not the right, how could I be on the right side, the museum’s on the left….boy….I’m glad that’s over."
Me too.
So together, we lock hands and begin a nearly 3-mile walk back to the Hilton. But before leaving Central Park, we sit down on a park bench, the sun dropping on what has become a clear, crisp autumn afternoon in Manhattan. I have my little finisher’s medal around my neck. I have my wife. And, from a street vendor, we have a couple steaming New York hot dogs ladled with sauerkraut and mustard. The best I’d ever eaten. The best.
Why do I run? Well, now you know…..the hot dogs taste better.
####
My best memories of running the New York City marathon, the race I’d wanted to run more than any other for the last 15 years including Boston, are in the rain. Sopping, drenching, thunder-clapping, sky-falling-in, monsooning, nasty rain. Getting my race number at the Coliseum Expo, it rained. Catching a cab, it rained. Walking down Broadway, it rained. Going out for bite to eat, it rained.
Running the race, it rained. Buckets.
And I loved it. Nothing like a foul, nasty ol’ rain run….
I head off in the rain to get my all-important race number. It’s at the Coliseum, at the west end of south Central Park, near the race finish. What a five-block walk that is.
Bathing on Broadway.
Everywhere you look, ripped and inverted umbrellas blow down Broadway like so many urban tumbleweeds. I don’t have one, but what does it matter. The rain seems to be coming from the ground up, down and sideways. Raining in my jeans. Of course, that could be over-hydration too. I’m drinking like a madman now. My whole existence is about water. Drinking it, peeing it….walking in it. Did I mention the ear infection? I’m putting drops in my ear, so the world echos like I’m 10 feet under water. Drowning is a theme.
The night before.
Feel like shit. Feverish, fatigued, woozy. I take my temperature, nothing. Maybe it’s all the pasta all week, sprinkled with anxiety. Maybe I need more therapy. Lorraine has her opinion. But real or imagine, I am plainly miserable.
This happens every night before a marathon. Making things worse, the Gators are being humiliated by Georgia on TV. I can’t watch. Take an hour to decide which shirt to pin my number to. Weighing all the possibilities of what to wear – in the event of changing cold or hot temps, sun or rain.
I lay out my gear on a chair. Shoes at the foot of the chair – ready to run off. A bunch of other stuff gets packed in a little red UPS bag; UPS trucks will haul the extra things, like dry sweats, from the start to the finish.
I obsess over all this for hours. Then Lorraine and I have one last pasta dinner, in the Hilton. Later, I fall off to sleep during a rented Julia Roberts video for 7 good hours – which is the one big plus of being a head-case the night before marathons. You sleep like a baby.
The Big Day arrives.
At 5:30 in the morning, I am walking down the Avenues of Americas, through shadows and street lights – carrying my little red UPS bag. The air is 50s fresh, cool, dry. The feverish feeling is gone, as is always the case the morning of.
From 53rd Street, I make my way toward the New York City Library on 42nd Street, where busses await to transport the troops to Staten Island. I venture down some side streets, and find a little café for breakfast. Buy a Sunday Times. Over eggs and potatoes, I watch little red UPS bags streaming by. Like a bunch of pod people in baggy sweats making their way to the Mother Ship.
6:15 bus ride: Seeing runners faces now, it’s more like kids on their way to summer camp – lots of anticipation but not knowing what to expect.
The Athletes Village.
Arriving at Staten Island: a tent city, runners gathering in fog and cool dampness, wearing anything from new sweats to garbage bags. More often, garbage bags – as jackets, as shoe protection against mud. These are the ones with experience, who know better, who did it last year or at some other muddy mega-marathon.
No modesty in this group, either, as some unabashedly apply Vaseline to nether parts and stick Band-Aids over nipples. Being too proud or shy is not the order of the day. The cost of not taking these precautions too high.
Pee lines are a United Nations, a horizontal tower of Babel, members of all the nations of the world waiting for port-o-potties.
A crazy thing happens
on the way to The Start
The Verrazano Bridge: Once the longest (2 miles) suspension bridges in the world, it connects New York City to Staten Island. The start of the Marathon. About 40 minutes before the gun, I’m staring up at the bottom of the Bridge, from the south side, where runners are now forming a massive crush. I don’t like this. Not only claustrophobic, I’m in the "Green" staging area. But I have a "Blue" number, which means I’m suppose to be in the "Blue" staging area. Which is way, way over there. Way, way.
What to do? I move to the edge of the crowd for air, where I find a barricade to begin stretching on.
Then this crazy thing happens: Some runners JUMP the barricade. Trotting off underneath the bridge and disappearing on the other side. Others follow. Now a stream of runners are making this move. Should I? Probably not, but I do. I jump the barricade, walk under the bridge, and within five minutes, I've not only moved in front of the 32,000-runner pack, I've hooked up with the elites and the NYPD and firemen, who lead the marathon at the start.
4 minutes to go, the announcer says….
I chit-chat with the firemen….stretch…..helicopters whirl overhead….the place is buzzing….the energy compressed in the assemblage of carbo-loaded and hydrated bodies…..ready to explode…God, would Roy love this, I’m thinking….The New York City Marathon start…..running capital of the universe for a day…..a 15-year-old dream run about to lift off…..
