My Boston Marathon

I am officially a humbled runner, and it took me 4 marathons to get here.

Ever since I began training for my first marathon in the summer of 2015, advice such as "respect the distance" or "the race doesn't start until mile 20" was handed out like candy at a parade, and fear of "hitting the wall" - the point in which you are mentally done and physically exhausted - was instilled. Still, training went on and race day finally arrived. In their day, my parents had, to me, untouchable marathon finishing times, so I set my own goals on qualifying for Boston instead of a little family competition. I needed a 3:35. I crushed it with 3:25, and finished with energy to spare. I couldn't help but think that this marathon stuff wasn't so bad. The wall never hit, mile 20 came and went without notice, and the distance was nothing more than my latest PR.

A few weeks later, I ran a trail marathon, and felt so great at the finish that I was talked into signing up for the 50-mile distance the following year. And, for the hell of it, the next fall I repeated my first marathon in an attempt to beat my time, which I did by another 10 minutes, putting me at a 3:15 finish and once again getting me into Boston for the following year. That 50 mile trail race was an entirely different animal, but up until that starting line for Boston on Patriot's Day, I had never experienced a "tough" marathon, and was able to get a humbling smack down out on that famous course.

The first miserable thing about the Boston Marathon is the training season. I had been spoiled with my previous fall marathons and summer training schedule, and now had to switch to winter training where the weather was watched like a hawk for snow, ice, and temperatures that dipped below 20 degrees - the point in which my training partners and I would gladly opt for the treadmill instead. The weather-watching only increased as race day arrived, where we learned to our horror that it would be a sweaty 75 degrees. After training in the 20's-30's for months, I knew this would be my first challenge. The second, better known challenge, were the hills that made their lovely appearance after mile 17 when you are already exhausted from miles of pavement pounding. I had also managed to rupture a bursa in my knee during training, so that was of concern too, but not nearly as intimidating as the course itself. Pain I could run through, heat and hills, I would learn, were another story.

The race took off with a very casual starting line; one minute you are walking up to your corral, the next you are running and the race begins. My nerves were calmed by pure excitement, and my eyes were fixed on the overwhelming amount of runners on that street in Hopkinton. I looked forward to my "check-point-goals" of shared stories with my running gals at mile 10, FaceTiming my daughters and mom at mile 15, keeping an eye out for my dad at mile 20, and crossing that finish line where my husband, brother, sister-in-law and friends were waiting.

From mile 1, the heat got to me. My breathing was heavy, my body felt exhausted, and despite my efforts to talk myself out of any negative mindset with the use of motivating self-talk ("you're part of THE Boston Marathon! Woo!") - my anxiety was building with each exhausting mile knowing that a rough series of hills lay ahead. Still, my two training partners and I trotted along, collecting miles as we went. The first 15, though tiresome, went the fastest. Stories at mile 10 never happened, despite the fact that my friends and I avoided each other like the plague in order to have fresh, detailed stories to occupy the time - we were simply too tired and out of breath to speak. I was thrilled to see the 15 mile marker where I excitedly called my tiny cheerleaders and mom before venturing off into the remaining 11 miles.

At mile 16, one of my friends fell behind. As we hit mile 17 and turned a sharp corner, my other friend warns me "this is the first hill" - I'm sorry, you mean that thing we just ran up and over wasn't one of these "hills" you speak of? Shit. Starting to tackle the climb, I kept my head down and could focus on nothing but the burning sensation in my quads. As my friend got a little further ahead, she kept checking back on me where the words "still here!" managed to escape me. One hill down, two to go. And still nearly 9 miles to the finish. Panic started to sink in a bit as the combination of hills and heat started to tear me apart.

On the 2nd hill, I fell behind. I was crushed as I watched the distance between my friend and I lengthen, but knew at this point it was not my race. Finishing, not time, was all that mattered now. I hit every water station along the way to refill the bottle attached to my fuel belt, and was sure to drench myself with every spraying hydrant or hose out there. As mile 20 approached, I knew that seeing my dad's familiar face would be just what I needed. 20 years ago, he ran his final Boston Marathon, and he was now spectating where his parents used to watch him. I saw his waving arms and ran right over to him to hold his hand. I wanted so badly to regress to a baby and just curl up crying in his arms. Instead, the only thing I could say was "it's hot out here, dad!" - and pushed myself to continue onto Heartbreak Hill.

Admittedly, this third and final hill was the easiest of them all. Maybe it was simply knowing that the dreaded series of hills was over, but even so, seeing those "you made it to the top of Heartbreak Hill" signs were the most amazing site. Piece of cake from here on out, I thought to myself. The hills were over, and I just had 4 miles to go. I could run 4 miles any day. I got this.

Nope. Not the way that went at all.

The hills, though nothing compared to the recent few, still rolled along. Every mile mark seemed to take (Sandlot reference) FOR-EV-ER. I had never wanted to stop so badly during a race. There were moments of panic where I thought I may not be able to finish. The only thing that was still able to motivate me was the $300 I spent on " yay go me I ran Boston!" attire at the expo - all in which would be pointless if I let this course take me down. And then, at mile 24, my legs decided they were done.

Still moving but what felt like barely, I tackled the last 2 miles with legs that felt like lead. I tried to go faster to reach that finish line sooner, but they wouldn't give. I yelled at them ("come ON!!"), I punched them, I willed them - nothing. I have never experienced a longer 2 miles. This was it, this was the wall. I officially hit the wall, and it sucked beyond all belief. I wanted to stop. I wanted to cry. I wanted a goddamn beer. But, I also really really wanted to rock my finisher's jacket and 15 other blue and yellow swag that burned a hole in my wallet. Then I realized that all of those things were possible - after I cross that finish line.

Reaching the 26 mile marker, I thought I was golden. That was, until you turn down that finishing stretch and realize that the final .2 miles to the finish still seemed like forever. I knew my friends and family were there waiting, but I didn't have the energy to pick them out of the wild crowd. I still wanted to stop. I actually considered it. Crawling to the finish sounded better than another moment of running. Slowly but surely, the yellow triangle hung high over the finish crept closer and closer until, finally, with my hands in the air, I stepped over that blue line, where my legs immediately decided they were all sorts of pissed off and collapsed.

After spending some time in the medical tent, I finally met up with my husband who showered me in hugs and congratulations, and I drank the best tasting, most refreshing, well deserved beer (or two) I've ever experienced. And that's exactly what this entire thing was - an experience. Maybe I was miserable for 26 miles, but I also accomplished something huge that day. And, the fact that I've always given credit to my natural running ability was knocked down a few notches; marathon-running parents or not, easy previous races or not, that was without a doubt one of the hardest things I've done. I now know what "respect the distance" truly means, what it means to not experience the hardships of the race until mile 20, and I definitely know what it feels like to hit the wall. The days that followed were filled with soreness and nausea, but I was glad to have those post-race aches while snuggled up in my overpriced 2017 Boston Marathon sweatshirt, because I did it.