It’s a bit difficult to know how to approach this report. There is no way to capture all of the thoughts, feelings, and emotions that I experienced over the last few days. I feel like tackling this in two segments: the race, and the events after the race. There are really two stories to be told.
Early last year as I was making plans to run the Boston Marathon a good friend, Chris Pusey, found a great colonial home for rent in South Boston—or Southie, as the locals call it. The roster of roommates changed over time. It can be a challenge to find 9 competitive runners who can commit to running a race six months earlier. The training was full of ups and downs for the group and among the casualties were some to the toughest, dedicated runners I know. I had my own set of challenges to work through. The lesson I learned from this experience is to be grateful for every day I can put one foot in front of the other. Some of these friends were dearly missed.
Eight guys descended upon 520 E. Broadway from early Friday morning until Saturday afternoon: Curtis Eppley, Ryan Jonson, Paul Foulton, Brandon Dase, Reed Seamons, Dan Varga, and Rob Rohde. It is really cool how easy it is to connect with a group of guys who share a common purpose—run a good race and take in all that the Boston Marathon has to offer. The weekend was fantastic and I had a blast getting to know this remarkable group of hard-working men.
My mom and dad (Jolene and Jeff) were also in Boston for the marathon. My mom was there to run the marathon for her second time. They came to the home in Southie and relaxed with us on Sunday—took a little nap and enjoyed watching The Masters on TV. I got to feed them and pamper my mama a bit before they ran off to the pre-race dinner down town. My mom decided to run the race after I had made all of the arrangements for the bachelor pad, which is why I didn’t spend the weekend with them. (As a side note, my mom is planning to run five marathons this year: Boston, and the Grand Slam in Utah. At 61 I’d say that pretty cool. Go Mom!)
The pre-race meal was epic! Chef extraordinaire, Brandon Dase, prepared an amazing pasta dinner—fresh veggies, pasta, red sauce, and breaded chicken breasts. We sat up to the table with folded napkins, silverware properly placed, and Gatorade bottles—we even said grace before digging in. This was a highlight for me.
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I had been working through a cold in the days leading up to the race. I continued to see improvements leading up to the race, but was honestly worried about how my energy level would be for 26.2.
We woke up bright and early Monday morning to catch public transportation that would take us to the race busses. I was feeling very little effect from my cold. The sight of all the runners in Boston Common waiting to load the busses was awesome. I plugged in the iPod and listened to high-energy, get-me-in-my-happy-place Jon Schmidt piano music on the ride up.
My bib number was another part of my story. I was bib number 102. A quick search before the race revealed that there were no bib numbers lower than mine outside of the elite men—101 was a no-show, unnamed runner, and 100 was the race director. I knew that there were roughly 50 men who were part of the elite corral, which meant that according to my bib, I should place close to the top 50—at least that was the silly story I pretended not to tell myself. Another lesson—forget what your bib number says.
I had received some great advice before the race from some of the greatest coaches I know—not that I know many coaches—but you know who you are :-) They counseled me to make sure to run conservatively for the first 13 miles, very rarely run faster than target marathon pace, to avoid going crazy with the crowds early on, to hold back through the rolling hills leading up to Heartbreak hill, and to make sure I had fresh legs to drop the hammer for the last 6 miles into the city. And no matter how bad I might be hurting in the last mile, to take in the crowd and the amazing finish line.
Well…I also learned that it’s important to be prepared to make adjustments to the plan.
I felt like a 2:28 was an aggressive but doable time for this race and was open to the possibility of surprising myself with a 2:26 or being content with a sub-2:30 performance--a goal that turned out to be overly optimistic for the day.
I lined up near the front of the wave 1, coral 1 runners—because, I did have a low bib number after all, which was a little bit silly since hundreds of runners go out at a ridiculous pace for the first mile or two. I intended to ease into marathon pace and not run faster than a 5:40 for the first mile—I ran a 5:42.
I eased into what felt like a comfortable, maintainable pace for the next several miles. Miles and 3 were 5:33, 5:28. 5K split was 17:25.
The first signs of trouble hit me at close to the 10K mark—rumbling in my stomach that didn’t bode well for me. These pains would cyclically grow in intensity and subside over the next several miles. At first I kept talking to my body—telling it to settle down, digest the food, accept the fluids, but I gradually accepted the fact that a pit stop was now a new part of my plan. Miles 4-6 splits were 5:29, 5:33, 5:32--10K split was 34:40.
I took my first GU at mile 7 and it was not sitting well in my stomach. I had planned to take three GU’s over the course of the run and throw in some electrolyte pills in between. I made myself take a couple electrolyte pills at mile 11 and again my stomach wasn’t happy. The pain wasn’t so bad that it impacted my pace very much, but was definitely a nuisance.
I passed a set of porta-potties that were situated just off to the side of the road and wondered if I should have taken the opportunity around mile 12 but kept plugging along.
