Diary
of a First-Time Boston
Runner
Matt
Curtner-Smith
Saturday
April 17th
Arrived
at Boston's
Logan Airport
at 12:30
pm somewhat
worse for
wear
following
a pretty
bumpy flight
and took
the shuttle
to the
Sheraton.
Also on
the
shuttle
were several
others
sporting
a variety
of new
running shoes
and athletic
apparel. "Obviously
you're all
here for
our
marathon," said a distinctly sedentary-looking driver rather nasally."So they really do talk like Cliff Clavern," I thought. The other
passengers and I gave him the collective nervous nod and spent the rest
of the journey clinging to our seats as this maniac behind the wheel
attempted to break the world land speed record through the crowded
streets of downtown Boston. Long stints of horn-blowing aimed at lost
tourists who threatened his record time were punctuated every so often
with waves to fellow bus drivers and colourful comments yelled out of
the window. My favourite of these by far was "Get back to
Connecticut!"
Survived
the shuttle
ride, checked
in, and set
off for the
Hynes Convention
Centre, which
was attached
to the hotel,
in order
to get my
race packet
and scout
out the expo.
What a zoo!
Stood in
line and
got my race
packet. Stood
in line and
waved my
race packet
over an electronic
mat so that
my enclosed
computer
chip would
be "activated." Worried that my chip had not been activated but was
reassured by a "chip volunteer." Stood in line and picked up my race
t-
shirt. Got a tad annoyed when one of the "t-shirt volunteers" offered
the
unsolicited opinion that I would need an extra-large. Crawled around the
expo for half an hour looking for cheap shoes. Gave up fighting the
crowds and hurried off to buy a spot of lunch in the connected mall.
Very tempted by the fish and chips which looked pretty authentic to this
Englishman, but decided it might not be such a good idea and went with
the turkey sandwich instead. Spent the next hour walking around the
mall rather aimlessly and realised that there was obviously a competition
in progress to see who could wear the most garments with "the Boston
Marathon" plastered all over them. Decided that I was far above all this
childishness while scurrying back to the expo to buy my outrageously
overpriced "official 1999 Boston Marathon jacket."
Spent the
evening making
my 34-item
race day
checklist,
watching
an appalling
version of "The Man in the Iron Mask" on telly, and eating
a
shepherds pie I had picked up in the mall earlier which was decidedly
long on potato and short on shepherds. Turned in at 9:30 pm and didn't
sleep a wink. Sunday
April 18th
Rose at
8:30 am.
Munched on
a bagel and
a couple
of bananas
and started
on the first
of my bottled
waters for
the day.
Felt stiff
and
worried that I was coming down with a cold. Hurried off to the mall
and consumed
a large orange
juice to
fight off
the imaginary
illness and
then
returned to the expo. Crowds were even larger now but prices were
going down. Purchased two pairs of running shorts and one pair of what
were described
as "wind pants" which were dirt cheap but which I didn't
need. Returned to the hotel to pick up my official 1999 Boston
Marathon jacket before going for a stroll around downtown. A couple of
minutes into my stroll I came across two rather burly local police officers
and asked the way to Copley Square since this was where runners were
to catch the "official Boston Marathon buses" to the start of the race
at
Hopkinton on the morrow. One of the officers rolled his eyes and
pointed the way with a fake politeness which screamed, "Not another
tiresome tourist," and then asked, "So which country are you from then
buddy?" "Actually, I'm from Alabama via England," I answered." "Oh,"he said, "So you're not from another country at all, you're from another
planet!!" I nodded sheepishly and headed off for the Square while the
two officers guffawed at my expense and exchanged low fives in that
very "pleased with my wisecrack" kind-of-way.
Spent the
afternoon
in the hotel
room with
my feet up,
drinking
gatorade,
and watching
English soccer
on the telly.
Very civilised!
Ordered the
standard
Curtner-Smith
pre-race
meal (a medium
beef and
pineapple pizza with very light cheese) at around 5:15 pm, consumed
it around
6:00 pm,
and then
worried that
I had overeaten.
Spent the
next
couple of hours, packing my bag, adding items to my race day checklist,
and experimenting
with different
chip positions
on my left
racing shoe.
Consumed
more gatorade
and more
bottled water
before turning
in at
around 9:30 pm. Spent half the night visiting the bathroom and, again,
didn't sleep
a wink. Monday
19th April
- Race Day!!
Rose at
6:00 am.
