2015 Boston Marathon Race Recap

How many times in our lives do we get an opportunity to live our dreams? To do do something that for years we had only imagined, thinking that perhaps that dream would always be just beyond our reach? That we weren't worthy of it? Or couldn't do it? For as long as I have been running, I've dreamed about the big race in Boston. I've never been a particularly gifted runner, but that never stopped me from picturing myself running down Boylston Street after a grueling day on the world's most famous marathon course. Fists pumping, crowds cheering....I spent many a solitary long run with such images dancing in my head, giving me strength when I was wiped out, inspiration when I didn't feel it from within, and even some days serving as motivation to just get out the door in the first place. 

It's almost funny in a way - the iconic Hopkinton sign above announces that "It All Starts Here". In my case, it started many years ago, many miles away from this tiny hamlet in Massachusetts. My journey had many twists and turns made up of small successes and spectacular failures. Yet here I was - finally looking upon the sign, standing at the doorstep of the world's greatest road race.

The start of the 2013 race. (www.ibtimes.com)

My day began on a school bus. It was actually one of several dozen school buses that were snaking their way out of Boston along the Massachusetts Turnpike. My eyelids were still heavy as we bumped along the highway in the early morning hours. It took around an hour to reach Hopkinton, where we would be deposited near the town's middle school baseball fields - which had been converted for this occasion into the massive Athlete's Village, a vast complex of tents, portable toilets, and food tables. Runners jammed into the village seeking shelter and perhaps some coffee to quiet their nerves and take their mind off the biting cold. I found a cup for myself and settled in. I had arrived around 2 hours prior to my start time so I had plenty of time to relax and prepare for what lay ahead. 

Runners marching down Grove Street to the start line

I was immediately struck by the hometown nature of this international event. Hopkinton is a small town of around 2,500 whose population swells to around 35,000 on Patriot's Day each year. The charm is everywhere - from the simple sign announcing the starting point of this great race to the understated starting line itself (no giant platforms, banners, or fireworks here). Runners are ushered from the Athlete's Village to the starting line down Grove Street, a walk of around 3/4 of a mile. Grove Street is lined with picturesque colonial style homes dating back to the 1800's - again, not what I was expecting at all. I could have been walking down any street in any small town in America. The locals showed their support with hand painted signs on their front lawns. It was a perfect way to begin the day, but again, it was in sharp contrast to what most of the running world would consider the typical big-city marathon.

We saluted America, sang the national anthem, cheered as the countdown began, and at precisely 10:00 am, the elite men and the rest of wave 1 were given the green light to go. 

As I mentioned, I was surprised by the low-key starting line; in fact, I wasn't even sure I had crossed it until I saw the mats pass below me. There was little fanfare outside of the enthusiastic locals who had come out to cheer on the runners as our day began. Dark clouds began to gather as we started our run down Main Street, but for now, the weather was cooperating. I felt great as the cool air kept me comfortable. It was a joy to offer high-fives to the spectators that lined the course as I reminded myself to celebrate that joy. After all, I was running Boston!

Ok, now on to some technical running stuff. The first 5 miles of the race is downhill. And I mean, sharply downhill. It is enough of a challenge for any runner to contain their enthusiasm and stick with their race plan after months of training and tapering, but on a day like this, at this race, and on this course, it's nearly impossible. It is so easy to release the nerves and adrenaline into a mighty charge down the first hills at the start of the race that nearly any race report will start with some version of the following: START SLOW.... CONTAIN YOURSELF....BE PATIENT. Or my personal favorite..... 

Yes, it's a trap! Starting out too hard in the first few miles will inevitably lead to misery later. It has been proven time and time again, from elites to midpackers, that the pounding you take in the early stages of this race cannot be recovered. It's important to be mindful of your pace and stick to the plan. I made it a point to keep my pace steady and easy. I had to rely on my watch to make sure I stayed dialed in. I took advantage of this relaxed pace to enjoy the morning. Things hadn't become challenging yet, but I knew what was coming, so I enjoyed it while I could.

The rains started as I entered Ashland, the second town on our tour of the Massachusetts countryside. It was slow at first, but steadily increased in intensity - and as the rain began to turn from a mist to a gentle downpour, the headwinds began to pick up as well. 

I tried to take everything in stride as best I could. My pace still felt very comfortable - I was hitting my splits exactly as I had planned them out, with each mile ticking by between 6:55-7:05 minutes per mile. I had plenty of energy to interact with the crowd and, despite becoming increasingly soaked, was still in very good spirits.

The course levels out between Ashland and Framingham, with some gentle rollers breaking up the otherwise pancake flat topography. I was able to settle in and watch the miles pass by. 

