Diary
of a Second-Time Boston
Runner
By
Matthew Curtner-Smith
Saturday
April 15th
Arrived
at Boston's
Logan International
Airport
at around
2:50
pm--
the
same time
as most
of the other
18,000 runners
for the
2000
marathon
as
far as I
could tell. Spent a good two hours waiting for the shuttle
to
get to the Marriott in Cambridge some two miles from downtown Boston.
Wiled away the majority of this time comparing notes with a rather
rotund Englishman who had lived in Dallas for the last 17 years and had
the most bizarre accent--a combination of John Lennon and George W.
Bush with a dash of Elvis I speculated. "Hope I don't sound anything
like that," I worried as I finally boarded the shuttle.
The shuttle
driver was
obviously
a close relative
of the fellow
who
had driven
me along
the same
route the
previous
year--"Cliff
Clavern" accent, an assumption that all his passengers were deaf, and no
driving
qualifications
whatsoever. "Are you from Australia?" he
asked
confidently as I paid my fare. I smiled a fake smile and with a fake
politeness replied, "No mate, I'm English." Thought to myself, "If
I had a
penny for every time I've been asked that question in the last 12 years . .
. ." "All here for our marathon then?" the shuttle driver
bellowed rather
obviously just before take-off. Like his cousin, he spent most of the
journey with one hand on the horn and unleashing a torrent of ribald but
rather humorous abuse at any other driver or pedestrian who dared to
cross his path. "Must be part of the training," I thought. Most
of these
gems couldn't be repeated in polite company. From the short list of
cleaner one-liners, however, I took particular pleasure in the "must be
from Mississippi" comment levelled at a dallying tourist.
Arrived at the hotel and, after a spectacular "splashdown,"
deposited
my bags
and donned
my "official Boston Marathon jacket"
before
taking a
taxi to the
Convention
Centre in
order to
pick up my
race
packet
and visit
the expo. Having spent a suspiciously long time in the
taxi,
seen several
of the sights
at least
twice, and
been asked
if I was
from
New
Zealand,
I paid the "geographically challenged" cab driver what
came
out to be
$10 a mile
and scurried
into race
headquarters.
"Same zoo as last year," I thought as I lined up to collect my
race number, computer chip, and t-shirt. Spent the next hour and a half
fighting the crowds and wandering up and down the rows of expo
booths. Decided that I had no chance of winning the "Who Can Wear
the Most Garments with 'the Boston Marathon' On Them" competition.
Consumed vast amounts of free gels, protein bars, and energy drinks,
and scoffed down a couple of those new fruit-cottage cheese
combinations which I highly recommend. Had my gait analyzed,
sampled a "revolutionary" foot massager, tried on 15 pairs of running
shoes, and chatted with the rep for the Dublin marathon for half an hour
without understanding a word he said. Escaped from the expo, munched
on a grilled chicken salad in the adjoining mall, and sucked down my 10th
bottled water of the day.
Took the
train back
to the hotel
and was annoyed
to find out
that
it was only
85 cents
one way. Hopped back on the train and for
another
85 cents
visited MIT
and Harvard. Explored each for about half
and
hour and
felt much
smarter. Decided that some of the students I
teach
who clearly
believe that
merely setting
foot on a
university
campus
produces
results might
be on to
something
after all!
Returned
to the hotel
to find
that the
other
two members
of the
Tuscaloosa
Track Club
I was staying
with had
arrived. Kypros Nicolaou,
a
gifted Greek
Cypriot,
had had
a pretty
straightforward
trip from
Birmingham
while Francois
Jolly had
not had
the same
good
fortune
while
travelling
from Paris. His flight had been delayed and his luggage
had
been left
on the runway
in London! Spent the evening chatting idly
about
old times
and turned
in at around
10:00 pm. Worried that I was a
little
stiff and
ended up
stretching
for half
an hour
in the bathroom.
Returned
to bed at
11:30 pm
and didn't
sleep a
wink!
Sunday
April 16th
Rose
at 8:00
am. Worried that my pulse rate was a couple of
beats
higher
than
normal
and
consumed
a couple
of oranges
and an
echinacea
tablet
just
in case
I was coming
down with
a cold. Nibbled on
a
couple
of
bagels
and
a banana
and inhaled
my first
bottle
of
gatorade
of
the day. Scurried off to the expo with Kypros and Francois for a
couple
of hours
where
the
crowds
were
now even
larger. Scouted out
the
finish
line
and grandstand
on Bolyston
street
and
located
Tremont
Street
where
we
were to
catch
the
bus to
the race
start
in
Hopkinton
on
the
morrow. Chatted to a mounted policeman near Boston Common for a
couple
of minutes
who asked
me if
I
was from "Scotland, England!"
