2013 Boston Marathon Redux: Part II -- After

In the midst of a past national tragedy, I still remember the opening lines I wrote in a column for my college’s newspaper. It began, “Where were you? The truth is, you’ll always remember.” On that day, I had just settled in to an American Government class and then spent the remainder of that cool autumn day riveted to the television and my computer with my roommates and friends searching for answers. When I think back to what happened this past Monday, the truth is, I will always remember…

…that I had just hung up the phone with my parents. The faint sound of cheers filtered in through the window as runners prepared to make the penultimate turn onto Hereford Street. I lingered over a glass of champagne and tilted my head back against the chair to let my PR wash over me. Then I flicked my phone back on to begin answering the text messages and e-mails I’d received during the race. My wife, father-in-law, and friend had stepped out for a moment to go get us cupcakes to continue celebrating, until it was time to head back to Boylston Street to meet up with Boston-area friends and let the party really begin. A crush of sirens blazed by the window. As I pecked away at my phone, I thought, I hope everyone is ok, thinking it would be a heart attack near the finish line.

Photo my wife captured of runners halted on Commonwealth

“So proud of you bud! You killed it!” a friend out in L.A. sent me two hours before. I nodded and wrote back, “Thank you, sir! So ecstatic right now. :)” at 3:05 p.m. Seconds later, I received the following from him, “Dude are you okay? Explosions near the finish line, people hurt”.

My face fell and I fired off a quick reply to him, then made for the TV remote. The door flew open, my wife and crew returning, “Did you hear what happened?!”

We spent the next three hours alternating between watching the coverage unfold and putting messages out to friends, family, Facebook, Twitter, any way to let people know we were safe.  Our phones would cut out and suddenly come back to life in a series of dings and alerts like slot machines and we would jump to use those brief communication windows to put out information.

We managed to connect with a friend who had just passed mile 25 and been halted with the mass of runners who would never make it to Boylston Street. She came to our room after connecting with her parents, and the eight of us stared at the footage, trying to somehow process what had happened just a half mile way, trying to figure out what to do next.

Information trickled in: other devices may be in the area; fire at the JFK library; two dead; stay inside. We discovered other friends had been at Fenway. Another had been eating on Boylston Street and felt the concussion, and would later be awoken in the middle of the night to a firefight outside her apartment in Watertown.

At 6:00 p.m., my wife and friend were the only ones left in the room. We had had enough coverage for the moment and descended to the hotel’s restaurant for dinner. The waiter brought us three Sam Adams 26.2 brews and we clinked glasses, though we weren’t sure what to toast to. I sipped at that beer trying to reconcile my fleeting excitement that always dissolved to guilt. I received messages from friends, saying, "If you are not ready to be proud of what you accomplished, I am," and "Go outside, and have a drink. It's a middle finger to whoever did this."

We would return to the room and alternate between staring at phone screens and TV screens, finally deciding that we needed to watch something else. Once in a while, someone would look up and we schemed what we could do to help at a time when we felt helpless. At 11:00, weary and raw, we turned the light out and tried to fall asleep to the sound of more sirens breaking up the night.

On Tuesday morning, we emerged from the hotel. To the left, it could have been any Tuesday, commuters in the streets and on the sidewalks. To the right, yellow tape cordoned off streets and soldiers and police with rifles stood guard, a jarring reminder.

The three of us climbed into our taxi to the airport with…with…I’m not sure what. Sadness? Loss? Grief? Guilt? Confusion?...We were emotionally frayed, constantly on the verge of tears, and exchanged hugs that lasted just a few seconds longer and were just a little tighter than usual. The day after, it had somehow become more real. More permanent.

Flashing lights and sirens became a common occurrence
Monday night.

Mine is not a story of survival or heroism. I was simply there, sharing in what the WashingtonPost’s Mike Wise called “the crown jewel of the running community.” Where for one day each spring, runners lace up their shoes from all over the world to celebrate, a 26.2 mile parade of perseverance, of overcoming, of accomplishment.

While I fought back the tears in the airport, I began reading Dan Shaughnessy’s column in The BostonGlobe, where he said, “Yesterday was a day you realized just how connected you were to people.” And it’s true.

