Thursday, April 22, 2004
Only 26.2 miles from Hopkinton to Hell: The 108th Boston Marathon
Let's kick this off with some statistics.
Official entrants: 20,344.
Official entrants who actually showed up: 17,950.
Official entrants who finished: 16,743.
Runners receiving medical treatment: just over 1,000.
Runners hospitalized: 136.
Runners who had heart attacks: 2.
In light of all that, I am really happy with how my Monday went.
--Hopkinton--
I disembark from a shuttle bus in the parking lot of Hopkinton High School. As I stumble down the street to our team meeting place, I think about all the other things I could be doing at 7:45 on a warm Patriots Day morning. Like sleeping. Or... sleeping.
By 11 am, I have guzzled about 40 oz. of water, which I think makes me eligible for sponsorship from Belmont Springs. After watching the temperature slowly creep up over the course of the morning, the entire Dana-Farber team lines up for a pre-race photo. The sun is out in full-force, and we're baking in 83 degree heat on the pavement. The guy sitting next to me says, "This is ironic. A cancer fundraising group, and we're all gonna get melanoma."
I cross the start line at around 12:30, start my watch, and proceed to run the slowest two miles of my life. Slow like the sloth. Slow like my 70-year-old uncle behind the wheel. I did this with the intent of making up the time in the second half of the race, a plan only slightly less doomed to fail than a 1990's dot-com start-up.
--Ashland--
Some cloud cover rolls in, which pushes the temperature down to 80 or so. Spectators are spraying us with garden hoses, telling us that the Red Sox are behind by 3 runs, and pointedly not telling us how many miles are left. People are passing me, apparently in a rush to get to the mile 23 medical tent (which is where I see more than a few of them later).
--Framingham and Natick--
The course flattens out and becomes The Most Boring Stretch of Road in North America (tm). With absolutely nothing to distract me, realization sets in that I have something like 20 miles to go. The heat has addled my brain so much that this seems like a reasonable, managable distance. In the interest of experimentation, I attempt to drink a half-cup of Gatorade while still jogging, and manage to inhale about 3oz. of lemon-lime electrolytes. By the time I get through Natick, the Sox are only behind by 1.
--Wellesley--
I get to the halfway point at about 2:30, convinced that all the Wellesley students have left the course and I'll be able to pass by the campus in peace. Not so. At least 200 women are still out there, doling out high-fives and screaming like banshees. The guys around me are stunned and awed. I witness the following exchange between two male runners:
"Well, there's one good thing about the heat."
"What?"
"Short skirts."
"Amen, brother."
I choke back another Gu at mile 13 -- Vanilla Bean is losing its cache -- and keep plugging, looking for Dad, Stephen, and Diane. I finally come across them at the 93 overpass, and I have never been so happy to see lawn chairs and a cooler in my life. They dole out sweaty hugs and douse me with ice water, and Diane exclaims, "You look great!" She will be the first of many people to lie to me in this fashion over the course of the afternoon.
Just as I am contemplating parking myself in one of the lawn chairs, Stephen says, "The Kenyans went by about a minute ago." Wiseass.
--Newton--
My name is pretty easy to pronounce, right? It's phonetic. Jo-nelle. Easy. However, this tongue-twisting feat is too much for at least 60 percent of the fans on Washington Street. I wrote my name on my jersey before the race, hoping to get a little love from the crowd, but it turns out that many of them can't pronounce it. As I advance on them, I see them squint a little, and they shout, "Come on, Jo... Jo-lene," or "Jo-elle," or some other verbal train wreck. It's okay. I appreciate the effort at this point, because the sun is back out, and I'm dragging. This part of the course gets hazy, but I remember I picking up a tangerine PowerGel at mile 17 and promptly spitting it out, having found something that tastes even more disgusting than Just Plain Gu.
With the exception of the water stops, I haven't walked yet, but the hills are taking their toll. I've lost about 4 pounds at this point, and every molecule of salt I've consumed in the last three days has seeped out of my body and is encrusted on my singlet. Then, just before mile 19, I find a reason to keep going.
Two cute, shirtless boys. 'Tis true.
Ninety percent of the people around me were walking, but these boys -- bandit runners, I think, for they had no shirts on which to pin a number -- were slowly jogging up the hills, and I suddenly found a reserve of energy that allowed me to keep up with them. Everytime I bottomed out and wanted to walk, some spectator would hose them down, and I would find a way to keep running. We do what we must do.