Showered,
dressed,
and watched
the weather
forecast
which promised
a tail-wind
and a cloudy
55 degrees
with a
chance of rain for the race. Changed from long-sleeved to short-sleeved
shirt and
back again
twice and
scoffed down
a cliff bar.
Went through
my race day
checklist
to make sure
I had not
forgotten
anything
crucial,
had a final look at the course profile, and then headed to Copley Square
to catch
the bus to
the start.
Sat with
three local
Bostonians
on the bus
who were
running for
charity.
We exchanged
the usual "Where are you from?" "Where did
you qualify?" "What was your time?" "What time are you hoping
to
run today?" and "I haven't really trained for this one" pleasantries.
The
fellow on my right was also quick to ask if I realised that this was"Patriots Day," the day New Englanders celebrated "the beginning
of
when we started kicking you Brits' a----" It crossed my mind to point out
that, in actual fact, during the first battle of the War of Independence it
was not British a---- that were kicked. Decided against it since this was
an exchange I had no chance of winning. Arrived
at the "Athletes' Village" in
Hopkinton
around 8:00
am. The village
was a bit
of
a disappointment.
It consisted
of two large
fields,
a
tent,
a stage,
and
the longest
line of
portable
toilets
I had
ever
seen. I
quickly
found a
spot
in the tent
and set
up
camp near
one
of the
large tellys.
Spent the
next
three
hours sitting
on my trash
bag, consuming
more
bottled
water,
standing
in the portolet
line, and
dashing
into
the bushes.
Realised,
after
half
an hour,
that
the "Good Morning America" show
I was watching
was actually
being broadcast
from a stage
in the Athletes'
Village. Wandered
over to gawk
at Charlie
and Diane who
had
suddenly become
experts
on marathon
running.
Once Good
Morning America
was over,
the local
telly networks
took centre
stage and
kept us entertained
with numerous
interviews
of
runners, husbands and wives of runners, volunteers, and those
responsible for directing the race. Of all the "interest stories" broadcast,
to me the most interesting were the fellow who had run the London
Marathon the day before and had flown to Boston to complete "the
double" for charity and the couple who got married in the middle of the
Athletes' Village around 10:00 am.
At around
11:00 am
the portolet
lines suddenly
grew much
longer and
the number
of male competitors
jumping in
the bushes
increased
considerably.
The village
was rising.
Layers of
sweats, hats,
and gloves
which had
been donned
at dawn as
protection
against the
32 degree
wind-chill
were being
peeled off,
racing shoes
were being
laced-up,
and
the air was thick with the whiff of sunscreen and vaseline. The
temperature was now close to 60 degrees and it was hot and sunny! I
changed my
mind again
and hastily
pinned my
race number
on my lucky
singlet before
making for
the bushes
for the 10th
time and
joining the
wave of runners
now leaving
the Athletes'
Village and
heading for
the
start.
Nerve endings
were now
beginning
to jangle
and it helped
greatly to
see a familiar
face in the
crowd of
runners converging
on the start
- one
Walter Linsenmaier. Walter was good enough to show me where to drop
off my clothes
bag and to
point me
in the direction
of the third
coral
where I was seeded to start the race. I showed my number to the
policeman assigned to keep bandits, those with even lower numbers than
myself, and
other riffraff
out of the
third coral
and was allowed
in.
11:45 am and the tension is close to fever pitch. The wheelchair race
starts and
I tie my
shoelaces
for the eighth
time in the
last 10 minutes.
Then I make
an effort
to concentrate.
I shut my
eyes and
think to
myself,"For goodness sake stick to the plan. Remember, run the first half
conservatively, between 7:05 and 7:15 per mile all the way, hang on in the
hills between 16 and 21 miles, and then give it a go in the last 5 miles."The man with the microphone begins the count down. "Thirty
seconds to go before the last Boston Marathon of the century," he yells.
Then silence. Then - - BANG!! The gun goes off, the crowd and the
runners let out a mighty roar, and . . . I go absolutely nowhere!! In fact, I
end up walking to the start line where I am deafened by the squealing of
activated chips passing over the start mat and barely remember to start
my watch. Still, within a minute I am jogging and then running the first
mile which is, just as advertised, steeply downhill. The main priority at
this stage is not to trip over other runners as we are packed in the narrow
country road like sardines. Can't believe how big and how enthusiastic
the crowd is. "OK," I think, "first mile marker coming up - 7:52.