I had originally been overwhelmed by the support I received from friends who said they stopped working to check on my status during the race, the meticulous tracking and posting of times that occurred on the Runner’s World Loop, the outpouring of congratulatory texts and e-mails that awaited me, the excitement in my mom’s voice knowing that this one was somehow more special than the last eight.

But then it all changed, a distinct line in time. These same people suddenly looked for confirmation that we were safe. And then the additional outpouring of support from family, former and current coworkers, friends from all corners and years in life, neighbors who stopped me while walking my dog (many of whom only know me as “the runner guy”) to say I was the first one they thought of when they heard the news.

I struggled for the past two days about how to put these feelings and the strength of Boston and the running community, into words (and perhaps still do) but can sum it up best by recounting the call I had at work yesterday. It was a simple, weekly status call that my project has every Thursday. I sat in the office with another coworker as we huddled around the phone. My manager kicked off the call by welcoming me back and telling me how relieved they were to hear that I was safe. I started to give a quick summary of the events for them, when I found my thoughts and my words taking me here, causing me to dab at my eyes by the end of it, words that I quickly realized are also meant for all of you:

“I was so humbled and overwhelmed by your support and concern on Monday. It makes me realize just how much love exists in communities like ours and how much we depend upon and support one another. It’s days like Monday that make you realize how grateful you are for the friends and family who contribute to who you are as a person. I can’t thank you enough for giving me that feeling.”

I still feel a stab of pain in my gut every time I see “Boston Marathon” associated with this act of cowardice. It’s simply not the way it’s supposed to be. But, those who did this only have the power that we give them.

So...

Despite the countless times the explosions that racked Boylston Street played on TV, I refuse to let that hallowed stretch of pavement be tarnished for myself and for those who still – and will always – let it play in their running dreams. The magical half mile when you emerge from out of the overpass on Commonwealth Avenue. The crowd is four and five deep on the sidewalk, a cacophony of “Let’s go’s”, “C’mons!” and, “Finish strongs!”. You make the fateful right turn onto Hereford Street and let yourself start to believe. The final left turn pours you onto Boylston Street where the buildings reach for the sky and the cheers rise up even higher. The pain melts away. The spectators on either side of the street lift you from the ground and carry you the length of the street to that big blue and yellow arch. A smile creases your salty, sticky face and your arms instinctively pump harder, until, at long last, you raise them above your head. Because whether it’s your first or fiftieth time, in record time or not, you just broke the finish line of the world’s greatest marathon.

The truth is, that’s what I choose to remember.

2013 Boston Marathon Redux - Part I: The Race

Note to readers: I normally break marathon recaps into two parts, and this time will be no different; however, Part I will strictly be about my race (and a little longer), while Part II will cover the tragic events that followed. Thank you for coming along for the ride.

Picking up my bib.

“You idiot,” I thought to myself. The sky had begun to lighten on the still downtown streets and the air bit at my cheeks – a temperature marathoners would call perfect. Yellow bags dotted the sidewalks, their owners walking with purpose. I cinched the black lace around my own yellow bag tighter and fell in with them. I had missed the turn for the T station to take the train the two stops where the buses would ferry us to the start line. Instead, I would walk the mile or so to get there, the mile I deemed “just a hair too far” to justify walking the day before. Alas.

I walked around the finish line on Boylston Street, taking precaution not to cross under it, the same way hockey players refuse to touch the Stanley Cup until they’ve earned it. Still, I made the mental note, “I will see you again.”

School buses streamed by on Tremont Street with runners waving to one another. The air felt electric with excitement and anticipation. I allowed myself a small drop of adrenaline that sent a shiver down my back and curled my toes. When I boarded the bus, my headphones came out and piped Mumford and Sons in. I closed my eyes reciting my race strategy, keeping my secret 2:47 goal in mind that only a handful knew about, and trying to sleep as the bus grumbled onto the highway.

A meeting of the Brads.

When we pulled into Hopkinton, I meandered through the tents and wet grass, hoping to find the group of Runner’s World Loopsters who had descended on Boston. Bangle spotted me first and I settled in to the circle of people I had to this point only known by usernames, blogs, and Facebook posts, but who I also felt an instant connection. We chatted as though we had been friends for years.