And look here……I’m standing in the fourth row!!!!!!
CANON BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Charging up the Verrazano Bridge with a bunch of Firemen and Cops, I’m floating up and up….running freely…..up into the damp morning mists….the pack at my heels, and I’m thinking…..how cool is this?
Running the Bridge
The bridge scene turns wild: Gaining altitude, winds whipping up to 30 or 40 mph; hats flying everywhere; I clutch mine and hold my number against my chest, the wind is tearing it off the pins.
More threatening were the Pissers. Guys hanging it off the bridge, relieving themselves – into the wind. C’mon, guys! It’s a basic rule of life, Don’t pee into the wind. It’s spraying back at the rest of us!!!
First mile, up the Bridge: 10 minute pace. Second mile, down the Bridge: 8 minute pace.
To a lesser degree, the whole race was like the Verrazano Bridge: one uphill linked to a downhill…ultimately, linked to another uphill. Flat sections seem few and far between. That makes it difficult to settle into a rhythm, to run efficienctly. You’re always adjusting pace and effort, which is exhausting over 26.2 miles. Best plan – don’t think about it. Find some level of comfort and do the best you can.
Brooklyn and Queens
Coming off the Bridge, the first crowds: All-leather rock ‘n roll warehouse bands provide the soundtrack for the early Brooklyn stretch. Older Italian and Irish neighborhoods, Latin and Chinese. Somewhat depressed and broken. But the people are pumped, excited, raucous. The little ones looking at you with big bulbous eyes, wanting to touch your hand.
By the 6 mile mark, I settled into a 9-minute pace (averaging the hills). But by 8 miles, my right knee is getting sore. Probably from running on the side-slope of the road, rather than the flatter crest. A stupid mental mistake. But the move to center is too late. I fear the ligament outside my knee, the IT-band, may be sore for the duration.
Run through the edges of Bushwick, Toni’s and Skip’s old neighborhood. More African-American faces in the crowds. More autumn trees. More steep hills. It blurs. I recall a stretch with clusters of Hassidic Jews; many fresh scrubbed faces -- I kept expecting age and saw youth.
"Why do I run?"
People always want to know this. So does Nike. So we run under a huge black & white billboard, by Nike, posing the question -- "Why do I run?" -- next to a woman’s stoney face. The answer: "So I can join a 32,000-member team."
The road is laughing all around me. It may be a stretch, but there’s a team connection between the runners: the effort to get here is individual, but the sacrifices are shared.
Or maybe Nike is just referring to the all-Nike Apparel Team…..ah, yes.
Queens: Here comes the rain
At the half-way point, I’ve fallen behind pace at 2:01. I’d hoped to be 5 minutes faster. To break 4 hours, my time-goal, I have to run a reverse split – meaning a faster second half than the first half. Could be tough: my sore knee is wobbling funny, causing a sloppy gait and stiffness in my right calf and hip. It's spreading...
Something else too: The winds pick up, dark clouds move in, and a sprinkle turns into a deluge in the space of 100 feet. The race changes: everything is chilled and soaked, shoes included.
The 59th Street Bridge
This is the bridge between Queens and Manhattan.
The symbol to a better world for the John Travolta character in Saturday Night Fever. The Simon & Garfunkle song. A bridge of dreams. The point of transition.
This is Mile 15.
Everyone here is pushing uphill, grinding it out, working hard, reaching down, being a runner…. moving through the massive complex of steel girders and cathedral-like spires, through strength and beauty, arching across the East River, one gliding step at a time, toward a fog-shrouded Manhattan skyline.
Moving toward some promise you’d made to yourself in the long hours of running to get here.
The beginning is ending. Now the idea of finishing begins.
Suspended here between worlds, everything is strangely serene and quiet. No cheering crowds. No music. No distractions. Nothing but yourself and soft foot patter, the harmony of a thousand runners, moving together.
Then:
Mile 16.
In a flash of a flash, all that internal musing stuff is gone….as you lose yourself in sudden mayhem. Thunderous, wild crowds are waiting for you, as you come off that 59th Street Bridge, they form a tight gauntlet for you to pass through before spilling out on First Avenue and you run under a giant arch of red, white and blue balloons.
As far as you can see: cheering New Yorkers, under a sea of umbrellas, throngs of them, 10 deep on each side, frenzied mania….
As the rain’s coming….harder now….
Flashes of lightning and thunder rolling in….
And the crazy New Yorkers thundering back….
Drink it in, I’m thinking…..just drink it in.
Meeting Lorraine. Part I.
The plan: Meet on First Avenue between 83st and 84nd Streets, about five blocks directly east the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Central Park, where Lorraine wanted to spend the morning. It seemed perfect.
My right leg is a mess now. Nothing serious long-term, but short-term it’s cramping and sore and tightening up. Some sciatica from my hip too. It’s all forcing me to stop every mile or two and stretch out the hamstrings, calves, hip and knee – giving away a couple minutes each time. The stretching is keeping me going, though. So I’m resigned to the stopping/starting, and a slow finish.
I’m dragging my leg up to 83rd Street, saving a nice deep stretch for the moment I see Lorraine. We found each other in Boston. Took pictures. I could use that extra shot of adrenalin seeing her now.
