I posted recently that I should know better than to try plan a

breakthrough marathon. I hate it when I'm right. I had a great

winter of training and early spring of racing. I ran a

consistent 75 miles per week from the beginning of January until

April. I ran a 1:23:23 half marathon and a 28:56 8k. The

combination of those three things had me believing that a sub-3

marathon effort was upon me. Oh, if only it could have happened

that way at Boston. Wouldn't that have been nice?

Before I begin the race report, however, and while I still have

your attention, everyone does know that Boston is run on the

Massachusetts state holiday known as Patriots' Day, right? It

is a celebration of the beginning of the Revolutionary War, as

marked by the infamous "Midnight Ride of Paul Revere".

Something probably not everyone knows, and certainly I was never

taught in school, is that without a little help from a couple of

unsung heroes, Mr. Revere's ride would likely have been a

well-planned but poorly executed event, not unlike the marathon

you are about to read about! Paul Revere was stopped by the

British before he left Boston, but a pair of riders whose

support he enlisted at the last minute managed to break through

and finish the infamous ride. Those riders were named William

Dawes and Dr. Samuel Prescott. It was those two who warned the

townspeople that the British were coming.

Ok, on to the race.

My sister, who lives in nearby Belmont, was kind enough to drive

me downtown to Boston Common to board a bus for my trip to

Hopkinton. This would be my second point-to-point marathon, and

I must say that the long ride to get to the starting line again

proved unsettling. As many non-runners are wont to say when you

tell them you are running 26.2 miles, "I don't even like driving

that far!". Well, I don't either, particularly when it makes

the point that I'm about to push my body to its limits running

back where I began.

Welcome to Athlete's Refugee Camp. Tents, Port-a-Johns, lots

and lots of people all milling about with little or nothing to

do, waiting for Godot. And only three hours to wait. Because

it won't do me any good, I suspend disbelief that there has to

be a better way to get people to the starting line without

making them wait so long for the race to start. I find a spot,

lie down, try to relax, and wait and wait. The temperature is

cool - 50s - and it is sunny. Perhaps lying out in the sun for

three hours without drinking a lot of fluids would play a part

in the problems I had after the race. Seems to make sense now,

anyway.

A short nap and several Port-a-John stops later it is time to

go. Off to the corrals. Drop off stuff, then look for my spot.

Joe Bator is already in the corral, says Hi, and I push as far

forward as I can before giving up. I end up about midway.

Since I've been listening to reports of Boston, I have heard

stories about the problems with the start being slow. When the

gun goes off, I have a different perspective, no doubt due to

being in corral three. I reach the start in 1:10 or so, and

while there are a lot of bodies, they are all moving at a good

pace and I have no problems with dodging or being slowed by

people in front of me. Seeding of every runner certainly has

paid off and my fear of being slowed by the narrow streets

proves unfounded.

My plan for this race is 10-10-10k. The first 10 will be easy.

The second 10 will be work. The last 10k will be hell. Because

of Boston's profile, I figure a near even split on the first and

second 10 would be indicative of harder work in the second 10.

Pace will not be forced. I will run purely on feel. If

everything works out right, that will put me under 3 when all is

said and done. The best laid plans of mice and men∑

The first 10 miles is 1:08:23, or a 6:50 pace. The pace feels

easy and I feel strong when mile 10 arrives. In fact, I can't

wait to get there since I'm dying to start the second 10 and

pushing the effort a bit. The only real problem I have during

the first ten 10 miles is an abdominal cramp (not GI distress,

just a muscle cramp in my abdomen). The cramp lasts for only a

minute or two; altering my breathing pattern seemed to relieve

it pretty quickly.

The second ten miles is a different story. Twice I am hit with

the same cramp in the same spot, and again altering my breathing

relieves the pain. I am definitely feeling like the pace is

requiring more work, and I can tell from an occasional glance at

the watch that the hills are doing their best to make me work

harder and keep my pace even. Not that that is a surprise, but

I start to wonder what if anything will be left when the hills

are done.

If I look at my splits through 30k, I realize now that I was

keeping a remarkably consistent pace. If the chip is to be

believed, and I suppose that's a safe assumption, the 5k splits,

adjusted for the 1:10 it took to get to the starting line, are

21:08, 21:26, 21:04, 21:27, 21:23, 21:46. Had you asked me

while running, I would have thought otherwise. I do not know

whether that meant I was pushing hard up the hills or making up

for it down the hills, but the splits don't seem to reflect the

race I felt I ran on Monday.

