The Boston Marathon, 2018
Let’s get this out of the way: I’ve never run in anything like the conditions we had yesterday. I’ve run in rain, yes; I’ve run in snow, yes; I’ve run on ice with sheet metal screws drilled into the soles of my running shoes, yes. I’ve even run in 90 degrees. I’ve not run in five hours of 38 degree steady downpours with sideways wind. Until yesterday.
It starts with a heavy, cold, windy rain. Though I am trained for a roughly five hour marathon my only real goal today, now, knowing the weather, is to finish the race. Ideally I’ll get as close to five hours as I can, and run slow enough for the first half that I still have some energy for the hilly mind game of a second half. Sunday I struggle with the Clothing Decision – shorts or capris? Jacket or trash bag? Long sleeves or tank? The predicted temperature makes the decision for me – with upper 30s coupled with the wind and rain, I opt for capris, a long sleeve wicking shirt and my singlet on top, a hat and gloves. At 10 pm the night before I remember in the glove box I’ve got the orange emergency poncho. I scamper to the car in my pajamas and tuck it in my bag.
With the painful wind in our faces, my wave starts at 11:15, right at the beginning of the day’s real weather. My watch starts acting funky right away and will later defiantly turn its GPS off somewhere after 20 miles.
Miles 1 & 2: 10:32, 10:31 – too fast, must slow down. I am running with my new friend Sara. We have similar goals – 5 hours but mostly, finish. We take turns telling each other to slow down.
Mile 3: 10:53. I laugh out loud. The downhill is lined with music. Maybe this will be a good day after all. How bad can it be?
Mile 4: 12:28, a quick pee break at a portapotty.
Miles 5 & 6: 11:33, 11:31. This is roughly the pace we need. But there is so much rain. I take a second pee break.
Miles 7, 8, 9 – 10:56, 12:52 – I tell Sara not to wait for me, I’ve never had so many pee breaks in a race in my life – and my clothes are plastered to me despite my emergency poncho. My gloves are soaked through but I won’t take them off - as wet as they are I figure they’re still keeping me warm. Navigating my clothes and poncho is an adventure in futility. I do the best I can.
Unavoidable rivers everywhere, rain in waves of pelting sheets. Water station volunteers like soldiers in their rain gear.
Mile 10, 11: 11:31, 11:40. I am not sure about this anymore. What is the point of this?
A fourth break. Redressing in the portapotty is like trying to shimmy into a wetsuit in a closet. At night. After Thanksgiving dinner.
I can quit, I think. Why can’t I quit? I think, Wellesley. I tear up - I can hear them, and I know what’s coming, and I am so happy they are here, and I am here, and run so close to them, and they scream for me, and tell me to go, and hold signs asking for kisses – and I think why not, and get some Wellesley kisses for myself. Why not?
The rain will not deter. For a little while after Wellesley, I feel magically, happily better. I reach the halfway point in around 2 and a half hours. With the breaks I took, still roughly on track.
But I know the hard part of a marathon is between 13 and 20 miles – when you’re already tired and still have a long way to go. There are some hills. There is no shelter from the rain. Trying to avoid getting your feet wet is like trying to keep your hands clean while futzing with the chain on your bike. You can’t. You just have to give in.
What keeps you going? Why do you not quit? Quitting would be easy. Quitting would be awesome! I start fantasizing about quitting. I pass med tents. They would be warm and dry. I bargain. You can quit when you see your kids at mile 24.5, I say, and to the people on the side of the road I say, “Tell me not to quit,” and they yell back, “do NOT quit! You’re NOT QUITTING!” I say this to new spectators, new water station people, every few minutes. A runner in a trash bag says, “you’re not quitting – you’re coming with me.” I beam. I will hang on for a while more.
Every drenched, freezing, miserable, mile, I check as a battle scar on my watch. The Newton hills come, and with it, Heartbreak. I know enough to not walk, not even a little, because once I walk I won’t start running again. I shuffle instead. I sing out through the storm, “I AM SHUFFLING UP THESE HILLS.” I try to get a Gu out of my belt but I can’t get through my poncho or the belt zipper let alone tear open the pouch with my numb fingers, and give up.
Mile 20. Could I dare quit at mile 20? A sign says, “Training got you to Newton. Heart will get you to Boston.” I am filled with longing and despair and want to cry but won’t do it, too much energy lost. I will find out later the Boston Globe calls today “a punishing slog.”
How many more miles until my kids? Four and half? Can I go four and a half more miles? If I quit now I will have battled out 20 miles in this drama for what? To say I didn’t feel like it anymore?
Mile 21, 22: 13:38, 14:30. Just finish. That’s all you’ve got to do. Finish this race. I think I might never run another step EVER AGAIN when this is over.
Boston College. I love them so much, can’t get enough of them, get close, touch all the outstretched hands, hear them call for me; there is joy on these streets, and gratitude; I say thank you, over and over, thank you for being here, thank you for coming today, and they say, thank you for running and I think, I’ve heard this before.
Two volunteers walk with a runner who is doubled over, between them.
Somewhere after BC my waterlogged GPS gives out. I laugh out loud. I think, soon I’ll see my kids, just get to them, and soon we are on Beacon Street, and I scan the sidelines, looking for the pink umbrella, the red one, the rainbow one, and then finally, I am filled with disbelief and love, because they are there – Ben, Sarah, Martha, Leeann, and here I am saturated in an orange emergency poncho on Beacon Street. I cry when I see them, throw my arms wide, I hug them, there is nothing more lovely in the whole world. We take some pictures and I think, there’s no way you can quit now, just another mile and a half to finish, your only goal.
Mile 25. Somebody is on his knees, throwing up. Volunteers rush to him.
We get through Kenmore. I thank every person, every volunteer, I grasp the hand of every police officer, and say thank you, thank you, thank you for coming, thank you for being here.
We take my favorite turn, onto Hereford. The street is littered with multi colored rain jackets. I can’t figure out how to get my poncho off but I am not running down Boylston Street to finish the Boston Marathon in an orange emergency poncho. I start ripping a hole from the middle, wiggle my arms out, tear it off, throw it to the side, turn onto Boylston. It’s here. The finish line in sight. I go harder, smile through the rain, listen to the crowds who make this day what it is for all of us, and then, I do what I set out to do and finish the race.
Mile 26.2: 5:21:51.
Moments later I bow my head to let a woman put a medal around my neck, but I cannot lift my head again. I put my arms around her neck and won’t let go. I sniff and sob and my breath hitches. She lets me stay there until I am ready. Finally I pull away.
Thank you for being out here today, I say, and a man shakes his head.
It’s the best day of the year, he says, and I think yes, and I remember, and know: training gets you to Newton, and heart gets you to Boston.
Behind today’s recollection I can smell the wet streets and feel the simultaneous loneliness and community of being part of the storm, the run, and the ungraspable thing that turns memory into history. Who carries you forward when what you want is to quit? Who do you rely on? Who do you thank?
For the ninth consecutive year you have sent me to Boston, raised $73,971 for charity.
Thank you, for coming with me.
Thank you, for being here.
Ellen S. Goldberg
Nahant, MA
4/17/2018
