“You just beat Heartbreak Hill!”
The woman holding the sign was cheering like mad, a huge
smile on her face despite the cold and the rain. My shoes squeaked with wet as
I neared her and the slightly wilted posterboard. I was walking by then, and
had been for a while, speeding up to a jog when I felt particularly inspired by
the unending crowd. I couldn’t understand what she was saying from a distance,
but I focused on the sign and realized that I was standing on top of one of the
most famous hills in international racing.
And the sign started to get blurry.
As the year draws to a close, I begin to think about 2016
and all the incredible things I’m going to do during the next 12 months that
are going to revolutionize my life and change the world. Though I once (on this
blog, I believe) downplayed the idea of New Year’s resolutions in general, 2015
has been a metaphorical kick in the everything, and I’ve never sought the fresh
start and “new me” ideals of the season more than right now. I’m excited. I’m
motivated, and for once, I’m not starting from scratch.
For me, looking ahead necessitates looking back as well. You
have to see where you’ve come from before you can decide where to go next.
Otherwise, you make the same (bad) choices again and again. And while this year
has had some very dark moments, there was light as well. I’ve hit some of my
lowest lows, but also a couple of the highest highs, including the top of
Heartbreak Hill.
It has been brought to my attention that I never wrote about
Boston, so this seemed like the right time. Quick recap: in the early hours of
February 1, I entered the hospital with a strangulated hernia. By Tuesday the 3rd,
everything had gone sideways, and I had to have more extensive surgery that
necessitated a full two weeks in the hospital and a long, slow recovery. At the
time of my admission, I was nearing the end of the Austin Distance Challenge
and was in moderately good running shape. Not great, by any means, but good
enough to get across a finish line, with Boston on the horizon.
Naturally, my training took a hit. My next run was March 3,
a whopping 1.42 miles. Then 1.83 on the 15th and 1.72 on the 30th. Not a single
mile in February, and less than 5 in March. There may have been a treadmill run
in there as well, but that spreadsheet is currently on a dead hard drive, so we’ll
use the Map My Run stats I’ve got to work with.
I managed just three runs in April before the marathon on April
20, topping out at 5.36 miles and a training total of fewer than 20. Most
running experts will tell you that it’s better to undertrain than overtrain,
but I don’t think that’s what they mean. I had long since decided that I would
be going to Boston. My incredible sister decided to make the trip as well and
picked up the hotel and rental car costs, and the plane tickets were bought.
The only question was whether I’d actually run. I told everyone that I’d wake
up on race day and see how I felt, and make the call then. In truth, I was always
going to run. I was always going to try.
The Expo was huge and amazing. The crowds were electric. I
wanted to see and do everything, but I also knew that I had to be careful with
every step, so everything went down to Monday morning. I woke up and sat up in
bed without pain. The race was on.
Dressing, fueling, train, bus ride, all standard. Athletes
must now get to Hopkinton incredibly early, which I suppose I don’t mind,
except that it was cold and rainy. I forget the exact temperature, but I think
it was low 40s with rain. I found a spot under a tent on a tarp and hunkered
down, wrapping myself up in mylar. I dozed and tried my best to stay out of
everyone else’s way, and eventually, they started calling us to the line. I was
in the first starting corral, where I had no business being on that day. Still,
I earned that spot, and I wanted to start there. The start line was rife with
the usual joking and camaraderie that accompanies most social marathons.
Honestly, it’s all a blur, and suddenly, 75 days after fairly major surgery, I
was running.
The rain had stopped, mercifully, but the wind was still
there, and it was in our face the whole way. If you don’t know Boston, you
basically run East, so when the wind is blowing West, you’ve got a challenge on
your hands. I had not adequately prepared for the weather, bringing my usual
singlet and shorts, but I made some compression sleeves from a pair of socks
and borrowed my sister’s new sweatshirt for the start. I would give it back to
her at mile 5.
My goal was to run a 10-minute pace. I felt I could keep
that up for a nice, long time. Unfortunately, I also felt that I belonged in
the first starting corral, where everyone around me was running sub-7s. The
first road out of Hopkinton is narrow and lined with spectators. (In fact, the
whole course is lined with spectators!) This meant that all the thousands of
people who were starting with me were flying past at top speed and I had
nowhere to go. I stayed as slow as I could without getting trampled. At 5K, my
time was 23:47, a pace of 7:40. Too fast.
