Marathon 13: Lessons from Providence

My long run prep is pretty standard: carbing up, hydrating, Body Gliding, blister-taping, and of course a minute or two of freaking out: “Dear God what was I thinking? I can’t run blank blank blank  miles. This sucks this sucks bleah bleah bleah poor me. Oh wait. I chose to do this. Okay. Cool.” 

I download songs that make me want to move, like my latest favorite “Shake it out,” by Florence and the Machine, which, not coincidentally, is about spiritual rebirth. Sometimes I google quotes, some silly – “The problem with jogging is that the ice falls out of your glass” (Martin Mull) – some profound -- "Hard things take time to do. Impossible things take a little longer." (Percy Cerutty).  Fuck yeah, Percy.

Lately, I’ve gotten circumspect. Perhaps it’s collateral damage from the last year’s travails, or maybe it’s just part of the process of aging.  I’ve been chewing on my past and wondering about the future. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why I’ve added a new twist to my pre-run repertoire: I remind myself to look for the lessons that day’s run will teach me. And during the run, maybe as I’m faltering up one of the many mountain ranges that lately have invaded my running routes, maybe as I catch a glimpse of myself in a storefront window and see, like a ghost, something more than me or someone I once was,  I ask: Where am I taking myself today? Who will I be when this ends?

In the pre-dawn hours of this past April 15, I remember thinking in those terms. I was up early not for my own long run but in preparation for supporting the long run of thousands of others. I wore my favorite top, a blue Boston Athletic Association technical shirt with Boston Marathon 2008 in gold lettering down one sleeve. Over that I wore my orange American Liver Foundation Run for Research singlet from that same race.  I topped all that off with my brand-new, optic yellow 2013 Boston Marathon volunteer jacket. I was spiffy times infinity.

What will I learn today? How will I grow? I asked these questions, even though today I wasn’t going to be wearing out my knees and angering my blisters. I was headed off, along with 8,000 other volunteers,   to visit for several hours with 30,000 of our dearest friends and family members – our Boston Marathoners. 

It was a perfect day for the marathon – cool temps, cloudy skies.  We set up our tables on Route 16 in Wellesley in front of the town hall, the halfway point of the marathon, thirteen long tables on each side of the road stacked up to four levels high with cups of water and Gatorade.

It was a typical pre-race morning except for a heart-ripping half minute. I remember standing among our volunteers as we, along with all the other yellow-jacketed folks from Hopkinton into Boston, held many seconds of silence for the victims of the Newtown tragedy. I remember my throat closing up from the sadness.

And then the day improved as we cheered on our friends and loved ones. Several hours later, as the horde thinned out  we began our clean up, laughing and marveling over the sights we’d seen: our charity runners smiling and posing for pictures, Joan Benoit -- a hot pink blur, scores of soldiers in camouflage -- backs bent under heavy packs, our wheelchair athletes -- arms whirring like spokes, ultramarathoner Dean Karnazes -- shirtless. 

We were headed east toward home nearly an hour from Boston, the hydration stop cleared ages ago, when we got the news about two explosions at the finish line. 

From the back seat, the friend who’d gotten the update on his iphone: “Maureen, do you want me to drive?”

Me, one hand on the swerving wheel, the other scrolling through the phone for my Boston daughter’s number: “No. I’m fine.”

Him from the back, sharper now, as the car danced upon the broken lines between the travel and passing lanes: “Maureen, do you want me to drive?”

“I’m FINE.”

Four weeks later, I’m at the starting line for my thirteenth marathon. Every one of the thousand runners is wearing something in tribute to Boston: blue and gold ribbons, Boston Marathon shirts and hats, homemade signs taped to chests and backs. We have a moment of silence and for once it is a true moment of silence. No one is complaining about the weather. No one is bragging about past personal records. There is only breathing and the occasional sniffle. Then every single one of us, as far as I can see, joins in for the Star Spangled Banner.  We are flanked by police and police dogs, and soldiers in camouflage who wear heavy packs and carry guns with barrels as tall as me.

I wondered what I’d learn that day.

Within the first mile, I met up with three Run for Research marathoners who were at Boston’s mile 25 when they were stopped and told their run was done. At Providence, they were finishing what they’d started. I remember thinking that that was typical. Fast or slow, running, walking, crawling, distance athletes train themselves to finish what they start. I hadn't run a marathon in thirty months. I wondered if I'd remember what to do when my body started wearing out.      

