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SRRC Race Reports

THE Boston Marathon, Boston, MA —Mon., April 16, 2007
by Adam Borbidge

I finished this report weeks after the race. I had trouble recalling many details of the course 10 minutes after passing them. I’ve orally recounted the race many times since Marathon Monday. I practically got paid to tell the story my first day back in the office. I’ve got a ten second version, a 2-minute version, and a twenty-minute version. There’s a version for runners and a version for fun. If you’re reading this you probably have some patience, curiosity, desire, or at least some coffee. I’ll try to dish what dirt I can, but THE Boston Marathon is shrouded in its own mystique. I tried to paint the whole picture, but these keystrokes won’t even tug on her veil. Maybe you’ll just have to see for yourself.

Boston is Disneyland for marathoners. I think I can safely make that statement after my experience over Patriots' Day weekend. And, yeah, I guess that makes me a True Believer. My vacation included three days of touristy stuff before Marathon Monday and a day following. If you find yourself in a similar pair of worn out walking shoes, my advice is to flip that kind of tourist plan.

Lesson #1: Stay off your feet as much as possible in the days leading up to your important race experience. I’ve heard it. I believed it. I chose to maximize my vacation experience, so I proved it. My feet were definitely sore on race day.

When I return to Boston, I will make the best of that ONE day before the race. I will breeze through the expo. I will enjoy the city by trolley tour or cinema. I will enjoy a modest dinner in Little Italy. But I’m not sure how I will nod off without watching the Sopranos.

With privilege comes responsibility. I was surprised to discover the reverence Bostonians held for THE Marathon. Perhaps my research prior to the visit was a bit spotty—I watched the Oscar-winning “The Departed”. My acquaintances were universally true believers. I cannot describe with one word the atmosphere I journeyed through leading up to the race. I quickly accepted that running THE marathon as some kind of knighthood. Furthermore, my acquaintances were familiar with most of the relevant factors of marathoning. One trolley driver was keeping track of the lowest number fare he had that weekend*. My local interactions were different from our running club chats. We chat about doing MCM this year, and maybe the local 10K, and, if I can swing it, the NYC marathon—JFK permitting. When a Bostonian asks, “Is this your first marathon?” you may chuckle inside and think “No silly. Obviously, I had to run a marathon to get to Boston.” It’s kinda like an inverse of the casual observer who might proudly tell you about their acquaintance who ran their last marathon in 45 minutes. What marathon was that? Oh, it was the Leesburg 10K—on New Year’s Day. So how far is your next marathon?

How’d you do?

It depends who’s asking. We have different amounts of time for you to hear me give an answer. The race report version [of the question] is answered for a runner with infinite time on his or her hands. Hooray! I love the sound of my own keyboard clicking. asdfasdfasdf. Okay—elevator speech, then the Full Monty.

Start on the T, but take the CSU bus . . .

We were lucky. I was glad to finish. Leading up to race day, the meteorological information space was rife with dire predictions and doomsday speculations. I woke up at 5:10 a.m. on Patriots' Day 2007. My wife and I shared a double room with my parents at the Four Points Sheraton in Revere, MA. I caught the 5:30 a.m.hotel shuttle to the Wonderland T station, and then I made two transfers to reach the Kendall/MIT station. A half-mile walk took me to the Cambridge Sports Union bus departure point. The buses pulled away just after 7am and the trip to Hopkinton took over an hour.
CSU bus advantages:

bathroom on board
bus stays in Hopkinton until race start, affording “a base of operations” (in this case, shelter) prior to the race
leg room

All the buses parked in a high school lot. The official school buses pulled away after making their drops and were converted into the 50 or so buses on hand for baggage drop-off. I witnessed all kinds of trash bag engineering to combat the fierce wind and rain: the old stand-by garbage bags with arm holes, grocery bag shoe covers, custom-cut Hefty bag strips duct-taped to cover only the vulnerable vented uppers on cushioned road running shoes.

At 9:10 a.m., I joined thousands of Wave 1 runners making their way down to the start in the little town of Hopkinton. A grocery store parking lot and field area offered plenty of porta-potties of the official and unofficial variety. Several blocks after the lot and two turns brought me to corral 4 of 20-something*. Runners huddled under a large tree near corral 7 and I took time to stretch after the long mass-transit voyage. I started at the tree and paused once at almost each corral to gradually work through the major leg muscles.

After the race MC, a part played by a faceless Boston accent, announced some local living historical figures, the anthem-singer was introduced, and we were asked “to face the nearest visible flag”. As it was Patriots' Day, there were several visible flags, yet I chose the one at an about face to every other runner and the anthem singer’s voice. I was relieved to hear the anthem being sung. I was only minutes away from beginning the actual run. I had been in town since Friday morning and finally the time had come. Secondly, it was bothPatriots' Day and the Boston Marathon, and I felt that sense of privilege to stand with my best posture since I felt it was expected of me as a Marathoner.

