The Boston Marathon, 2016

[Eco Ellen]

The Boston Marathon


April 18, 2016
 
The day was clear, the sunshine strong.  My ride came early, still dark at 5:30.  We drove to Hopkinton in David’s Honda.

Three months ago, on January 17, my father, Norman Goldberg, died.    Just before his funeral, I was given a black kriah ribbon to wear, a sign of mourning.  Some wear this ribbon for seven days, some for 30, and some, a year.  A week after he died, I found I could not take the ribbon off.  A month after he died, I could not take the ribbon off.

Today, my 7th consecutive Boston Marathon in support of the Massachusetts Association for the Blind, a non-profit for which I have now raised $55,648 over these seven years, I need to take my father with me to Boston.  Today, I wear his ribbon.

It starts hot and gets hotter.  Thousands of us line our corrals, the indifferent sun shining bright.  Before I cross the mat, I touch the ribbon.  Where do you need to go?  C’mon, Dad.  Let’s go to Boston.   My training puts me on a good day at a predicted finish of 4:45, but I know I don’t run well in heat, I know the early downhills are deceptive and treacherous, and I know I must run slow and stay in control, especially in the first half.  I also know that any time you approach the marathon you must do so humbly, without assumptions, and hope you are able to give what you must and take what you need to get to the finish.   

Mile 1: 10:53.

Mile 2: 11:10.

Mile 3:  10:59.

I wonder when I should speed up, also start looking for a place to pee.  The portapotty lines seem too long to wait.  I think, Mile 5, there are some woods, and I’ll ditch off there.

Mile 4: 10:49.

Mile 5: 11:11. The sidelines seem too full of spectators for me to safely pee in the bushes.

Mile 6:  11:16.  I must find a place to pee.

Miles 7 and 8:  24:03.  I give up and hit the portapotty at seven miles.

I begin to feel unwell.  My head is hot, my stomach queasy, and the sun won’t give up.  I slurp a salted caramel Gu, drink water at the next stop, pour some on my head.

Mile 9:  11:26.  A kid hands me a baggie of ice.  I perk right up.  I know just what to do with this, I think happily, and jam a handful down the front of my bra.

Mile 10: 11:36.

Mile 11: 11:58.  I start to realize I will not be able to speed up in the heat; my pace is off and won’t improve.  I should try to finish without throwing up.

Mile 12: 11:47.  If the police and barriers weren’t there to keep them back the women of Wellesley would be upon us, and I’m so happy they’re there, and touch them all, and thank them over and over.  They are beautiful, loud, strong, screaming, urging, and bring you where you need to go. 

Mile 13: 11:45.  At every water stop now I take five consecutive cups from five consecutive volunteers:  one for my head, one down the front of my shirt, one down the back, again for my head, last one to drink.  My shorts stick to me at weird angles.  My socks squish.

Mile 14: 11:57.

Mile 15: 12:24.  I start to think about my kids.  Last year as I approached them I whimpered in anticipation.  Today I say, Dad, we’ll see Ben and Sarah in a few minutes.  And there they are, all of a sudden, with Karen and the blue and white umbrella, and it’s as if I’ve been away from them for years and their showing up here makes the world alive and bright, and like I did for six years, I throw myself at them, across the barrier, and weep into Benjamin’s neck, they’re here, and I force him sideways but don’t let go of his neck so I can get Sarah too, and it’s so hot today, and here they are, I made it 16.5 miles, less than ten to go to finish, and I cry a little more, and pour a whole bottle of water on my head and leave them, hope to see them at mile 24.5.

Dad, I say, we’re gonna finish the race.  I’m taking you to Boston with me.

My friend Arnie will be at Mile 17, and I call his name, and he startles from his chair; like a wet rocket I throw myself at him in a disgusting embrace of water, Gatorade, and gu.  He jogs with me, and I tell him it’s hot, and look, here’s my dad’s ribbon, and then it’s time for me to go on alone.