I’m looking….looking….looking….through dozens of faces.
Where is she? Where is she? Maybe she didn’t make it because of the rain. Where are you Lorraine? Could I have missed her?
Finding inspiration in the Bronx.
Around Mile 20, my energy is flat. Knowing I won’t break 4 hours, the bum leg, not seeing Lorraine – I have to make these mental adjustments before the final push, or pay a price. I try everything. Extra energy GU. Piece of candy. Gatorade. Anything to get my sugar up. Then there’s the Wall: It’s lurking around here. All the pain, the mental games, the legs turning to stone – up ahead, soon. I keep it out of my mind, try to stay positive….
I fall in behind a guy with a strange, chaotic gait. His right leg is circling forward, rather than stepping directly forward. I look closely. The leg….it’s not…..his. But a prosthesis, from the knee down. And he’s run 20 miles, circling it like that. God, that must REALLY hurt…..
In that moment, all my petty problems vanish. I find fresh, live, bouncing energy in this man’s courage.
Another Nike billboard. Mile 21. Why do I run? "Because I can run forever. But I know there’s a rest stop 5.2 miles ahead."
Is this Harlem?
I had to stop, ask a black women: "Is this Harlem?" And she smiled back, rain streaking down her face, "Yes, honey, THIS is Harlem." Maybe what I expected was a broken, graffiti-scrawled ghetto. But what I found on Mile 21 was alive and rich and beautiful. The Harlem of elegant old brownstones. Sprawling open parks. Funky stone churches. And the glowing, welcoming faces of hundreds of African-Americans, some with umbrellas, most without, standing out in the hardest rain yet. Torrents of rain. Flashes of rain. A cold rain. And with every sudden downpour, harder than the last, their cheers only grew louder and louder. And, during the worst of it, when the streets splashed at your ankles and the rain pelted your skin, there they were…..a Harlem Baptist church choir in electric blue-and-yellow robes, singing and swaying under an elevated church portico, like some kind of Rain Angels, who knew all about rising up in a hard rain, who sang it big and sang it loud, who filled the streets with their soaring soulful gospel rhythms, who lifted everyone passing by to some other heavenly place beyond the pain and rain, uplifting to a free space, above it all….just for a moment.
Thank you, Rain Angels, thank you….over 26.2 miles, including the finish, and perhaps including all five other marathons I’ve run, nothing has touched me quite like the beauty and grace and joy in your chorus of voices, warmly embracing us all as we ran by.
Central Park.
Among Algonquin Indians, Manhattan means "island of the hills." The killer hills are in Central Park, where the last three miles are run. Now add rainwater rolling off the rocks and into the streets, and you’re running in a stream. Upstream. Like suicidal salmon. Add a wobbly leg, depleted energy resources, losing body heat – and hey, this is why you run. To see what you got.
There’s no other way to explain the end of these things. Why are people doing this? Why go through the agony? Why am I?
Don’t think. Think later. You’re within reach. Push on….
Everything here is basic. Nothing cerebral. Mainly, you’re confronting all physical and mental limitations….and trying to push them further out. Rain or snow or sleet or cold or heat or humidity, forget it. Mere distractions. It’s much more primal now; existence stripped to one elementary thing: your Will.
How much are you willing to take. You can walk if you want. Nobody cares. People walk. So what. Nobody gives a damn….in fact, nobody here sees beyond themselves and their own struggle. The last miles of a marathon is total self-absorption. A tunnel of Self. So whether you stop or walk or pick up the pace, it’s personal. And frankly, it’s the thing you’re here to find out about your-Self.
When every fiber, every impulse is screaming Stop, You Idiot!……what will you do?
Meeting Lorraine. Part II.
The back-up plan is to meet Lorraine at Mile 24, behind the Met Museum, on the right side of the road. She’s wearing a 100-watt orange poncho – can’t miss her.
So as I approach Mile 24, I am thinking.…seeing Lorraine will be a perfect excuse to stop this insane madness. A lot hurts: IT-Band stabbing, sciatica shivering down my butt, calves tightening like snare drums.
I’m thinking…..you know, to hell with all this bullshit about persevering during the Big Struggle, about proving something, about the steeliness of my own Willpower and the triumph of Self, about toughing out these stupid marathons, all that garbage.
Damnit, I wanna stop….. So where is she? Where the hell is Lorraine???
I almost grab a Chinese girl in jeans and a 100-watt orange poncho. Along the roadside of a marathon, we’re all searching for something, someone.
The Big Finish.
Rounding the last bend, going uphill (of course), I spot banner Mile 26, at last YEAH!, so I juice the gas pedal one more time…..and now, the most amazing thing of all happens. Breaking through the rain and clouds, a blue hole opens in the sky. A soft Monet blue.
Two-tenths of a mile to go, I run in sunshine.
Crossing the finish line is The Photo Op. Make sure nobody’s blocking your number or next to you. It’s Over. Got a medal and a rose for Lorraine. As the long silver snake of tin-foil blankets wends another three-quarters of a mile north through Central Park, no one talks. Just 32,000 painfully quiet celebrations, amid the sounds of vomiting.
