This year I spent Marathon Monday in a hospital bed, hooked up to fetal monitoring equipment. (all is fine with baby - I'm just plain old :) I wasn't sad for myself, but I felt terrible for all of my runner friends I had promised a cheer to out on the course. So, I cheered from afar and felt the palpable pain, exhilaration, and heartbreak of all of the participants.
Nobody would argue that this winter was one of the toughest to train through in New England. That is part of the cruelty that is Boston - train all winter in single degree snow-laden streets, and Marathon Monday will dawn warmer than expected. I have blogged before that running is not for the faint of heart - no guy has ever broken my heart the way the marathon has (maybe I've been lucky in love- I don't know). Listening to Shalane Flanagan post-race, I surmise she felt that same heartbreak.
The marathon is the all-in poker move. You dedicate 6-12 months of your life for one race. That's a huge gamble. Absolutely everything has to go perfectly right to have the race you've trained for. Just getting to the starting line healthy is a feat in and of itself.
To those who trained, made it to the starting line, finished...I salute you.
There is a connection between all Boston runners that only comes from the shared experience. The spectrum of emotions experienced at Boston mirror those of life. You have given your body, soul, and mind to the race. Phidippides died attempting such a feat. Only when you push yourself to places you have never been will you know what you are capable of.
The power of the human spirit. I know what it's like to train through a tough New England winter and have race day approach 80 degrees. To look down at your skin, white from the salt, your shoes, bloody from heat blisters, and find a way to push on through.
The power of the crowds. The first time I ran Boston I kept looking for the freight train I was hearing around mile 13. It was the legendary ladies of Wellesley. I have never heard such a thunderous noise in all of my life. It gave me goosebumps.
The power of love. My first Boston, I was in the elite women's start. There were less than 50 of us. The day was very hot, but I was determined to break 3 hours. With 1.2 miles to go, I could feel the sub 3 slipping away with every painful, delirious step I took. I heard a loud voice screaming that I needed a sub 6 minute last mile to dip under 3 hours. I looked up to see my husband sitting in the top of a tree screaming his lungs out at me to get me to my goal. To this day, I have no idea how he climbed that branch less tree, nor how I found the strength to crank out a 5:40 last mile.
I crossed the line in 2:58:09, 38th female. If that isn't love, I don't know what is.
The spirituality of the Boston Marathon. Another year, it was also very hot, and my feet were cramping up on me. I was becoming delirious, and just wanted to finish. I prayed to God for a sign that I could finish. I looked up, at mile 24, and a childhood special needs friend was holding an enormous sign that read "Go Kara" that she had made herself. I choked back tears and finished strong.
The heartbreak of the marathon when the day just doesn't go as planned.
I know that heartbreak all too well. On a last ditch effort to qualify for the 2008 Olympic Trials, I joined 30 something other females on the starting line of the Virginia Beach Shamrock Marathon. It was the absolute last day to qualify. I contracted bronchitis the week of the race. A tornado touched down the morning of the race. Most of the women dropped, with 40 mph winds lashing us along the Virginia Coast. I actually had bruises on the insides of left calf from the wind whipping my leg in.
The winning women's time that day was high 2:50's. I know what it is like to know that every element is against you, but your entire family has sacrificed to come cheer you on, and you are finishing, no matter what. I crossed the line in 3:02, glanced at the huddle of women weeping at the finish line as they saw their dreams get literally blown out to sea (sorry for the pun - humor is necessary in these circumstances!).
It still stings just to think about it, and that is the last marathon I have run.
The sorrow and joy that is the marathon. In my first attempt to qualify for the Olympic Trials in 2008, I ran Bay State (Chicago was the plan - flight booked, hotel room booked - Chicago was forecast to be in the 90's). The day was perfect, I had put in 100 mile weeks for 6 months, had a pacer, but I just didn't have it that day. Knowing I wouldn't run a 2:47, my coach asked at mile 18 if I wanted to drop and save my fitness for another day. The joy of rounding the warning track at LeLacheur Baseball park, finishing first place female in a marathon is a feeling I will treasure and most likely never experience again. Yet, the post-race picture of me, sitting on a bench, looking less than thrilled with my performance, shows a hint of sorrow.
Unless I'm passed out in the back of an ambulance, I'll take the finish, thank you.
No matter your time, place, or where you finish in relation to your goal - finishing the marathon is one of the ultimate human experiences.
I salute all of you, share in your happiness, and wish I could have been there last Monday to bolster the human spirit. And just maybe you've inspired me enough that I'll wear my heart on my sleeve again and run another marathon.
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