I finally passed them at the top of Heartbreak and realized three things:
1) The last three miles were the fastest I had run all day.
2) My stomach cramps had faded a little, and my legs were feeling surprisingly okay.
3) I only had five miles to go.
So, thank you, Cute Shirtless Boys. I salute you.
--Brookline--
Brookline is somewhat of a blur. I remember seeing Avital on Beacon Street, and I remember a very nice group of guys just after a water stop yelling out my name (pronounced correctly, thank you very much) and encouraging me to start running again, and I remember seeing a lot of people walking. By the time I get past Coolidge Corner, I tell myself I am never allowed to run a marathon again.
--Boston--
I pick up another Dana-Farber runner drinking water at the mile 24 medical tent, and we commence to get through the last 2.2 miles. By the time I see the Citgo sign, I'm swearing under my breath, realizing that I'm going to have to do this again. And again. And again. Stupid inspirational Adidas ad campaign.
I wave to the Dana-Farber patients and fans on the Kenmore bridge and dig in for the last mile. The guy I'm running with has never done Boston before, and I tell him, "Boylston Street is going to seem really long. It's not." I'm lying.
I see my mom on Hereford Street, screaming like a Wellesley girl; I hang a left; and I make it down Boylston to the finish line.
A volunteer gives me a mylar jacket, even though it's 85 degrees out. I get a big hug from my roommate Charlotte -- I think she was covertly checking me for signs of hyponytremia -- and I shuffle down Boylston, looking like a salty, foil-wrapped baked potato.
All in all, a good day.
Official entrants: 20,344.
Official entrants who actually showed up: 17,950.
Official entrants who finished: 16,743.
Runners receiving medical treatment: just over 1,000.
Runners hospitalized: 136.
Runners who had heart attacks: 2.
In light of all that, I am really happy with how my Monday went.
--Hopkinton--
I disembark from a shuttle bus in the parking lot of Hopkinton High School. As I stumble down the street to our team meeting place, I think about all the other things I could be doing at 7:45 on a warm Patriots Day morning. Like sleeping. Or... sleeping.
By 11 am, I have guzzled about 40 oz. of water, which I think makes me eligible for sponsorship from Belmont Springs. After watching the temperature slowly creep up over the course of the morning, the entire Dana-Farber team lines up for a pre-race photo. The sun is out in full-force, and we're baking in 83 degree heat on the pavement. The guy sitting next to me says, "This is ironic. A cancer fundraising group, and we're all gonna get melanoma."
I cross the start line at around 12:30, start my watch, and proceed to run the slowest two miles of my life. Slow like the sloth. Slow like my 70-year-old uncle behind the wheel. I did this with the intent of making up the time in the second half of the race, a plan only slightly less doomed to fail than a 1990's dot-com start-up.
--Ashland--
Some cloud cover rolls in, which pushes the temperature down to 80 or so. Spectators are spraying us with garden hoses, telling us that the Red Sox are behind by 3 runs, and pointedly not telling us how many miles are left. People are passing me, apparently in a rush to get to the mile 23 medical tent (which is where I see more than a few of them later).
--Framingham and Natick--
The course flattens out and becomes The Most Boring Stretch of Road in North America (tm). With absolutely nothing to distract me, realization sets in that I have something like 20 miles to go. The heat has addled my brain so much that this seems like a reasonable, managable distance. In the interest of experimentation, I attempt to drink a half-cup of Gatorade while still jogging, and manage to inhale about 3oz. of lemon-lime electrolytes. By the time I get through Natick, the Sox are only behind by 1.
--Wellesley--
I get to the halfway point at about 2:30, convinced that all the Wellesley students have left the course and I'll be able to pass by the campus in peace. Not so. At least 200 women are still out there, doling out high-fives and screaming like banshees. The guys around me are stunned and awed. I witness the following exchange between two male runners:
"Well, there's one good thing about the heat."
"What?"
"Short skirts."
"Amen, brother."
I choke back another Gu at mile 13 -- Vanilla Bean is losing its cache -- and keep plugging, looking for Dad, Stephen, and Diane. I finally come across them at the 93 overpass, and I have never been so happy to see lawn chairs and a cooler in my life. They dole out sweaty hugs and douse me with ice water, and Diane exclaims, "You look great!" She will be the first of many people to lie to me in this fashion over the course of the afternoon.