Ok, hill time. Well, big hill time anyway. In reflecting on my

race, it wasn't any one, or even any sequence of hills, that did

me in. It was what to my flatland self looked and felt like

constant elevation change throughout the race. When the first

10 miles was described as a downhill quad killer, I envisioned

an off ramp. It was more like a bunch of off ramps with a few

on ramps thrown in just to keep you honest. Rare was the flat

stretch on which one could get in a groove. The second 10 miles

wasn't much different. It was just a different percentage of up

and down. But up and down it went, relentlessly. The big hills

in Newton, including Heartbreak, could have destroyed me had I

gone out too fast. I didn't, and they didn't. However, they

did drain me, mentally if not a bit physically as well. When I

got to the other side, I was again expecting an off-ramp like

ride into Kenmore Square. But wait, I used to live here. I

used to take the T to work down Beacon Street every day to work.

I remember ups and downs. And lo and behold, they were there.

"All downhill from here", my butt.

At mile 20, I tapped my watch for the second split time of the

day. It was slower than the first, but with the hills I felt I

was still doing ok. I didn't feel awesome, but I felt ok. I

think I miscalculated that I was bit off pace, but I was at

6:54/mile and the needed pace was 6:52. No matter, though, I

felt that the next mile would decide my fate.

I checked everything - legs, breathing, etc - and felt that I

was ok. My turnover was good. My stride felt similar to the

first 20 miles. I knew I hadn't picked up the pace, but I felt

like I was doing ok. I wasn't. The mile split was around 7:10

and I openly cursed myself. One more mile I gave myself before

I would release the thought of sub 3. Keep pushing; it's

downhill after all. I'm now not feeling so great. My mind is

playing games with me. 'Give it up.' 'Breakthrough marathon my

#%%.' 'Wimp.' I feed off a couple of different runners, trying

to keep them from passing me. One person keeps passing me on

the downhills and I keep passing her on the uphills.

Eventually, I leave her behind, feeling somewhat pleased that

I'm not completely gone. Mile 22 comes seven minutes and change

after the last, the exact calculation both unknown and

unnecessary. I know now it's gone, but I'm not giving up on a

PR, no matter how small.

Now, something weird happens. My clavicles start to hurt. What

the heck? That's never happened. And I don't just mean sore.

I mean hurt, as in wincing, grabbing them to try to offer some

relief. The pain does subside after a bit, but it stays with me

until the finish. If the 75 miles per week paid a dividend on

Monday, it was now. Sub 3 was gone, but the legs are still

moving and I'm strong enough to hold a pace in the low 7s until

the end. I even think to myself for a time that the problem

isn't just fatigue. My breathing is normal, my legs are moving

well, but I just can't push that little tiny extra to get the

pace under 7.

Somewhere around Kenmore Square my family is yelling at me and I

don't even realize it. For the previous few miles someone named

Scott is behind me and probably has his name written on his arm

as everyone keeps yelling "Go Scott". After turning my head ten

or twenty times thinking they are talking to me, I give up.

When my family yells "Go Prescott", I must have ignored it.

Boylston Street comes. It is long. No miracles happen and I

finish. I PR'ed by 1:15 over my Richmond result in November of

last year, but I am disappointed that I didn't get under 3. It

meant an awful lot to me. Still does. And I worked really hard

for it. Unknowingly, I did manage to sneak under 7mpm pace with

my finishing time, and that is significant to me. I'll take it

as an honorable mention prize.

And now the real story starts. I finish feeling worse than I

ever have at the end of a marathon. Nauseous, wobbly, and

starting to shiver, I stop occasionally to try to right myself.

Several volunteers ask if I am ok. Being the obstinate guy that

I am, I insist that I am. With my luck, my gear is in the last

bus on the left. It takes forever to get there. The other

zombies are kicking my butt getting there. More volunteers ask

if I am ok. Shivering and barely able to walk, I get my gear

and find a place to sit to put on my clothes. I doubt my

ability to get back up. I get my clothes on, in between a few

muscle cramps, then struggle to get up and find something to

drink and eat. As with the reports I read last year, the

goomies stink, but I don't care. I grab anything, and anything

is some putrid sugary drink from which, despite my parched

condition, I can only manage a few sips.

