A 50k tends to fall, like other longer-than-marathon races, into the "ultramarathon" category (though given the rise in the popularity of running events, most of the old codgers and diehards reserve the "ultra-" prefix for 50 milers, 100ks, and 100 milers. There are also the ultra events beyond those, like Rim to Rim [to Rim] or 24-hour races, many of which are measured by FKTs [Fastest Known Times] rather than timing chips). For the sake of semantics, let's call the 50k an ultramarathon distance; therefore, by signing up for the Siskiyou Out Back 50k in February, I found myself cast into an area of the running universe I'd yet to traverse. And whether you're with the old timers who think I'm just a newbie dipping his toe, or with the others who think I'm off in the ether, I can now say I've completed an ultramarathon.
In training for a trail 50k, I felt a degree of reluctance in considering myself an ultrarunner because I hadn't completed a race longer than a marathon. Just signing up merely landed me on the fringe of the population, so even on the night before the race--even as I idled in the parking lot of the Mt. Ashland Ski Resort--I felt a weird nervousness and had no one with which to share it.
I planned to camp--which is popular for this event--in the lot. Upon arrival, I set up a cot and table and prepared a small dinner. I was surrounded by campers and trailers and tents of all sorts. Some families had plans to stay the weekend, some solo runners had plans to pull out just after they crossed the finish line. As the evening stretched on and mountain wind kicked up, I realized I'd set up a campsite on unlevel ground. A quick reassessment, and I'd broken my makeshift camp, folded the seats in preparation to sleep in the Prius itself, and driven to a closer location near the start line, the restrooms, and other car sleepers.
If you filed these decisions under pre-race anxiety and restlessness, I'd have to agree. The chatter among the other campers--the other experienced ultrarunners and dusty veterans--didn't contain a degree of trepidation. I'm used to the marathon speed scene, where pace and place and performance, all planned and finely tuned, can produce a debilitating fear of deviation. But these folks were talking about the watermelon slices they long for after 35 miles, or the ways backpacks and bladders stacked up against handhelds after 50k. It's not to say that others weren't concerned, but the context felt so tangibly different.
---
The resettling worked, and I rose and brewed coffee as the 50-mile runners checked in at 5:15 AM. Most did their best to "prepare" for their 6:00 AM race start, lumbering about, stretching, and working to cooperate with the bag drop procedure. Before sunrise, runners took off at a steady jog, initiating their body for hours upon hours of traversing. Not long after the 50k check-in kicked off. The sun rose, and it was a glorious, mild morning at 6,600 feet. Precisely at 7:00, 208 runners set off through the parking lot. Ultrarunners. And I was now technically one of them.
A solid pack set off through the lot heading west toward a descending fire road. We took the smooth downhill for nearly a mile before bending right onto the Pacific Crest Trail. I was warned the night before by a man twice my age of the potential for a bottleneck at this point. Not that I ran like he ran, but hopes of avoiding an early hike did push my pace. The warning didn't hold true for the first group, and we found our strides, easing through splits of 7:18 and 8:05 along the fire road, which didn't vary as we peeled off onto the PCT.
We glided through the shade of early morning--I logged another steady mile (8:08) through rolling trail that carved along the middle of a sloping mountain. The undulations woke my legs and gave me a chance to look to the left through the expanse of the valley. I had clear views into California, including Mount Shasta to the south, but I struggled to capture it at any length while navigating the tall grass, the tricks of light played by the forest at sunrise, and the inconsistent footing. It occurred to me that any trail race touting its incredible views does not provide instructions for how to race on a trail while simultaneously enjoying the scenery.
The first steady incline arrived between miles two and three where, aside from a couple of quick descents, we climbed for just shy of two miles. I slowed to 9:19 through the stretch, but quickly regained the time just after the trail crested 7,100 feet, when the course fell to 5,780 over the next three miles. The two runners ahead of me charged on, picking up speed in the downhill. I'm leery of unfettered speed on the downhill; having suffered lower back injuries in my football days, and upon shedding much of the weight from my upper body and midsection that served to pad the sport's pounding. I've come to fear the combination of impact and braking and propelling, especially on trails. With no one behind eager to fly by, I tried to remain conservative. I still logged fast miles, going 7:17, 6:34, and 6:51 up through mile eight.
Intersecting fire roads from time to time, the crisscrossing trail afforded a nice mix of early exposure and shade, and given the hour and temperature, the combination was refreshing. I found the expansive view mostly distracting, and it allowed me to speculate where the trail might go on the horizon rather than how it might climb through the denser tree-socked sections. (I did not consider what any of these factors would mean hours later upon my return, however.)
After bottoming out, the course offered fair rollers as it climbed back toward 6,000 feet. The trail leveled off just before my watch indicated the tenth mile, an announcement I enjoy because it ushers my brain into the "double digit club." In longer races, I'll often confirm that I'm too far in to give up, and too far away to get greedy. In this particular event, though, the course used this moment to punch me in the gut. At mile 10, we began a climb of 600 feet in just a mile and half. It's unrelenting, and when the reprieve does come, it's in the form of more rollers--back at 6,600 feet--that rise and fall for another mile and half, before launching you up another 600 foot climb. This pitch lasts just under three miles, but its saving grace is an arrival at the second aid station. Runners are checked in, drop bags (if used) are retrieved, and the restocking commences. I made pretty good time here, slowing from the mid 7s to the mid 8s, and topping out with two 9:00-minute splits and a decent pause with the volunteers.
As I entered the tents at the aid station, my first priority was locating a water bucket and accompanying sponges. My lazy legs sent me on a tumble during a descent near the half marathon point, and I needed some cleansing. Unlike a few I suffered during my training, this fall fortunately didn't draw too much blood, and it didn't destroy any of my equipment (bottles, glasses, hat, and watch all emerged unscathed). While I mended my condition, two eager volunteers elicited orders, topping off one handheld bottle with water and the other with electrolyte. I scanned the food table, overwhelmed at the choices many of the 50-mile runners were eagerly sampling. There were the ubiquitous banana segments, along with potato chips, gummy bears, and watermelon. I wanted no part of those, having committed to a strategy of gel packets and something called Pocket Fuel (in two separate servings) for the later stages of the race.
The training for SOB did teach me about my one aid station indulgence, which seems to be a particular kind of pop. I've had luck with carbonation before bed and after certain meals because the fizz produces an instant burp, but I struggled with cola at times, and fell victim to its inconsistency again at the first aid station that morning. Here, I felt I'd won the lottery; the ginger ale was flowing. The carbonation and sugar instantly rejuvenated my gut. It also seemed to ignite my mind. I even joked with a few of the volunteers--something about cups and party fouls and "going back to my car now," before thanking them profusely and separating from the 50 mile runners in return to the northeast.
Now back on an access road, the next three and a half miles of the course were easy downhills. My spirits were lifted by the aid station crowd, and the relief of the ginger ale helped initiate my metabolizing of the gel I'd taken just before the turnaround. I meandered along before looping back to an earlier aid station, where the course veered off onto the single track--this time on the northern side of the range--offering views of Ashland and its surrounding valleys.
I continued to clip off steady splits (7:02, 7:07, and 7:11), which slowed to an 8:25 as I climbed into mile 22. Mile 22 was, for me, akin to mile 17 in a marathon. This point offers a unique mental advantage because it's the "single digit club." Only 9 more miles until the finish! Mile 23 was a tough stretch on this course, and the pitch of the slope and the heat of the day slowed my pace to just over 9 minutes. I reassured myself that I could endure, though, because I was in the club. Just keep chipping away.
Clearly, I had forgotten the gut-check provided by the double digit club, because my membership dues for this status came with a jarring upper cut, then a dizzying one-two combination. Here, the course deposits runners at the base of the fast morning descent (mile 8, were the course had dropped 1,300 feet in three miles). I aimed to tackle the canyon with run/walk intervals, but resorted to power hiking and shuffling. 10:35; 12:55; 12:38; I bled time as the miles oozed on. Amazingly, though, I passed other runners in the process.
All I could do to occupy my mind was translate the remaining miles into equivalent mid-week workouts I'd completed so regularly during training. The watch would beep, and I'd check for reassurance: Six miles left! That's an easy Thursday morning before work, I'd think. BEEP! Five miles left! That's the core segment of a tempo workout! This translation might seem silly since my tempo workouts do not average miles of 12:55, but the naive translations did help sustain me in those later fatiguing stretches.
