Boston Stronger than ever

Sometimes life is more dramatic than even any story we can make up.  If somebody  were to write a movie script even remotely resembling  what has happened in the last year around the Boston Marathon it would have been consider far flung fiction if not outright fantasy.   

And yet here I was a year later standing in the runner’s staging area with about 36,000 other runners, preparing to write the final chapter in a story that will clearly have its own chapter in Boston’s history.  

  

It’s a fascinating story that includes thousands of victims, tens of thousands of heroes, two despicable villains and over a million supporting extras.  It ends with an American winning the race for the first time in 31 years and carrying the names of the 4 people who lost their lives on his chest.

For me the day started at 4 AM.   

There’s three ways to get into Hopkinton on race day…ride the BAA supplied school buses out of Boston, get a seat on one of the few private buses that have permission to enter the runner staging area, or get a ride to one of the parking area outside the town and that provide  shuttles to the start.   If you choose the BAA school buses you have the privilege of sitting in seats designed for school children with your knees banging against the seat in front of you for an hour as the bus (sans shocks) bounces its way out to the start.  Once there you are dumped outside in the runner staging area, a catchy name for practice fields behind the high school, for your 3+ hour wait.     The private buses (usually belonging to big charities or large runners clubs) offer the luxury of warm comfortable seating where you can stay until the walk to the starting area and a bathroom.

The good news…I had been granted a seat on one of the charity buses by a close friend.  The bad…because of the new security rules the roads into the starting area were being shut down early so the private buses had to leave Boston by 5:30 to make the trip out to Hopkinton.

The logistics around the race had changed a lot this year because of increased security.    In prior years you were given and oversized bag with your number on it that you could put your clothes and personal affects into at the start and then they would be bused to the finish and be waiting for you when you are done.   Having dry clothes, a towel, some aspirin and maybe your phone to call your family, when you are tired, sweaty and sore is a pleasure hard to describe.  The increased security this year changed three things: the bag was smaller and transparent,  you had to check your bag at Boston Common on race morning before heading out to Hopkinton, and you had to walk to the Boston Common to pick up your bags after the finish (a distance of at least a half mile.    If you didn’t go into the Boston Common in the morning to leave your bag then you have nothing waiting for you at the finish.   Equally interesting, since it is pretty cold sitting around waiting for the start (it was in the 30’s when I got there), everyone brings extra clothes to stay warm.   In prior years they would then put them in the bag to go to the finish.  This year anything you weren’t going to wear in the race got discarded in the staging area or along the half mile walk down to the start.   Runners, frequently with a sense of humor, had all kinds of responses to the situation.   I rode with a Boston Red Sox fan who was wearing an old NY Yankees sweatshirt just so he could throw it in the pile of trashed clothes.   A heard a similar story who was wearing a shirt from an old flame.  There was a guy with white cotton sweat pants and sweat shirt that still had a tag on each that said 2 for $10.   For me it was a pair of sweat pants that had seen better days and a running jacket I had worn at the start of the marathon 30 years earlier.  I thought it was a fitting burial.   There was literally hundreds of trash bags filled with clothes that were being collected for one of the local charities.

New this year was the increased security around the runner staging area.  There were hundreds of military, swat teams and state police surrounding grounds.  All kinds of military toys and surveillance equipment were apparent and there were sharpshooters on the roof of the school.  Every runner was scanned before entering the runner village and no backpacks or large bags were allowed inside.  Despite the increased security and the volume of runners, once inside the village it was the normal Woodstock-ish pre-race party atmosphere.     But there was also an emotional and sometimes defiant tone to the runners with many conversations about “not letting any terrorist scare us off” or “taking back the finish line”.   For thousands of runners who had been stopped short of the finish line last year, this was their chance to finish a race that had started over a year earlier.     I spoke to many who were stopped with less than a mile to go and one who was turned back literally a hundred yards away.  “Boston Strong” shirts and tattoos were everywhere.    The support from runners from all over the world was inspiring. 

Because of the number of runners (10,000 more than the normal limit) there were 4 different starting times (or waves) starting at 10 AM and in each wave there were 9 corrals (holding areas).   Your number determined your wave and corral and these were ordered based on your qualifying time.   I was in Wave 3 going off at 11AM.   

The weather at the start was perfect, in the low 50’s and a bit overcast.    It could have been the enthusiasm of the crowds, the pent-up emotions, the great weather or all the above that contributed to a fast early half of the race for me.   Big mistake and I should have known better.   By the time I was half way the sun was out, the temperature had jumped up to 70 and I was cooking like a slice of bacon on a hot griddle.   Despite taking water and Gatorade early I couldn’t get enough electrolytes into me to combat what I had lost and I was cramping up badly.    It was a boost seeing all the family members and the grandchildren at mile 16 but inspiration didn’t last long.