My time: Four hours twenty-seven minutes four seconds. I can’t think about it. Very disappointing for someone looking to break 4 hours. On the other hand, it was an extraordinary day: I was about the 16,000th finisher. With 32,000 in the race, I’m a true middle-of-the-packer. Same thing in Boston. Dead middle in mid-life.
And, because I started in the fourth row, it’s true 16,000 passed me -- but hey, I held off another 16,000.
Extra mustard, please.
Lorraine and I find each other, finally, under the giant "V" (first letter, last name) sign in the Great Lawn of Central Park, where families meet the runners. Turns out, heavy rains turned her back from our rendezvous at First Avenue. And, at Mile 24, she was standing in the rain – but on the left side of the street. (I was looking on the right side.) She was very worried too; watching thousands go by long after my anticipated arrival. She thought the worst.
"I’m out there for two hours in the rain," she says to me. "What’d you think I ducked into a café or something. I thought about it, but I took a bath in Central Park instead, and worried to death about you. How could you miss me….I mean, I’m ORANGE as orange gets!!! I said the left side of the street, not the right, how could I be on the right side, the museum’s on the left….boy….I’m glad that’s over."
Me too.
So together, we lock hands and begin a nearly 3-mile walk back to the Hilton. But before leaving Central Park, we sit down on a park bench, the sun dropping on what has become a clear, crisp autumn afternoon in Manhattan. I have my little finisher’s medal around my neck. I have my wife. And, from a street vendor, we have a couple steaming New York hot dogs ladled with sauerkraut and mustard. The best I’d ever eaten. The best.
Why do I run? Well, now you know…..the hot dogs taste better.
####
Tuesday, April 16, 1996
Boston96
The day before the race
Sitting in a small cafe on Boyston Street, the heart of downtown Boston was looking rather grim. Darkening clouds, drizzling rain, cold.....the pervasive greyness. Grey wet sidewalks. Grey wet buildings. Grey wet streets. Grey gloom everywhere.
Two blocks from the finish, my wife Lorraine, was sipping on a steamy cup of New England clam chowder. "It's just nasty out there," she says.
I shrugged. The lousy weather was my least concern for tomorrow's Boston Marathon. I had a miserable low-grade fever. An allergic reaction had caused the skin on my face to burn and flake off. Worse yet were the chills spiking up from my bladder, the result of drinking gallons of water and Gatorade to hydrate my body. It was horrible. But it also made you forget everything else. The cold and wet and fever and burning face and looming 26.2 miles. None of it mattered like finding the closest bathroom.
Caught a bus to Hopkington
That night, the fever left me so wasted, I skipped the nervous-anticipation part of a typical marathon and slept like a rock. At 5 a.m., I jumped out of bed feeling better. My running buddy Roy and I scarfed down a breakfast of oatmeal and bananas, then caught one of 800 busses that rolled from Boston Commons, transporting over 35,000 people to the start, 26 miles west to Hopkington. Incredible logistics. But it went smooth for us.
We came prepared for the worst weather, too. Rain, snow, sleet. We had extra running shoes to toss. Layers of extra sweats and rain gear. What we didn't expect was the day we found outside our bus, at dawn. A coolish 46 degrees. Not a wisp of clouds. The forecast for blue skies and a high of 55. You talk about ideal running weather. I was so excited, I forgot how much I had to pee.
At the Athlete’s Village, behind Hopkington High
Runners from around the world gathered under two sprawling white tents the size of football fields. Here and there, you saw scribbling on T-shirts. "Boston 96. The Runner’s Woodstock." Sure enough, it came complete with mud. The snow from the week before had melted, plus all that rain over the weekend. Straw was spread around, the qualifiers tent had Astroturf -- but everywhere was a soggy brown mess.
I packed some jumbo hefty bags which we laid over the cool mud. For several hours, we camped out -- read the morning Globe, talked to our neighbors, listened to a group Boston Soul on a bandstage, as the throng multiplied before our eyes. The 40,000 strong, lean and gaunt. Drinking Gatorade. Trying to stay warm, clean, dry, relaxed. Visiting the long rows of plastic Port-a-poddies. The runner’s Woodstock. For one day, the muddied center of the running universe.
Waiting in the starting line.
Eight helicopters whirled overhead, skywriters spelled GOOD LUCK against the bright blue sky. It’s 50 degrees. It’s dazzlingly perfect. Roy and I had been given armbands that designated us at the front of the 12,000-person Open Division and 3,000 unofficial runners. A terrific spot. Only the 26,000 Qualifiers ahead of us.
Only.
We crowded into “Corral B.” The streets were electric. Buzzing. Ahead of you is 26 miles, but you’re not thinking about the distance, not here. You just want to get going. Let loose. You’re body is humming, fully juiced and carbo-loaded. A finely-tuned engine idling at high RPMs. You feel the vibration. It’s time to see what you got -- time to let it go. Or is that vibration the overwhelming urge for one more pee. I find a bush in an empty field between houses with 50 others.
Noon gunblast.
Back in the pack, we wait. No movement. Then a slow shuffle shuffle forward. Anticipation is building big time. Thousands of spectators are yelling “Good Luck” and holding up signs with names and runner’s numbers. See ya at the finish Judy #37,873. Go for it Frank #20,406.