After topping out at 25 or so, I was able to run comfortably again. I had a steady diet of walking, though. Ultrarunners will often tell you to walk uphill to conserve energy and use different muscle groups to save your legs. At this point in the race, I walked certain flats. I even walked a few downhills. I did my walking because I needed rest, pure and simple.
I managed to run more than walk, though, and continued to dialogue with my watch regarding it's announcements. When it beeped for mile 28, I sighed aloud, "There it is! Three!" then yelled, "Make it two!" and ran on, hoping to come upon the fire road and the ascent toward the parking lot. I knew I wasn't bonking--which more than one person I passed attested to doing--because my later miles still felt pretty decent. I closed down the race with splits of 9:00, 8:17, and 8:44, before submitting to more walking on the fire road and the final climb toward the ski resort. The last stretch through the parking lot and race spectators was extremely gratifying. It was down-home, family oriented, and extremely celebratory. Everyone seemed fatigued--volunteers, supporters, and other runners--but all were proud and congratulatory.
At this point, runners were so strung out along the course that every finisher seemed to have his or her own moment in the spotlight. As I trucked through the last 200 meters, I couldn't help but smile and wave at the supporters; I knew I was the focus of their support.
---
I don't know if finishing makes me more of an ultrarunner now, or if I'll ever feel like I belong when I compete in more events of this nature. I do know that I never once thought I'm done! or Why the hell am I doing this?, both of which have been hurdles in faster road races and marathons. I know that in the four days since the event, I haven't had one bad memory or flashback of the near 4.5 hours I spent on the course. The fact that I completed the distance mattered to me when I decided to sign up and train for the event, but the fact that the experience itself will go the distance for me... that has to matter most of all.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Race or Run?
Heading into Saturday's Siskiyou Out and Back 50k event, my body is primed for a strong performance. When I consider the workouts and the numbers from this long cycle, it's hard not to invest in the notion that this has to go well. Math--and all that logic behind it--continues to vex me, but that doesn't mean I don't try to crunch numbers and project sums. This often pushes me toward a generalizing trap. If I look long enough at the recorded data, try to set it on equal sides of plus sign, I can't help but hope that Saturday equates to some kind of running boon. But running is not necessarily an equation, and the surplus is never certain.
The SOB 50k weaves around the Pacific Crest Trail departing from the Mt. Ashland Ski Resort, and remains an unknown for me. I'm also unfamiliar with the 31-mile distance. Saturday's conditions, as always, remain a mystery. Heat? Elevation? Fueling? Wildfire? Lightning (look no further than third overall Adam Campbell at the Hardrock 100 last weekend!)? Races are always subject to myriad outside factors, so I'm doing my best to avoid the aforementioned numbers trap and the "what-if" hypothesizing.
But does that mean SOB isn't a "race"? With so many unknowns--and for me, firsts--is there really a way to avoid seeing this as just another "run"? I can't help but wonder, is there a clear switch that individuals hit in order to distinguish one from the other?
This spring and summer, I've had my share of disastrous training runs. There's been various kinds of botched fueling and hydrating and grueling climbs at unbreathable elevations. I've fallen--twice this cycle--in the middle of 20-plus mile runs. Feeling the sharp pain of road rash, coupled with the sight of dirt and blood, makes the ability to regain composure in a remote location, hours away from the car, a difficult process. What choice is left? You start running. The pace of some of these less enjoyable runs has been all over the map. I've walked up hills I'd sprinted up just weeks before. I've slogged through botched speed work, soggy shoes, and sweltering temperatures.
I've also experienced sustained fits of joy. I slewed elevation climbs, slaughtered down hills, and stabilized intervals. I managed to run for over three hours in a childlike stupor, hardly believing in the existence of time or conditions. I can only hope to replicate and prolong the joy during the race, but with such varied experiences, it's almost silly. If there is a switch between run and race, some omnipresent finger is perpetually testing its durability on me. If this authoritarian flipper is failing to distinguish days or events, why should I force myself to?
And so when my dear mates and family members wish me "good luck" in my "race" this weekend, I continue to politely thank them. But I take a second to remind them that this can't be about racing and it can't be about luck. It's another run--like those before it in principle, and like all those subject the crucible of the given day and time and meal and moment.
So where's my mind?
Simply, I will try to feel good. I will do what I can do when I can do it. I will ask my body and hope that it responds.
I will complete, and also compete. Yet, my competition is with the steps I take, not the splits I make. Analyzing it any more just seems, for me at least, like a recipe for disaster.
The SOB 50k weaves around the Pacific Crest Trail departing from the Mt. Ashland Ski Resort, and remains an unknown for me. I'm also unfamiliar with the 31-mile distance. Saturday's conditions, as always, remain a mystery. Heat? Elevation? Fueling? Wildfire? Lightning (look no further than third overall Adam Campbell at the Hardrock 100 last weekend!)? Races are always subject to myriad outside factors, so I'm doing my best to avoid the aforementioned numbers trap and the "what-if" hypothesizing.
But does that mean SOB isn't a "race"? With so many unknowns--and for me, firsts--is there really a way to avoid seeing this as just another "run"? I can't help but wonder, is there a clear switch that individuals hit in order to distinguish one from the other?
This spring and summer, I've had my share of disastrous training runs. There's been various kinds of botched fueling and hydrating and grueling climbs at unbreathable elevations. I've fallen--twice this cycle--in the middle of 20-plus mile runs. Feeling the sharp pain of road rash, coupled with the sight of dirt and blood, makes the ability to regain composure in a remote location, hours away from the car, a difficult process. What choice is left? You start running. The pace of some of these less enjoyable runs has been all over the map. I've walked up hills I'd sprinted up just weeks before. I've slogged through botched speed work, soggy shoes, and sweltering temperatures.
I've also experienced sustained fits of joy. I slewed elevation climbs, slaughtered down hills, and stabilized intervals. I managed to run for over three hours in a childlike stupor, hardly believing in the existence of time or conditions. I can only hope to replicate and prolong the joy during the race, but with such varied experiences, it's almost silly. If there is a switch between run and race, some omnipresent finger is perpetually testing its durability on me. If this authoritarian flipper is failing to distinguish days or events, why should I force myself to?
And so when my dear mates and family members wish me "good luck" in my "race" this weekend, I continue to politely thank them. But I take a second to remind them that this can't be about racing and it can't be about luck. It's another run--like those before it in principle, and like all those subject the crucible of the given day and time and meal and moment.
So where's my mind?
Simply, I will try to feel good. I will do what I can do when I can do it. I will ask my body and hope that it responds.
I will complete, and also compete. Yet, my competition is with the steps I take, not the splits I make. Analyzing it any more just seems, for me at least, like a recipe for disaster.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Like Father.
I'm the first to acknowledge the traits I've inherited from my father, much like he is quick to pinpoint the characteristics he shares with his. It seems to work this way on generally universal levels, whether through nature or nurture, regardless of the tumult or tenderness.
So while I'm charging headlong into fatherhood, I've been alternating between the small picture and the big picture. On the day-to-day level, I am currently operating with my newly adapted trail-runner mentality: I will take it as it comes. Uphill, downhill, altitude, you name it and I'll adapt to its conditions. Unlike road running, I can speculate that parenting involves a variance of expectations based on a multitude of factors. Pace and strategy can't possibly hold or adapt with any consistency, so at this point I think the answer is to take things in stride and react from moment to moment.
Big-picture wise, I've recently had to consider the possibility that my fatherly--and my father's--features will both influence him and emerge from this creature. More than previous generations of my family, I've benefited from the influence of education, travel, and technology. While it may all be relative, in some senses, these factors have without a doubt altered the landscape of the lineage. As a result, sometimes I feel I'm taking note of the distinct differences rather than the similarities. Pastimes, preferences, even politics--all of these influences have shifted through the unfolding of time.
I wonder if his grandmother will tell him, "You remind me of your father." I wonder if his grandfather will tell me, "He's got a bit of my dad in him." Will the piss and vinegar trickle down? And what about his mother? What will we gladly--graciously even--attribute to her?