Nearing 9:00, I pulled out my snacks, and reassured Bangle that he smelled my hard-boiled egg and not the porta-potties. This year I made sure to steer clear of the bagels that had given me the crushing insulin spike that helped derail my last two Bostons. I made one last porta-potty stop where I met Jaclyn Johnston (another Loopster) who spotted me and gave up three spots in the line to chat with me. We talked of races past, Ragnars, training leading up to Boston, and she instilled confidence in me by saying simply, “Hey, three’s a charm, right?”

I parted from my new friends and hustled over to the start line. I’m always amazed by the support of Hopkinton citizens. People line the .75 mile walk to the start offering everything from encouragement to free Vaseline. While I moved among my fellow Boston runners, it was all at once a lonely walk as well. In my head I replayed the routes, the 80 mile weeks, the long runs, the darkness, the rain, the nutrition, the snow, the heat, the weighty tiredness, and the milestones…all leading up to this moment, all for these 26.2 miles. It was the first time it felt real, that this was going to happen, and that I was once again about to make the journey from Hopkinton to Boston with heavy hopes of not just a Boston PR but an overall PR.

Then the gun….

The final straightaway down Boylston Street.

I concentrated first on creating space along the narrow Hopkinton roads and, most importantly, not going out too fast despite the roller coaster drop of a downhill that marks the course’s opening. I flowed with the masses as we filled the streets like a dam suddenly broken.

I carried those weighty thoughts with me for the first four miles, almost not believing that this was happening – the marathon. I waited for the soft dizziness to fill my head as it had the last two Bostons, and the 12 mile sufferfest I grinded through at Marine Corps from miles eight through twenty. But it never came. I checked my watch and kept pulling back on the pace, reminding myself that there is no such thing as banked time at Boston. The four mile marker came, and it was time to make a decision, “run the race scared and worried” or “tap into the confidence and let it rip.” I chose the latter, giving my head two taps for courage with my water bottle and mumbling a breathy “let’s go” to myself.

The sun disappeared behind the clouds offering a brief reprieve and I fell into a steady rhythm. The effort came easily now and I rode Boston’s undulating terrain. I focused on staying in the middle of the road, making it easy for me to slide over to the water stations on the left side of the course to take water on the even miles and simply sip from my electrolytes on the odd miles away from the congestion.

At mile 10, I noticed a shift in the grade and the sun on my shoulders again. The road tilted upward and I felt the sensation of having to do a little work at this point. “Ride out the rough patches,” I thought. “It will get better.” I broke the next few miles up: 5K to the Wellesley scream tunnel, then just three more miles to Newton.

After 12, the shops begin to disappear, replaced instead by woods-lined shoulders, a sense of quiet, and, yes, a downgrade to reset. I do love this part of the course for the simple moment of solitude to complete a status check and prepare for the second half of the race. That, and at the bottom of the hill, you can hear the first shouts from the Wellesley girls. It’s hard not to pass through that tunnel of rabidly screaming coeds without a smile on your face. Best sign I saw: Wellesley: Fast Girls; Good Times.

My friend Ebo and father-in-law.

I came through the half in 1:23 low, a little faster than where I wanted to be but feeling strong enough not to worry about it. The plan from here was to engage at mile 16, manage the hills by maintaining effort, and set myself up for the downhill miles to the finish. Now to get to Newton.

I took the first Newton hill (one of four) with ease, feeling the power course through my quads with every push off. Instead of simply maintaining effort, I attacked, gobbling up the road with big ground-eating strides then flying down the backside. Just before 17, I saw my co-worker, a nice boost to prepare for the next hill. At 18, I searched for the cousins-in-law I stopped to chat with in 2011, vowing to give them only a confident wave this time around. Sadly, I missed them this year, but later heard that they saw me flash by.

The remaining hills did not come as easily, though. I made the effort to run through the top of the remaining trio, keep my form neat, and accelerate down. I came through 20 miles in 2:06 and realized I could run a 54 minute 10K to hit my C Goal (sub-three hours) and a 44 to hit my A Goal (sub-2:50). Heartbreak Hill loomed ahead and I calmly strode up latching on to the effort and resisting the urge to look at the pace on my watch. When I hit the top, my coach’s words of “run through it” were in my head and then there he was yelling, “You look great, Brad!” I smiled, nodded, and took off. The mile between 21 and 22 would be my fastest, a blistering 6:06.