Nineteen minutes pass before Roy and I reach the startline, across from the old white Church. Music fills the air. Spectators crowd lawns that rise from the streets, making the place feel like a packed outdoor amphitheater.
A sign reads, “It all starts here....”
Standing on the startline, you see the narrow, two-lane Route 135 to Boston drop off suddenly for a good half-mile. It’s the steepest plunge on the course. And it opens to an incredible sight. A human river of bobbing heads, thousands of them, flowing off to a bend in the road far below.
It’s really hard to describe exactly how I felt. Elation. Joy. Utter amazement. Lightness of being.
The payoff for all the hardwork was frozen in that singular moment, standing on the start. I figured anything else I discover on the way would be icing on the cake.
With that, I took my first step to Boston.
The first half.
At the bottom of the first sweeping turn, with hundreds of others, I jump off into the trees and weeds. Everyone dropping shorts. Hanging it out, free in the breeze. Pee time. Your body is so clean it looks like spring water.
The running went slow at first. We clocked 11 minutes miles, an easy jog. But it didn’t matter. This was one gigantic glacial-moving party. Live bands played roadside. The Rocky theme. Chariots of Fire. My favorite: Allman Brothers’ Whipping Post. Families barbecued on front lawns. Kids reached out for high fives. I saw Nicholas in their faces and touched off dozens of hands.
Surprisingly, around Mile 4, we began settling into a quicker 9-minute pace. Which is where I wanted to be. At that point, I figured we’d lost maybe 4-5 minutes off the pace to break 4 hours, which wasn’t bad, considering we expected to start much slower.
Roy runs faster than I do, but there was no point for him to chase a personal best. Too many people to run around. So he hung with me and enjoyed the show.
The couple just married that morning, running in tux and gown. Freaky painted runners.
The three Pumpkin People under a single orange sheet. Bandits (unofficial runners) in black masks.
The first half of the course is generally downhill, but it undulates enough to make my calves and thighs take notice that we weren’t in the Florida flats. I was especially cautious not to let my legs fly downhill, which would punish my quads and cause problems later, in the big hills.
As the miles tick off, I feel stronger and stronger, my body becoming more efficient. Roy even threw in a quicker 8-minute mile at 10, which felt okay, but I told him I didn’t want to keep that pace. Roy said his bad knee was acting up, and he wanted to see if the faster pace felt better. It didn’t. So he settled back into 9-minute miles with me. You can think what you want about the grueling nature of the marathon, but if you run conservatively in the first half, it’s mostly about enjoying your conditioning and having fun at the pace you trained at. At Boston, the 1.5 million spectators just energized the whole experience that much more.
I kept thinking, The great part about this race is that I know it’s not going to end anytime soon. In the first half, I felt like I could run forever.
Wellsley girls
Coming up to mile 12, you can hear them a half-mile away. The Wellsley College girls.
Brainy bluebloods with shrill-pitched lungs and boundless enthusiasm for the Boston Marathon. As tradition dictates, they turned out in force, forming a gauntlet that went on for a mile, yelling and cheering and gawking at the passing runners.
Roy and I veered to the curb, where we celebrated in their faces, high-fiving hundreds of tomorrow’s world leaders and corporate execs.
I remember, “Nice buns, 30707....” from a future CEO.
The halfway-point plan.
From downtown Boston, a commuter train runs parallel to much of the course. The night before, I suggested that Lorraine hop the commuter to the half-way point -- at Mile 13, the charming campus town of Wellsley Hills -- watch the leaders blow through and then wait for us. It was risky. If she missed us, or we missed her, no one would be the wiser. Even so, it seemed like a better idea than trying to stake out space at the madhouse finish.
When we hit Wellsley Hills, Roy took one side of the road, I took the other, searching through hundreds of faces for Lorraine. At first, we thought we had run by the train station and missed her. Then....
Bingo! Standing up on the curb, behind a row of people....”LORRAINE!” I yelled out and ran to her....stopped....got a big kiss....”We’re having a blast,” I hold her....Roy flew over....we took pictures....quick quick quick....a little old lady Lorraine had befriended took more pictures....Roy checked the time, 1:59, he says....on pace to break 4 hours....GOTTA GO, GOTTA GO....a whirlwind....and we were off again.
That stop, seeing Lorraine, was a huge rush. We were soaring now, running in mid-air....floating along in a river in a dream.
Coming up to Heartbreak Hill.
Playtime was almost over. The real business of the Boston Marathon loomed just ahead. The four Newton Hills, topped off by Heartbreak Hill, between Miles 16 and 21. They had to be conquered. Or perhaps, survived.
Going into Mile 16, we felt ready. Feeling up to the challenge. “Bring it on, this is why we’re here,” we said, confidently. Naively.
The first hill we cruised up single file, not breaking pace. The second hill, we began passing more and more walkers; I was working hard to keep up with Roy, who seemed stronger, but drafting him helped. The third hill, I actually lost Roy on the ascent but pulled up next to him at the top. Three down, one to go. My calves ached, but my thighs were screaming, especially on the downhills. I took smaller, quicker steps to reduce the slamming.
Then, rounding a corner at the Newton firestation, mobs of people stacked up at the curbs, cheering very loud, with signs, and a band playing. This was the official send off.