The starter pistol wasn’t very loud. The walk and then jog across the start line was the conservative start that distinguishes the marathon from everything shorter. But within the 50 yards of the start line, the course curved left and leaned downhill. Again, I felt a sense of relief as I adjusted my posture and stride to match topography. It was the first time I had ever seen the course. The downhills of Boston hold a reputation as the silent killers of the course. I felt fast yet in control as my feet and toes worked hard to stay smooth. I didn’t have the benefit of track workouts like I did prior to Baltimore, and I was fairly certain my potential for acceleration was limited. The first mile marker appeared 7:30 after I crossed the start line, and I settled back to enjoy what would be 10 or so miles on a 7:00 minute mile worry-free cruise control. I would make moderate adjustments to stay with the herd but I don’t recall any serious tactical efforts or decisions.

My little brain polled my senses. My feet felt the soreness of touring but they moved fast enough. My eyes tracked my fellow runners to calibrate pace and look forward to the surroundings for entertainment. While I was grateful for the lack of extreme weather, the environs held to a gray and bleak overcast. I am sorry to say that I don’t recall exceptional sightseeing. And that was okay. Prior to the race I said that I only showed up for the crowds. My only expectation was mob after mob of spectators. I saw some small children reaching out for high fives in the first two miles, and saw one of my fellows dole some out to the kids. Right there, I scribbled a mental note that I would need to use those kinds of power-ups later on. (At that point I was thinking “later on” meant mile 21.)

Sometime after eight or ten miles I became aware of a “hot spot” under my right foot. You might be familiar with the term if you’ve been a cyclist trying out clipless pedals. Anyway, this hotspot was a real nuisance, but neither the location nor the sensation said "blister." Not even when I took nearly a minute of the race to change my stupid sock did I register a blister. It was just such an odd place to chafe.

My favorite mile of the race is indubitably Wellesley. I heard the crowds from two minutes away where another runner confirmed that hundreds of undergrads from the all-young-lady school were the source of that positive sound energy. I practiced a smile and regretted not shaving that morning. We all came up the rise there they were. I drifted off to run along the fence high-fiving every hand I could for the next few minutes. No pecks on the cheek—I have to work on my technique OR maybe I really did need a shave. This was power-up city. I was Super Mario, running through that bonus round that’s just full of coins, and I might have ceded another minute soaking up the encouragement but it was certainly worth it. For the next two miles I felt like really running again.

After the buzz wore off, I relapsed into a dark and cloudy state. The pain signals were forming a traffic jam in my brain. Amplifying and relentless they exasperated my little-engine-that-could-but-without-smiling. Where was the Little Hero that fed on annoyances to flip pain into fiery resolve? Maybe he was having an asthma attack. . . . I was stunned this wall had reared up so early—mile 15 in the race. So I injected little breaks and started walking after the aid stop until the water or Gatorade was consumed. When the first hill came up, I marched up without backing down, though prior to the start I intended to gain ground on the hills and draw energy from strong passes. Instead, I stairmastered with leaden legs “upward and onward” . . . Aslan here I come. At the top I felt a quiver in my right quadriceps—the ominous preamble to a muscle cramp, something I had been spared in all previous endurance contests.

Lesson #2: Those Endurolyte tablets you were taking preventatively did count for something. Don’t forget them at home next time.

I was happy to figure out what my second problem was, but I immediately started a predatory scan of spectators and volunteers for offerings other than Gatorade and water. Pringles in pill form. Salt lick. Anything. A gray-haired man I saw was holding a green rectangle that miraged like a salt-shaker. When I got to within shaking distance it turned out to be a sponge. I squished down a gel and welcomed the vanilla honey taste after so much lemon-lime Gatorade, but the quad was still a concern.

Perhaps the most effective countercurse in the latter half of the course was a technique I never thought I’d use in competition—backpedaling. The process is simple:

IF the course is steeper than the legs are strong AND the way is relatively free of obstruction THEN BACKPEDAL.

Go ahead give it a shot. Make it bouncy.

Backpedaling provided the unexpected boost of increased and directed crowd support.

Spectator: Ooh! Wow! Look! He’s running backwards. <wild applause>
Runner: <squinting> Does that feel better?
Adam: Definitely

Furthermore, I didn’t seem to lose any ground to the front pedalers. The risk, of course, lies in falling or injuring oneself. This would result in a) embarrassment, b) undue concern in others, or c) ruining it for everybody. So, I’ll conclude this advice column with a caveat: check your six.

