or "The Hard is What Makes it Great" or "Hurts So Good" or "Because I'm Loving Every Wonderful, Horrible Moment of This" or "26 Miles for 26 Sets of Tiny Hands" or "Sorry, Quads!"
It's taken me a few days to write this post for a few reasons, the biggest of which being exhaustion. The second biggest was the huge challenge of wrapping my brain and words around what I accomplished on Monday. I'm still not quite sure I'll do it justice, but please allow me to attempt. So without further ado, sit back, sip a beverage and re-live the day with me:
The alarm went off at 4:15 (go ahead and shudder with me reading that) and I showered, belabored over what to wear and packed all the rejected running
clothes in my big yellow race bag, along with all the food, post-race clothes and stuff I'd need for the day. I double, triple and quadruple checked that my timing chip was on my sneaker. I proudly affixed an Otto the Orange temporary tattoo to my left cheek in memory of my friend Chris, for whom I was running. I listened to Eye of the Tiger. Twice.
It was time to head over to the Dana-
Farber meeting spot so we could all walk to the buses together. As I made my trek, I couldn't help but notice the small nag in my right shin.
"Not today. Please, God, not today," I pleaded in my head. Once there, Abby, Jim and I
buddied up and were on the same bus, much to the amusement of those sitting around us. I was glad to have them by my side, too, because it's hard to be nervous when you're laughing with friends. We made our way to the church that hosts us in
Hopkinton and there we waited until it was time to head to the start. The room holding us was full of sunscreen, bagels,
vaseline, safety pins, Band Aids, markers, posters, nervous energy and hugs. Uta
Pippig even made a surprise guest appearance to give us some last minute race advice. But let's be serious - who of us had the attention span or brain power at that point? My mind was everywhere as we waited for our time to head to the start.
Can I do this? Will today be my day? Was my training enough? Will my shins hold out? And then it was time.
Once herded into corral 22 like cattle, we all shed a layer (perfect running weather), bounced around nervously an then the gun went off. Eye of the Tiger blared through the speakers, we started to move and before I knew it I was crossing the starting line and getting a shout-out from Coach Jack over the microphone (woo
hoo!).
Abby, Jim, John and I decided we'd run together in true long run tradition. After all, it's just another long run, right? I love the first miles of the Boston Marathon because they are so truly Massachusetts suburbia -- local bars with live bands rocking out, children handing out orange slices, people with boom boxes
tailgaiting on their front lawns, chalk boards marked with the score of the Red
Sox game and lots of thick accents (GO DANA
FAHBAH!). These miles passed easily and we were at or below our target pace for the first 10K, although Abby and I lost both Jim and John along the way - they each bolted ahead at some point.
Once I got moving I was pain free and easily turning my legs over, mile after mile. We high-
fived little kids, smiled for the cameras and I kept thinking to myself "this is going to be an AWESOME race for me. I can feel it." By mile 8, Abby needed to stop and stretch, though, and I know what a hard time I have getting going once I stop - especially during a race. She didn't want to break apart quite yet, though, so we devised a plan: She'd stop and stretch, I'd drop my pace ever so slightly, and she'd catch back up. It worked OK in the end, but at the cost of Abby having to work pretty hard to catch me from a dead stop. By 11 miles her knees were asking for another stretch, and this is where we parted ways, knowing another sprint wasn't in her best interest. I felt a pang of guilt - "Do I leave a friend to run solitary?" but knew it was best for both of us and took some comfort in knowing her beloved Jared was only 6 miles away, waiting to hop in and join her. And as she put it in
her own blog post - we each had a race to run and she had been running mine that day.
The next four miles were somewhat surreal. I was caught up in the moment, wide-eyed and excited. I marveled at the crowds, thanked the heavens for a beautiful race day, scanned for familiar faces and actually saw a couple including
JJ, my Thursday night bartender. I tried to remind myself of why I was running. I laughed with other runners as we heard the
Wellesley "scream tunnel" long before we saw it and couldn't believe how quickly the first half of the marathon passed. Then, somewhere around mile 15 I felt just a little fatigue in my quads and thought "Uh oh... this is going to be ugly."
As anyone who has run Boston even once will tell you, the name of the game is to preserve your energy and muscles for the first 16 miles or so, then "really go to work" on the Newton Hills, as Coach likes to say. By mile 20, you should feel like you're at the halfway point in your race, physically. I say all this to explain that feeling "a little fatigue" at mile 15 meant I had a VERY tough race ahead of me. And sure enough,
Grossman's Hill (which you run down, not up) beat the crap out of me. I was so thrilled to see my manager Gerald and his family that I felt great for a fleeting moment and bolted over for a hug,
grinning ear-to-ear, but by the time I hit t
he Dana-Farber station at mile 17 and was hugging Jared, the only way I could answer his question of how I felt was "I'm dying out here."