When I consider what elements could last and what might get lost, I'm both hopeful and happy at the details of my ruminations. Behind the basic parenting decisions, the standard operating procedures, and the instinctual paternal reactions, there might be some glimmers of residual ugliness--traces of those qualities I swore I'd never replicate but that I obviously can't completely shed. It's hard to deny that kind of proverbial elephant in the room. But likewise, behind conscious decisions there will be a continual reinforcing of the good things. And those good things come from the values I've inherently made mine.
I find that as I write this, I'm essentially coming to grips with the fact that the things I impart to my boy will come in response to or as a result of absorbing life. And for me, I can pinpoint much of this to a personal infatuation with the paternal bond, one that has sustained my Romantic sensibilities for much of the past 15 years. The father-son backpacking debacles, the casting lessons, the wining and whining and wailing--the goading and teasing and ritualistic recreation I've used for stability must have come from somewhere.
As I see it, my grandfather sketched his parenting strategy by hand, copying as best he could what his father had drawn in raising him. When I was announced, my father began to jot his own, penning a version that, over time, he likely lent to a XEROX machine to facilitate the process. My version might have the touch screens and clouds and pixels of modern technology, but given all that's occurred around this rush toward modernity, I just don't know to what extent the creation will resemble what preceded it.
But might say this about anything, at any point, right? It doesn't mean it won't be there.
So while I'm charging headlong into fatherhood, I've been alternating between the small picture and the big picture. On the day-to-day level, I am currently operating with my newly adapted trail-runner mentality: I will take it as it comes. Uphill, downhill, altitude, you name it and I'll adapt to its conditions. Unlike road running, I can speculate that parenting involves a variance of expectations based on a multitude of factors. Pace and strategy can't possibly hold or adapt with any consistency, so at this point I think the answer is to take things in stride and react from moment to moment.
Big-picture wise, I've recently had to consider the possibility that my fatherly--and my father's--features will both influence him and emerge from this creature. More than previous generations of my family, I've benefited from the influence of education, travel, and technology. While it may all be relative, in some senses, these factors have without a doubt altered the landscape of the lineage. As a result, sometimes I feel I'm taking note of the distinct differences rather than the similarities. Pastimes, preferences, even politics--all of these influences have shifted through the unfolding of time.
I wonder if his grandmother will tell him, "You remind me of your father." I wonder if his grandfather will tell me, "He's got a bit of my dad in him." Will the piss and vinegar trickle down? And what about his mother? What will we gladly--graciously even--attribute to her?
When I consider what elements could last and what might get lost, I'm both hopeful and happy at the details of my ruminations. Behind the basic parenting decisions, the standard operating procedures, and the instinctual paternal reactions, there might be some glimmers of residual ugliness--traces of those qualities I swore I'd never replicate but that I obviously can't completely shed. It's hard to deny that kind of proverbial elephant in the room. But likewise, behind conscious decisions there will be a continual reinforcing of the good things. And those good things come from the values I've inherently made mine.
I find that as I write this, I'm essentially coming to grips with the fact that the things I impart to my boy will come in response to or as a result of absorbing life. And for me, I can pinpoint much of this to a personal infatuation with the paternal bond, one that has sustained my Romantic sensibilities for much of the past 15 years. The father-son backpacking debacles, the casting lessons, the wining and whining and wailing--the goading and teasing and ritualistic recreation I've used for stability must have come from somewhere.
As I see it, my grandfather sketched his parenting strategy by hand, copying as best he could what his father had drawn in raising him. When I was announced, my father began to jot his own, penning a version that, over time, he likely lent to a XEROX machine to facilitate the process. My version might have the touch screens and clouds and pixels of modern technology, but given all that's occurred around this rush toward modernity, I just don't know to what extent the creation will resemble what preceded it.
But might say this about anything, at any point, right? It doesn't mean it won't be there.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
As Luck Would Have It.
By and large, I've been blessed with great physical health. I've been symptomatically cursed by nagging impact injuries, but overall my post-football running condition has remained strong and stable. I've faced no surgeries, donned no casts. I have a lot of PT and deep tissue billing on my Visa statement, pamphlets of prescribed cross training, a gym membership, health coverage, and walking boot. But overall, things progress successfully. And as I've been saying lately, when it's good it's good.
And it is good.
I swapped stories with a few in the running community who opted to tackle the ASICS-sanctioned Boston 2 Big Sur Challenge, and these chats always stoked my curiosities. Why would you opt to run back-to-back marathons? More importantly, How the hell do you do it? This year represented the 5th year of the event, which invites 250 participants who qualify for the Boston Marathon to add the Big Sur Marathon their calendars. In all years except 2014 and 2009, the challenge has allowed for 13 days rest between events. In the first and fifth year, however, the break spanned just 6 days.
Enter: me. Ambitious, relatively healthy, and naively in love with distance and mileage. I signed up for the challenge knowing a return to Boston after PR-ing during the 2013 terrorist attack was a given, and wrapping the Big Sur element of the challenge in as somewhat of a pilgrimage to my proverbial "home," the central coast being the place I (then a nonrunner) completed my undergraduate education and, quote-unquote, "found myself."
Enter, again, me. Ambitious? Naive? These are terms that lead to... injury. Following a solid showing at the 2013 Marine Corps Marathon (2:50), I let off the gas long enough to relax the muscles, then put the pedal down hard enough to strain them. I engage in a serious battle with Achilles tendonitis, and found myself digesting a steady diet of "cool it, man," "non-impact cardio workouts," and magical remedy known as "7-second eccentric heel drops." This recovery plan led to rapid fat loss, often obsessive-compulsive gym excursions, and maniacal cardio endurance. (It likewise had a transformative effect on my brittle personality.)
But this brand of health did bring about healing, and I found myself quickly logging healthy miles at normal speeds. Then, after a solid 16-miler with too many fast folks in February, I felt serious pain in my right heal. On a Tuesday, during the last week of the month, I was diagnosed with an early-onset stress fracture and confined to a walking boot.
---
I set out to maximize my gym access, exploiting all perks of the free wifi, complimentary coffee, 5 AM openings, two varieties of Spin class, and even did some sad aqua jogging reps in a beanie at daybreak. I refused to relinquish my B2B goal; it became a test of survival.
Once the escape from the boot became reality, my wife took over the coaching duties. She wisely prescribed (a mere) three days of running per week, which included the walk/run protocol from the fine folks at Kaiser's Sports Medicine department. I was allowed zero training on a track, zero speed work, and only one "long" run which started at 6 miles. With no mid-week increases, I was allowed to increase the long-run distance to 8 the following weekend. Under the same instructions, I netted 12 the next.
The plan to return to Boston remained in tact. I proceeded gingerly, nervous that even the slightest wrong move would jeopardize the final outcome. The weekend before Boston, I was allowed to run 16, and permitted to extend the distance a tad if the body cooperated. I netted a slow 17 mile training run, which wrapped a mere 8 days from the 118th Boston Marathon.
That's right. When the rest of the diligent marathons enter weeks of tapering, I was desperately grabbing whatever I could find to pad my trek to Boston.
---
Our trip to Hopkinton came wrapped in a modest vacation, and with my coach by my side, I managed to follow the schedule through our days in Portland, Maine, and Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I fudged a few miles on a morning run in Maine, but mostly adhered to the "off" day instructions with intense elliptical intervals at odd hours in hotel fitness centers. I tried not to fret or overanalyze Boston amid all the hoopla my friends and the event provided; I seriously wanted to survive the journey. I wanted to emerge from the experience on both feet, smiling.
And I knew Hopkinton was a long way from Carmel.
Boston
Boston becomes more and more special to me with each experience. There was a time, before I knew that having children was a possibility, that I thought the word Boston held enough import for me to give it to a kid. Boy or girl. It is a wonderful place.
Then I ran an unplanned PR there in 2013. Then two brothers destroyed the purity and sanctity of the running event by ending the lives of four innocent bystanders and one vigilant MIT campus police officer. The idea to return to marathon was more of a compulsion; it would happen, and it would either be a triumphant, competitive push to nab another PR, or gallant parade.
With the injury casting so much doubt over the race, I know my plan should been based on simple perseverance, but it wasn't. You fall in with the company you keep, and Boston, like other seeded races, corrals its runners into thousand-person herds comprised of, more or less, the yous with the means and desire (and health) to travel to Hopkinton.