Posed
for some
photos
at
the finish
line with
Kypros
and
Francois
just in
case
I didn't
make it
that far
during
the race! Tucked into some pasta
for
lunch at the mall before heading back to the hotel.
Spent the
afternoon
with my feet
up watching
Ben Hurr
on the
telly,
eating bagels,
drinking
gatorade,
and chatting
with Francois,
Kypros,
and Cindy
Harris, our
track club
president,
who had arrived
from
Tuscaloosa
with her
husband Carl. Consumed my pre-race meal (small
pizza
with pineapple
and no cheese)
around 5:30
pm then worried
that I
might
have brought
bad luck
on myself
by ordering
from Pizza
Hut when
I
usually went
with Dominos.
Stretched
in the evening,
drank several
more gallons
of water,
half
watched
the Hunt
for
Red October
on the telly,
and went
for a 10-
minute
nervous
walk in the
hotel
lobby. Bumped into another competitor
also
out of his
cell for
a nervous
walk who
asked me
if I was
from
"Wales, Europe!" Spent an hour going through my 40-item pre-race
checklist which included the advice "tie shoelaces!" Packed
my race
gear and secured the computer chip to my left shoe. Unpacked my race
gear and tried it on just in case it didn't fit. Topped-up with gatorade
and
water and then turned in around 10:00 pm. Again, didn't sleep a wink
and felt like the amount of ground I covered during the night while
walking from my bed to the bathroom was probably close to marathon
distance. Remembered that a friend had embarrassed me greatly during
the week by relating how a British psychologist interviewed on Good
Morning America had suggested that the best way to relax the night
before a marathon was to have sex. "Not an option for me," I
thought, as
my wife was tucked up in Tuscaloosa and the only alternative was a
hairy Frenchman!!!
Monday
April 17th
- Race Day!!
Rose
at 6:00
am. Showered, stretched, dressed, scoffed down a
cliff
bar, and
chatted
nervously
with Francois
whose luggage
had arrived
from
London in
the nick-of-time. Went through my pre-race checklist
again
and watched
the weather
forecast. "Between 40 and 55 degrees
and
ideal conditions
for running," said the reporter standing at the start
line. "Liar," I scoffed dismissively. "You said that
last year and I nearly
died of heatstroke."
Caught
the train
to Tremont
Street with
Francois
and exchanged
numerous
nervous glances,
smiles, and
nods with
others who
were
embarking
on the same
journey and
those locals
who were
on the way
to
the
office but
had obviously
witnessed
this strange
yearly ritual
many
times
before. Sat with three 30-something women and two 20-something
men
on the 45-minute
bus ride
to the start. Exchanged the usual "Where
are
you from?" Where did you qualify?" "What time are you hoping
to
run today?" and "I haven't really trained for this one" pleasantries
then
wondered why it was that nobody ever trained properly for what is
supposed to be the most prestigious and difficult major marathon in the
world. Was reminded for the umpteenth time that this was Patriots' Day,
the day New Englanders celebrated the beginning of "when we started
kicking you Brits' a----" and for the umpteenth time resisted pointing out
that during the first battle of the War of Independence it was not British
a---- that were kicked.
Arrived
at the "Athletes' Village" at around 8:30 am. The village
was
situated
on the Hopkinton
High School
field and
consisted
of two
large
tents, a
stage, a
well-stocked
bagel and
water stand,
and an even
longer
line of portable
toilets than
I had witnessed
the preceding
year.
Francois
and I quickly
secured base
camp in one
of the tents
which were
filling
up at an
alarming
rate as runners
attempted
to escape
the 30-
degree
temperatures
and gusting
winds. Kypros, still operating on
Cypriot
time, arrived
half an hour
later! By now the tents were so full
that
the scene
resembled
one of those
wildlife
documentaries
that Sir
David
Attenborough
narrates
in which
birds or
walruses
who inhabit
an
overcrowded
rock in the
middle of
an inhospitable
ocean desperately
fight
to defend
their territory.
Spent
the next
two hours
sitting
on my trashbag,
waving at
the
telly
cameras,
consuming
more bottled
water and
bagels,
standing
in the
portolet
line, and
chatting
with my
friends and
other
runners
around us.
Went
for a nervous
stroll around
10:30 am
and among
the more
conventional
runners
spotted Marilyn
Monroe,
several
clowns, two
Harlem
Globetrotters,
at least
four men
dressed
in drag,
and
a black
and
white
pantomime
cow with
enormous
udders. "How can they run 26.2
miles
wearing
all that? " I wondered.
