ORIENTATION DINNER
“Hey, Al, you made it in yet?” It was Pat, here also for the Marathon. A neurologist, my age, he was presenting at the concurrent medical conference on sports medicine. He was due to talk Sunday at noon on “Exercise and the brain”. Attending the conference gives a doctor a free pass into the field; most everyone else has to qualify with a rigid age-based time. He was down at the Colonnade, and trying to talk me into coming there for their pasta feed. Once he found out it was $35 a head, he’d backed down, and now was wondering if I’d look for some Guinness with him.
Not one to imbibe two nights before brutalizing myself in a marathon, I said, “Well, you can hop on the ‘T’ and meet me here. I’m in the Theater District, and there are all sorts of restaurants, brew pubs and whatnot here. We can find somewhere for you to eat, and me to pick up a snack.” I’d already had a PB&J on the plane, in a vain attempt to try and use up all the food we’d bought for our ski trip. He seemed a bit hesitant, but once he realised it was only 3 stops from his hotel, and there was a stop literally just outside the front entrance, he ventured he’d give it a try.
Fifteen minutes later, he pops out of the grungy Boylston Inbound station, looking more dazed and confused than usual. I quickly grabbed him before he became a target for whatever riffraff might be plaguing lonesome tourists this evening.
“Oh, so this is the theater district? Looks nice … busy.” Pat nosed around, trying to sniff out the ambiance.
“Well, there’s all sorts of places to eat around here – cheaper, more expensive, brew pubs, Indian, Italian … anything in particular you’d like?”
We finally settle on “Tantric”, a South Asian spot a block away from the Commons off of Tremont. Pat chowed down on some spicy salmon thing, while I made do with a crepe-like Dada and a mango yogurt lassi. I faced the TV and got to see Pinero tie the Sox in knots with his slider and sinker, getting out of a bases-loaded, no outs jam with zero runs scored.
“So, you have a plan for the race? I asked Pat.
“Well, I thought I’d just try to go out at an 8 minute pace, and see what I can do.”
“Have you ever done that?”
“I did the Seattle Marathon in just under 3:45 [this would be an 8:24 pace] last November.”
“Really! That’s great! That means you would have qualified anyway for Boston.”
“I know. I was feeling a little guilty getting in through this conference. But I’d already paid my money, and I didn’t want to register again, so I guess I’m stuck with this 20,000 number.” Pat would have to start at the very end of the second wave of runners. The whole field would be going off in front of him. He’d probably have to be passing people the whole way to Boylston street. Repeating his time from Seattle would be a tough nut. Given the hills in that race, there was a good chance that he should be capable of going under 3:45 here in Boston. Pat had committed himself to improving his running. He had entered and finished a grueling 50 mile race over three mountain passes the previous August in the Cascades. I began to worry he might just beat me, which would be a first. His half marathon and 10K times were far slower than me. But I usually begin to fade after 18 miles – I think I’ve got about 30k worth of racing in me – anything more, and I start to disintegrate.
We parted after dinner, making plans for meeting at his hotel the next day, Sunday, for the afternoon double of expo and pasta feed. Still on a combination of West Coast and Mountain time, I stayed up until almost 1 AM watching some forgettable action flick on the Starz channel the hotel provided – at least it didn’t take up any space in the room.