Onward I plugged, and as I turned the corner toward the dreaded Newton Hills, I passed the fire station that my friend Danielle's grandfather was stationed at so many years ago. I was running in his memory, and in this moment I felt compelled to raise a fist to the sky, look up and say "For you!" The hills didn't seem so dreaded after all. I was fueled by the crowd noise, cowbells and posters, I felt sick smelling the "street meat" I usually salivate over and I felt empowered by the knowledge that I was running for little kids who go through so much worse with so much more courage that I've ever known. The hills were particularly hard on my body this year, but I only had to walk for a fleeting moment - I knew it was "mind over body" at this point. And thus the physical race was over and the mental race began.
Somehow I found myself at BC still moving along. The downhill was pure misery, but I kept reminding myself how hard I'd trained, how far I'd made it, how few miles I had left and how incredibly awesome, funny and hot I am. True story. By mile 22 the headwind was strong, the air was damp and raw, and the sky was grey and ugly. I felt like I was engaged in an epic battle of days past, one woman fighting against both the elements and the limitations of her own body. It seemed like it was getting colder, greyer and windier with each step we got closer to Boston, but at this point I knew I was also getting closer to my best girlfriends - and that if they had waited 3 and a half hours in the cold to watch me, by God I was going to run by them in a blaze of glory. I knew at mile 16 that I wasn't going to make my sub-4 goal time, so by now at 22 and 23 I was comfortable to walk briefly every now and then. Never for more than 20-30 seconds, but this always proved just enough rest for my weary legs to pick back up and go. I kept repeating the Marines mantra in my head - "Pain is temporary. Pride is forever."
The next part of the course down Beacon through Washington Square and Coolidge Corner had always been my favorite - downhill bliss! But considering I had left my quads back in Newton (heck, truth be told I probably left
them in Wellesley), downhill was the last thing I wanted. I fought each step until I finally had my girls in sight - I mustered up another bolt and a toothy grin as I hugged them, thanked them for being there and told them just how much I was hurting. At this point, though, I was at the home stretch and I knew it was only pain - nothing serious that could kill my race - so I got my last wind and powered on home.
I braced myself for the hardest part of the entire course - the Mass Pike overpass. It's a short climb but is just late enough and just steep enough that it almost stopped me cold last year. I climbed easily this year, however, because I knew that at the top of this mountain was the reason I had endured 24 miles already - the offici
al Dana Farber cheering station, where all the patient partners were waiting. I stuck both arms out and slapped as many tiny hands as I possibly could, while saying over and over "This is all for you!!! I run for you!" My chest swelled with pride, knowing the good I was giving back and the hope that we runners give these kids. I saw Coach Jack too, slapped his hand, met his eye with a smile and "kept on keeping on." What pain? I was walking on air.
Through Kenmore
the Red Sox game crowd roared even louder than the g
irls in Wellesley. I managed to spot a friend from high school and gave a high-five. I was reeling on pure adrenaline and self-discipline at this point. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot - until I could see the intersection of Comm Ave and Mass Ave. I stopped to walk for 10 seconds and then mentally prepared myself once again - this time to run by my parents. I mustered up all the strength, courage and tenacity I had absorbed from the patient partners and Jack and ran strongly down the underpass and back up it -- I could hear my dad blaring his "duck horn" and spotted my family waving. I smiled and waved back. My brother was even there! Only a few more yards and I passed two of my closest friends from home. One last bolt, smile and hug. Less than a mile to go.
As I approached the tu
rn onto Boylston I didn't feel the same rush of excitement I got last year. No, this year I felt kind of stern and forceful. I knew I had to focus all my energy on making one last solid push. And push I did. Hereford became Gloucester. Gloucester
became Fai
rfield. Fairfield
became Exeter. I was just about at the grandstands. The beautiful blue arches were in sight. I heard the speakers announce
Team Hoyt crossing the finish line. I scanned the crowd for my friend Barry and thought I had missed him then he stood up, threw both arms over his head and bellowed my name. That was all I needed - I cranked it, crossed the finish line with both arms over my head, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt (but not as much as my quads!) and finished in four hours, sixteen minutes, 35 secon
ds, two GUs, two sport bean pac
ks, one Roctane, a
half a PowerGel (yuck!), tons of water and Gatorade, a million steps and two busted quads. I had an urge to start crying for no reason, but fought it. I ached head to toe. I was cold - shivering and teeth chattering. But I had just completed my second marathon and set a new personal record - 24 minutes faster than last year.
It's hard to really know why my race fell apart like it did. I might have gone out too fast. But it really was ONLY my quads that complained - I never felt fatigued or out of breath or for a loss of energy. It might have been that I did most of my training
on the ArcTrainer and my body wasn't used to the impact. But then why didn't my shin splints go wild? It might have been the headwind. T
hat was SOOOOME headwind. But you know what? WHO THE HECK CARES? It was memorable, it was
exhilarating, it was rewarding, it was difficult and it showed me just what I was made of that day. I ran another marathon. I felt invincible and strong and beautiful and courageous and awesome. And I'll take screaming quads over the mundane any day.