With hopes to hold 7-8 minute miles, I launched out at the starting gun and watched all my ability brothers fly by, steadfast and diligent in pursuit of their own unique goals. I tried to remain cautious, given what Stephanie had trained me for and what doctors had insisted all through the winter I might realistically endure.
By mile 3, I began compiling a mental list of the things I'd underestimated. First on the list: my ability. I was clipping off 6:30s with nary hitch or glitch. And while I knew it might certainly make for a painful (read: sore, not injured) recovery, I'd likely be no worse for the wear.
Another 2014 underestimation was the heat. I'm typically a cooler runner, and don't sweat profusely or feel like I might eventually overheat. In Boston, by mile 9, I began dumping aid-station water on my head and neck to cool down. It wasn't, by any means, close to what runners endured in the awful humidity a few years back, but my need to cool certainly surprised me. Race starts at 10:00 in mid-April can do that, I suppose, whether or not your run 5 days prior includes tights and gloves and sub-30 degree breezes.
And like anyone familiar with the pomp, circumstance, and fragility of the Boston Marathon, I underestimated the course. The water dumping at mile 9 coincided with alarm bells sent off from receptors in my quads. The continuous downhill out of Hopkinton--the simultaneous braking and propulsion required on the descent--shocked my system. Unlike many storied Boston athletes who dread the sight of Heartbreak Hill, I was ecstatic to reach Newton and relieved to enjoy an ascent that seemed to stabilize my body and mind.
The pace didn't slow until Brookline, a stretch I've come to loathe as a distance runner. A good friend calls it the longest four miles in the history of road racing, and his words bounced off the echo chamber in my brain for the half hour I spent there. At that point, with my quadriceps again screaming, an actual finish line goal began to form. I wanted to hold the finish time, if at all possible, to sub-three. My rationale for such an ambitious goal in this situation, I figured, emanated from the fact that no one--not even me, really--thought I'd get as far as I did in the first place.
Given my mental list of underestimations, it didn't seem too far fetched.
That left turn onto Boylston Street, unlike 2013's blurry cloud of speed and grit, was crisp and incredible. I creaked down the center line, smiling, waving, and urging myself toward that 2:58 mark flashing overhead. I passed the same flags I distinctly recall from 2013--those from the grainy post-blast video footage. The people surged, yelled, clapped, and cheered. They seemed so fearless and resilient and proud.
It's odd to describe now, in retrospect. Boston 2014 wasn't my fastest marathon--not by a long shot. In fact, it was the slowest since my first attempt at CIM in 2011. But felt like the most significant run I've ever completed, especially in its final moments. It was a confluence of emotion--communal, social, spiritual, and personal. I wept uncontrollably, removing my glasses and blubbering through the thank-yous and hellos at the finish line. I did my best to hurry along, wanting nothing more than my wife (and my compression socks).
The first leg of the challenge had ended. I was upright, on Boylston, and looking for some kind of recovery product that might whisk me off to Big Sur, ready for more.
I ran both races with an ultrasound photo of the boy.
Big Sur
The B2B Challenge is certainly a test of strength and training and will, but my decision to tackle the races had nothing to do with physical or mental training, endurance, or mettle. I made it so personal.
I saw the challenge as a work of literature, a cathartic return of spiritual and emotional validation. With the impending arrival of our son, the experience also became a punctuation mark for the end of one journey and the bridge into another.
Marathon training, in the traditional sense, doesn't really apply to my plight or the back-to-back challenge. My goal heading in to the next race was simply to stay loose. So, the morning after Boston I "enjoyed"a sickening shake-out jog with my pregnant wife. Barely holding her pace, she led me three miles through the picturesque suburban streets of Hopkinton.
I hated it. But it helped. Immensely. And it led into a nice stretching session before heading to the airport.
I took Wednesday off completely, but started jogging again on Thursday. I grabbed an easy four miles, and followed it with five on Friday and the same on Saturday. The goal of staying loose worked, and it allowed me to approach the race with a new and unfamiliar tactic. In the lead up, I abandoned the typical runner fare. I stripped the Garmin, changed the routes, and ran on feel.
We enjoyed a nice drive to the coast on Saturday, and arrived in time to check in and stop by the expo. As anyone who's done a few of these distances knows, these events can be awkward spectacles and sales pitch zoos. But I rather enjoyed this one. It was smaller than the massive multi-level mecca in Boston, for one. It was in the hotel, funky and local in nature, and yet also very celebratory of what the race offered: history, legend, views, solitude, and the experience of running on "the jagged edge of the western world." There was also the sideshow of B2B challenge, which provided a feeling of pre-race accomplishment. Pointing out the challenge seemed to provide a relief I was unaware I needed. And yet, by the time the evening rolled around the task ahead seemed more real then than it ever had.
Describing the race itself is a challenge unto itself. It was at times silent and lonely, at times gregarious and talkative; sometimes it was enjoyable and easy, and at others it was a grueling slog fraught with questions. The best summation I can provide comes in borrowed form. It's a detailing I heard that evening at a special event, held with Bart Yasso and all who completed the B2B challenge, that I've paraphrased here.
---
B2B is more than just two consecutive marathons. It is more than two long runs. It is more than 52.4 miles. It represents two stark contrasts. In Boston you run a storied race on a state holiday. The event kicks off at the odd hour of 10:00 AM. You toe the line with elite athletes from around the country--literally corralled with your global running equals--and you run a net downhill through wall-to-wall spectators. You are never alone. If you want a beer, you can hang with the frat crowd. If you want a kiss, go to Wellesley. Never a dull moment.
Big Sur, on the other hand, happens on a traditional race day. It's just a Sunday. You catch a 4:00 AM bus for a dark, windy drive to the Big Sur Station--a National Forest staging area--where you sit in a parking lot for around 90 minutes. Things need to move, since you're running on a highway. When the race begins, you're not surrounded by a massive throng. Diligent runners move in and out in coordination with their goals, but the only surroundings are redwoods and mossy pockets of the coastal forest. The speed isn't intense, and the difficulty of the course means PR-minded hardliners aren't necessarily flocking to run. The first chunk of the race can be laced in fog, and it's shady and cool. You roll, not unlike the sea you'll eventually parallel, and then climb, sometimes for over a mile, and often alone.
These differences can be vexing, so to cope, I made some adaptations to one of my hard and fast rules. I'm a dedicated podcast listener during my training runs, but I abide by an unplug rule during races, no matter the size, distance, or location. For this event, afraid of the dangerous isolation in Big Sur--especially in the wake of Boston--I made a playlist of various meaningful songs to help mollify my brain. And for roughly forty or so ugly minutes, I broke my rule. And though I won't do it again in an event, it was crucial here.
---
Having the music taught me three important things:
And then, in a nice jog through the inflatable tunnel, my version of the B2B story ended. A kiss from the lovely wife/coach/partner (who ran the 5k!), a stop by the special "B2B Challenge" tent (where I could not for the life of me drink more than one sip of the promised celebratory beer and had to give my post-race pasta to my hungry, pregnant wife), and a complimentary ice bath at the Treadmill running store (an unforeseen blessing that kept me out of the ocean), and we rolled back into real life.
---
I earned two handmade medals, one for the completion of the Big Sur International Marathon, and one for the completion of the Boston 2 Big Sur Challenge. ASICS also provided a finishers jacket, emblazoned with the challenge title, the year, and the slogan. Those with B2B in their Rolodex love to point out that my jackets says "6 days" when most of theirs say 13.
I also earned a healthy amount of humility during the process. Much was instilled by my injury and recovery, but more came from the sanity provided by my wife-as-coach, and the reminder that I managed to succeed alongside so many other extraordinary runners on a very un-typical build up. I am moving ahead with increasing durability. While racing (or running fit) through the challenge would be ideal, I used the races to build an extraordinary mileage base. This marathon-as-long-run mentality has set me up, nicely I believe, for the next major event on my calendar, a trail 50k looming at the end of July.
---
There are so many ways to find value in the B2B. If I were to encourage someone to accept the challenge, I would push them to see it as an intensely personal, multifaceted experience. Along the way, you have to be willing to remain loose. You'll break some rules, overstep some logic, and always adapt. In the end, you might have to couch some of the happenings as inexplicable--perhaps even sheer luck. But that's OK. That's how challenges work.
And it is good.