Just as I am contemplating parking myself in one of the lawn chairs, Stephen says, "The Kenyans went by about a minute ago." Wiseass.
--Newton--
My name is pretty easy to pronounce, right? It's phonetic. Jo-nelle. Easy. However, this tongue-twisting feat is too much for at least 60 percent of the fans on Washington Street. I wrote my name on my jersey before the race, hoping to get a little love from the crowd, but it turns out that many of them can't pronounce it. As I advance on them, I see them squint a little, and they shout, "Come on, Jo... Jo-lene," or "Jo-elle," or some other verbal train wreck. It's okay. I appreciate the effort at this point, because the sun is back out, and I'm dragging. This part of the course gets hazy, but I remember I picking up a tangerine PowerGel at mile 17 and promptly spitting it out, having found something that tastes even more disgusting than Just Plain Gu.
With the exception of the water stops, I haven't walked yet, but the hills are taking their toll. I've lost about 4 pounds at this point, and every molecule of salt I've consumed in the last three days has seeped out of my body and is encrusted on my singlet. Then, just before mile 19, I find a reason to keep going.
Two cute, shirtless boys. 'Tis true.
Ninety percent of the people around me were walking, but these boys -- bandit runners, I think, for they had no shirts on which to pin a number -- were slowly jogging up the hills, and I suddenly found a reserve of energy that allowed me to keep up with them. Everytime I bottomed out and wanted to walk, some spectator would hose them down, and I would find a way to keep running. We do what we must do.
I finally passed them at the top of Heartbreak and realized three things:
1) The last three miles were the fastest I had run all day.
2) My stomach cramps had faded a little, and my legs were feeling surprisingly okay.
3) I only had five miles to go.
So, thank you, Cute Shirtless Boys. I salute you.
--Brookline--
Brookline is somewhat of a blur. I remember seeing Avital on Beacon Street, and I remember a very nice group of guys just after a water stop yelling out my name (pronounced correctly, thank you very much) and encouraging me to start running again, and I remember seeing a lot of people walking. By the time I get past Coolidge Corner, I tell myself I am never allowed to run a marathon again.
--Boston--
I pick up another Dana-Farber runner drinking water at the mile 24 medical tent, and we commence to get through the last 2.2 miles. By the time I see the Citgo sign, I'm swearing under my breath, realizing that I'm going to have to do this again. And again. And again. Stupid inspirational Adidas ad campaign.
I wave to the Dana-Farber patients and fans on the Kenmore bridge and dig in for the last mile. The guy I'm running with has never done Boston before, and I tell him, "Boylston Street is going to seem really long. It's not." I'm lying.
I see my mom on Hereford Street, screaming like a Wellesley girl; I hang a left; and I make it down Boylston to the finish line.
A volunteer gives me a mylar jacket, even though it's 85 degrees out. I get a big hug from my roommate Charlotte -- I think she was covertly checking me for signs of hyponytremia -- and I shuffle down Boylston, looking like a salty, foil-wrapped baked potato.
All in all, a good day.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
Done and done
I finished. I ran the whole way. And I wasn't hospitalized.
A blow-by-blow description of the day is forthcoming, after I shotgun some more ibuprofen. Just wanted to let everyone know that I got through it and I feel pretty good.
A blow-by-blow description of the day is forthcoming, after I shotgun some more ibuprofen. Just wanted to let everyone know that I got through it and I feel pretty good.
Sunday, April 18, 2004
If not humor, at least esoteric wit.
So, yeah. It's the night before the race.
Just got back from the Dana-Farber pasta party, and I will begrudgingly admit to getting a little teary. All season, people have been repeating the same tug-at-the-heartstrings rhetoric, the "you're making a difference" reminders. When I saw the pictures of kids being treated at the institute, it hit home.
We all have our own race to run -- literally and metaphorically -- and some of us get through it with wisdom, or ego, or inspiration. I try to do it with humor. (You've read the training log, so you judge whether I'm succeeding at that or not.) But if I hit the bottom tomorrow, if there comes a point where the Gu and the Gatorade and the crowd and the internal wisecracks aren't helping me get it done, I've got a pretty powerful store of inspiration to draw on.
I'm running in honor of a lot of people who have won their battles with cancer, and a lot of people who lost. You're all letting me run in honor and in memory of your loved ones -- I've got a responsibility to them, and to you, to get it done.
And with that, I'm going to watch "This is Spinal Tap," set two alarm clocks for 5:30am, pack up my PowerBars, and go to bed.
