Notes
In the spirit of Lance, who has encouraged me to document and share my experience as he has done so well in his log, here is an account of my Boston run.
After Rick, Laurie, and I said goodbye to Dick, who was starting a half hour later in wave 2, I got separated from them at the port-a-johns at Colella's Market. I made my way to my corral (#7 based on the first digit of my bib number, 7555). Happily, I ran into Laurie (9229) and then Salty (1673). We said our goodbyes and wished each other well. Then I joined the strangers in my corral. With 9 minutes to go, I left my corral to use a natural urinal, knowing that this has always been my pre-race routine. I did not want to stop along the course.
I struggled to get back into my corral because the entrance was blocked by others like me trying to get in. With time running out, a little effort, and shouting to "make room," the people ahead squeezed forward so we could get in. After the national anthem, two fighter jets roared overhead with a minute or two to go. I realized there would be some waiting at the start, but it seemed strange that I remained standing still well after the gun sounded and the start was announced. Gradually the pack surrounding me began moving. After stopping and starting a couple more times, the walk turned into a jog, and I started my Garmin just before crossing the starting line, not sure exactly where this was defined. In a matter of seconds, I managed to get on pace. My Garmin would prove vital in the next three hours.
I wore a 3:15 and 3:10 course-adjusted pace wrist band. I decided to use the faster one as my guide, knowing that the start and first half are fast. I could always turn to the slower one if my heart rate warranted it. Fortunately, I did not need to, and there was no way I could slow down in any event, the crowd and spectators were so enthusiastic! I must have high-fived 50 kids (easily) in the first two miles and 300 or more during the first half. This does not include the Wellesley girls who stood two and three deep for a quarter-mile or more just after mile 12. Dozens (literally) were holding "kiss me" signs in countless phrasings. I could only do them (and myself) justice by kissing my hand and high-fiving them as I passed.
At the half marathon point, I was encouraged that my time was 1:32 and change. This did not surprise me because most of my miles were 10 seconds faster than my course-adjusted wrist band showed. I knew I was on pace to qualify for New York (sub 3:10) with a cushion even with the harder part of the course ahead. The Newton hills including Heartbreak Hill were somewhat familiar as Dick, Salty, and I ran them only three weeks before. At that time, I was confident, but I hadn't just run 16 miles. In retrospect, I would agree with another person from Seattle who felt they were "inclines" rather than hills by his standards.
Still, I was glad I had my headphones and I-Pod to give me the boost I needed for what lay ahead. By mile 18, my quads became sore, as they had at mile 24 in Chicago. This was not encouraging. The downhill stretches and crowd encouragement had set me up for potential failure. At this point, I forgot about the crowd and gave the course my undivided attention. Fortunately, I had transferred Led Zeppelin's greatest hits to my I-Pod two days earlier, and this gave me the kick I needed. I powered up Heartbreak Hill only to find that the soreness increased as I crested the hill at Manet Street. I remembered this landmark as the peak of the course from running the hill section and finish three weeks earlier. I had five miles left, and I needed to tame the downhill pounding that was adding salt to my soreness. The music helped. I knew I could not live with myself if I willingly let this big fish get away.
Unfortunately, it nearly snapped the line when my calves cramped three or four times in the last four miles. Each time, I recalled my pulled hamstring at the Cape Elizabeth 10-miler and how this destroyed a nearly perfect race, completely disabling me and causing me to limp the last quarter mile to the finish. I have told myself repeatedly since that I should not have finished that race because I injured myself further in the process. This time, I thought I might not be able to finish even with a limp. However, to my surprise, the cramping subsided when I eased the drag and slowed my pace. There was a limit to how much I could do this and still qualify for New York. If I did not tighten the drag , I would run out of line. Gradually, I picked up the pace as each instance of cramping subsided. Still, I was ready to give up on qualifying for New York if the alternative was not finishing Boston.
I looked at my Garmin as I passed the "one mile to finish" sign. I had 8:40 to spare. Surely, I thought to myself, I could run this pace to the finish if my calves did not shut down. With a few hundred yards to go on Boyleston, they started cramping again with the finish clearly in sight. I slowed my pace and watched as the young woman whom I had tried to keep up with throughout the race passed me after I had just overtaken her around mile 24 and kept her in my lee. Then, with a hundred yards or less to the finish, the cramping subsided and I managed to accelerate enough to pass her just before we crossed the line. We finished with the same time, 3:08:40. For some reason, she is listed as having finished just before me, although I clearly edged her at the line, if I was not hallucinating at the time.
I was so relieved to finish, knowing I was done and that I had a guaranteed entry in New York. Unlike the finish at Chicago, when I could pretend not to be sore, there was no pretending here. I was in pain. Now my goal was to retrieve my bag and get to the massage area quickly, although I was moving slowly and with visible distress. Several times I was asked by volunteers if I was alright or if I needed help. I was not about to get myself checked into a medical tent, so I declined their offers of assistance and just kept walking. I struggled to get some nutrition from the lunch bag as I waited outside in the massage line before it meandered into the Dorothy Quincy Suite inside the building.
While standing in the massage line inside, the emotion overtook me. My eyes watered up (as they do now writing about it) when I realized that my hard work had paid off and how improbable it seemed. I was convinced that my only chance of a guaranteed entry in New York was to run a fast half (sub-1:30). I had been unable to do this at Hampton because of my injury at Cape Elizabeth on Superbowl Sunday, February 7. Qualifying with a marathon (sub-3:10) seemed much less likely, even with a fast one like Sugarloaf or Bay State. It would depend on how I fared at Boston where the prospect of qualifying for New York was out of the question.