The 2017 Boston Marathon

[Eco Ellen]

The Boston Marathon, 2017

The day was predicted to be warm.  Awake at 4:30, out the door at 5:25, I was on the Massachusetts Association for the Blind’s bus to Hopkinton from Brookline at 6:30.  I knew I had to abandon time goals for the heat but still thought I’d finish in five hours.  I’d hydrated well since Friday and ate strategically well-planned meals, but not much can prepare you for the beating sun and the heat of thirty thousand runners.  I walk to the start, bow my head and tear up.  I am afraid of the sun, and the long race in front of me.  I scrape a sticker from the ground that says “261. Fearless.”  It’s from Kathryn Switzer’s organization – she was the first woman to officially run Boston in 1967, when a race official tried to kick her off the course by snatching off her number because women weren’t allowed to run the marathon, and 261 was her bib number.  She returns today to run again, 50 years later.  I wrap it around my hand, tuck it under my watchband.  We start at 11:15, the Hopkinton sunshine beaming.  As of this morning, you helped me raise $7676.50 for MAB, $63,649.36 over eight years, and I am here to keep up my end of the deal.  I am here to run.

Mile 1:  11:32.

Mile 2:  11:23.

Mile 3:  11:35.

Mile 4:  11:15.  I dash into the woods to pee.

Mile 5:  11:34.  I eat a salted caramel gu I had tucked in the back of my bra.

Mile 6:  11:32. The sun doesn’t relent.  I run through the water stops, take water from every volunteer, pour cup after cup over my head, drink some, pour more down my shirt.

Mile 7:  11:21.
 
Mile 8:  11:31.  I’ll see Arnie at the Mile 9 clock.  Years doing this with me have taught him to hold his arms out so I don’t knock him down when I’m soaked and full of hugging endorphins.  He jogs with me, tells me it’s too early to stop for a picture (what makes him the boss of me? I’d be happy to stop) but takes some while I’m running.  I tell him it’s warm, too warm, and he agrees.
 
Mile 9, 10:  11:45, 11:39.  It’s going to be a long race.  I giggle at the old Robert Frost poem and whisper out loud, “and miles to go before I sleep.”  I eat an espresso love gu, realize then with a lurching stomach I can eat no more.

I assess.  My legs feel fine; I took it easy on the early downhills.  Next up will be Wellesley, and some shade, and I smile because the women of Wellesley don’t know who I am – I’m just Ellen from Nahant, two kids and a dog – but here they are calling my name, urging me forward, making me run.  I get close, touch as many as I can.
 
Mile 11, 12:  11:52, 12:02.  I feel unwell.  I take my hat off, put it back on.  I douse it with water, put ice in it.  I cannot hide from the eye of the sun.  I cannot drink more than a sip before needing to spit it out.  I remember some emails from Coach John Furey, reminding me that there are bad sections in the race, don't let it rattle you.

Mile 13, 14, 15:  12:07, 11:47, 12:10.  I look at my hand.  I wonder what it means to be fearless.  Was Kathryn Switzer fearless when she ran in 1967?  I’m running the same street, but fearless is not how I would describe myself right now.

Mile 16, 17:  12:00, 12:43.  I know I’m slowing down and I know I can’t fix it.  I wonder if I should stop at a med tent, and think if I do I’ll never get back on course.  I wonder if I’m seeing spots or I’m imagining spots.  Is this the day I don't finish?  No matter how many times you've run a marathon – and this is my Number 12 – a finish is not guaranteed.   A tailwind blows empty cups by the hundreds across our path, and the sound is a hollow strange percussion on the wind.
 
We round the corner to the Newton Fire House and just like they did in 2012 – and I was hoping they would today - they set up spray station tents to run through – and I don’t care if my socks get wet or I chafe under my arms or my shorts stick to my butt – I take the gift.  But the effect is short lived, and soon my mouth is dry again even after drinking more at the next stop.

Mile 18:  12:41. I’m hot, I think, but I’ll be ok.  I can stand wearing or holding my hat no more, and toss it onto a water table as I run by.  Last night I told the kids to remind me:  no more marathons.  I think I might never run again when this is over.

I count the miles on my fingers to Ben and Sarah, worry and hope that they made it to a spot I can find them, ask myself if I can keep running for that long.  I run through an open fire hydrant.

Somebody holds up a sign:  Don’t take the deal.  Keep running.

Mile 19 12:28, Mile 20 12:39.  I bet those medical tents are air conditioned, I think sadly.
 
