Here's the race report that I sent to my Dana-Farber donors. Pretty self-indulgent but I hope it gives you a sense of the race, which I absolutely loved.
And pv21feet - kudos to the medical staff. They were great.
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Well, I did it, more or less. On Monday I ran the Boston Marathon.
I woke early Monday morning, about 5:00 am. It is sometimes hard to sleep the night of a big race – the anticipation and excitement can be a bit much as I contemplate fuel plan and race strategy. So I started eating early, taking on as much fuel as possible for the long trek from Hopkinton to Boston. Bananas, sweet potatoes, mangoes, grapefruit, orange juice, beets, potato chips, Gatorade, coffee – probably sucked down about 2,000 calories by 9:30. I was determined not to run out of gas today like last year. Hopped on one of the approximately 20 million school buses shuttling runners out to Hopkinton at about 7:00 am. The scene in downtown Boston must be unique – 28,000 people, all decked out in running gear, excited, nervous, happy, all in line in the Boston Common, all ready to ... get on a school bus for an hour and a half to get to the starting line. But it is a wonderful atmosphere, a great equalizer as scrubs and slowpokes like myself mix with elite runners who will finish before I get to Newton. I swear they must recruit every school bus in Massachusetts for this project.
Hop on the bus with my inspiration for both joining Dana-Farber and for running marathons, my brother-in-law Matt (running his 20th Boston Marathon on Monday) and sister-in-law Heather (her 10th Boston), and we spend the ride talking about the race. We get to Hopkinton in good time, and get through the zoo that is the runners’ village, the local high school playing fields, a mash-up of porta-potties by the score, sponsor tents galore, and a sea of runners just kind of hanging out, going through their personal pre-race rituals, getting ready to run. As Dana-Farber runners, we had a building to ourselves, so we spent the next hour or so continuing the fueling, stretching, taking photos, and generally getting ready.
By 10:20 the three of us head for the start, watching the second start wave pass us by. By 10:30 we are in our start corral, a small knot of runners in a mass of almost 10,000. Everyone is excited, everyone is ready, everyone wants to be there. And unlike last year, I am ready, I am trained, and I have a fuel plan and a race strategy. The gun goes off at 10:40 and we slowly make our way to the start, taking about three minutes to cross the line, and my race is on as I start my Garmin.
The initial miles of the Boston Marathon are gravy, pure excitement and fun. The streets of Hopkinton are packed with virtually all of its several thousand residents, and the two-lane street is absolutely packed to the gills with runners. No way to pick up the pace in the first mile or so – it’s just too crowded. But the tableau is amazing as you run through the light rolling hills, a flowing ribbon of bobbing heads in front, stretching out endlessly ahead of you. Runners peel off to the side to relieve themselves of excess clothing and excess fluid. The street is littered with hats and gloves, the roadside piled with sweatpants, jackets, fleeces and various athletic detritus (all collected and donated to charity).
My goal was to break four hours. Last year was a tough race, as injury prevented me from a full-blown training program. But I had surgery last fall to correct the problem (a torn right hip labrum) and was able to get in about 90% of my training program, with some little niggling injuries holding me back a bit. But I had a solid taper and a really good fuel plan, my legs felt great and I was pretty confident that I could make it. It meant nine minute miles the whole way, and I believed that I could do it. I had run a 1:45 half-marathon in Hyannis in late February, had some really good long training runs leading up to this day, and was determined to break the four-hour barrier. Not fast by any means, but it would represent an improvement over last year of more than an hour and ten minutes, and that would be significant.
So I set off with a good pace, knocking off mile one in about 9:30, right on target, as I need a while to warm up. Crossing the one-mile mark, I picked up the pace, knowing that I would need to average about 8:50-8:55 the rest of the way to compensate for those extra 30 seconds. And the next twenty miles were just beautiful. It is hard to describe how it feels, but when you hit your stride in a really long run, when you find your pace and your stroke, you can just run and run and run like you’re never going to stop, like you never want to stop. I had worked really hard on my fitness and my technique, and I found my “I-can-run-all-day-at-this-pace” pace, and it was something else. At one point a runner next to me commented on how smooth my gait and how light my foot strike seemed – it was a really nice compliment and buoyed me for a while, knowing that my training was really paying off in terms of efficiency.
