The Boston Marathon, 2022
I don’t know what this is a story about.
In October 2021, my mother, Phyllis Beverly Goldberg, died. It was the day before the Boston Marathon, held in October instead of April because of the coronavirus pandemic. The day of the marathon, which I was scheduled to run, my children and I drove to Philadelphia for her funeral.
In April 2021, I visited my mother and she liked my pink marathon cap, bought in 2016, the year my father died, so I gave it to her. In October 2021, I brought the cap home. Yesterday, for the marathon, I wore it for the first time in a year, for this, my 12th Boston run for the Massachusetts Association for the Blind, 13th year total. This year you helped me raise $10,015 as of this writing, which is $110,417 over 13 years. I know my parents would be proud.
We arrive in Hopkinton with not much time to spare before the race because our bus driver got lost. I haphazardly apply sunblock – we are expecting brilliant blue skies but hopefully cooler temps – and head to the start. My goal today, after having about 12 weeks to train – is to just finish the race, and if possible finish in under six hours so I can get an official time. A far cry from my best marathon days, but here we are. Start and stay slow, go steady, finish the race.
I say out loud, quietly, Come on, Ma. Let’s go to Boston.
Mile 1: 11:52
Mile 2: 11:53
Mile 3: 11:51
I think about the pink cap and hope it protects me from the sun if it gets too strong. I think of my mother wearing it.
Mile 4, 5: 11:52, 12:07
The sun is strong, and now I worry a little about getting too hot. But there is a headwind, and just when I start to feel a bit nauseated, we get hit with a nice cold blast in the face. This continues for five hours.
Mile 6 – 10: 11:58, 11:58, 12:17, 12:20, 12:21
A sign on the course: Putin is a War Criminal. “Putin IS a war criminal,” I say, passing the sign holder, and he grimly nods.
I know I’ll be slowing down soon, the sun is strong, I didn’t train enough, and I think, just finish the race. Somebody hands out licorice. I love licorice! I happily take two, stash one in my bra strap. I drink a sip of Gatorade at every stop, a sip of water, chew some of the Gu blocks I brought, try to keep the nausea just out of reach.
I’m never doing this again! I call out to some medical staff, and smile because I don’t feel bad enough to have to go to Medical.
I talk to my mom. I feel like I’m carrying her, feel like her eyes are on the hat, watching everything…here we are ma, come on, ma, I’m taking you to Boston, I’m not feeling too well but it’s ok, we’ll just finish this race. Mom, we’re coming up to
Wellesley. I love them so much. Kiss me I won’t tell your wife. Kiss me I’m graduating. Kiss me for gay rights. I think, Mom, do you see all these strong women? A sticker gets put in my hand. I don’t know what it is, and put it on my shirt anyway. I find out when I get home it is a kiss sticker. I will later smile. Do you do anything in this world alone, or is someone making your path with you, without either of you knowing?
We hit the turn into Newton, and there’s the fire station. Ten years ago, my children were small, it was a hot day, they were at the fire station. Not today – Ben is at the University of Vermont, Sarah with her father. I count on the people of Boston to get me to the finish.
I feel the hills, and know I’m not fully prepared for them. I start to slow to 13s and 14s. At one point I am running as fast as somebody next to me is walking, but I can’t stop, or I won’t finish. My GPS dies at mile 20, at 4 hours and 17 minutes. Finish the race, Ma, all we gotta do is finish the race.
When is the last time is you will do any one thing? I wonder about this. Was one muggy day full of thunderstorms and sun in 2019 the last time I would have run and finished Boston, pre-pandemic? Or is it today, with not enough training and a pink hat from 2016 that I gave to my mother in April and took back home in October? Is this the last day you will drink a cup of coffee, take a train, make a phone call, pet your cat? What will stop you from shuffling forward, stubborn as hell? Is this the last race report, or is it next year, or some other year?
I start planning how I will train for hills better next time.
The hills do crush me, but at the top of the last one, the sign says Heartbreak is behind you now. That means nobody quits now, and it’s Boston College, and the last few miles onto Beacon Street in Brookline where I would have seen my children again at mile 24.5 I know for sure, I need them, like I always need them, and they need me, and I raise my arms like a crazy celebrity, smile big, the crowds will push me, push us all, and the more I raise my arms for them to yell the more they yell and the more I smile and wave my arms and I think, finish, you must finish, and there is the Citgo Sign, as beautiful as ever, and I am crying as I write this because there is Hereford, and I’m smiling, and sad, and happy, and there’s Boylston Street, and the finish line doesn’t seem to be getting any closer and yet I’m still running, and Mom, I’m sorry you can’t read this and I’m sorry you weren’t really here and I wish that wasn’t true, and here is the finish line, Mom, we made it to Boston.
Official finish: 5:53:49.
I do know what is this a story about. It is a story of deep loss, love, and joy. Of stupidity, red licorice, Gatorade, and strangers. Of asphalt, paper cups, heartbreak, hills, shuffling, and complete stubbornness. Of streets and crowds, wind and sunburn, foil capes, friends, children, parents, and learning over and over to finish what you started.
This is a story of the Boston Marathon.
Ellen S. Goldberg
April 19, 2022