By the time I hit the uphills at miles 17-21 I was doing a good imitation of a running hunchback of Notre Dame.  Have you ever had one of those mornings where you had worked hard in the yard the day before and as you climb out of bed you were so stiff you felt like someone has shortened all your muscles?   Well it’s not like that.  More like someone has hung you up like a piñata, handed a group kids bats and told them to have at it.    Even my hands had swollen up to the point I had trouble holding the cups at the water stops. 

I think it was the crowd that helped keep me going.  They were awesome.  There’s a saying I remembered “when the going gets tough, the tough get going”.   In the last couple of miles it was more appropriately “when the going gets tough, the tough get slow”.   I had slowed to a marathon shuffle yet based on the support  from the crowd you would have thought I was winning the race.  At times they were so loud my ears actually hurt.   As I came around the last turn there was a runner down in the road.  He was trying to get back up but he couldn’t get his legs under him.  With a little help from another runner he made it back to his feet and started wobbling towards the finish.  The crowd went berserk cheering.

So that was my day.   One of my slowest and most painful runs but one I will remember fondly given the circumstance of last year and all the support of friends, family, spectators and other runners.    Probably appropriate that 30 years after my fastest marathon I was back to run my slowest.    Will I be back next year?  I think so but I need to requalify and we will have to see what the body (and Pam) says about that.  

On the way to Boston…this one will be special

I love Boston.  I don’t think I understood how much until I moved away.   There is something about the people, the culture, and the fanatical love of sports that gets into your blood.   Just ask a Red Sox, Celtics, Patriots or Bruins fan.   I have a theory that the same piss and vinegar that spawned the American Revolution has morphed into a passionate love of the city and its local sports teams.   I guess that makes New York the British.

So it is no surprise that when the city came under attack, especially at the oldest sporting event in Boston history,  that the entire city and surrounding area would come together to support the victims and hunt down the bombers.  My niece Chelsea reminded me the other day of something Adam Sandler said at the time that sums it up.   “Boston is probably the only major city that if you fu** with them, they will shut down the whole city, stop everything and find you.”

A little over a year ago I was standing not far past the finish line when the bombs went off and changed the face of the Boston Marathon.    A year later I’m trying to keep my emotions in check as I prepare to join 34000 other runners for what should be the most memorable Boston Marathon in its 117 year history.    The blog I wrote after the bombing last year had several predictions for this year.  Here’s what I said:

So where do we go from here? I’ll make a few predictions. I believe that this will not materially change the format of the Boston Marathon. If that was the goal of the bombers they picked the wrong city and unquestionably the wrong event. We are marathoners; dedicated, stubborn, passionately addicted to our freedom on the roads and undeniably a little crazy. Not the kind of people that scare off easy.  

I believe that this will not reduce either the number of runners or the number of spectators next year. In fact, I expect this will be the best attended marathon in the history of the race.   My daughter wrote this assessment from a spectators view http://www.tiffanyschmidt.com/boston-love/ .   It eloquently sums up what I heard from many others.   I believe that some of the injured spectators will ultimately run the Boston Marathon. On that day I hope to be running alongside them to see it.

I was mostly right on the first prediction.  They have made some changes to the race logistics to make it safer and unfortunately it will make it a bit harder for the runners but the race itself remains the same.    I have to board a bus in Boston at 5 AM to get into the starting area by 7 for a start time of 11 AM.   Normally there would be less than 26000 runners but because so many runners didn’t finish last year they increased the number of positions so they could come back and run again this year.   I’ll bet there are very few who don’t.   As a result, with 34000 runners we are really stretching the limits of the starting area.   There will be 4 waves of about 8500 runners each, stepping off a half hour apart.  To put that in perspective, the winner will be within a couple of miles of the finish line before the last official runner crosses the starting line.

The second prediction was on the size of the crowd running and spectating.  Both will be records.  The spectator crowd is expected to surpass a million people (the population of the City of Boston is 636,000). 

 The third prediction will take a bit longer.  Many of the injured are just learning how to use their new artificial limbs.  Some of them plan to be watching near the finish and intend to jump in to run the last few steps to the finish line with a friend or relative.   I would love to see that.  Maybe next year they will at the starting line with the rest of us.