Just got back from the Dana-Farber pasta party, and I will begrudgingly admit to getting a little teary. All season, people have been repeating the same tug-at-the-heartstrings rhetoric, the "you're making a difference" reminders. When I saw the pictures of kids being treated at the institute, it hit home.
We all have our own race to run -- literally and metaphorically -- and some of us get through it with wisdom, or ego, or inspiration. I try to do it with humor. (You've read the training log, so you judge whether I'm succeeding at that or not.) But if I hit the bottom tomorrow, if there comes a point where the Gu and the Gatorade and the crowd and the internal wisecracks aren't helping me get it done, I've got a pretty powerful store of inspiration to draw on.
I'm running in honor of a lot of people who have won their battles with cancer, and a lot of people who lost. You're all letting me run in honor and in memory of your loved ones -- I've got a responsibility to them, and to you, to get it done.
And with that, I'm going to watch "This is Spinal Tap," set two alarm clocks for 5:30am, pack up my PowerBars, and go to bed.
But mylar is the new black!
Someone pointed out to me yesterday that since it's going to be so hot on Monday, they probably won't need to pass out those kickass foil jackets at the finish line. This is a tragedy.
Saturday, April 17, 2004
Mmmmm... electrolytes.
36.5 hours to go. Not that I'm obsessing or anything.
I am carbo loading as we speak, eating a late dinner of leftover pasta and wondering what the hell Drew Barrymore has done lately to merit her hosting Saturday Night Live. Picked up my number today -- 17,206 -- and met up with Robbie for our traditional pillaging and plundering of the marathon expo. The PowerBar booth never knew what hit it.
I am carbo loading as we speak, eating a late dinner of leftover pasta and wondering what the hell Drew Barrymore has done lately to merit her hosting Saturday Night Live. Picked up my number today -- 17,206 -- and met up with Robbie for our traditional pillaging and plundering of the marathon expo. The PowerBar booth never knew what hit it.
Friday, April 16, 2004
The road really is a bi-ah-itch, my friend.
Things I am reading to take my mind off the fact that the marathon is in three days:
Fifteen Minutes. I used to take pictures for this magazine, back when it was funnier and less self-important and didn't run stupid articles about eavesdropping through fire doors.
Summit Up. Even though I don't live in Colorado anymore, Summit Up is still the absurdist highlight of my day.
Joe's Journal. Who knew Joe Pisapia was so funny? And he plays a mean banjo, to boot.
Stereogum. "Spray, delay, walk away." Brilliant.
You know what I'm not reading? The weather forecast.
Fifteen Minutes. I used to take pictures for this magazine, back when it was funnier and less self-important and didn't run stupid articles about eavesdropping through fire doors.
Summit Up. Even though I don't live in Colorado anymore, Summit Up is still the absurdist highlight of my day.
Joe's Journal. Who knew Joe Pisapia was so funny? And he plays a mean banjo, to boot.
Stereogum. "Spray, delay, walk away." Brilliant.
You know what I'm not reading? The weather forecast.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Media mogul
From my hometown newspaper. It makes me sound like a huge wuss.
There are times when "8" is not a lucky number
Screw you, Pete Bouchard!
Everyone's forcasts for Marathon Monday have been creeping up over the past couple of days, but Pete over at Channel 7 has topped them all with a cheery "high of 88." Eighty. Eight. Degrees.
Also, a gusty, southwesterly wind. Is that a headwind, or a tailwind? Which way am I running again? Where am I?
Everyone's forcasts for Marathon Monday have been creeping up over the past couple of days, but Pete over at Channel 7 has topped them all with a cheery "high of 88." Eighty. Eight. Degrees.
Also, a gusty, southwesterly wind. Is that a headwind, or a tailwind? Which way am I running again? Where am I?
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
Cloudy with a chance of biblical plagues
Never let it be said that marathon runners do not obsess over absolutely everything.
Weather update...
- National Weather Service: Showers and mid-60s.
- Channel 7: Cloudy and 81.
- Strange woman: Floods and locusts, chance of raining frogs.
Which is preferable: low 80s, or frogs? I'm torn.
Weather update...
- National Weather Service: Showers and mid-60s.
- Channel 7: Cloudy and 81.
- Strange woman: Floods and locusts, chance of raining frogs.
Which is preferable: low 80s, or frogs? I'm torn.
