The bus rumbled to life and roared away from the curb. A brilliant sun peeked through the buildings and the skyline disappeared behind us in a rush of brick and concrete. I caught a glimpse of the Prudential Center and thought, “I’ll see you soon.” The nerves roiling in my stomach suddenly settled, and I took a deep breath and closed my eyes on the exhale. When I opened them again, nearly an hour had gone by and the bus inched along Hopkinton’s narrow roads in the runner-carrying-convoy until finally coming to a stop at Hopkinton High School.
Rohan, Shaun, and I stood and filed out of the bus with our running brethren. The three of us unfurled our makeshift mats (i.e. ponchos) at the corner of one of the large white tents, and settled in. The field filled in with eager runners, taking on the look of a staging area for invasion. The three of us fidgeted and shivered in the grass, in both nervous anticipation and the morning coolness. Unable to sit still, I made frequent use of the porta-potty, standing in line, using it, and seemingly getting right back in line.
After two hours, the call to load up wave one came over the loud speaker and the three of us began to shed our extra clothes and join the stream of runners migrating back to the main road. Once we began walking, I became increasingly aware of how hot the sun felt and stripped off even more clothing until I was down to my racing singlet and shorts. Rohan and I exchanged fist bumps with Shaun and made our way to the corrals.
Hopkinton residents already lined the streets, cheering, offering high-fives and last minute materials like Vaseline, Gatorade, and one particularly clever stand of beer, donuts, and cigarettes.
As Rohan and I continued our walk together, I turned to him and said, “We’ve come a long way, you and I.” “A lot of miles,” he said, looking straight ahead. And we had, not only to train for this Boston, but since our paths first crossed nearly four years ago on that humid summer afternoon. I still remember Rohan asking what I was training for, and I beamed because I got to say “Boston.” My first. And now here we were, walking to – in this runner’s opinion – the most famous of all marathon starting lines. Now it was Rohan’s first.
We waded through the lanes designated solely for runners, peeling off at one point for a final pit stop - which earned us a wanding from one of the security guards, and surly looks from volunteers - and settled into our corral.
Under a cloudless sky, the air felt still and warmish on my almost bare shoulders. But I was so swept up in this most special of Boston Marathons that race director David McGilivray’s proclamation that we were “taking back our finish line” sent chills through me. And for the past year, after all the dedications, the Boston Strongs, the tears, and the triumphs, there was only one thing left to do: run.
The gun went…and so did we.
Boston’s first mile is billed as the famed rollercoaster drop out of Hopkinton. While it is a marked downhill, it’s truly a tangle of arms, legs, and elbows, a mobile mosh pit of runners jockeying for position, rhythm, and pace. I told Rohan to aim for the outside of the pack to find free running room and had failed to follow my own advice. I spent the first mile shooting gaps and trying not to swipe the heels of the runners in front of me, all while eyeing Rohan’s orange singlet so I didn’t lose him.
My watch beeped in the melee and I looked down at the 6:20 and swore - too slow. The crush of runners began to spread out and I took the opportunity to find some open running space and look for that flow. I could sense Rohan on my right shoulder and was pleased to see the 5:57 second mile and let myself try and draw back to a more comfortable 6:05-6:10 pace. However, the third mile flashed by in 5:57. At that moment, I was just grateful to have space to execute.
With a slightly more relaxed slice of road to run, I used the next 5K to establish a rhythm. I conducted mental system checks at each mile: legs strong, lungs good, pace on point, stomach…hmm. At some point, the roiling in my stomach returned. “If I could just get this stomach ache to go away,” I thought…. Through 10K, I noticed that the sips from my water bottle every other mile weren’t cutting it either and the back of my throat had a sticky, sandy feeling. So, I began taking cups of water at the stations when I wasn’t drinking my Nuun.
Near mile 9, I roared through the Tufts crowd, remembering my own cheering from that spot two years ago. The course began a gradual but noticeable incline here and I became aware of the sun, of my stomach, and the seconds ticking up on my pace. I turned back to look for Rohan but didn’t see him. I went to my mantra, “Smooth and strong, smooth and strong,” but couldn’t still the churning in my stomach.
“Get ready, boys,” a runner said as he went by. “You can hear it.” I picked up the din of a high pitched frequency down the road and it gathered strength as we drew closer. It could have shattered wine glasses. Runners began migrating over to the right side of the road as if pulled by some force. Then, when I emerged from the woods, I came to the Wellesley scream tunnel. I fought the pull and stayed in the middle of the road, too busy trying to weather the storm in my head and stomach to engage. I managed a smile but remained focus on trying to right my foundering ship.
When I came through half, my watch read 1:20, and I began to unravel as I pleaded with my stomach. At 14, I gave in and pulled off to the side of the road after the water station to try and reset. I took several deep breaths and felt the storm inside instantly dissipate. I tapped my head with my water bottle and took off again. A wave of cheers erupted from the crowd, “Come on 1264!” “Get after it 1264!” I waved in appreciation and set off again, but despite the support, the storm returned to my stomach.
“Get to Newton,” I thought. I trudged on, but having to go to my mental rolodex so early felt crushing. I slogged up the first of the Newton Hills and considered a DNF at mile 17, arguably my low point. I pulled off to the side again, this time to pull myself together. I wasn’t going to DNF (“You bought that damn jacket already”), and I wasn’t going to PR, but I could still come in under three hours. I took a look around, I took in the crowd, three and four deep, deeper than I’ve ever seen it at Boston, the kids reaching out for high fives, the “thank you, runner” signs….And I started up again. It wasn’t pretty, but I was at peace with it. I vowed to appreciate this experience, to soak in the magic and the love surrounding this year’s Boston, and to honor those who couldn’t run this year, to honor what all of us poured into preparing for this year’s race.
With 1K to go, I apparently missed Mrs. Onthebusrunning and my father-in-law, but I could see the penultimate turn onto Hereford Street. I climbed that short hill, the noise rising. When I turned onto Boylston Street, the hallowed urban canyon unfurled before me and the noise was deafening. My pace instinctively quickened as the finish arch came into sight, and at mile 26, it seemed to be coming to an end all too quickly. I drank in that feeling and broke the finish line in 2:50:49, my fourth Boston.
In the immediate after, I tried to hold onto that promise of enjoying the experience, but admittedly, falling short of my goal stung. Had I written this in those first few days following Boston, the tone may have been more disappointed than appreciative. But, the passage of time often provides perspective. And on a much grander scale, the city of Boston has shown us that time does indeed heal all wounds and a city can heal itself and emerge stronger and more united than ever before. There will be more races to run, more miles to rack up, more PRs to be had, but there will only be one 2014 Boston.