In planning the day with my wife and my mother, who were both in town for the event, there was some discussion that my mom would somehow find her way to Natick to catch me running at around the 10 mile mark. The crowds through this small town were easily 3 rows deep on both sides of the street, making it difficult to get any sense of where she might be. Before long, I approached St. Patrick's Catholic Church. I was certain that if my mom made it out there at all, THAT was where she would be! But alas, it was not to be. Between the crowds and the now steady rain I couldn't make out anyone I recognized. (She chose wisely to stay downtown. More on that later....)

Wellesley College greatness. (www.wbur.org)

On I went to Wellesley, home of the famous "Wall Of Sound" created by hundreds of screaming college co-eds who come out in droves to support the runners. They've been at it for decades and it shows. I could hear them easily from half a mile away (or maybe more) cheering with such vigor that I have never before experienced in a race! I thoroughly enjoyed the high fives, fist bumps, motivational signs and general awesomeness of that stretch of the race. (I bypassed the offers for a kiss though - after all, I was on a schedule here...) It came and went quickly, but it was certainly memorable. As I passed the halfway point I was very pleased to be right on my target time of 1 hour, 32 minutes. Despite the rain, the cold, and the wind, I was right where I wanted to be. 

The toughest part of the race was through the town of Newton, where gentle rollers become legitimate hills and the pounding your legs have taken on the net-downhill course up to this point become very apparent. At around miles 14-15 my quads started to suddenly cramp as I could feel the fatigue set in. The wind was now howling out of the east, the rain was driving, and the smallest inclines in the road seemed to loom larger than life. For the next 5 miles or so I would track up and down, over hills and around corners, as my focus stayed on maintaining an even pace. I didn't have too much trouble with the hills and, as I approached the famed "Heartbreak Hill" between miles 20-21, I was intent on charging up as hard as I could, regardless of the later cost. There were many who were walking this stretch of the race, but drawing strength from the crowds lining the street, I was able to make short work of the notorious hill. It was now all downhill to Boston. 5 miles to go.

As runners enter Brookline, the countryside has made way for the urban landscape of the marathon's namesake city. In my mind, I was ready to pick up the pace and charge to the finish line. I did the math and believed I could still post a time around 3:04. I would have to hit some mean splits to make that happen, but there was a chance! The problem was that the spring had long since left my step. I just couldn't convince my sore, stiff legs to turn over any faster. Maintaining my pace was even becoming a chore. I was now passing dozens of runners who were reduced to a walk. I stayed positive and fought as hard as I could against a body that pleaded with me to stop. 

Then I saw a sight that gave me just the jolt of energy I needed - the famous Citgo sign. If you haven't seen the sign, it's one of the Boston skyline's most famous landmarks. It's HUGE, it's beautifully lit, and on a dreary, cold, wet day, it acted (for me, anyway) like a lighthouse, drawing me toward the city center. I had completely forgotten about the sign until I approached the city, and then all of a sudden, there it was! 

Running down Beacon St toward Kenmore Square, the Citgo sign draws you home. (www.thedesertstomach.com)

The sign is visible all the way down Beacon Street. (www.competitor.com)

As I passed Kenmore Square and then Fenway Park, the cheers from the crowd became deafening. With less than a mile to go, I was absolutely ecstatic. I ran from one side of the road to the other high-fiving dozens of enthusiastic spectators. Then finally, it was time to make the best left turn in all of running. I was fighting back tears (or was it just the rain?) as I ran down Boylston to the finish line. Cold, wet, exhausted, and yet exhilarated - I was a mix of emotions as I slowed to enjoy the moment. Times didn't matter to me anymore as I tried my best to freeze this moment in my mind. I've been blessed to experience many things in my life as a runner, but nothing - NOTHING - like that. It was fantastic.  

I know it's me because I was the only one out there in plaid!

I crossed the finish line in 3 hours, 8 minutes. My mother was there to greet me just after I finished and we shared a very emotional moment as we celebrated together. Now all I wanted to do was find some dry clothes and get warm! I was stopped by a local news crew to give a short interview about my experience - I was sure to mention my Fort Worth running tribe and my friends from the IRC - and then, with chattering teeth and throbbing quads, I moved on down Boylston to meet my wife, find a blanket, pick up my medal, and get some food. 

I don't know how I could possibly encapsulate this experience in a few short paragraphs. Entire books have been written about the history of this race, the nuances of the course, and the myriad of ways one can prepare for the Boston Marathon. For me, the entire day was a dream. Weather aside, it was pure magic. Whether I return remains to be seen, but there's something to be said for experiencing this event for the first time. It's something I will never, ever forget.