Until that day I plan to be out here doing my imitation of running and in some small way letting the victims know that I care and they are not forgotten.  And, I’ll be waiting for them to come join me.    I just hope they don’t wait too long…I’m not getting any younger.

If you are looking for me, my number is 21805.

Stay tuned and I’ll let you know how it all goes down.

The secret of joy is the mastery of pain – Anais Nin

Ever meet one of those guys that get hurt but won’t go to the doctors or hospital to get it checked?   You know the ones; they cut their hand nearly off with an electric saw and as they bleed through the 5^th towel proclaim “it’ll be just fine once I get the bleeding stopped.  Nothing a little Guerrilla Glue can’t fix.”.      Any suggestion of going to the hospital would be an assault on their manhood. 

I don’t see myself as this type of person but I’m afraid my wife would disagree (joined swiftly by my children I’m sure).   Most of their “perception” stems from those few occasions when I’ve returned from runs with what I would call aches and pains but they would refer to as injuries.    And of course there was that one time when running with Heather I caught half a curb, rolled my ankle and fell in the street.  I have to admit, I did do the macho thing…popping back up on my feet and limping around saying “It’s OK, I’ll just walk it off”.    It was pretty clear looking down at my ankle swelling over the top of my shoe like a muffin top that walking it off wasn’t an option.    Who knew skin could turn that many colors in a matter of minutes.

Most of the time I heal up after a few weeks or months of limping around but occasionally it will take a bit longer.  It’s not that I prefer to suffer rather than go to a doctor.  Quite the contrary, if they could help me I’d be waiting at their door when they open the next day.  It’s simply that after making the time to go I know the conversation will go something like this:

Doctor:  How did you do this?

Me:     Running

Doctor:  Does it hurt when you run?

Me:  Yup…that’s why I’m here.

Doctor:  You need to stop running and give it time to heal.

Me:  How long will that be?

Doctor:  Hard to tell.  Let’s set up a follow up appointment in a month.

 Now I’m out the money for a doctor visit and I’ve been told I should lay off running at least a month.  Not very helpful.  Heck, Pam said the same thing to me before I went.  If I had just agreed with her I could have won a few marriage points and saved myself the doctor costs.  

If you are running a marathon you have already made up your mind you are going to deal with a certain amount of pain.   Even without an injury, the process of running a marathon requires a runner to keep going long after the body has depleted its energy resources, any cushioning has been stomped out of the shoes, and the leg muscles have turned to cement.   In races like the Boston Marathon , with its steep downhills, the legs take such a beating that each downhill stride  later in the race feels like someone driving spikes into your quads.   Given our brains are hard wired to avoid pain, why would anyone put themselves through this, especially more than once.

Insanity and masochism are certainly two possible answers.    For me the second is not likely but the first is arguably a possibility.   But I think there is more to it than this.   Some of us like to test ourselves, to push ourselves to try and find the limits of our capabilities.  It could be overcoming fears like taking your first airplane flight or maybe even parachuting out of one.    It might be physical like climbing a mountain,  running your first 5K or maybe even doing a marathon.    In each, pain (emotional or physical) teaches us about our limits and at the same time we often learn we can reset those limits.   And if Anais is right, conquering those pains should bring joy.    If that is the case, when I finish Boston this year I should be on cloud nine.  

At this point you might be thinking nothing is more painful than reading this blog.  That may be true but clearly you are testing your pain limits because you are still reading it.    

Two weeks to go.  Pray for good weather.

If wishes were fishes all the world would be fed

  Don’t you just love one liners that wrap wisdom and a bit of scolding into and easy to speak statement.I can remember one of my relatives using a similar version of this when I was young (I’m sure after I said something that started with I wish…).  Now that I’m a grandfather I’m tuning up on all the great old phrases that make me look wiser than I am.  The more common current day version is If wishes were fishes all beggars would eat.   I was surprised to find the original version is part of a Scottish nursery rhyme that goes something like this:

                If wishes were horses all beggars would ride

                If turnips were swords I’d have one by my side

                If “ifs” and “ands” were pots and pans

                There would be no need for tinker’s hands 

 You have to love the internet.  It has a way of not only putting the most esoteric information at your fingertips but at the same time correcting years of society morphing original culture into modern day sound bites.   We can’t even blame this one on texting or the 140 character limit of Twitter since today’s version was established long before the internet.