The miles began to flow by. Checking my Garmin regularly, I could see my pace – around 8:55 per mile, every mile. Passing through Hopkinton, Ashland, Framingham, Natick, the course is mostly downhill, but I had trained for this so I was ready. Tremendous crowds yelling their support the entire way, from drunk bikers in Ashland to families in Framingham, the spectators are a huge part of the race.
A marathon is so long that for most people there is a point at which, I imagine, most runners wonder how on earth they are going to make it to the end. Despite the training, despite the belief, it’s just so much work that sometime in just about every amateur’s race, you just kind of wonder, “what the hell am I doing and how the hell am I going to get through this?” And it’s not so much self-doubt or worry as it is a genuine sense of wonder about how the body and mind are going to get through it. I hit that point probably around the halfway point in Wellesley. It’s like I knew I could do it, but I wasn’t 100% sure how. So I just kept running, which I suppose is the key.
I crossed the halfway point in 1:58, hard up against my goal. I would need to run pretty much exactly the same second half to have a chance of coming in under 4:00. And now the easy part, the gently rolling part, was over. The steep stuff, both up and down, was coming up. But I was feeling great, fuel plan working perfectly, no lactate in the legs, very strong and consistent miles. By sixteen, where I began to run into difficulty last year as the downhill pounding began to suck the life out of my legs, I was still feeling it, putting up consistent sub-nine-minute miles according to my computer. Around seventeen I slowed down for hugs and kisses from my family, pausing briefly as they screamed in support. But there was no real stopping – I was on target for my goal and needed every second.
Around this time is when I think most runners make or break their race – the Newton Hills. And it’s not so much that the hills are particularly difficult in and of themselves. It’s more a case of where they are in the race. Even if you’ve had a good race up to this point, the three big climbs in Newton culminating in Heartbreak Hill at mile 21 can just wipe your legs out without warning, and when you lose it, you lose it fast. As your glycogen levels deplete up the hills, the muscles just stop working – the dreaded “wall” or “bonk”. And for the average to below-average marathon runner (of which I am one), that point comes sooner or later. You just have to have a plan for dealing with it. You make a deal with yourself: suck down as much fuel as you can and no matter what happens, run through that wall and promise yourself it’ll be worth it at the end when you cross the finish line.
One of the things I did this year to help me get through that wall was to dedicate the race to someone. Running for Dana-Farber helped me put things in perspective. While I have selfish personal goals in running a marathon, I also understand that it’s just running. Three people in my life have or had infinitely tougher fights, and I dedicated this effort to my dad, my aunt Liz, and my father-in-law Don. Dad and Liz are currently in the fight against cancer; Don we lost to the disease in 2008. So I wear three wristbands with the inscription “I’m running for” and their names written on them. So I am running Monday for my dad. I am running for Aunt Liz. I am running to honor the memory of Don. And I am running to raise money so their fight will not be waged alone, so that they and future generations can win this fight. So every time I approach the wall, every time I think my legs are going to give up, every time I think I am having a difficult day, I look at my right wrist and see those three wristbands: I am running for Dad. I am running for Liz. I am running for Don. My day is easy. I can do this.
And I could. Make it up and through the Newton Hills in great shape. Starting to hurt, starting to cramp up a bit, but the legs just keep going, mile after mile, within the four-hour goal but not much time to spare. Up and over Heartbreak, into Brookline where the growing crowd cheers us on. Sucking down fuel every fifteen minutes, I make it to mile 23, where the legs packed it in last year and I had to walk most of the rest of the way. Legs starting to cramp more severely now, but I was prepared for this and know how to run through it. Starting to slow down, but have built enough time into the race to have a bit in reserve and still make four hours. By 24 I am starting to hurt a lot, but it’s pretty much all downhill from here. I can do two miles on willpower alone. At 25 I’m starting to drag a bit but then I pass the Dana-Farber patient-partner cheering section and the hoops and hollers from the crowd push me forward as I wave at them and they yell me on.
