GETTING READY TO RACE
I’ll skip over the expo and the pre-race “pasta feed”, complete with roving clowns and stilt walkers. Basically an endless series of subway rides, punctuated by masses of people moving through lines.
I spent the night before the race in my cubby meticulously arranging the minutiae of a marathon. Unlike an Ironman, which has not only three sports’ worth of gear to arrange, but also the transition and special needs bags to obsess over, a marathon is quite simple: shoes, socks, pants, shirt, and a number. Extras might include a watch, heart monitor strap, hat and sunglasses. I threw in a few gels for good measure. The bigger deal was prepping for the pre-race marathon: getting there and waiting with 20,000 others to race – a 4 + hour ordeal, longer and more complicated than the race itself.
Let’s see: iPod, food, drink, warm clothes, backpack, clothes bag for the baggage bus, and reading material, in case I don’t see anyone I know. Oh, and a cell phone, for connecting, sun screen, money, room key, etc., etc. Exhausting just to think of, much less pull together in the four hours I have to kill that evening. But I manage to get it all done, and still have 3 hours and 45 minutes left to stare vacantly at the action adventure flicks on the hotel cable.
(I never have any trouble sleeping before a race. I get my usual 7 hours, and wake before the alarm goes off.)
Next morning, it’s down to the Marriott buffet: sausage, bacon, oatmeal, yogurt, OJ. I know, I know, nothing heavy before a race. But, I’m not going to start running for 5.5 hours – I must be sustained during the coming ordeal! Then back up to quickly change, and head out the door for the 2 block walk to the buses leaving from the Boston Commons. I end up third in line, so I get my pick of seats – 3rd row in, on the aisle (the first two rows sit over the wheel wells, giving no room for legs). Out the I-90 turnpike to 495, and Hopkinton. The trip takes about an hour, and with the line-up for boarding, some riders have filled up their bladders. Two in particular, both dressed in Rhinestone Elvis outfits complete with black wigs, and shades, attempt to convince the driver to stop a bit early so they can unload at the road side. But she’s a school bus driver in real life, so she has no problem sticking with her orders, which are to drive straight to the high school, no stops. The lady behind me borrows an empty Gatorade bottle, and start to hike down her shorts, just as we pull into the parking lots. I stand aside as there is general charge for the exits, with talk of “inviting looking bushes to the right.”
I ring up Pat as I enter the compound. He locates himself outside the corner of a tent, where’s he’s waiting for a lecture on the “Psychological Aspects of Marathoning.” I want an empty head, not a full one, so I tell him I’ll meet him after I hit the latrine line. I also want an empty bladder. About 2/3rds of the way through the line, I spy Richard, the spiritual chief of our local triathlon club, who’s back at Boston for another try after last year’s heat wave. I wave “hi”, and meet up with him once I leave the porta-potty. He’s waiting in line with the brother-in-law of a good friend of my wife. We re-introduce ourselves; all three of us are doctors, which of course hurts, rather then helps our running. Like I said, you want an empty head, devoid of facts and knowledge, when you’re abusing yourself by running for 3-4 hours.
But meeting them does give me a place to sit for the next 45 minutes, and a chance to ignore my own anxieties by listening to someone else’s. Richard moans about being a “sprint triathlete, not a long distance runner.” And it’s true; given his 10K times, he should be a near 3 hour marathoner. Last year, he went nearly 3.5, but at least he got to blame the heat. Unfortunately, though I can’t convince him of this, he’s also training seriously for Ironman Coeur d’Alene, where he hopes to qualify for Hawaii. A good race at Boston and a good one a CdA just cannot be done. Two different training regimens, too close together. Hopefully, he’ll keep his focus on Ironman; it will be his first one in five years. He’s such a good short course racer, and he’s so smart, but still, even though he can intellectually understand the differences, until you actually go through the damned race, you don’t completely understand what everyone is trying to tell you about pacing. And nutrition/hydration. I raise my eyebrows at his Fuel Belt filled with Hammer Sustained Energy, a protein/carbo drink which is way more than I think he needs for this short a race. He seems convinced, though.
I’ve got a plan, and if there’s anything I’ve learned from 9 Ironman races and 4 marathons in the past five years, it’s that plans only work if you follow them. My plan goes something like this: since there are two waves, and I’m near the end of the first one. I will start at the VERY end of the first wave. I’ll let a lot of space develop between me and the pack. I’m a super good downhill runner, compared to most folk my speed, and the first several miles of Boston are downhill, with the steepest sections at the very beginning. I’ll need some running room, or I’ll burn up a lot of mental energy trying to either go slow, or weave around people. Then, the first 8 miles I will run at a laughingly slow pace. It should feel just below (slower than) the minimum speed needed to tire me out. I’ll kick it up a notch from 8-9 miles through 14. Then the hills start. Here, I’ll let my heart rate get into zone 3 – for me, between 143 and 149. I’ll do my best to maintain effort up and down the hills, and not let myself get mentally psyched out by the uphill effort. Finally, when the hills are done – about mile 21 – I’ll finish with whatever I have left. And especially in this last part of the race, I’ll admire the crowds, the masses lining the streets leading into downtown Boston.
I’ll let myself walk a bit in each aid station, just long enough to drink a cup of Gatorade. Whatever the weather is, warm or cold, windy or still, sunny or cloudy, I will ignore it. I will not let myself be pushed by the clock – I will run by feel, not pace, and I will NOT let myself burn out before the end. And I will let myself learn whatever the day is going to teach me.
While the Tacoma crew bid me good bye – they all leave for their corrals about 11:15 – I start to change into my race gear. Socks, shoes, heart rate monitor, bright red Wesleyan University short sleeve thin synthetic T shirt, red Ironman Wisconsin visor, and Oakley wraparound shades. Pinned to my waist belt (which holds my number, 9730) are two Gu packets. That’s it. Everything else goes into the backpack, which goes into my official Boston Marathon gear bag. Except a grey “Tour de Firefighters” long sleeved T shirt, which I’ll throw away at the start. A last porta potti trip, then off to line up.
Without the runners waiting for the second wave mucking things up, the route to the corrals is almost passable. I jog the whole way at a very slow pace, taking care not to disturb the walkers. Halfway there, I stop to do a ten-minute stretch routine. At the corrals, I’m directed to the right, to the 9000’s; I go left, to the last stall, for the 10,000s. I duck under the barrier, and remain steadfast at the back. I toss my shirt, and bounce around a bit, pausing for a very faint Star Spangled Banner coming from somewhere about a half mile ahead. Another old guy next to me notices my shirt, and asks if I’m going to carry on in the great Wesleyan runners’ tradition of Bill Rodgers and Ambi Burfoot. I smile, admit I was there when they were, and acknowledge the great gulf between me, now, and them, then. A faint cannon blasts, heads bob somewhere up the hill. We remain standing still.