I swapped stories with a few in the running community who opted to tackle the ASICS-sanctioned Boston 2 Big Sur Challenge, and these chats always stoked my curiosities. Why would you opt to run back-to-back marathons? More importantly, How the hell do you do it? This year represented the 5th year of the event, which invites 250 participants who qualify for the Boston Marathon to add the Big Sur Marathon their calendars. In all years except 2014 and 2009, the challenge has allowed for 13 days rest between events. In the first and fifth year, however, the break spanned just 6 days.
Enter: me. Ambitious, relatively healthy, and naively in love with distance and mileage. I signed up for the challenge knowing a return to Boston after PR-ing during the 2013 terrorist attack was a given, and wrapping the Big Sur element of the challenge in as somewhat of a pilgrimage to my proverbial "home," the central coast being the place I (then a nonrunner) completed my undergraduate education and, quote-unquote, "found myself."
Enter, again, me. Ambitious? Naive? These are terms that lead to... injury. Following a solid showing at the 2013 Marine Corps Marathon (2:50), I let off the gas long enough to relax the muscles, then put the pedal down hard enough to strain them. I engage in a serious battle with Achilles tendonitis, and found myself digesting a steady diet of "cool it, man," "non-impact cardio workouts," and magical remedy known as "7-second eccentric heel drops." This recovery plan led to rapid fat loss, often obsessive-compulsive gym excursions, and maniacal cardio endurance. (It likewise had a transformative effect on my brittle personality.)
But this brand of health did bring about healing, and I found myself quickly logging healthy miles at normal speeds. Then, after a solid 16-miler with too many fast folks in February, I felt serious pain in my right heal. On a Tuesday, during the last week of the month, I was diagnosed with an early-onset stress fracture and confined to a walking boot.
---
I set out to maximize my gym access, exploiting all perks of the free wifi, complimentary coffee, 5 AM openings, two varieties of Spin class, and even did some sad aqua jogging reps in a beanie at daybreak. I refused to relinquish my B2B goal; it became a test of survival.
Once the escape from the boot became reality, my wife took over the coaching duties. She wisely prescribed (a mere) three days of running per week, which included the walk/run protocol from the fine folks at Kaiser's Sports Medicine department. I was allowed zero training on a track, zero speed work, and only one "long" run which started at 6 miles. With no mid-week increases, I was allowed to increase the long-run distance to 8 the following weekend. Under the same instructions, I netted 12 the next.
The plan to return to Boston remained in tact. I proceeded gingerly, nervous that even the slightest wrong move would jeopardize the final outcome. The weekend before Boston, I was allowed to run 16, and permitted to extend the distance a tad if the body cooperated. I netted a slow 17 mile training run, which wrapped a mere 8 days from the 118th Boston Marathon.
That's right. When the rest of the diligent marathons enter weeks of tapering, I was desperately grabbing whatever I could find to pad my trek to Boston.
---
Our trip to Hopkinton came wrapped in a modest vacation, and with my coach by my side, I managed to follow the schedule through our days in Portland, Maine, and Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I fudged a few miles on a morning run in Maine, but mostly adhered to the "off" day instructions with intense elliptical intervals at odd hours in hotel fitness centers. I tried not to fret or overanalyze Boston amid all the hoopla my friends and the event provided; I seriously wanted to survive the journey. I wanted to emerge from the experience on both feet, smiling.
And I knew Hopkinton was a long way from Carmel.
Boston
Boston becomes more and more special to me with each experience. There was a time, before I knew that having children was a possibility, that I thought the word Boston held enough import for me to give it to a kid. Boy or girl. It is a wonderful place.
Then I ran an unplanned PR there in 2013. Then two brothers destroyed the purity and sanctity of the running event by ending the lives of four innocent bystanders and one vigilant MIT campus police officer. The idea to return to marathon was more of a compulsion; it would happen, and it would either be a triumphant, competitive push to nab another PR, or gallant parade.
With the injury casting so much doubt over the race, I know my plan should been based on simple perseverance, but it wasn't. You fall in with the company you keep, and Boston, like other seeded races, corrals its runners into thousand-person herds comprised of, more or less, the yous with the means and desire (and health) to travel to Hopkinton.
With hopes to hold 7-8 minute miles, I launched out at the starting gun and watched all my ability brothers fly by, steadfast and diligent in pursuit of their own unique goals. I tried to remain cautious, given what Stephanie had trained me for and what doctors had insisted all through the winter I might realistically endure.
By mile 3, I began compiling a mental list of the things I'd underestimated. First on the list: my ability. I was clipping off 6:30s with nary hitch or glitch. And while I knew it might certainly make for a painful (read: sore, not injured) recovery, I'd likely be no worse for the wear.
Another 2014 underestimation was the heat. I'm typically a cooler runner, and don't sweat profusely or feel like I might eventually overheat. In Boston, by mile 9, I began dumping aid-station water on my head and neck to cool down. It wasn't, by any means, close to what runners endured in the awful humidity a few years back, but my need to cool certainly surprised me. Race starts at 10:00 in mid-April can do that, I suppose, whether or not your run 5 days prior includes tights and gloves and sub-30 degree breezes.
And like anyone familiar with the pomp, circumstance, and fragility of the Boston Marathon, I underestimated the course. The water dumping at mile 9 coincided with alarm bells sent off from receptors in my quads. The continuous downhill out of Hopkinton--the simultaneous braking and propulsion required on the descent--shocked my system. Unlike many storied Boston athletes who dread the sight of Heartbreak Hill, I was ecstatic to reach Newton and relieved to enjoy an ascent that seemed to stabilize my body and mind.
The pace didn't slow until Brookline, a stretch I've come to loathe as a distance runner. A good friend calls it the longest four miles in the history of road racing, and his words bounced off the echo chamber in my brain for the half hour I spent there. At that point, with my quadriceps again screaming, an actual finish line goal began to form. I wanted to hold the finish time, if at all possible, to sub-three. My rationale for such an ambitious goal in this situation, I figured, emanated from the fact that no one--not even me, really--thought I'd get as far as I did in the first place.
Given my mental list of underestimations, it didn't seem too far fetched.
That left turn onto Boylston Street, unlike 2013's blurry cloud of speed and grit, was crisp and incredible. I creaked down the center line, smiling, waving, and urging myself toward that 2:58 mark flashing overhead. I passed the same flags I distinctly recall from 2013--those from the grainy post-blast video footage. The people surged, yelled, clapped, and cheered. They seemed so fearless and resilient and proud.
It's odd to describe now, in retrospect. Boston 2014 wasn't my fastest marathon--not by a long shot. In fact, it was the slowest since my first attempt at CIM in 2011. But felt like the most significant run I've ever completed, especially in its final moments. It was a confluence of emotion--communal, social, spiritual, and personal. I wept uncontrollably, removing my glasses and blubbering through the thank-yous and hellos at the finish line. I did my best to hurry along, wanting nothing more than my wife (and my compression socks).
The first leg of the challenge had ended. I was upright, on Boylston, and looking for some kind of recovery product that might whisk me off to Big Sur, ready for more.
I ran both races with an ultrasound photo of the boy.
Big Sur
The B2B Challenge is certainly a test of strength and training and will, but my decision to tackle the races had nothing to do with physical or mental training, endurance, or mettle. I made it so personal.
I saw the challenge as a work of literature, a cathartic return of spiritual and emotional validation. With the impending arrival of our son, the experience also became a punctuation mark for the end of one journey and the bridge into another.
Marathon training, in the traditional sense, doesn't really apply to my plight or the back-to-back challenge. My goal heading in to the next race was simply to stay loose. So, the morning after Boston I "enjoyed"a sickening shake-out jog with my pregnant wife. Barely holding her pace, she led me three miles through the picturesque suburban streets of Hopkinton.
I hated it. But it helped. Immensely. And it led into a nice stretching session before heading to the airport.
I took Wednesday off completely, but started jogging again on Thursday. I grabbed an easy four miles, and followed it with five on Friday and the same on Saturday. The goal of staying loose worked, and it allowed me to approach the race with a new and unfamiliar tactic. In the lead up, I abandoned the typical runner fare. I stripped the Garmin, changed the routes, and ran on feel.
