The gatekeepers were almost hostile in even letting me approach the corral, but I promised them that I knew the runners and only wanted to say "Hello". They kept a close eye on me while I spoke to 'Mr. Adams', then ushered me away.
I started to walk back to my corral, then thought, "I've been to Boston before, and I always line up with several thousand people between me and the start. The heck with the corral, I'm going to watch the race."
So I made my way around the elite area, around the house, and came out into the woods in the midst of all the spectators lining the course. I was able to procure a spot on the second row, right behind several shorter children. Since the terrain there is a steep ravine leading down the road, I had an excellent, unobstructed view.
The spectators were great. Several offered to boost me over the fence so I could get into the lead corral, but I resisted that temptation. They must have been lined up ten rows deep on the hillside.
Across the road was a dark red two-story house. The upper windows were all open. In one, a woman rested on her elbows watching the festivities. In the next window a child leaned on his forearms, watching the carnival. Next, a man leaned out, resting his palms on the windowsill. In the next window over, a chocolate lab had its forepaws dangling out the window, resting its head upon the sill. What a photo op!
Then the wheelchair race started, and the athletes rolled on following the lead vehicle. Dick Hoyt was in the back of this pack, pushing his disabled son on their 20th Boston journey. The crowd roar escalated to another level they went by us. Suddenly, the Number 18 chair pulled out and wheeled back to the start. I don't know if he had a mechanical problem or maybe pulled an arm or back muscle on the take-off.
After they passed a line of gray-jacketed volunteers formed on the road on my side of the lead vehicle. The elite runners made their appearance, all dressed in color-coordinated uniforms. They ran in a counter-clockwise circle from the start to the lead vehicle, and back around it to the start. For all the world it looked like a post parade at the Kentucky Derby, with the silken colors flashing in the cool air.
I spotted Lee DiPietro, one of my training partners, and pointed her out to the crowd. "You have to yell for her when she comes by," I admonished, "the tall red-head in the French braid." The gray line began walking back to the start line, and the elites began to assume their positions. In the distance I heard the "Star-Spangled Banner" and two jets roared over the start at about 150 feet AGL. Suddenly, the sub-elite corrals erupted, the volcano spewing t-shirts and trash bags right and left. The gray line dissipated, leaving a sole survivor who backed away from the elites, raised his arm, and then "BANG!"
The crowd exploded in deafening appreciation as they swept by. The speed at the front was incredible. Lee flashed by, her red hair glowing in the cloudy light, and Jim came by a few seconds later. I saw a few other faces that I recognized, and then as the four and five thousand numbers came streaming through I decided to go back and get in line.
The pack was alternately walking and then jogging up to the start. I saw Kate and Teresa moving forward, and knew I should be close to my corral any minute. The numbers were beginning to get all blended together from some people moving ahead, so I finally jumped over the corral fence and began my walk to the start.
Having had the good fortune to see the start of the marathon, I had also been able to start my watch as the gun went off, so I knew I had an accurate running time. After jumping in with my corral, I casually walked to the start. People were hamming it up for the crowds and for the cameras back here, but there were also some very serious runners who intended to hit their target time.
As I crossed the chip mats and headed down the road, the people I had been standing next to on the hillside spotted me and gave me a rousing send-off toward Copley Square.
I had forgotten to hit my watch as I crossed the starting line, so I was clueless when we came to the first mile marker. Not that it really mattered anyway since I wasn’t running for time. However, a man and a woman passed me right at the mile mark and announced, "9:25, we’re right on pace. Maybe pick it up just a touch." I dropped in behind them.
At the 2KM mark I looked at my watch - 2:01 from the mile marker. I asked the woman what they were planning to run. She said they wanted to break four hours by running a shade over nine minutes a mile. I suggested that they had dropped it all the way to an eight minute pace, or 3:30, and may want to consider backing off their current pace a bit. All I got for my quiet advice was a pair of twin daggers from steely eyes, and then they took off weaving and bobbing through the crowd. Well, what do I know, but I’ll bet I’ve heard their story before.
A moment or two later Brad Roberts from RASAC ran up to me and asked how I was feeling, then zoomed away. I kept plodding along. After I passed the 5K mark I caught up with Teresa and her Chicago friend, and ran with them a bit, then moved a bit further up. I discovered Karen Mitchell, half of a freelance photographer team out of Pennsylvania, and ran with her for up to around the 20K mark.
