It became certain in October of 2011 as I slogged through the final miles of the Marine Corps. Marathon. I needed to finish in under 3:05, and though I seemed to be finishing in cement shoes carved from the infamous "wall" I was hitting, I had blitzed through enough of the first 20 or so to secure the coveted BQ.
I knew registering for the Boston Marathon wasn't possible, however, until the September prior to the 2013 race. I had to make it through the following year, ultimately register, then train through the winter and early spring. This bloc comprised so much time that I actually recovered, trained, traveled, and raced in another marathon in Eugene, where I managed to shave an impressive chunk off the previous BQ and secure an earlier registration time in September.
The registration was easy. The hardest part, it seems (even still), was getting the qualifying time.
After a tough summer characterized by adductor, quad, and hamstring issues--each included a slew of professionals and a host of diagnoses and no real changes except the end of yoga and the beginning of aqua jogging--the real "healing" started when I simply found a way to get back on the roads.
I spent the fall racing season in what I affectionately consider my running wheelhouse: a ten-miler and my annual half marathon through the neighborhood here. That half, which is now infamously known for a lead cyclist debacle in mile one, earned me a near New York qualification. With the smell of potential intoxicating, I jumped into another half, my toughest challenge of the year, in Clarksburg. I secured a legitimate PR, but it fell 11 seconds short of the NY time I said I didn't want by ostensibly sought.
By the time I agreed to run 20 or so miles with Stephanie through December's dreadful 2012 CIM downpour, I'd verbally exhausted myself, broadcasting to one and all my running mindset: "Give me more easy long runs, and you can feed those races to the birds!" My attitude coincided with a break from track and speed workouts as well, which helped me enjoy the life of, again, a runner rather than a racer. I hobbled into Christmas, trying podiatrist prescribed creams, new-fangled versions of Icy/Hot, and even taking a five-day running hiatus.
But my mind wasn't right.
By the racing team reassembled on the track, I had solidified my resistance to socializing and role playing. I built a cave for myself, and took a "go it alone" mentality to my still-forming Boston buildup. I managed to dabble, eventually, in some much needed group workouts (those mile repeats are hard to get through without someone sharing the pace load), but for the most part, I isolated myself in a fog of "well maybe"s and "we'll see"s. I made commitments to fellow runners only to break them in a desire for selfish, self-inflicted solitude. And this went on for weeks.
Then, something happened. Somewhere, lost in the grappling and the moment by moment uncertainty I'd managed to brew, the numbers and the miles and the feedback from my coach showed a readiness. On paper my running read like a detail-oriented attack plan, reflecting the capability that turns 2013's Boston Marathon into something special.
And the taper period--with its internal lecturing, its caging of the finely tuned maniac, its heavy handed submission--is here.
Will Boston be a parade? No, probably not. I don't see myself liking a 26.2 "yog," even if it is along a renowned course with elite athletes and throngs of supporters. That much time on your feet, for someone who's done the distance much faster, can't be good for you.
Will Boston continue the marathon PR streak? Again, probably not. I've readied myself as best my body will allow, but the goal pace reflects the condition of my body and mind over the last handful of months. And with all that downhill--the meat grinding again and again that eventually gives way to slope uphill at the worst possible time. The Boston course is far less forgiving than Eugene's course through the valley, and that can't be stated enough.
Will Boston be epic? Of course. It will mark a celebration, and wrap up a frustrating and ultimately rewarding training experience. In my disarray, I changed. I added regular massage therapy, increased my at-home attentiveness of repair and recovery, and built in a regimen of personal and professional assessment. I consulted a nutritionist, read a number of published studies and a few key texts, and sought the kinds of education that have not only fueled my running progress, but broadened my approach to personal and mental health and holistic running.
And through it all, I was guided by those from whom I strayed when I sought isolation. My wife reminds me, just in her smile (or frown) that accomplishments of any kind cannot be cast aside. My coach, who writes more emails than I can fathom, somehow manages to pick the words that resonate when he replies to my updates and queries. He got me to peak at 84 miles in the week prior to tapering, a mark that trailed back to back weeks at 82, and a 78 miler before that that included a half marathon and a first-overall age group award. Given that I ran my first marathon on 30-35 miles a week just three years ago, this guy deserve a statue in my yard.
So no victory lap. And probably no personal best. Then what will the 117th Boston Marathon be?
It won't be a finish line. The finish mats--both literally and figuratively--are always deflating because they solidify the end. They get me thinking: I haven't seen some of my fairly close childhood friends after leaving the parking lot of my high school graduation ceremony; I moved away from college before most of my roommates had stopped partying. So many runners stop the watch as they finish a huge race only to think, Now what?
So I answer the Boston question with one of my own. What hasn't Boston been? This time, it's really been about enjoying the run. It's the dark mornings, the wincing slide into every cold water bath, and the utterance of every when-will-it-end? complaint I served during a period of stress or perceived exhaustion. Each and every concern I volleyed was swatted back with an encouraging smile from a loved one, or a colleague, or, more often than ever before, by me.
Boston can't be about the finish line because it's been about every single step along the way. And that's what I'll remember the most.*
*I reserve the right to amend that last statement, even slightly, sometime after April 15, 2013.
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