We enjoyed a nice drive to the coast on Saturday, and arrived in time to check in and stop by the expo. As anyone who's done a few of these distances knows, these events can be awkward spectacles and sales pitch zoos. But I rather enjoyed this one. It was smaller than the massive multi-level mecca in Boston, for one. It was in the hotel, funky and local in nature, and yet also very celebratory of what the race offered: history, legend, views, solitude, and the experience of running on "the jagged edge of the western world." There was also the sideshow of B2B challenge, which provided a feeling of pre-race accomplishment. Pointing out the challenge seemed to provide a relief I was unaware I needed. And yet, by the time the evening rolled around the task ahead seemed more real then than it ever had.
Describing the race itself is a challenge unto itself. It was at times silent and lonely, at times gregarious and talkative; sometimes it was enjoyable and easy, and at others it was a grueling slog fraught with questions. The best summation I can provide comes in borrowed form. It's a detailing I heard that evening at a special event, held with Bart Yasso and all who completed the B2B challenge, that I've paraphrased here.
---
B2B is more than just two consecutive marathons. It is more than two long runs. It is more than 52.4 miles. It represents two stark contrasts. In Boston you run a storied race on a state holiday. The event kicks off at the odd hour of 10:00 AM. You toe the line with elite athletes from around the country--literally corralled with your global running equals--and you run a net downhill through wall-to-wall spectators. You are never alone. If you want a beer, you can hang with the frat crowd. If you want a kiss, go to Wellesley. Never a dull moment.
Big Sur, on the other hand, happens on a traditional race day. It's just a Sunday. You catch a 4:00 AM bus for a dark, windy drive to the Big Sur Station--a National Forest staging area--where you sit in a parking lot for around 90 minutes. Things need to move, since you're running on a highway. When the race begins, you're not surrounded by a massive throng. Diligent runners move in and out in coordination with their goals, but the only surroundings are redwoods and mossy pockets of the coastal forest. The speed isn't intense, and the difficulty of the course means PR-minded hardliners aren't necessarily flocking to run. The first chunk of the race can be laced in fog, and it's shady and cool. You roll, not unlike the sea you'll eventually parallel, and then climb, sometimes for over a mile, and often alone.
These differences can be vexing, so to cope, I made some adaptations to one of my hard and fast rules. I'm a dedicated podcast listener during my training runs, but I abide by an unplug rule during races, no matter the size, distance, or location. For this event, afraid of the dangerous isolation in Big Sur--especially in the wake of Boston--I made a playlist of various meaningful songs to help mollify my brain. And for roughly forty or so ugly minutes, I broke my rule. And though I won't do it again in an event, it was crucial here.
---
Having the music taught me three important things:
- Turns out, some of that Kanye West bravado serves a purpose. (See: "Stronger.")
- Nostalgia-inspired tracks will be hit and miss. (Wade: good; Guster: bad)
- I am a Lorde fan.
And then, in a nice jog through the inflatable tunnel, my version of the B2B story ended. A kiss from the lovely wife/coach/partner (who ran the 5k!), a stop by the special "B2B Challenge" tent (where I could not for the life of me drink more than one sip of the promised celebratory beer and had to give my post-race pasta to my hungry, pregnant wife), and a complimentary ice bath at the Treadmill running store (an unforeseen blessing that kept me out of the ocean), and we rolled back into real life.
---
I earned two handmade medals, one for the completion of the Big Sur International Marathon, and one for the completion of the Boston 2 Big Sur Challenge. ASICS also provided a finishers jacket, emblazoned with the challenge title, the year, and the slogan. Those with B2B in their Rolodex love to point out that my jackets says "6 days" when most of theirs say 13.
I also earned a healthy amount of humility during the process. Much was instilled by my injury and recovery, but more came from the sanity provided by my wife-as-coach, and the reminder that I managed to succeed alongside so many other extraordinary runners on a very un-typical build up. I am moving ahead with increasing durability. While racing (or running fit) through the challenge would be ideal, I used the races to build an extraordinary mileage base. This marathon-as-long-run mentality has set me up, nicely I believe, for the next major event on my calendar, a trail 50k looming at the end of July.
---
There are so many ways to find value in the B2B. If I were to encourage someone to accept the challenge, I would push them to see it as an intensely personal, multifaceted experience. Along the way, you have to be willing to remain loose. You'll break some rules, overstep some logic, and always adapt. In the end, you might have to couch some of the happenings as inexplicable--perhaps even sheer luck. But that's OK. That's how challenges work.
Monday, March 24, 2014
from Boston to Big Sur (to Baby)
The Short Version: Signed up for a spring double. Got hurt. Found out we're pregnant. Rehabbed. Got hurt again. Better for it (all).
The Long Version:
My last bit of writing came in the wake of the Boston Marathon experience. And while I don't attribute the events or its aftermath to my long hiatus from writing, I do think the onset of April 2014--and the recent arrival of life-altering news--warrants the written word.
In terms of running, 2014 was set to be an ambitious year. We wrapped up our Marine Corps Marathon adventure in October with a phenomenal vacation in Washington. Aside from the dining and doing, I put together another race in the realm of 2:50, a bit off the early goal but certainly pleasing. Unfortunately, Stephanie suffered a hip flexor strain in the fall and was forced to forego competition. Fortunately, however, she was able to use the trip to spend quality time with her lifelong friend, a woman who remains our real impetus for traveling across the country to jog around.
In training for MCM and considering my goals for the upcoming year, I landed on the Boston to Big Sur ("B2B") double marathon challenge, an ASICS-sponsored, non-BAA sanctioned event for runners competing in both races. The distinction, which has existed for 500 (or is it 250?) entrants for the past 5 years, is an ambitious offering to run east and west coasts in close proximity (the race is often 13 days and is only separated by six this year). Since I didn't technically "run" while in undergrad on the central coast, it seemed like an apt pilgrimage for me to pursue. And given the way Boston concluded in 2013--a PR topped by a terrorist attack--a reunion on Boylston Street has been in the books since last Patriot's Day. Even if only for the sake of the narrative, the B2B challenge spoke to me.
The double is, in part, in the act of deciding. From a racing standpoint, runners often pick a focus based on their training, their course preferences, and their experiences with each races or courses in past years. For others, the double is set enjoyable long runs. For me, it seemed Boston would be the best to race, and Big Sur could serve as a sort-of victory lap. Stephanie's decision(s) changed this strategy. Despite her BQ, the events of 2013 and updated calibration of entrants effectively un-qualified her from 2014's race. Big Sur, thus became her goal race, and she suggested I run along her. I found this idea extremely attractive. We are two very different animals, and the chance to join her on an entire marathon was previously unfathomable.
In November and December, even through a rushed return to the road and some detrimental tendinitis that developed in my Achilles, I held on to the idea that I'd be running on the craggy coast with my wife come spring.
But while making dinner the night after Christmas, Stephanie returned home to inform me that the racing would be on hold. She did not provide her rationale in the context of running, but in looking back, I can see how a focus on the Big Sur Marathon might take a backseat to nurturing a developing fetus. We (She) were officially expecting!
Obviously ecstatic, I shifted my embrace toward a Boston experience among friends rather than runners. But with the amending of the tendinitis issues, I started to ramp up mileage and training. Stephanie focused quality time on our Boston trip, newly directed at solidifying its "last hurrah as non-parents" feel. We'd enhance it as a bit of a vacation.
Then near the end of a long run in late February, I suffered a stress injury to my heal. I found I couldn't run the next day (yes, I tried) or the day after. I wedged myself into the calendar with a sports medicine doc, slid into an MRI tube, strapped up a walking boot, and hobbled off into what has become an altered state.
In terms of health, I don't know if I've ever been better. Ironically, not running has done wonders. It put me in the saddle of a stationary bicycle, on the peddles of an elliptical machine, atop the sliding seat of a stationary rower, and in the foam embrace of an aqua jogging belt. I've maintained fitness, improved strength, and kept the shape consistent. I still geek out about what I eat, but the prior compulsions of a run-first mentality haven't driven me mad. My approach to racing--to running in general--is changed. Newly formed habits--the gym routine, the dearth of spring race entry forms and associated fees, perhaps--have helped me develop a few important tenets I hope to remember.
The fable was right, but I just raced past the learned lesson. It's time to slow down and start acting more like the tortoise. He bests the harrier in the end of the fable, right?
The Long Version:
My last bit of writing came in the wake of the Boston Marathon experience. And while I don't attribute the events or its aftermath to my long hiatus from writing, I do think the onset of April 2014--and the recent arrival of life-altering news--warrants the written word.