We are in the thick of the hills now, and then Boston College, and I raise myself, give them what they came for, take what they came to give.  I wonder when the next water stop is because my mouth is impossibly dry and then a fresh female voice smiles at me – water? – she offers, and I say oh yes, please, thank you, and that small Dixie cup is just what I need – and there are children with bowls of ice, licorice, popsicles, pretzels, hoses, take it, it’s there for you, it’s here for all of Boston.
 
Who pushes you forward when you struggle?
 
Another sign:  If Trump can run, so can you.
 
Miles 21, 22, 23:  13:21, 12:38, 12:13.  Though my pace is now consistently slow, at least it’s not faltering.  I learn later that is was 78 degrees at Heartbreak. Don’t take the deal.

Mile 24: 12:28.  Beacon Street.  I am messy, sodden, uncomfortable, and smiling, because there they are – MAB, Andrea, and then my kids, Ben, Sarah with the pink umbrella, and Leeann and Martha.  I throw myself at the barrier; they fill my entire body with pure joy.  We take pictures but they will barely touch me for all my disgustingness, give me water to pour over my head, and it’s just a little more than a mile and a half to go.

Where do you gain your strength?  Why do you put one foot down, lift the other, touch a stranger’s hand, raise your arm, take the water? For your kids? To be a part of something bigger?  To quiet some restless pacing thing?  To know that no matter where you are, every year, that Boston will go on, and that this year, again, you’re part of making that happen? And that even without you, it would happen? Because these people will be here over and over, with new signs, new presidents, new children?

Mile 25: 11:57.

Chafed, thirsty, wet, I pass people through the last cruel hill out of Kenmore Square.

Mile 26:  11:54.

Hair stringy, hat gone, sunglasses salty, I turn into the shade of Hereford Street, left onto Boylston. I can barely see the finish line through the grime in my eyes, but I can hear it.

What beast do you tame, what wild animal grunts softly in the sun's heat, when you rise up, do what must be done, and run?
 
Mile 26.2 finish:  5 hours, 17 minutes, 43 seconds.

What is fearless?  I think, there’s really no such thing.  I think, there is only fear, and there is facing fear, and there is handing fear its ass in a paper cup.

What is your fear?

Don’t take the deal.

Keep on running.
 


Ellen S. Goldberg
Nahant, MA 
April 18, 2017

[Richard21142]

 

[BonitaApplebum]

 

You write the BEST race reports. I'm glad you finished!!!

[Eco Ellen]

You write the BEST race reports. I'm glad you finished!!!

Thank you!
Me too!!

[Arrojo]

<sniff>  Beautiful writing, inspiring running.  Here's an action photo I took:

[Eco Ellen]

It's painful to look at that photo - look how bright that sun was.  Full on sunshine, for hours.  Gah.

[Fast Eddie]

Wonderful story.  You did awesome.  CONGRATS!      

[JBM]

Awesome job! It was a hot day. I got up that morning and it was already in the 60s when I left for work and thought, uhoh. Warmer than they said. You're a great writer. Fearless Ellen! 

[Arrojo]

It's painful to look at that photo - look how bright that sun was.  Full on sunshine, for hours.  Gah.

But you have such a pretty smile.   

[Eco Ellen]

 

[wherestheportojohn]

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

[sweetie darling]

I am totally and entirely humbled by your dedication, determination and attention to living your life in good health, Ellen!   

In comparison, put aside the awe-inspiring 26.2 miles ...

ELLEN: Reached for a gu tucked in the back of her bra.

ME: On my way home in the car, I twisted my arm behind me to unhook my very uncomfortable bra.
A day later, my shoulder hurt so bad I took some prednisone I had on hand to stop the pain. 


 

[Eco Ellen]

LOLOL

[wonderwoman]

What a great report! I'm glad you made it. 

[seattlegirl]

     Great job, Ellen, and thanks for sharing your report. 

[duckgeek]

Congrats on another finish!  During the windy 2011 race there was a point when the paper cups on the ground were racing away from me faster than I could run and you made me remember that moment. 

[Nova]

Awesome job out there. I watched the pro race on TV and knew it was gonna be rough by what the announcers were saying.

Congrats.

 

[Schrödinger’s Bat]

Great report, Ellen.

A hot Boston is cruel for those that had to train through the winter. But you've already been through hell, so what's a little jog in the sunshine, eh?

[radial]

Aw Ellen, I'm such a sucker for your reports.  And especially your persistence in the cause of charity despite all the existential challenges you have faced over this past year.  I hope you do this again next year. 

[Eco Ellen]

 

I am enjoying not running right now.