The crowds flowed past me, but I didn’t care. It was all too
incredible. I continued to slow as road opened up around me. I had a
conversation with another runner who had also just been through surgery, though
his was for a reconstructed knee. Even I thought that was crazy, but he turned
to me and said, “I don’t know how this knee is going to heal. I may never be
fast enough to qualify again, but I qualified for today, so I’m running.” I
agreed. He went on ahead as we passed the 10K. 49:44, a pace of 8:01. Too fast.
I was uneducated on a lot of the traditions of the course,
so the Wellesley women petitioning for kisses was a fun surprise. I was on the
other side of the road and in no shape to dart across, but I enjoyed the
spectacle and the sheer volume of sound (which I heard 4 minutes before I saw
anyone). As the noise faded behind me, a far less welcome element lay ahead.
The rain was starting again. I’d returned my sister’s sweater to her and now
was running in a singlet and my sock-sleeves. The wind and rain worked together
to bring a fairly miserable sense to my body, but I was still moving pretty
well, and as long as I kept moving, I could stay warm. At the halfway point, I
was at 1:53:15, a pace of 8:39. Still too fast.
And that’s right about when it hit me. Hard. My legs cramped,
my stomach turned. Within a couple miles, the sleeves were soaked through and
freezing, so I took them off and threw them in the general direction of a trash
can. This would prove to be my biggest mistake of the day. Less than a minute
later, my arms were burning from the cold and rain. I started walking, at first
on a regular schedule (Galloway-style), but before long, I was running less
than a quarter mile at a time. And I had ten miles to go.
I truly asked myself if there was any way I was going to
quit, and I could not imagine doing so. Run, walk, crawl… I was going to cross
that line.
The next four miles were a lesson in patience. Run as far as
you can, then walk. The crowd was incredible. “That’s right, man! You can do
this! Walk if you need to, but just keep moving. You start running again when
you’re ready!” Occasionally, I’d nod and smile and start to run, always to huge
ovations. There were many pleasant moments in an overwhelming sea of miserable
pain. I was not ready for this race, and certainly not for this weather. But I
was going to cross that line.
When I realized I was on Heartbreak Hill, I got very
confused. I realized I had no idea what it looked like or how long it was. Was
I really on it, or was there another hill about to come around the corner? It
was terrifying and exhilarating to think that I was at the spot where history
had so often been made. And then I saw that woman’s sign and started to cry.
From the darkest depths of fear and injury, I’d made it to
the top of Heartbreak Hill. I honestly can’t even explain the feeling. So I
cried.
And then I hid in a porta-john at mile 22. You guys, it was
so cold. My hands barely worked anymore. I was soaked through. My legs were so
cramped, I was afraid to even sit down. So I stood there for a minute or two,
doing nothing besides being out of the cold and rain, hoping for a miracle to
get me to the finish line. I got two.
The first was that, upon my exit, I found that the rain had
stopped. The wind was still there, but with no rain to fill my eyes and sting
my hands, the pain lessened significantly. The second happened somewhere around
mile 24. We were alongside train tracks (for the T) and, on the other side of
the tracks, maybe 50-75 feet away, was a group of young adults who together
yelled “GO!” As loud as they could. I was walking at the time and took their
cheer as an encouragement to run again. I yelled back, “You try it!!” And then ran
the longest stretch I’d done in a while, to the cheers of the group. At around
mile 25, we re-entered the city of Boston, and I would not walk again.
I learned later that the group was actually comprised of
some college friends of mine, who recognized me from a distance and had, in
fact, yelled “Joe!” at me. With blurry eyes, I could not see them, but, having
not seen them in 9 years, they returned to my life at just the right moment.
The finish line of any marathon is a welcome sight, but that
last turn onto Boylston was one of the most emotional moments of my life. I was
over 90 minutes off the time that got me there, but nothing mattered. I saw my
sister on the sidelines to my left and pointed to her as the tears started
again, grateful to have someone to share the moment with. I my worst marathon
was ended with the single ugliest finisher picture I’ve ever seen. Ugly cry for
real.
I’ll be back. For sure, this will not be the only memory of
Boston that I will have, but honestly, I’m not disappointed. I did what I did
not think could be done, and as this year has dealt each successive gut punch
to me, some part of that woman’s sign has floated before my eyes. Two and a
half months after near disaster, “You just beat Heartbreak Hill.”
Hell yeah, I did.