In terms of running, 2014 was set to be an ambitious year. We wrapped up our Marine Corps Marathon adventure in October with a phenomenal vacation in Washington. Aside from the dining and doing, I put together another race in the realm of 2:50, a bit off the early goal but certainly pleasing. Unfortunately, Stephanie suffered a hip flexor strain in the fall and was forced to forego competition. Fortunately, however, she was able to use the trip to spend quality time with her lifelong friend, a woman who remains our real impetus for traveling across the country to jog around.
In training for MCM and considering my goals for the upcoming year, I landed on the Boston to Big Sur ("B2B") double marathon challenge, an ASICS-sponsored, non-BAA sanctioned event for runners competing in both races. The distinction, which has existed for 500 (or is it 250?) entrants for the past 5 years, is an ambitious offering to run east and west coasts in close proximity (the race is often 13 days and is only separated by six this year). Since I didn't technically "run" while in undergrad on the central coast, it seemed like an apt pilgrimage for me to pursue. And given the way Boston concluded in 2013--a PR topped by a terrorist attack--a reunion on Boylston Street has been in the books since last Patriot's Day. Even if only for the sake of the narrative, the B2B challenge spoke to me.
The double is, in part, in the act of deciding. From a racing standpoint, runners often pick a focus based on their training, their course preferences, and their experiences with each races or courses in past years. For others, the double is set enjoyable long runs. For me, it seemed Boston would be the best to race, and Big Sur could serve as a sort-of victory lap. Stephanie's decision(s) changed this strategy. Despite her BQ, the events of 2013 and updated calibration of entrants effectively un-qualified her from 2014's race. Big Sur, thus became her goal race, and she suggested I run along her. I found this idea extremely attractive. We are two very different animals, and the chance to join her on an entire marathon was previously unfathomable.
In November and December, even through a rushed return to the road and some detrimental tendinitis that developed in my Achilles, I held on to the idea that I'd be running on the craggy coast with my wife come spring.
But while making dinner the night after Christmas, Stephanie returned home to inform me that the racing would be on hold. She did not provide her rationale in the context of running, but in looking back, I can see how a focus on the Big Sur Marathon might take a backseat to nurturing a developing fetus. We (She) were officially expecting!
Obviously ecstatic, I shifted my embrace toward a Boston experience among friends rather than runners. But with the amending of the tendinitis issues, I started to ramp up mileage and training. Stephanie focused quality time on our Boston trip, newly directed at solidifying its "last hurrah as non-parents" feel. We'd enhance it as a bit of a vacation.
Then near the end of a long run in late February, I suffered a stress injury to my heal. I found I couldn't run the next day (yes, I tried) or the day after. I wedged myself into the calendar with a sports medicine doc, slid into an MRI tube, strapped up a walking boot, and hobbled off into what has become an altered state.
In terms of health, I don't know if I've ever been better. Ironically, not running has done wonders. It put me in the saddle of a stationary bicycle, on the peddles of an elliptical machine, atop the sliding seat of a stationary rower, and in the foam embrace of an aqua jogging belt. I've maintained fitness, improved strength, and kept the shape consistent. I still geek out about what I eat, but the prior compulsions of a run-first mentality haven't driven me mad. My approach to racing--to running in general--is changed. Newly formed habits--the gym routine, the dearth of spring race entry forms and associated fees, perhaps--have helped me develop a few important tenets I hope to remember.
- I am unhappy when I can't run, so when I can, I will run to the extent that I'm happy. I will not run to follow a time or mileage or speed schedule unless it promotes or develops enjoyment.
- While running plays a certain personal and social role in my life, it is not a job. When it becomes one (or surpasses one), I can reevaluate. Until then, its a hobby.
- Running is primal and will exist regardless of course, time, device, or bib number. Thus, I have decided to do more of it outside of these imposed and generally accepted confines.
- I need to succeed in the overall, not just in every day. As any marathoner should know, the best races reflect how a runner sustains over time, not how he starts the race.
The fable was right, but I just raced past the learned lesson. It's time to slow down and start acting more like the tortoise. He bests the harrier in the end of the fable, right?
Thursday, April 18, 2013
What I Cannot Say.
I know this: I will no longer say that poor racing was the equivalent of "blowing up." I will not coach my cross country and track runners to "explode" as they approach the finish line. I know this because I know that language, like the reality it signifies, can maim and disfigure.
At least twice, as Monday's horrific afternoon stretched into evening, I thoughtlessly noted how my phone "blew up" as cell towers intermittently granted service to the thousands of concerned onlookers and their thousands of concerned family members and friends. To be so attuned to the informality of conversational speech--something otherwise innocuous and trivial--makes the crux of this reflection even harder to condone. But language can also heal. I love the language to the extent that I have made it my life's pursuit and my professional career, and yet I have no way to utilize it to succinctly describe the immensity that was so much more than the Boston Marathon. For once, no lexicon can account for the mass and scope needed to summarize so many competing emotions, overwhelming uncertainties, and lingering fears. But despite this feeling, I know I must grapple with the trauma in order to cobble together some kind of understanding.
So I write what I cannot say.
And unlike what I have written for past entries on this blog, I maintain that I'm writing this now for an audience of one. I selfishly sift through the matters of my mind for purely personal gain. My decision to put this reflective sifting online reflects the fact that so many in my supportive network have either asked about some aspect of the trip or have wondered why I haven't started writing. So I have resolved to write in hopes that I can arrive at something I cannot (simply) say.
The prologue of the experience is essentially a vacation wrapped in anticipation. After a 1:00 a.m. arrival, the morning brought with it a final interval workout on a hotel treadmill, a train to the Boston Commons, lunch with a former student, a trip to the fabulous race exposition, and delicious dinner with a few long-lost friends from my past. Later we enjoyed a brunch with Sacramentans, who were visiting to spectate, then a day game at Fenway where we caught ourselves a dandy of a ballgame that featured Buccholtz riding a no-no through eight. We were endlessly spoiled by a friend and former teammate, carted to and from the town of Hopkinton where we could eat, sleep, and essentially "live" a measly mile from the start line of the world's most prominent road race.
My race performance was mechanical. I ruled out a personal best, instead opting to begin easy and reassess after the hills at 20. Racers of all flavors passed me for the better part of 13, runners I eventually sacked as they struggled break through the "wall." I look at the numbers, and my splits ride an unwavering line. I never buckled, even through the changes in elevation. I was efficient. I was a machine.
To remind myself I was human, I smiled frequently, made an effort to high-five, and chatted with my fellow runners when appropriate. I followed a loose fuel plan, alternating between water and Gatorade at appropriate mile stops. I survived frat parties, Frogger wannabes, and strollers darting across the northeastern hamlet streets. I tumbled from the din of screaming coeds at Wellesley unfazed and unkissed. I passed the legendary runner Joan Benoit Samuelson, and all 55 of incredibly talented years while surging through the Newton hills, and thanked her for everything. I spied the Hopkinton crew near Heartbreak Hill and tossed them my arm warmers, then nonchalantly decided to pick up the pace through 23, which amounted to a long and tedious stint stretching along a flat avenue through Boston. The Sacramentans screamed somewhere near 24. By 25, I'd already realized a personal best was, despite my initial avoidance, a legit possibility. According to my GPS watch I closed the final 385 feet (the .2) at a 6:00 pace, and I crossed the finish line with a clear head and indescribable want to keep moving.
I stretched, made my way through the medals and mylar and water bottles, thanking the volunteers candidly. I spoke with a reporter from the Boston Herald, who marveled at how I acted and how I felt considering what I'd just done. His story, of course, was never penned.
I called my father to check on Stephanie's splits. I spoke with such zeal and energy. He couldn't comprehend my request for Stephanie's times, and he couldn't understand how I could run a marathon and then conduct a coherent, even vibrant conversation. I made my way to a room at the Copley Marriott for a post-race shower and a meal. Connected with an extended community of survivors glowing in the accomplishment and experience of so many successful journeys into Boston, we debriefed and awaited the arrival of the rest.