At
around 11:00
am the portolet
lines suddenly
grew much
longer
and the
number
of male
competitors
jumping
in
some nearby
bushes
increased
considerably. The village was rising! Layers of
sweats,
hats, and
gloves,
were being
peeled
off, racing
shoes were
being
laced-up,
and sensitive
parts of
the anatomy
were being
covered
with
band
aids or
slathered
with vaseline. "Should I wear a singlet, short-
sleeved
shirt,
or
long-sleeved
shirt?" I debated in a panic. "Don't
want
to get cold and have to drop out. On the other hand, hate running when
it's too hot." Looked at the competitors around me to see what they
had
decided to wear but that was no help at all. Some mad fools had chosen
to go topless while others were obviously sticking with the wildlife
documentary theme and were dressed to run in the Antarctic. Decided to
go with the short-sleeved shirt, singlet, and gloves, wiped my vaseline
covered hands on my long-sleeved shirt, and joined the waves of
runners heading out of the village and towards the start. Just before I
handed in my warm-up bag a huge gust of freezing wind provoked
second-thoughts for the fourth time and I switched back to my long-
sleeved shirt!
Took 15
minutes to
fight my
way through
the huge
crowds of
competitors
and entered
the second
coral where
I was seeded
to start
the
race. Found myself humming "God Save the Queen" while the national
anthem
played. After all, it was Patriots' Day. As the wheelchair
division
was sent on its way and the announcer proclaimed that there were "ten
minutes until the start of the first Boston Marathon of the new
millennium" I took time to study the two or three hundred individuals
who apparently would run this race in a similar time to me. In one group
were the "grizzled veterans"--gnarled, exceedingly fit-looking, weather-
beaten, bearded men dressed in drab colours and wearing grey heavy
training shoes. For the most part these men, who looked liked they had
run every one of the previous 103 Boston marathons, stared straight
ahead in confident silence seemingly oblivious to the hubbub going on
around them. Occasionally their concentration would break as they
reached for a cup or bottle and, without a care in the world, urinated into
it in full view of fellow competitors and spectators. Needless to say,
I
was awfully impressed. In the other group were the "young punks"--
kids in their late teens and early 20s with silly haircuts, peroxide streaks,
and multiple piercings wearing featherweight racing flats, skimpy running
shorts, and fluorescent green singlets and carrying on conversations at a
hundred miles an hour. "Which group do I belong to?" I wondered
as I
tried unsuccessfully to urinate into a cup.
"Thirty seconds to go to the start," yelled the announcer and
the
competitors
and vast
crowd started
cheering. I closed my eyes and
as
I had done
a year earlier
went through
my goals. "For goodness
sake
this year follow the plan," I thought. Keep it between 6:25 and 6:45
per
mile depending on the strength of the headwind. Run the first 15 miles
conservatively and then hang on in the hills between 16 and 21 before
cruising in for glory in the last 5 miles. First goal is to run sub-2 hours
50, second is to run sub-3 hours, and, if the headwind is as bad as they
say it is and the temperature gets too low, the third is to beat that
pantomime cow!"
"Bang!" The gun goes off, the runners and spectators let out a
mighty
roar and . . . I go absolutely nowhere!! I end up walking
to the
start line where the noise of freshly activated timing chips is deafening.
Still, within a minute I am jogging and then running the incredibly
congested first mile. My priority at this point is not to trip and end
up
like one of those cowboys who falls off his horse during a stampede in a
John Wayne western. At this stage I notice that the grizzled veterans are
taking it very easy while many of the young punks appear to be in a
competition to see who can high-five the most spectators. "OK," I
think,
"here comes the first mile marker." I glance at my watch and
. . . disaster--
I had forgotten to start it! "I don't believe it!" I mutter under
my breath
as I start my watch to time the last 25.2 miles of the race. The second
(6:45), third (6:52) and fourth (6:33) miles go more smoothly and feel easy.
"No worries," I think. During the fifth mile (6:37) I notice
many of the
young punks cockily weaving in and out of groups of grizzled veterans
while during the sixth mile (6:31), I finally manage to get close to the aid
station but then pick up an empty cup! The downhill seventh mile (6:27)
feels very easy and I even find time to smile at the young woman in the
crowd who shouts, "Number 2,116 will you marry me?" During mile
eight
(6:35) I am brought down to earth by a particularly grizzled veteran
running near me who suggests that the young lady who proposed may
have had faulty vision! Mile nine (6:31) also flies by and I am having
such a good time that I nearly forget to take my first gel during mile ten
(6:39). "Feeling great," I think to myself. "Just
don't get too excited."