I looked up.
An impressive stretch rose as far as I could see, under a canopy of tall trees. The river of runners leaned into the hill, pushing upward. This must be da place. Heartbreak. The most famous hill in road racing in the world. And we were at the bottom.
It may not have been the steepest of the Newton Hills, nor the longest, but by the time I started up, it sure felt like it. I fell in behind Roy, who trailed some girl, cutting through the runners like butter. Maybe one-quarter or more of the field was walking. Which made running even more difficult, because you had to sidestep them. About half-way up, Roy and the girl made a quick move through some walkers, and I got boxed out and didn’t have the agility in my legs to make my own space and follow.
I let him go. I could see Roy powering up now, and I couldn’t match it, not if I wanted to finish in one piece.
At the top of Heartbreak, Roy was nowhere in sight. We’d run 21 miles together, but for the final stretch, it looked like I was on my own. Well, sort of. The river still flowed and the spectators were thickening. Just ahead -- the crowds of Boston.
The finish.
I spent Mile 22 trying to recover from the Newton Hills. My thighs were burning pretty good. Supposedly, the finishing miles after Heartbreak were all downhill. But in Mile 23, I tried to surge several times and ran into gradual ascents that felt like Mount Everest. So I backed off.
By 24, I was not running comfortably. Everything hurt. I even developed a stitch in my side and cramps in my neck. The Newton Hills had taken a toll. I pressed when I could. But I was slowing to a 10-minute-plus pace, despite the effort.
By 25, I realized I’d fallen behind a 4-hour run by several minutes and had failed to factor in the extra 385 yards tacked on to the marathon. I wasn’t going to break it. That’s when I heard the voice.
It was Lorraine’s Mom, Gail. She told me to forget the stupid time, to soak up the last mile. Enjoy it, you earned it, she said. I said okay. Who argues with voices. So I relaxed. Suddenly, my narrow tunnel vision opened to a wider view of the city around me, the skyline ahead, the faces of strangers. My legs even picked up some life again.
I sailed into downtown.
Here, in the last mile, thoughts of Gail and my friend, Michael, both of whom died a year ago when I began training, filled me. Talked to me. Prodded me, to keep moving. It was an emotional stretch, running with the two of them, to the finish.
The course veered off Commonwealth Avenue to a short side street, shaded by two cavernous buildings. It was dark and cold in there. But at the end of the block, I ran out into the sunlight again -- and there, up ahead a quarter mile, was the giant bright blue-and-yellow banner stretching across Boyston Street. The FINISH line. I let out a huge “YES!” and pumped my fist as I rounded the corner.
The 100th Boston was mine.
Epilogue
Roy was waiting for me just over the finishline. “You get it?” I asked, first thing. But I knew he did. He grinned back, the Cheshire grin. 3:59:47 his watch read. Stole it by 13 seconds!!!!
My time: 4:05:57. It was everything I had.
We walked arm in arm up Boyston Street. Somebody shoved some potato chips, Powerbars and drinks at us. At one point, two runners collapsed into Roy. I called a Medic. It was a wild scene. We got our medals and found Lorraine. It was now around 5 o’clock -- 12 hours after jumping out of bed -- and getting cold; the temperature was dropping by the minute. Another wicked front was moving in with heavy rain and wind. But it didn’t matter anymore.
The Boston Marathon was history. And how perfect it had been. After all the miles it took to get here, we finished with the best run ever.
Sitting in a small cafe on Boyston Street, the heart of downtown Boston was looking rather grim. Darkening clouds, drizzling rain, cold.....the pervasive greyness. Grey wet sidewalks. Grey wet buildings. Grey wet streets. Grey gloom everywhere.
Two blocks from the finish, my wife Lorraine, was sipping on a steamy cup of New England clam chowder. "It's just nasty out there," she says.
I shrugged. The lousy weather was my least concern for tomorrow's Boston Marathon. I had a miserable low-grade fever. An allergic reaction had caused the skin on my face to burn and flake off. Worse yet were the chills spiking up from my bladder, the result of drinking gallons of water and Gatorade to hydrate my body. It was horrible. But it also made you forget everything else. The cold and wet and fever and burning face and looming 26.2 miles. None of it mattered like finding the closest bathroom.
Caught a bus to Hopkington
That night, the fever left me so wasted, I skipped the nervous-anticipation part of a typical marathon and slept like a rock. At 5 a.m., I jumped out of bed feeling better. My running buddy Roy and I scarfed down a breakfast of oatmeal and bananas, then caught one of 800 busses that rolled from Boston Commons, transporting over 35,000 people to the start, 26 miles west to Hopkington. Incredible logistics. But it went smooth for us.
We came prepared for the worst weather, too. Rain, snow, sleet. We had extra running shoes to toss. Layers of extra sweats and rain gear. What we didn't expect was the day we found outside our bus, at dawn. A coolish 46 degrees. Not a wisp of clouds. The forecast for blue skies and a high of 55. You talk about ideal running weather. I was so excited, I forgot how much I had to pee.
