A few miles into this one I thought, “Yeah, this one’s gonna’ leave a mark.”
For most, once the marathon is over, days pass before taking that first tentative stride to get back on the horse. Or weeks. For me, I prefer an active recovery. People think I’m crazy (hint: not wrong), but I’m usually out for a run, albeit very slowly, the next day. And while I did get out for several miles of walking with Dearest Spouse both on marathon evening and the day after, it was, unusual for me, an extra day till I rambled out at uber-slow pace for a little recovery jog. That sounds like a trivial difference, but it’s not; it was indicative that this one was, as I’ve now said to many, was a tough day at the office. Even a week later, the legs are still heavy and a few surprise gifts from last Monday keep giving, making clear that my thinking early on was accurate.
Interestingly, once my quads stopped screaming – a hallmark of any hard marathon effort, enhanced by Boston’s downhills (and let’s face it, if they don’t hurt, you probably didn’t try hard enough) – the initial injury that signaled just how tough a day it was reappeared from the painful haze. Usually, you go into these things knowing your weak spots and what you expect to break, so when those spots start to cause grief somewhere between miles one and twenty-six, you’re not surprised. But the left quad going nuclear well before mile ten – as in, not simply feeling tired or worn but just plain injured – was a surprise. Followed by the left calf going into spasm as early as sixteen. And these were piled on the obvious issue: did anyone mention it was hot?
Despite all this, Boston 2024 wasn’t a train wreck. The result wasn’t what I figured I was in shape to turn in, but given the conditions, it wasn’t half bad. Had I not already been qualified for next year’s dance, this still would have requalified me by over twenty minutes. So really, no complaints. But as the forecast for mid-sixties jumped in the last two days to around seventy, married with the full sun that’s a special treat of the nearly shadeless pre-emergence-of-foliage Boston course, it was ugly just standing in the starting corrals. The addition along the “Perp Walk” (the trek from the Athletes’ Village at the high school to the start area) of several gallon-jug sunscreen stations plus volunteers armed with the spray-on variety for backs and shoulders was a huge and appreciated plus, but not burning doesn’t convey staying cool.
Knowing cool wasn’t in the cards (unless, of course, you think my middle name is Cool, in which case I suggest you’re delirious…) I opted to hit the first half at whatever felt comfortable, not actively backing off, since with the coming hell of the late miles already predetermined, slowing early would only mean being out there longer. And indeed, the first half rolled out at a decent clip, cutting down the miles remaining, before the body had a chance to start reacting to conditions. Yet I couldn’t escape feeling as though I simply wasn’t trained as well as I thought I was. Later I’d hear that feeling echoed from many others. Everything was harder.
Which is intriguing precisely because most of those people, myself included, concluded that we were in fact trained as well as we thought. In my case, since last posting to this venerable, or if not venerable then at least long-lived chronicle, I’ve raced the first three of the USA Track & Field New England Grand Prix series – having irrationally decided to try to complete the full series this year – and turned in three pretty good days. At the Bedford Super Sunday 4 Miler, the New Bedford Half (a perennial favorite), and the Frank Nealon 15K (also a favorite), I certainly didn’t win anything – that’s a near impossibility in the super-charged competition of the Grand Prix – but all three resulted in age grade ratings in the upper seventies, pretty much where I’ve historically camped out save for a few eighty-plus races a few years back. Plus, I was actually on track with logging long runs this spring, rather than my typical, “Oh, I’ve got a marathon when?” eureka moment followed by jamming in a few twenties. Sure, the last few weeks leading to the race were a little scattered (but experiencing totality of the eclipse up in Maine was one of several good reasons for training interruptions), but all in all, right up to our morning-before shakedown in Hopkinton, I couldn’t have been in much better position unless I shaved a decade off the sixty-one years I’m hauling around.
But by Framingham, well, ugh. This one’s gonna’ leave a mark. So, soldier on.
Twenty minutes of thin cloud cover heading into Natick offered brief respite, but quickly I’m back to searching out what little shade bare trees can offer (there being just one brief pine-forested section leading into Wellesley). Somewhere past the halfway mark, or maybe even before (it’s cloudy, my mind, that is), the left quad springs a leak, so to speak, with a sharp muscle pang amidships. Yeah, it hurts. Where’d that come from? Who knows? Damn the torpedoes. Soldier on.