Miles 16-17: 28:06.

Mile 18: 12:42.  I see a woman walking; I recognize her from our corral.  Are you ok?  I call, and she shakes her head, teary.  I say, run with me.   She does.  She tells me her feet are killing her, and she can’t talk without crying.  I learn:  her name is Sam.  She has an 8 month old tiger cat.  She works in a New Hampshire research facility.  She cries.  I tell her sternly to stop: it will do you no good to hyperventilate on heartbreak hill.  She nods.

Mile 19: 12:00.

Look, I say, and point to a yellow sign.  Mile 20.  Nobody quits now.  I tell her she will finish, and she will remember not only her pain, but her great success.

Mile 20: 12:42.

We round the streets of Boston College, and I say to Sam, c’mon, you’ve got to do this, and to the spectators I run as close as I dare without tripping, touch as many outstretched hands as I can, listen to them call my name, they’re so loud, they’re always there, I thank them, again and again, and they thank me back, thank you for running, and I know I need them, and Dad look at all these people, this is the Boston Marathon, and I’m running and wet and smiling and happy and crying and a woman in the crowd hands me a red rose, and I grab it as I pass, and think, you gave me a rose? And now I’m running with a red rose, and I grin, and stick the stem down the back of my bra, and feel the petals on my neck, my shoulder, my cheek.  I think this must look quite ridiculous, and I turn back and Sam is gone, I can’t see her anymore, and I wave as if I do see her, in case she’s there, and go on.

Mile 21: 13:06.

Mile 22: 12:09.

Miles 23-24:  22:48.  And there they all are at mile 24.5, and it’s as if it’s a surprise, it’s mile 24.5 already, and there’s a breeze, and how can I have been so hot all this time and now be so cold and feel so good? I run to them, arms up, kiss them, take the rose from my back and give it to Sarah.  I can see the Citgo sign, and that can only mean:  C’mon, Dad.  We’re really almost there.

Mile 25: 12:50.

There’s no reason to hold back any longer.  I pass people.  I turn right on Hereford.  The wind is cold and strong, the crowd deep and thunderous.  The shade from the city draws us tight.  I turn left on Boylston, the center line, I pick people off, I am as strong as I’ve ever been.  I pour it on.

What do you need? What do you give? What does the glittering, brilliant sun reveal with its honest eye upon you?

The finish line never looked more beautiful.  Give what you must.  Take what you need.  Sunburned and wet, I cross in five hours, 14 minutes, and 12 seconds.

Dad, I say, we made it.

Each morning since January I’ve pinned my dad’s kriah ribbon above my heart.  The morning after the marathon, I hesitate when getting dressed.  I wonder:  what must you give?  Where is your need?  What places must you go?

My father died in January.

Yesterday, he ran with me on the streets of Boston.

Today, I take the ribbon off.


Ellen S. Goldberg
Nahant, Massachusetts

[sweetie darling]

A very nice tribute to your dad, Ellen. Choked me right up. 

[seattlegirl]

Teared up at the end, there.  You write a good report, and you run a good race.  Well done!   

[jcumming]

No one ever dies as long as they live in our hearts.

I have run Boston on a brutally hot day (2004) and I know how little fun it is at that time. Lucky you had your dad along with you.

[McTortle]

 

[cgraz]

 

[siamesedream]

That was awesome, congrats!

[Jae]

  Crying while inspired. Loved reading this. Thank you...

Janet
Spectator at 20.8

[ihop]

 

[BonitaApplebum]

Well jeez, now I'm crying.

Thanks for sharing this, Ellen.

[JBM]

That was beautiful. Good job. *sniff*

[Xavier Dan Q]

 

[Fast Eddie]

       

[Plugging Along]

 

[nadra24]

One of my favorite things about Boston has come to be your race reports, Ellen.   

[Arrojo]

   Great to see you as always.  Here's Eco Ellen looking great (as usual) at Mile 17.