At the Athlete’s Village, behind Hopkington High
Runners from around the world gathered under two sprawling white tents the size of football fields. Here and there, you saw scribbling on T-shirts. "Boston 96. The Runner’s Woodstock." Sure enough, it came complete with mud. The snow from the week before had melted, plus all that rain over the weekend. Straw was spread around, the qualifiers tent had Astroturf -- but everywhere was a soggy brown mess.
I packed some jumbo hefty bags which we laid over the cool mud. For several hours, we camped out -- read the morning Globe, talked to our neighbors, listened to a group Boston Soul on a bandstage, as the throng multiplied before our eyes. The 40,000 strong, lean and gaunt. Drinking Gatorade. Trying to stay warm, clean, dry, relaxed. Visiting the long rows of plastic Port-a-poddies. The runner’s Woodstock. For one day, the muddied center of the running universe.
Waiting in the starting line.
Eight helicopters whirled overhead, skywriters spelled GOOD LUCK against the bright blue sky. It’s 50 degrees. It’s dazzlingly perfect. Roy and I had been given armbands that designated us at the front of the 12,000-person Open Division and 3,000 unofficial runners. A terrific spot. Only the 26,000 Qualifiers ahead of us.
Only.
We crowded into “Corral B.” The streets were electric. Buzzing. Ahead of you is 26 miles, but you’re not thinking about the distance, not here. You just want to get going. Let loose. You’re body is humming, fully juiced and carbo-loaded. A finely-tuned engine idling at high RPMs. You feel the vibration. It’s time to see what you got -- time to let it go. Or is that vibration the overwhelming urge for one more pee. I find a bush in an empty field between houses with 50 others.
Noon gunblast.
Back in the pack, we wait. No movement. Then a slow shuffle shuffle forward. Anticipation is building big time. Thousands of spectators are yelling “Good Luck” and holding up signs with names and runner’s numbers. See ya at the finish Judy #37,873. Go for it Frank #20,406.
Nineteen minutes pass before Roy and I reach the startline, across from the old white Church. Music fills the air. Spectators crowd lawns that rise from the streets, making the place feel like a packed outdoor amphitheater.
A sign reads, “It all starts here....”
Standing on the startline, you see the narrow, two-lane Route 135 to Boston drop off suddenly for a good half-mile. It’s the steepest plunge on the course. And it opens to an incredible sight. A human river of bobbing heads, thousands of them, flowing off to a bend in the road far below.
It’s really hard to describe exactly how I felt. Elation. Joy. Utter amazement. Lightness of being.
The payoff for all the hardwork was frozen in that singular moment, standing on the start. I figured anything else I discover on the way would be icing on the cake.
With that, I took my first step to Boston.
The first half.
At the bottom of the first sweeping turn, with hundreds of others, I jump off into the trees and weeds. Everyone dropping shorts. Hanging it out, free in the breeze. Pee time. Your body is so clean it looks like spring water.
The running went slow at first. We clocked 11 minutes miles, an easy jog. But it didn’t matter. This was one gigantic glacial-moving party. Live bands played roadside. The Rocky theme. Chariots of Fire. My favorite: Allman Brothers’ Whipping Post. Families barbecued on front lawns. Kids reached out for high fives. I saw Nicholas in their faces and touched off dozens of hands.
Surprisingly, around Mile 4, we began settling into a quicker 9-minute pace. Which is where I wanted to be. At that point, I figured we’d lost maybe 4-5 minutes off the pace to break 4 hours, which wasn’t bad, considering we expected to start much slower.
Roy runs faster than I do, but there was no point for him to chase a personal best. Too many people to run around. So he hung with me and enjoyed the show.
The couple just married that morning, running in tux and gown. Freaky painted runners.
The three Pumpkin People under a single orange sheet. Bandits (unofficial runners) in black masks.
The first half of the course is generally downhill, but it undulates enough to make my calves and thighs take notice that we weren’t in the Florida flats. I was especially cautious not to let my legs fly downhill, which would punish my quads and cause problems later, in the big hills.
As the miles tick off, I feel stronger and stronger, my body becoming more efficient. Roy even threw in a quicker 8-minute mile at 10, which felt okay, but I told him I didn’t want to keep that pace. Roy said his bad knee was acting up, and he wanted to see if the faster pace felt better. It didn’t. So he settled back into 9-minute miles with me. You can think what you want about the grueling nature of the marathon, but if you run conservatively in the first half, it’s mostly about enjoying your conditioning and having fun at the pace you trained at. At Boston, the 1.5 million spectators just energized the whole experience that much more.
I kept thinking, The great part about this race is that I know it’s not going to end anytime soon. In the first half, I felt like I could run forever.
Wellsley girls
Coming up to mile 12, you can hear them a half-mile away. The Wellsley College girls.
Brainy bluebloods with shrill-pitched lungs and boundless enthusiasm for the Boston Marathon. As tradition dictates, they turned out in force, forming a gauntlet that went on for a mile, yelling and cheering and gawking at the passing runners.
Roy and I veered to the curb, where we celebrated in their faces, high-fiving hundreds of tomorrow’s world leaders and corporate execs.
I remember, “Nice buns, 30707....” from a future CEO.
The halfway-point plan.