Past mile 25 now, about a 9:30 pace. Garmin says about 3:49. All I need is about a ten-minute mile pace and I’ll be right up against the four hours. I can do this. Pass the one-mile-to-go marker, about ten minutes to go. I can do this. Start down the little incline on Comm Ave that leads to the right turn at Hereford. Starting to cramp up now, but not far to go.
And then, out of nowhere, another runner, like me trying for a time, exhausted, running out of gas, just trying to push through, cuts in front of me to get position. In my depleted state, I try to get out of the way. Just a running incident. Happens all the time in a crowded road race. But as I move, I stub my left toe. Compensating, I stumble. My right foot kicks straight into the ground at full force, toes extended (imagine kicking a brick wall with your bare foot as hard as you can). This triggers massive muscle spasms in my right leg. But I’ve had this before – I know how to run through cramps, so I keep going. Less than a mile to go. I can do this. And then, within five steps, it feels like someone has split my right foot open with an axe. The force of the blow against the pavement has severely sprained my right foot. The pain is absolutely excruciating. My gait falters – I can’t put any weight on my forefoot. But I don’t really have shoes on (VFFs) so I can’t land on my heel or it will destroy my knees and hips. Oh crap, what am I going to do now? So I kind of instinctively look at my wrist – Dad, Liz, and Don. I can do this.
A few more steps and the pain gets worse. My right foot is now pretty much useless. But there’s probably only three-quarters of a mile to go. I can do this on my hands and knees if I have to. Garmin says 3:55. Can I do this? I start swinging my remaining limbs wildly, trying to generate forward momentum any way I can. I probably look like Quasimodo, hopping forward, arms swinging, right leg kind of flopping as I put as little weight as possible on it. The only things that propel me forward are the bands on my right wrist and the screaming crowds on Comm Ave, Hereford, and Boylston. Runners flow by me offering pats on the back and encouragement. “Great job, buddy!” “You got this, man, keep going!” “You’re almost there, don’t stop!”
Turn onto Boylston. I can see the finish now, the yellow and blue arch at Copley that is the end of the line. I’ll make it. It’ll hurt, but I’ll make it. Flopping forward, I must look like one of those people featured in blooper videos of runners struggling to make it to the finish. Garmin says 3:58. I’m not going to make it in time. I’m going at a 10:30 pace now. Not enough time left. But I won’t stop running. One of my goals was not to get injured, but I guess I won’t make that goal now. At least I can make another one: last year I stopped running, and that was a bit of a disappointment. This year, I won’t stop running. I am going to RUN the entire Boston Marathon this year because I am running for a cause, for someone else, and I told myself that I would RUN it for them. No matter what. This has become meaningful for me. So I hobble forward. 3:59 passes. Then 4:00. The line looms ever closer, but I guess 3:59 will have to wait for another year.
4:01. There’s the line. Made it. Barely.
And there’s the medical staff waiting just on the other side. As I hit the line with my good leg, I take one step over it, and I am done. I can’t take another step. My right foot feels like it has exploded and my right leg is one massive muscle spasm. The medical staff helps me to the medical tent. My body feels great – I was ready for this and apart from the right leg, I could walk on out of there and maybe go a few more miles. But my right leg is done for a while. But I did it. I ran the Boston Marathon. The whole way.
So that’s it. That’s my story this year. I had a great race, a great time, executed my training and racing plan exactly as I had mapped it out. All except that last mile or so, but then you can’t really plan for everything. As the old saying goes: no battle plan survives contact with the enemy. The right foot is sprained pretty badly, so I’ll stay off it for a week or so and be back on the road soon (x-rays were, thank goodness, negative). I would have gone under four if not for the incident, so I am very pleased with how everything went. And in the end, four is just a number. I ran more than an hour and ten minutes faster than last year. I devised and executed a training, fueling, and race plan that worked exactly how I wanted it to. I enjoyed myself. I reached my goals. Most importantly, I raised over $5,000 for the Dana-Farber Marathon Challenge. I ran for my dad, for Liz, and for Don. I hope that I inspired them to keep fighting and maybe others to do the same.
My donor support was incredible. They made this possible and their support will make a difference in cancer patients’ lives and treatment. I got to choose my battle in running a marathon. But for all of us there are loved ones who do not get to choose their battles. I guess this is one way that we can help them fight and win the toughest battles of all.