Back here the marathon is a festival. There were the two rhinos all decked out in massive costumes. Some guy was dribbling a basketball, which was entertaining to the spectators but driving everyone around him nuts. Two women were running in matching ballerina outfits. A couple of hashers were wearing red dresses. Somebody had the beer can rigged on a wire, dangling from his baseball cap just inches away from his outstretched hands. Anything to get that extra bit of attention, I guess. By ten miles I was finished. My abbreviated training plan as posted earlier was not effective. I was not injured, but neither was I motivated. I was simply fatigued from lack of conditioning and possibly a crash course that was way too aggressive for the time limitations imposed by the impending marathon. Alejandro had advised me that if I couldn’t go into the marathon well-trained, then I should go well-rested. I did neither. Now I knew that I could finish; I just didn’t know how I would feel at the end. Somewhere in here was a Gu stop, but I missed the hand-off. However, the volunteer launched a perfect over-the-right-shoulder spiral from fifteen yards away that dropped squarely into my outstretched hands on the run. Going into the hills of Newton I was traveling with a lady from Hershey, Pennsylvania, who was running her tenth race ever. A bit later I found Kate Spencer, and we ran together for a while, possibly even getting photographed together. Then I had to make a couple of pit stops, and dashed into the port-a-pots on the median strips. The spectators would yield in line to the runners, which I thought showed a wonderful sense of sportsmanship.
Going up the last of the hills a woman in a yellow singlet passed me, and I decided to draft along behind her, though I did share the lead here and there. Soon I was making my way down by Boston College alone.
The first time I ran Boston I swore off marathons forever at that point. My quads that year had been shredded beyond redemption in the early downhill sections. The second time I had taken it relatively easy and pulled through in fine fashion. This time my quads were alright, but that incredible sense of fatigue had begun to set in like a suddenly gray fog dropping in on a sunny morning. I stopped once or twice, and Karen caught up with me again.
Down in Boston, I don’t know whether it was Coolidge Corner or Cleveland Circle, I had had it. I had lost all motivation. I knew my miles had degenerated into the nine-and-a-half range. I told Karen I was going to Gallowalk in, and stepped off the course to stretch my cramping calves.
I hobbled back onto the course and began the slow drudge through Brookline. At about twenty-two miles I caught a girl wearing a ‘Buffalo Chips’ singlet, and asked her if she knew Coach George (yes), Cary Craig, (maybe), or Karl Watanabe (definitely not). Her goal was to break four hours. We hit the 23 mile mark with a 9:45 split in 3:32 and change. I told her she had to run a 28 minute 5K to do make her goal, was she up to the challenge? If so, I would try to help.
She trailed behind me as I cranked the pace down. "On your right, on your right, on your left," I had a constant litany going. The runners would slide over and we swept down the center stripe.
Mile 24, a 7:35 split. "Are you OK with this?" I yelled back to her. "Yes, just keep going!"
We were passing people, and the terrain just clicked by. Every now and then I would wave at the crowds and shout, "How about Janet?" and the spectators would roar back. Mile 25 in 7:40. "How are you doing?"
"OK, but can you slow down just a bit?"
The Citgo sign - one mile left. Since I had the gun time on my watch, I knew her sub-four was in the bag unless she totally blew up on me like Vivianne did in New York two years ago. We headed down Commonwealth Avenue, where I was surprised that the crowds weren’t as heavy as in previous years.
Then I told her, "We’ll turn right up a slight hill, then turn left on Boylston Street, and it’s a bit over four hundred meters to the finish from the corner."
As we hit Hereford Street I spotted Gay Legg of Ruxton, right on pace for a sub-four marathon. We chatted for a moment, then I moved on. Janet surged forward by my side - she’s definitely going under four!
Mile 26 in 7:45, and we just cruised into the finish line side by side in 3:56:44.
I got my bag immediately, which was easy since everyone else in my corral was still out on the course, put on some dry clothes, and hopped the snow fence straight into Starbucks. I knew if I kept walking around the block I would find some hot soup, but I didn’t feel like staying out in those chilling winds blasting through the Back Bay streets any longer than necessary. Back in Baltimore I remain,
Jim Adams
P.S. I heard that my name had been called on Boylston Street to rousing cheers. I checked that photo website that Melanie posted, and sure enough, three frames show that on an almost empty street my number is surging away from a pack of three runners in futile pursuit.