Unfortunately, during the flattish eleventh (6:46) and twelfth (6:34) miles
the headwind picks up to what I later learn is around 20 miles per hour
and I quickly find a large body behind which I can draft. Although, I
manage to keep up a reasonable pace, running is now much more like
hard work and I take care to drink at each aid station. "Glad I wore
my
long sleeved-shirt," I think as I pass a young punk who is obviously
suffering from the wind-chill! During mile thirteen (6:38) I am deafened
by the screaming hoards of girls that attend Wellesley College and
notice that quite a few young punks stop to take advantage of several of
the more daring young ladies offering to kiss weary runners. "Wonder
whether that psychologist fellow thinks that helps?" I ask myself. I
go
through the halfway point in 1:27:39 and then try to relax during miles
fourteen (6:46) and fifteen (6:52) in an attempt to gather myself for the big
hills ahead. I am also very aware that this is the point at which I began
to
collapse during last year's race. The strategy appears to work and I run
the sixteenth (6:31), seventeenth (7:10), eighteenth (6:23), nineteenth
(6:35), and twentieth (6:43) miles strongly and in reasonable time while
others around me are beginning to slow down and struggle. Indeed, I
see a small gaggle of totally spent young punks littering the side of the
road at mile nineteen waiting to be rescued by the first aid bus. "Not
quite so chirpy now are they?" says a nearby grizzled veteran. The
twenty-first mile (6:59) which includes the infamous Heartbreak Hill is the
big one for me. I've had nightmares about it for the last twelve months!
"Just got to get up this bloody hill and I'm almost there," I think.
Heartbreak is long and steep but with the help of the massive and very
genuine crowds who yell all kinds of encouragement I make it to the top.
At the crest of the hill is a fellow cooking sausages and serving cold beer
to his friends and family. "Now he really should be locked up on the
grounds that his activities constitute cruel and unusual punishment," I
think to myself. Still, I smile and mouth a "no thanks" as he
offers me a
hot dog and a cold one. The twenty-second mile (7:03) is steeply
downhill which you would think would be an advantage. Unfortunately
this is not the case and for the first time I have some serious doubts
about finishing as my quads start to scream. Worse still, at the marker
for the twenty-third mile (6:53), I feel the first big twinge in my right
hamstring. "Oh no," I think, "not again," as repressed
memories of last
year's final miles come flooding into my mind. During the twenty-fourth
mile (7:01) the headwind feels much stronger and I think I recognise the
place where I had been overtaken by a Viking the year before. I glance
nervously over my shoulder but there is no sign of the pantomime cow!
"Come on!" I say out loud to myself, "have some confidence and
finish
the job!" During mile twenty-five (7:22) I know that I am beginning
to go.
Following every stride my right hamstring cramps. I haven't exactly "hit
the wall" but I am definitely tunnelling through it! I shudder as
I see
more and more runners doing their best impressions of the Tin Man. If
you were an alien watching the race at this stage you might be fooled
into believing that the rules required competitors to walk very stiffly
clutching the back of one leg. During mile twenty-six (7:33) I feel like
a
zombie. I am running on guts alone now. No speed, no form, no eye
contact with members of the crowd, no thoughts. My head is empty and
my eyes are staring. The ratio of runners to tin men is now nearly two
to
one. Worse, I spot several who have switched characters and are now
impersonating the Cowardly Lion--not that there is anything cowardly
about trying to crawl the last half a mile on all fours! A hard right
and a
hard left and I see the finish line and the grandstand--maybe only 600
metres away. The crowds are enormous and deafening. Although I hurt
badly I feel a genuine smile break across my face as I cover the last two
tenths of a mile punching the air. I've made it in 2:58:15 and considering
the conditions feel well satisfied.
I limp
through the
drinks station
and chip
and medal
exchanging
area
then collect
my warm-up
bag before
lining up
for a post-race
massage. I spot a very tired but contented Kypros (3:12:45) a few
minutes
later and
we swap war
stories while
the fellow
in front
of us is
carted
off to the
medical tent
suffering
from hypothermia
and the fellow
behind
vomits into
a rubbish
bin. The wait for the massage is around 20
minutes
but well
worth it. "Now what hurts in particular," says
the
smiling young masseuse. "Everything," I answer unhelpfully. Not
put
off, she goes to work and I find myself drifting off to sleep. "This
is so
relaxing," I think, "It's almost the best part of the whole experience.
Forty-
five minutes later and the masseuse is finished. I feel as if 90% of my
pain has gone! She shakes my hand as I thank her profusely and then,
as I turn to leave, she says, "Hey, you're from South Africa aren't you?"
Matthew Curtner-Smith, Ed.D.,
Associate
Professor of Human
Performance Studies,
The
University
of Alabama
Office
(205)
348-9209
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