My wife and I.

Miles 22-24, I started to feel the strain, but for every uphill, there was a downhill to recapture my stride and let the pace catch up with effort. The water stations started appearing on the right side of the road only so I relied on small sips from my bottle the rest of the way.

At 24, I pictured the final two miles of my training routes, knowing that I had run those two miles countless times, on fresh legs, tired legs, wobbly legs, and still I always made it home. I caught a glimpse of the Prudential building that would mark the finish line I had promised to see once again. And then the iconic Citgo sign brought me within one mile.

By then I knew I had my A Goal, it was only a matter of how much. I willed my legs onward, arms pumping, legs churning down Commonwealth Avenue. Tightness had started to grip my shoulders and the pangs of a cramp reverberated in my ribs. I forged ahead and spotted the flags waving in front of our hotel. I spotted my father-in-law and pointed, flashing a grin.

A block ahead lay Hereford Street. I dreamed of this moment at night before going to bed, fantasized about it on training runs, and let myself drift to it during meetings…the clock turning over relentlessly but my goal in reach, arms up like Frank Shorter after winning the 1972 marathon in both jubilation and relief. Here it was.

Zipping up the new jacket.

I drove up Hereford Street and hung the last left on Boylston. The finish line appeared at the end of the road, the same walk I had mistakenly made in the morning. The roar from the crowd echoed off the buildings, deafening and chilling. I surged watching my pace lurch down to 5:45 as the finish line grew larger, drawing me in, closer and closer, until finally….

I crossed in 2:47:51, a PR by 5:08, not just at Boston but every marathon I’d ever run. It washed over me all at once and I fought back the tears from the physical and emotional wringing. I called my wife and wept into the phone, saying simply, “I did it.” My friend Ebo came charging toward me wearing a big smile. We embraced as he helped me to the curb and he, my wife, and father-in-law helped put me back together.

2:47:51!

I couldn’t stop smiling as the medal clanged against my chest and I slid my arms through my Boston jacket and we began the one mile walk back to the hotel elated, triumphant.

To my friends who supported me and urged me on, to coworkers old and new who came along for the ride (again), to the Loop who became my running family, to my coach who brought my training to new levels, to my Uncle for always listening and consulting, to my parents for their enduring love and understanding, and to my wife who always believed, every one of you shares in this with me. The finish line is ours to break together.

The Ghosts of Bostons Past

It must have been a little after noon on Patriot’s Day 2011 when I passed 18 miles in my second Boston Marathon. The sun hung high overhead and a slight breeze grazed the backs of my arms and calves. Marathoners of all levels would call the weather ideal and Geoffrey Mutai would underscore that by breaking the tape in a world best 2:03:02, probably around my moment. I, on the other hand, had gone into survival mode against the storm raging inside my head, the one that battered my confidence starting at mile six.

I began negotiating “just get to…” checkpoints since mile eight, and began gallo-walking just after the scream tunnel at Wellesley. When I looked up and saw my wife’s cousin and her husband standing and cheering in front of their house, I made my way over to them. I stopped. And we chatted.

“How are you?” They asked, somewhat surprised.

“Awful,” I said. “Eight miles to go, though.”

I eventually finished, but the experience proved nothing short of a suffer fest. I had vowed to return – after barely requalifying – a smarter and stronger Boston runner that year. Instead, I limped in having over-trained, over-raced, and over-injured in the fall and winter.

Go enjoy the experience, I thought, tossing any time goals out the window the week before the race. I did not.

Six months after that, I huddled with some friends at an outside bar in Arlington, VA. The heat lamps burned bright enough to fend off the shivers. Some of us had just run the Marine Corps Marathon days before, while others had their eyes set on Philadelphia. And me? I sipped on my iced tea and avoided shaking hands or sharing dishes, as the New York City Marathon loomed just five days away. That Boston experience seemed like a century ago.