More luck: the Bs in the family reunion area is the last letter

on the right. More walking, and I'm really hurting. More

volunteers ask me if I'm ok. One even carries on a conversation

with me for a few minutes most likely to make sure I don't

wander into the Charles River. Finally, I find my

brother-in-law and nephew. He looks at me and forlornly tells

me that the car is quite a walk. We walk a block or two and I

ask him to grab a cab, get the car, and pick me up on the corner

where I wait with my wife and daughter. While waiting, I throw

up everything in my stomach, all of which is liquid. Twice. My

sister arrives with the car. I "hop" in, and a few minutes

later, I tell her to pull over and do it again. At her house, I

proceed upstairs, shower, and climb in bed. I take water with

me, knowing I need it. Each time I try to drink some, I throw

up.

At 8pm, my wife and sister call my doctor back home and he says

get him to the ER. If I refuse, he says, call an ambulance.

Without telling anyone, I had just weighed myself fully clothed

and weighed four pounds less than normal. Four pounds for me is

3-4% of body weight. Combined with the drink/throw up

cause/effect I know I need to go. Hating doctors as I do (no

offense to the doctors on this list who of course are excluded

from my gross generalization), I try to buy a few more minutes.

No dice. The relatives are insisting. So I go.

Three bags of IV later, I return home in remarkably better

shape. The next day I eat anything and everything in sight with

no ill side effects.

So what went wrong? I drank a lot in the morning, but stopped

three hours before the race. During the three hours before the

race, I drank sparingly, and (in what now seems stupid), laid

out in the sun reading and napping while waiting for Godot with

my fellow refugees. Before the race, I took an electrolyte

capsule, and during the race I took another at one hour and at

2.5 hours. I drank a partial cupful of water every 2-3 miles,

and consumed a bit of HammerGel at the same intervals. There

was no doubt I was dehydrated or nearly so by the end, and more

so after all the vomiting, but my water intake didn't seem to

low or different from other races. I wish I had answers.

Now for some perspectives on the race known as Boston.

First and foremost, I agree with a statement made to me by Jim

Adams. That course is the devil in disguise. I hate it, and I

love it. Monday, it was just hate. Tuesday, I began to see its

attraction. Today, I felt certain I would want to run it again.

When is still open for debate.

Last year, a statement was made that the course was ugly.

Didn't notice. And didn't care. It's 26.2 miles of road. The

only thing I noticed was that the road never flattened out and

it killed me.

The start. Not a problem, but I see that it could be further

back in the corrals. Chicago's 30k runners were far more of a

problem at the start thanks to their version of seeding (elites

in one pen, men under 3:10, woman under 3:40 in another pen,

everyone else is on their own). No need to dodge and weave at

Boston when everyone around you is running the same pace.

The field. Humbling. If you ever think you are fast, go to

Boston. 3:02 ain't fast. And if it is, then there are a lot of

fast people in this world. The field didn't thin out ∑ ever.

1145th overall. Fast is the person who beats you. Slow is the

guy behind you. That means there is lot of room for

improvement, and Boston is the place that will remind you of

your place in the running universe. I don't think any other

race can come close to that feeling, at least with any other

race whose results I've ever seen.

The crowds: better than Chicago, and I was surprised by that.

I'm not sure I really love crowd support, but if you do, I've

certainly never experienced any better than Boston.

The organization: my baggage bus was the furthest away and my

family reunion letter was the furthest away. Somebody's has to

be, I guess. I won't second guess the organizational details,

and can only hope that there is legitimate reason why we were

taken to the starting area three hours prior to the race. All

that waiting would be my only organizational pet peeve, but I

have to think there is good reason. Please tell me there is

good reason!

Goomies: They sucked, but so what. Maybe I was just out of it

at the end, but I can't get worked up about lousy food at the

end of a marathon.

I do have one big complaint: An official marathon banner hanging

just before Wellesley declared "Wellesley: Next 320 Decibles",

or some such. My complaint is they misspelled "decibels". What

has the world come to?

Enough already you are saying. Ok, I'm done. It was an

enjoyable experience. I learned something about myself, about

life, about marathoning, about victories inside defeats, and I

made it out alive. One of these days, I'll go back and do it

again. In the meantime, I have some more running to do.

ORN: an easy 30 minutes in a light snow in Belmont, MA, where I

remain for the week, enjoying a visit with my little sister who

keeps threatening to take me to the nearby "MH" (mental

hospital) every time I reach for the running shoes.

Prescott Balch

Evanston, IL

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