From downtown Boston, a commuter train runs parallel to much of the course. The night before, I suggested that Lorraine hop the commuter to the half-way point -- at Mile 13, the charming campus town of Wellsley Hills -- watch the leaders blow through and then wait for us. It was risky. If she missed us, or we missed her, no one would be the wiser. Even so, it seemed like a better idea than trying to stake out space at the madhouse finish.
When we hit Wellsley Hills, Roy took one side of the road, I took the other, searching through hundreds of faces for Lorraine. At first, we thought we had run by the train station and missed her. Then....
Bingo! Standing up on the curb, behind a row of people....”LORRAINE!” I yelled out and ran to her....stopped....got a big kiss....”We’re having a blast,” I hold her....Roy flew over....we took pictures....quick quick quick....a little old lady Lorraine had befriended took more pictures....Roy checked the time, 1:59, he says....on pace to break 4 hours....GOTTA GO, GOTTA GO....a whirlwind....and we were off again.
That stop, seeing Lorraine, was a huge rush. We were soaring now, running in mid-air....floating along in a river in a dream.
Coming up to Heartbreak Hill.
Playtime was almost over. The real business of the Boston Marathon loomed just ahead. The four Newton Hills, topped off by Heartbreak Hill, between Miles 16 and 21. They had to be conquered. Or perhaps, survived.
Going into Mile 16, we felt ready. Feeling up to the challenge. “Bring it on, this is why we’re here,” we said, confidently. Naively.
The first hill we cruised up single file, not breaking pace. The second hill, we began passing more and more walkers; I was working hard to keep up with Roy, who seemed stronger, but drafting him helped. The third hill, I actually lost Roy on the ascent but pulled up next to him at the top. Three down, one to go. My calves ached, but my thighs were screaming, especially on the downhills. I took smaller, quicker steps to reduce the slamming.
Then, rounding a corner at the Newton firestation, mobs of people stacked up at the curbs, cheering very loud, with signs, and a band playing. This was the official send off.
I looked up.
An impressive stretch rose as far as I could see, under a canopy of tall trees. The river of runners leaned into the hill, pushing upward. This must be da place. Heartbreak. The most famous hill in road racing in the world. And we were at the bottom.
It may not have been the steepest of the Newton Hills, nor the longest, but by the time I started up, it sure felt like it. I fell in behind Roy, who trailed some girl, cutting through the runners like butter. Maybe one-quarter or more of the field was walking. Which made running even more difficult, because you had to sidestep them. About half-way up, Roy and the girl made a quick move through some walkers, and I got boxed out and didn’t have the agility in my legs to make my own space and follow.
I let him go. I could see Roy powering up now, and I couldn’t match it, not if I wanted to finish in one piece.
At the top of Heartbreak, Roy was nowhere in sight. We’d run 21 miles together, but for the final stretch, it looked like I was on my own. Well, sort of. The river still flowed and the spectators were thickening. Just ahead -- the crowds of Boston.
The finish.
I spent Mile 22 trying to recover from the Newton Hills. My thighs were burning pretty good. Supposedly, the finishing miles after Heartbreak were all downhill. But in Mile 23, I tried to surge several times and ran into gradual ascents that felt like Mount Everest. So I backed off.
By 24, I was not running comfortably. Everything hurt. I even developed a stitch in my side and cramps in my neck. The Newton Hills had taken a toll. I pressed when I could. But I was slowing to a 10-minute-plus pace, despite the effort.
By 25, I realized I’d fallen behind a 4-hour run by several minutes and had failed to factor in the extra 385 yards tacked on to the marathon. I wasn’t going to break it. That’s when I heard the voice.
It was Lorraine’s Mom, Gail. She told me to forget the stupid time, to soak up the last mile. Enjoy it, you earned it, she said. I said okay. Who argues with voices. So I relaxed. Suddenly, my narrow tunnel vision opened to a wider view of the city around me, the skyline ahead, the faces of strangers. My legs even picked up some life again.
I sailed into downtown.
Here, in the last mile, thoughts of Gail and my friend, Michael, both of whom died a year ago when I began training, filled me. Talked to me. Prodded me, to keep moving. It was an emotional stretch, running with the two of them, to the finish.
The course veered off Commonwealth Avenue to a short side street, shaded by two cavernous buildings. It was dark and cold in there. But at the end of the block, I ran out into the sunlight again -- and there, up ahead a quarter mile, was the giant bright blue-and-yellow banner stretching across Boyston Street. The FINISH line. I let out a huge “YES!” and pumped my fist as I rounded the corner.
The 100th Boston was mine.
Epilogue
Roy was waiting for me just over the finishline. “You get it?” I asked, first thing. But I knew he did. He grinned back, the Cheshire grin. 3:59:47 his watch read. Stole it by 13 seconds!!!!
My time: 4:05:57. It was everything I had.
We walked arm in arm up Boyston Street. Somebody shoved some potato chips, Powerbars and drinks at us. At one point, two runners collapsed into Roy. I called a Medic. It was a wild scene. We got our medals and found Lorraine. It was now around 5 o’clock -- 12 hours after jumping out of bed -- and getting cold; the temperature was dropping by the minute. Another wicked front was moving in with heavy rain and wind. But it didn’t matter anymore.
The Boston Marathon was history. And how perfect it had been. After all the miles it took to get here, we finished with the best run ever.
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