So what has this got to do with the Boston Marathon, marathoning in general, or my efforts at either?  I’m glad you asked.    Pretty much nothing….and maybe everything.    How many of us have a dream, set a goal, even made a proclamation of what we are going to do and spent more time thinking and talking about it than actually taking steps to make it real.   I know I have.    Fear could be a big part of it.   Fear of failure, fear of criticism, fear of the commitment or fear of just letting go of what you have to try for something new.    There is no question that staying in our comfort zones get in the way of dreams. 

 And of course we are great at justifying our inaction to ourselves.   We have that little voice in our heads that says I’m too busy, too tired, too old, or have too many other priorities at this point in my life.   And he/she always ends with the ultimate justification….I’ll get to it later.    Yeah…right.   Between the fear and the justification it’s a wonder mankind isn’t still back in the stone age. 

 There’s a flip side to fear that is also a motivator.  The fear of not doing something, of being insignificant, of disappointing someone, of losing what you already have.     It’s that motivation that can turn the ordinary person into an Olympic track star when they need to escape a dangerous situation.    

 I’ve heard lots of reasons why people run marathons.   To prove they can do it, to improve their health, for the glory of the win, to test their personal limits, and, in the case of charity runners, to help others.   For me the motivation is to remember; or more specifically not to forget.    Committing to the Boston Marathon assures that at least once a year I will do something that not only reminds me of Nick but allows me to fund a charity in his name that will keep his memory alive.  Why do this by running a marathon, and in particular one where you have to work to qualify every year?   Partially because Nick loved athletic challenges and loved to live life large.    But mostly the fear of forgetting my son far outweighs the fears of not finishing and requalifying,  or the fear of getting injured, or the struggles to train in the cold weather or the aches and pains of old age.    The side benefits of better health, helping others, and eating all the ice cream I want aren’t bad either.

 Let’s face it, sometimes no amount of effort is going to make a wish come true.   Short of discovering time travel that certainly is the case for me.    In the interim, I run marathons and along the way, through the generosity of those who support me,  hopefully make other people’s wishes and dreams come true.   So here is my version of the Scottish nursery rhyme.  It will even fit in a Tweet.

 

If wishes were fishes all the world would be fed

               If dreaming made it happen we’d all stay in bed
              If words were the answer then all dreams would come true
             Turn wishes and dreams into things that we do

Father Time and Mother Nature can make for cruel parents

When I was younger I use to think 60 was really old.   Now that I’ve arrived I realize I was right.   It’s not that I think of myself as old  (on a good day my wife would say I’m mentally an adolescent)  it’s just that my body keeps reminding me.  That’s particularly true when I’m out marathon training.    There are days when I just feel like an old car that still runs but the chassis is sagging, the shocks are shot, the headlights aren’t very bright and it makes a wheezing sound when it’s going uphill.   While it still runs, there is no longer a 4^th gear (or even a third gear), having a full tank of gas has a whole different meaning, and I carry a lot more junk in the trunk.   One positive is the neighborhood dogs no longer chase me since my exhaust rendered them unconscious.

 I can still get out and do a creative imitation of running but I miss the old days when you would just glide along the roads with the wind blowing through your hair (heck…I miss the hair too).    These days I think the correct definition for my style of running is “plodding”.   I was running through a neighborhood the other day and a man walking his dog passed me by and asked if running in place was a new form of exercise.   

So while Father Time has been beating me around the body with the old age stick, I expected Mother Nature to swoop in and give an old man a break.  Not likely.    Going out for this morning’s long run (18+ miles) I was greeted with a balmy 6 degrees.    When it’s that cold you not only have to work harder to breath, but the pavement is less forgiving on the legs and the inevitable sweat tends to freeze to your mustache, eyebrows and any exposed skin.   Oh yeah, and the water bottle freezes to a semi-solid slush that gives you brain freeze when you drink.    I guess I should be thankful; it was 2 degrees when I went out the other day. 

Cold, while difficult, is a minor annoyance when compared with snow.   The lack of traction on snow covered roads makes forward progress twice as difficult.  Given how slow I’m already going I have nightmares that I may find myself going backward in time.   Add to this the risk of muscle injury (you use totally different muscles trying not to slip), the risk of stepping in hidden potholes and of course staying out of the way of the ever present but woefully ill equipped winter drivers.   While over the years I’ve gotten use to the idea of running in the snow in Boston, it is a whole different experience in PA where plowing the roads to payment is an occasional experience.   

If you read this far I appreciate that you have been kind enough to put up with my venting.   I suspect Father Time is a strict parent and I don’t expect much help from him.  But I’m putting in a special request to Mother Nature to ease up and take pity on an old man.    If not for me, for the poor flowers and trees that may not see spring till sometime in June.