At Lower Falls I almost miss Dearest Spouse and Dearest Offspring the Younger (and Wonder Dog), and never have a chance to yell to them to expect that the next ten miles are going to look rather alarming on their tracking app, not that they would hear what I say anyway. Almost immediately on passing them, the left calf starts to spasm. The walls start closing in. Soldier on, we’re counting down now.
Beacon Street is seventy-five miles long, I’ll swear under oath. A spectator offers to lend his bike. It’s tempting. I’m toast. Another break, fortunately timed before I come upon my volunteer clubmates manning the street crossings around twenty-three. The break makes me look like I’m in good shape. Fooled them. Really, it’s seeing them that lights up my smile. Huge lift. Soldier on.
Around the corners, onto Boylston Street. I’ve been watching my watch, doing the math, ever since things started going to hell back in Newton. While my time today won’t matter a whit – as noted, already re-qualitied, and nobody will judge times on a day like this – pride never dies and I’m thinking that I’d rather the ten-minutes digit not flip over to the next higher integer. I’m counting minutes, counting seconds, and I know I can’t take another break. And the crowd goes wild. No, wait, it isn’t the crowd (though they were wild, all day), it’s the calf. It’s going full-on spasm. If it seizes, that digit will flip, or worse. I shift into upper body running. Over-exaggerating arms and shoulders to will myself down the street, taking stress off the leg muscles. And it’s working. But time is tight.
Twenty feet to the finish line, just when you think you’re there, you’ve pulled off another one, out of nowhere some Wing Nut decides he’s going to hot-dog for the photographers in the finish line bridge. He tosses is arms in the air and cuts left, right into me. What. The. Hell.
No lateral control at this point, and no mercy. I give the dude a mighty shove with all the mass I can garner from my wimpy little fun-sized frame. Two-armed heave, shove the dude aside, hope he doesn’t hit the pavement (he didn’t) but don’t care if he does (sorta’ wish…). On the finish line video you’ll never see this if you don’t know it happened and don’t look really closely. But seriously. What. The. Hell.
And like that, it’s in the books. Fifteenth Boston, thirty fifth (official) marathon. It’s a habit. Oh, and that digit didn’t flip. Not by much, mind you, but math is real. Like birds. And climate change.
A week later, yep, this one left a mark. That quad pang is lessened but still there, so yeah, that wasn’t overuse, that was something that went pop. Run gingerly for a while. The legs are still heavy, so while my brain may hope I’m recovered, the body is still tired. But that body is old and it fought through a difficult day. And marks will fade.
Finally, a fun note to wrap this up: Remember that bit about watching my watch toward the end (which, I note, is memorialized in the Overpriced Marathon Pichas That I Never Buy)? Well, I leaned later that simultaneously, in a galaxy far, far away, Dearest Offspring the Younger was watching my progress on the (much improved, pretty downright real-time and accurate) app. Said Offspring to Spouse, “Do you think Dad’s going to make it in [before that digit flips]?” To which Spouse replied, probably right when I was checking my watch for the eighty-third time, or possibly when I was body-blocking the Wing Nut, “You know your Dad. He knows exactly how much time he’s got.” Ah, so true, so true. Touché.
Postscript
I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that this year’s was the worst Boston Marathon expo I’ve ever seen. Other than the Montana-sized primary sponsor booth with astoundingly costly stuff, there was a lot of open floor space and little running related content. But hey, you could buy a new roof, gutters, or windows. Or dog food (OK, people run with their dogs, but c’mon…). You could be assaulted by at least a dozen highly aggressive vendors pushing pain relief (at least that was running related). But if assault became a problem, the North Las Vegas police force had a booth. Really nice guys, great respect, and had fun chatting with them, but they had a booth? But the weirdest? You could get your hair done. Seriously. At a stand of about twenty hair styling stations. And another set of them, nearby, similar. And yet another booth doing weaves and extensions. The writer at this link described it well. A completely different kind of What. The. Hell.
Note: Most Excellent Photo @Mile 24 courtesy of Rod Hemmingway, Photographer Extraordinaire.