Smile for the crowd, just like Charlie .

I was busy sucking up the crowd’s extra enthusiasm to get through what I could, but I wasn’t infused with any renewed sense of vigor. As we all marched through the twenties the crowds increased in size. As we homed in on downtown, the weather finally started to chill out. I wanted to smile enthusiastically at all these spectators who could have been standing in the elements for Lord-knows how long, but it was a mighty effort for a feeble gesture. Lifting my smile was like turning the key in the ignition of a car with a dead battery. To provide a more germane example—I wanted to be Charlie. The “T” cars in Boston featured two service ads in every car. One was the cheerful character with the fedora and the strong smile presenting the CharlieCard to the reader. Notice the happy spectators on the “T” with Charlie. Nice smile. Anyway, the second ad was guidance on how to recognize a stroke sufferer. The character in this ad, well he didn’t smile. He was in trouble and he had trouble communicating. I tried to look like CharlieCard Charlie. Unfortunately my best efforts amounted to … well, Sorry Charlie.

In addition to the spectacular crowd support provided by the locals, this was the first race my parents saw me participate in. To their credit they were in place and on time at miles 16.8 and 25. The finish line, on the other hand, found me 16 minutes late, but at least it was in the right spot. For all the sights I saw and the trials of the race itself, the finish line was anticlimactic. I crossed the paint and took the offered bottle of water and continued marching forward, rehearsing my lines for the volunteer handing out finisher’s medals, “I’m wearing my own chip [please don’t make me stop this locomotion]” At this time there was a general chorus from inner space chanting I-V, I-V, I-V. I heard of a warming tent with massage tables, and I hoped, chicken broth, but I never did find that mirage, so I made my own with a bag of potato chips and an apple. What I did have was a long and chilly walk to find my old elementary school bus, Bus #8.

Typically, I’ll disdain the proffered emergency blanket, but on this breezy walk I was disappointedly out of style, walking the walk in goose bumps, not tin foil. I finally saw a red-shirted volunteer and asked for one. What I was about to get was directions when . . . Hallelujah!. . . like tumbleweed from Heaven, one of the crackly pieces of the foil rolled down the street within pouncing distance. The wind was cause to tape the garment to oneself. This particular garment came with adhesive. Unfortunately, it was weak and had to be re-applied a couple of times. In hindsight, I should have applied the tape to my person, perhaps my nose and eyebrows - the hairier the better.

I found bus #8 and a short line for my number grouping, so I sidled in to wait for my “dry” bag. The volunteers distributing were understaffed or unlucky, and several minutes of waiting did not result in one bag being tossed into my line. Fortunately, Prometheus made his way out of the line of runners and joined the volunteers on the school bus to help sort. Within five minutes, a dozen shivering souls had their bags. I joined the growing number meeting up with family and crew to congregate in the lobbies of posh downtown hotels. I saw a pair of runners before and after the race sporting deluxe trash bags, embroidered with their names in masking tape. One’s lettering read “Derek Ice T” or something (it was masking tape embroidery remember). The allusion to Ben Stiller’s “Zoolander” movie was more obvious in the post-race refugee camp, Derek-something-or-other was “Derelicte.” Runner humor.

Lucky for me, my crew found me right after receiving my baggage. I made a graceful hop over the riot barrier onto the sidewalk and was delighted with hugs and kisses.

The man in the orange hat—a Boston Marathoner—with his crew. . . .

We dined at the McCormick and Schmick inside 1 Whiskey Place**. I enjoyed a complimentary Coke to go with Samuel Adams and a burger. During the meal, I started looking forward to a nice nap and some alternative recovery later that evening (goofing around in the hotel pool). Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Team Borbidge, our hotel room was undergoing water damage recovery. Suffice it to say, I narrowly avoided creating the following news brief after “discussing” whether or not naptime could start with the heat blower droning on in the room (my position was that it was just white noise).

28 year-old Outwrassled by Senior Citizen; Humbled by Centenarian in Same Day

. . . Virginia youth claims he was beaten earlier in the day by a 111 year-old Bostonian and suffered harassment at the hands of Mother Nature before the confrontation. Speaking on condition of widespread publication, Borbidge said, “Thanks for slogging through everyone. I hope to see some of you next year at the 112th running of THE Boston Marathon!"

Notes:

* Generally, the lower the number, the lower the corral, the faster the qualifying time.

** The downtown hotels sported valet and concierge service yet they let many, many runners crash in their lobbies and lounges. Whiskey Place was sporting Powerade and Powerbars in place of the traditional fruit and candy baskets. One of the nice touches that make Boston THE Marathon.

May 2007

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