I got my chance to find out sooner than I'd thought because by mile seven, I wanted to quit. My stomach had started bothering me around mile three.  Now, after a relatively slight incline, my legs were horribly sore.

I was running near two older gentlemen. We started talking. Tom was running his 138^th marathon and was chatting up every female within earshot. Jim was running number forty-eight and was expecting to finish in about six hours. He'd run a marathon in DC just the Sunday before in a little more than five hours.

Tom exited the course to visit with nature and as he headed into the brush I cheered him on: “Go Tom Go!” I believe he did, because he looked quite relaxed when he passed by me a few minutes later.

Eventually I got a second wind and lost Tom and Jim but I didn’t forget about them. I marveled at their stamina. “They know how to endure,” I remember thinking. And it hit me that when I am seventy-two, the runner Jim’s age, I want to still be running marathons too. I want to still be going after what I want. I want to be someone who endures.  

Around mile eleven or so I entered a godforsaken trail and ran in place for what seemed like days. I was panicked by the time I hit mile thirteen. I was so worn down, my stomach was gurgling so volcanically, that I was afraid I’d have to drop out. I started walking a bit, then running, then walking then running, and proceeded to move ahead at a syrupy drip. At a turn in the road I came upon a runner about my age, his back stooped, his feet barely shuffling, T-shirt and shorts soaked through with sweat. Compared to him, I was a Kenyan.

“Humidity is awful today,” I said.

“As long as you keep putting one foot in front of the other, you’ll get there,” he said.  My eyes started tearing up. I think I said, “Yup,” but what I should have said was “Thank you.” 

I don’t remember much of the rest of the run except that eventually I entered a wooden pathway, ocean to one side, and ten thousand miles of grassy stuff on the other. “Somebody really fucked up this marathon measurement,” I remember thinking. I re-entered civilization around mile twenty-two and mainly grunted at the few spectators still out on the course.  

At mile twenty-three I met up with a young girl all in pink who was running her first marathon. She was walking at that point and I was close to walking. We were approaching the last hill and I asked her if we could run up it together because I’d really appreciate the company. We ran together for a bit then her boyfriend dressed in jeans and work boots joined her, so I took off on my own.

Eventually I met up with a running group-sponsored water stop. One of the guys had on my optic yellow volunteer jacket. He told me he’d been at the finish line on Patriot’s Day and had seen his son cross safely, then all hell broke loose and he saw and heard awful things. We gave each other hugs.    

At mile 25 I met a runner in a 2013 Project Hope jacket, another of the Boston Marathon charities. He'd been stopped at mile 23 on Marathon Monday. We talked about running friends we had in common. Then we each moved ahead at our own pace.  A few minutes later I met yet another runner who was finishing what he’d started back in April at Boston and yes, he was planning on running Boston again next year. 

I’d like to say that the last mile was the easiest, that my burden, emotional or physical or some combination of the two, lifted and I was carried forth on angel’s wings to the finish, but that would be the opposite of the truth. I was heavy and worn out as I turned left toward the finish line. I saw my friends and family seconds before I crossed it. I detoured to them, got some quick hugs, then scooted the few yards to the end. All around me, runners in foil blankets embraced and congratulated each other. Police and soldiers walked among us. Riflemen watched us from the rooftops nearby. 

I joined my people. We posed for pictures. I told everyone I’d had a crappy run and would need to do another marathon soon so I could blot this one from my memory. I kissed my medal, a silver anchor with the word "Hope," Rhode Island's slogan, engraved on it.

Two weeks later, I ran a half marathon, Boston’s Run to Remember, a race dedicated to Boston’s fallen police and this year honoring Sean Collier, MIT officer and the fourth victim. 

I approached the start line with some trepidation. That 26.2 mile beating in Providence was still fresh in my mind. Plus, I’d never done a run as long as 13.1 miles so soon after a full marathon. I expected to spend most of the run walking. I had no illusions about anything, running or otherwise. 

There was a huge police presence, partly because it was a police run, but also due to the fact that it was the first significant race in Boston since April 15. There were 11,000 of us. We listened to brutal and beautiful dedications. We sang the national anthem, and then we all began moving forward. I crossed myself and said a quick silent prayer. 

My head was filled with many things, including the memories of that starting line two weeks earlier, and all the people I'd met, and the lessons I'd learned, and the medal that still sits on my kitchen counter because I like looking at that word "Hope" very very much. And then, along with everyone else, I ran. I didn't stop running until I crossed that finish line. Turns out, I hadn't forgotten how to endure.