Blast,
already behind." Slight panic sets in and I go completely brain dead and
run a 6:32 second mile. "Whoa," I think at the beginning of the third
mile, "way too fast." I slow down a little but still run 6:42, 6:39,
and 6:54
for miles 3, 4, and 5. I change my frame of mind. "This is easy," I
think,"I can keep this up all day. Could be looking at a sub-3 hour time here."Fatally, I also run miles 6 (6:51), 7 (6:49), 8 (6:55), 9 (6:57), and 10 (7:03)
too
fast. By mile 10 it's getting much warmer (70 degrees) and I make a point
of slowing down at the water stations so that I actually drink the water
on offer rather than launching half of it up my nose and spilling the rest
on my singlet. "Still feeling easy," I think to myself and plough on
running the relatively flat 11th and 12th miles in 7:09 and 7:02,
respectively. Mile 13 is a little special as the girls from Wellesley College
go nuts as predicted. The old chest goes out and I put on a little spurt
as I go past and clock 7:03 for the mile. I go through the halfway mark at
1:31:40 and think, "Still feeling great" but notice that others around
me
are beginning to tire and struggle. I run 7:08 and 7:19 for the flatish 14th
and 15th miles trying to gather myself for the hills to come. At this stage
I readjust my goal time to around 3 hours. The first hill at 16 miles is fine
and I run 7:11. However, the damage has already been done and during
the next five miles I begin to unravel. I go through mile 17 in 7:37 and
hurt badly for the first time in mile 18 (7:55). "Still," I tell myself, "all
you
have to do is guts it out for the next 3 miles and it's all downhill from
there. Plenty of time to recover and cruise in for glory in around 3:07 and
run a PR." I do indeed recover somewhat during mile 19 (7:36) but then
run 7:56 for the 20th mile which I go through in 2:23:20. "Ok, " I
think, "I
should be able to manage a 50-minute 10k from here and can still run a
respectable 3:13." This proves to be yet another gross miscalculation as
I hadn't realised that there was still one more hill - the infamous
heartbreak - to come. "Odd that someone can do the necessary
arithmetic to figure out his pace per mile during the race but can't count
to four [i.e., the number of big hills on the course]," I think to myself
wryly as I see heartbreak looming large in front of me. I run mile 21 in
8:45 and it knocks the stuffing out of me. My new goal is now just to
finish without walking. Mile 22 (9:02) is agony as first my left hamstring
and then my right calf cramp badly. During mile 23 (8:04) I figure out a
way to shuffle so that I can keep "running." However, during mile 24
(11:49) my right hamstring and my left quad also cramp and I am forced to
walk. New goal - "Just finish!" I am forced to walk most of mile 25
(12:53) and try to stretch at the side of the road. As if the pain is not
depressing enough, runners looking much fresher than me are streaming
by. Among their number are a jester, a giraffe, and a Viking! (Based on
my overall pace at mile 20 and my finishing time, I later calculate that
approximately 2,000 runners went passed me in the last 10k!!!) By now
the crowds are huge and plenty of people urge me on to the finish. One
particularly loud fellow brandishing a beer yells, "Come on number 3902
you look great, you're nearly there." I give him the "Oh really!" look
and
he smiles and says, "OK, so I lied." Still, this little exchange gives
me
something of a boost and I begin running again. Somehow I make it to
the last turn and spy the finish line in the distance. The crowd is
deafening now and I even put on what feels like a spurt to the finish line.
That last 1.2 miles, covered in 13:07, is one of the most painful yet
strangely satisfying experiences of my running life. I make it in 3:26:59."Never again," I think as I limp to the drinks station and have one
of those
surprisingly effective foil capes wrapped around me. "Never again," I
think as
I move on to the chip and medal exchanging area where, feeling a little dizzy,
I lie down at the side of the road for 20 minutes. "Never again," I
think as I
collect my clothes and shuffle back to the hotel.
Once back
in my room,
I collapse
on my bed
and watch
the rest
of the race
on the telly.
I learn that
a bunch of
notable runners
dropped out
of the race
with cramps,
including
Bill Rodgers
and Moses
Tunui, and
that this
is one of
the worst
Bostons for
heat-related
problems.
I begin
to feel better. Maybe I didn't do so badly after all! After a two-hour
soak in the
bath and
much calculating,
analysing,
and cursing
I feel even
better. "Perhaps I'll have a go at Chicago in October," I think, "and
then
come back and do this one properly next year!!" |