My training had been flawless: no illnesses, no injuries. I barely recognized the runner I had been heading into Boston. The usual panic and nerves I carried with me prior to a big race had vanished. I overheard my friend Ebo talking to my wife at the end of the table. It went something like this:

“I’m going to take the bus up when I get back from Delaware on Saturday night,” Ebo started.

“What? Why? You won’t get in until 4:30 or so in the morning.”

“Brad just looks so Zen. I want to see this.”

“This” turned into a 13-minute PR, a first marathon underthree hours, and…a Boston Qualifier – all things, I must note, the man on thesubway told me I would not do hours before the race.

I continued to run through most of the winter, ripped off a couple wins in 2012, and signed up for the 2012 Marine Corps Marathon. Still, as I trained, as I raced, Boston haunted me. The fabled race never drifted far from my focus. I didn’t speak of it outwardly, but while I sweated from the sidelines of the 2012 race, watching the heat-induced carnage, something stirred inside of me to return.

I started plotting even prior to running Marine Corps. I let not only the turn onto route 110 marking the last mile of Marine Corps carry me through rough patches, but also the cauldron of noise reverberating off the high buildings of Boylston Street when the finish line at long last comes into view and the pain seems to melt away.

And so, it is with the same peace I found prior to New York that I sit here and type this out, prepared to – as Quentin Cassidy and Jerry Mizner would say – “let my demons waaiiiiil on” against those Boston ghosts….

A Lot of Hay

I can tell you exactly when it happened. It was January 22 and I rode down the backside of a hill on Cabell’s Mill road somewhere around 4.5 miles into an easy 12 miler. The sun wouldn’t rise for another hour and the temperature wouldn’t make it into double digits all day. My breath plumed in front of me, a soft halo of white steam in my headlamp, and I had to keep covering my left eye with a glove to keep my contact from hardening in the cold. That’s when I knew I had entered new territory.

Not because of the conditions, but simply because of a realization, a rededication to myself, to the process, to life really. I had looked back at the past few weeks of my training log and saw a day or two that had a goose egg where an 8 or 10 should have been with the explanation that I had to work late. I took a look back at RunDanRun’s post about Dathan Rizenheim’s “Whatever it takes” article as well as a similar post on dedication from my Ironman friend, Caroline.

I had hooked up with my coach with the idea of breaking out of a training rut and elevating my workouts. The status quo wouldn’t work anymore and it was time to both demonstrate and commit to that.

This morning, two-plus months since that day, I trotted to a walk and pulled up at the bottom of our stairs to unlace the house key from my shoes. I took a pull on my water bottle, still filled near to the brim, and gave a little shrug. Six miles felt so unsatisfying. But such is the dilemma of the tapering runner.

I sat down to a too-big breakfast and logged my measly miles for the day both in the Google Doc I share with my coach and the online running log I also keep. To reassure myself that it was in fact ok to turn in less than double digits, I scrolled back through the neat rows and blocks of miles that represented the proverbial “hay in the barn” that would mark my build up to next week’s Boston Marathon.

Beyond that January 22 run, I zeroed in on the week of March 4, the first full week of the month. If ever there was a monster month in my marathon training, this was it. I had just come off of being sick for four days and wasted little time getting back into the swing of things. That week kicked off what would be the first of three consecutive 80+ mile weeks.

I drifted through days, only feeling truly energized for the 70-90 minutes I ran in the morning, collecting sunsets, split knuckles from the wind, and clearing the remnants of illness from my lungs at stoplights. Each week I reported in to my coach and he buoyed my spirits as I lamented about how hard it was to peel myself off the couch just to go up to bed on Thursday nights. “You sound like a marathoner in training,” he said as we shared a laugh.

And so it went. The days and weeks turned over and I wore the rubber off the soles of my shoes and the excess fat from my bones. When finally, the last 80 mile week (318.5 miles for the month) was behind me and I strode confidently into a down week and now into this taper.

Readers of my blog know that the training image I like to use is one my Uncle passed along a few years back, and it’s that of fashioning a sword in your training. The idea being that the base miles are the sword itself and the speed work delivers the slippery, sharp edge. I still have the race to run, and fully recognize that there are no guarantees on race day, particularly in the marathon. But when I look back at the last four months and where I stand today, I know that when I toe the line next Monday, I’ve got a big god damn sword and I’m ready to unsheathe it.