The unforeseen epilogue is, for me, comprised of the same members of the Hopkinton family, but its wrapped in tumult--and now reflection. After the bombs, which were audible to members of our showering troupe, the room became our shell. I think now of the children, 4 and 3, and how they invented games and played hide-and-seek while we surveyed the news and our cell phones and a room service order that would never, ever be placed. I think about our collaborative decision to leave, the wary exodus from the hotel, the distant sound of the police detonating a third device nearby, and another collaborative decision that a parking garage and a shuttered city were not places we wanted to be. I reflect on how, long after we'd unknowingly stolen food from a charity function on the fifth floor, seven adults and two children eventually rode, in a car built for six, back to Hopkinton. I hold tight to the feel of the family matriarch who, after buying us pizza at 9:45 p.m., grabbed a stranger (me) and hugged him tightly. Parents had been called, teammates and friends and spouses had been found, and the group grappled with managing all the information that poured in long into the night.
In the beginning, I joked that I'd never repay, financially or otherwise, the hospitality, convenience and comfort extended to us by the family in Hopkinton. So many of our teammates struggled to pull themselves from the city to the start line while we overslept and twiddled our toes in pajamas until nearly race time. How could I ever, I wondered aloud, run a Boston Marathon that included a hotel, a bus ride, or any of the other arduous components of a point-to-point destination marathon?
And by the end, I wondered how it would be possible to return to California without maintaining intermittent contact with the house in Hopkinton. The range of emotion--from the celebration of completion through the fatigue of exertion, the insufficient nutritional recovery and the adrenaline churning as we faced concern and uncertainty and the emotional and psychological trauma--left us all frayed and lonely and in doubt. And together.
What followed is surreal, something that's just coming into focus as I compose. Sleeplessness, muscular fatigue, and cross-country travel have made reintegration with the normal world difficult. Add the fever dream sequence and immediate fallout of a terrorist attack, along with a silence carried by those connected to situation appears, and this want for clarity seems almost primal. By Wednesday, fear and sadness bubbled through the facade of ease I'd foolishly created. I drove to work cautiously, reacted irritably to curious students at certain times, and avoided any chance to interact and share my thoughts on the event.
What they wanted I could not say. I see this now, because I realize that what I wanted I could not say.
I am working to put things into perspective. I am contextualizing the outreach, processing the support, and working through the details that fused triumph and terror.
I am bound to Boston; that I can say.
Thanks.
At least twice, as Monday's horrific afternoon stretched into evening, I thoughtlessly noted how my phone "blew up" as cell towers intermittently granted service to the thousands of concerned onlookers and their thousands of concerned family members and friends. To be so attuned to the informality of conversational speech--something otherwise innocuous and trivial--makes the crux of this reflection even harder to condone. But language can also heal. I love the language to the extent that I have made it my life's pursuit and my professional career, and yet I have no way to utilize it to succinctly describe the immensity that was so much more than the Boston Marathon. For once, no lexicon can account for the mass and scope needed to summarize so many competing emotions, overwhelming uncertainties, and lingering fears. But despite this feeling, I know I must grapple with the trauma in order to cobble together some kind of understanding.
So I write what I cannot say.
And unlike what I have written for past entries on this blog, I maintain that I'm writing this now for an audience of one. I selfishly sift through the matters of my mind for purely personal gain. My decision to put this reflective sifting online reflects the fact that so many in my supportive network have either asked about some aspect of the trip or have wondered why I haven't started writing. So I have resolved to write in hopes that I can arrive at something I cannot (simply) say.
The prologue of the experience is essentially a vacation wrapped in anticipation. After a 1:00 a.m. arrival, the morning brought with it a final interval workout on a hotel treadmill, a train to the Boston Commons, lunch with a former student, a trip to the fabulous race exposition, and delicious dinner with a few long-lost friends from my past. Later we enjoyed a brunch with Sacramentans, who were visiting to spectate, then a day game at Fenway where we caught ourselves a dandy of a ballgame that featured Buccholtz riding a no-no through eight. We were endlessly spoiled by a friend and former teammate, carted to and from the town of Hopkinton where we could eat, sleep, and essentially "live" a measly mile from the start line of the world's most prominent road race.
My race performance was mechanical. I ruled out a personal best, instead opting to begin easy and reassess after the hills at 20. Racers of all flavors passed me for the better part of 13, runners I eventually sacked as they struggled break through the "wall." I look at the numbers, and my splits ride an unwavering line. I never buckled, even through the changes in elevation. I was efficient. I was a machine.
To remind myself I was human, I smiled frequently, made an effort to high-five, and chatted with my fellow runners when appropriate. I followed a loose fuel plan, alternating between water and Gatorade at appropriate mile stops. I survived frat parties, Frogger wannabes, and strollers darting across the northeastern hamlet streets. I tumbled from the din of screaming coeds at Wellesley unfazed and unkissed. I passed the legendary runner Joan Benoit Samuelson, and all 55 of incredibly talented years while surging through the Newton hills, and thanked her for everything. I spied the Hopkinton crew near Heartbreak Hill and tossed them my arm warmers, then nonchalantly decided to pick up the pace through 23, which amounted to a long and tedious stint stretching along a flat avenue through Boston. The Sacramentans screamed somewhere near 24. By 25, I'd already realized a personal best was, despite my initial avoidance, a legit possibility. According to my GPS watch I closed the final 385 feet (the .2) at a 6:00 pace, and I crossed the finish line with a clear head and indescribable want to keep moving.
I stretched, made my way through the medals and mylar and water bottles, thanking the volunteers candidly. I spoke with a reporter from the Boston Herald, who marveled at how I acted and how I felt considering what I'd just done. His story, of course, was never penned.
I called my father to check on Stephanie's splits. I spoke with such zeal and energy. He couldn't comprehend my request for Stephanie's times, and he couldn't understand how I could run a marathon and then conduct a coherent, even vibrant conversation. I made my way to a room at the Copley Marriott for a post-race shower and a meal. Connected with an extended community of survivors glowing in the accomplishment and experience of so many successful journeys into Boston, we debriefed and awaited the arrival of the rest.
The unforeseen epilogue is, for me, comprised of the same members of the Hopkinton family, but its wrapped in tumult--and now reflection. After the bombs, which were audible to members of our showering troupe, the room became our shell. I think now of the children, 4 and 3, and how they invented games and played hide-and-seek while we surveyed the news and our cell phones and a room service order that would never, ever be placed. I think about our collaborative decision to leave, the wary exodus from the hotel, the distant sound of the police detonating a third device nearby, and another collaborative decision that a parking garage and a shuttered city were not places we wanted to be. I reflect on how, long after we'd unknowingly stolen food from a charity function on the fifth floor, seven adults and two children eventually rode, in a car built for six, back to Hopkinton. I hold tight to the feel of the family matriarch who, after buying us pizza at 9:45 p.m., grabbed a stranger (me) and hugged him tightly. Parents had been called, teammates and friends and spouses had been found, and the group grappled with managing all the information that poured in long into the night.
In the beginning, I joked that I'd never repay, financially or otherwise, the hospitality, convenience and comfort extended to us by the family in Hopkinton. So many of our teammates struggled to pull themselves from the city to the start line while we overslept and twiddled our toes in pajamas until nearly race time. How could I ever, I wondered aloud, run a Boston Marathon that included a hotel, a bus ride, or any of the other arduous components of a point-to-point destination marathon?
And by the end, I wondered how it would be possible to return to California without maintaining intermittent contact with the house in Hopkinton. The range of emotion--from the celebration of completion through the fatigue of exertion, the insufficient nutritional recovery and the adrenaline churning as we faced concern and uncertainty and the emotional and psychological trauma--left us all frayed and lonely and in doubt. And together.
What followed is surreal, something that's just coming into focus as I compose. Sleeplessness, muscular fatigue, and cross-country travel have made reintegration with the normal world difficult. Add the fever dream sequence and immediate fallout of a terrorist attack, along with a silence carried by those connected to situation appears, and this want for clarity seems almost primal. By Wednesday, fear and sadness bubbled through the facade of ease I'd foolishly created. I drove to work cautiously, reacted irritably to curious students at certain times, and avoided any chance to interact and share my thoughts on the event.
What they wanted I could not say. I see this now, because I realize that what I wanted I could not say.
I am working to put things into perspective. I am contextualizing the outreach, processing the support, and working through the details that fused triumph and terror.
I am bound to Boston; that I can say.
Thanks.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Boston has happened, is happening, and hasn't happened yet.
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.
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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