There were just a few places along the route where I gave myself permission to respond to the amazing people along the course. Wesley was one of them. I stopped and kissed at least five girls right on the lips. Just kidding. I added that part just in case my wife happened to read this. I did, however, let out a load, barbaric yawp that sent the crowd into a frenzy—that was fun.
My goal was to hit the ½ marathon mark between 1:13 and 1:14—this was according to some terrain-adjusted, effort-based pace calculators I’d found here on the blog and one Rob Rohde created. I hit the half marathon almost spot on my goal, but I knew a delay was on its way. My 1/2 marathon split was 1:13:17.
Mile splits 7-13 were 5:32, 5:41, 5:34, 5:33, 5:38, 5:32, 5:33.
Splits for miles 14 and 15 were 5:39 and 5:44. I kept looking for the some easily accessible porta-potties like the ones I’d spotted miles ago, but as each mile passed the only ones I found were situated behind the aid stations and a wall of volunteers. At mile 16 I didn’t have a choice but to stop—the discomfort was starting to impact my pace and taking fluids was difficult. I had packed a couple of wet wipes in the event such a stop was necessary—they were in-hand and ready for action :-) The stop was not quick. My stomach was doing flips and I knew that I got to let it run it’s course or I would be stopping again in the next mile or two. The break took close to 2 minutes--my Garmin after the race shows a difference of 1:51 seconds of moving time vs. elapsed time.
When I started running again I felt relieved, but it was difficult to get up to goal pace again. Looking back, I ran a bit too hard. My mile split for 16 was close to a 5:23 minus the bathroom break. I was running with a different group of runners and it wasn’t easy to get into passing mode. I ran “conservatively” through the rolling hills leading up to Heartbreak Hill, at least that’s what I kept telling myself as I watch my pace gradually slow down. The “hills” at Boston are not like most of the hills we train on in Utah, but they did their work on me.
Mile splits for 16-20 were 7:13 (bathroom break), 5:46, 5:51, 5:44, 5:56
My dad was waiting for me near the top to Heartbreak Hill. He told me after the race that it didn’t look like I was in my happy place. My split for mile 21 was 6:14.
I was still hopeful that I would be able to capitalize on the downhill stretch to the finish. I pushed the next mile a bit too hard and began to pay for it. By mile 23 my legs were gone. I started forcing myself to drink sips of Gatorade at the aid stations—you know when you’re reaching for fluids at mile 23, 24, and 25 that you’re not in a good place. The body is already dehydrated and shutting down.
The last three miles felt like I was just slogging along—the splits are actually faster than they felt, but I was getting passed right and left. I did pass one of the guys who started in the elite coral who had a bigger crash than me, but at nearly the same time a man that looked to be in his late 40’s or early 50’s also wearing an elite bib went soaring by me. I refer to this stretch of the race as “humility maker”—it is very humbling to watch the body lose its strength and watch other runners pass you. It doesn’t matter what your goal pace is—it’s tough to experience this.
I was so light-headed and delirious that it was difficult to take in the crowds, but I did receive strength from them even though I’m sure what they observed was something akin to a zombie—a lifeless, expressionless running form.
I was able to muster up something faster than a crawl for the last .2 miles and was super relived to cross the big yellow line. The volunteers were amazing and I felt like hugging and kissing all of them. There is something that happens to me and other runners that I’ve talked to after a difficult marathon—it seems that the outer shell we wear to be tough and cool is cracked wide open. We feel vulnerable and raw—wide open—no walls—no games. It’s actually a very beautiful thing to experience and makes the physical pain seem strangely worth it.
Mile splits 22-26.2 were 5:43, 6:02, 6:11, 6:36, 7:07, and 2:12 for what my Garmin reported as .35 miles.
My Garmin reported a moving time of 2:32:43 and an elapsed time of 2:34:34. Here is how the race looked on my Garmin: http://connect.garmin.com/activity/299260165
I’ve ran both the New York Marathon and the Boston Marathon and each race is an amazing experience of humanity. The one marked difference for me at Boston was how welcomed I felt by the entire community—the Bostonians everywhere seemed to welcome me and all the runners with arms wide open. I was moved to tears on more than one occasion by the kindness of strangers.
I was not in a good place after the race—I spent most of the next hour next to the bathrooms. I noticed blood in my bowl movements and knew that I had been pretty dehydrated. My plan was to go back to the finish line to welcome my mom as she crossed the line, but I was shivering with cold and decided to head for the home in Southie.
A good number of our crew had finished. I spent time with Kevin, who ran a good race despite his cramping at 2:35—the first thing he said to me when I told him my time was “Damn, I nearly caught you!” I fully expected that he had passed me during my pit stop and was waiting to tell me how he had shattered his goal when I finished.
Several of us jumped on a bus a couple blocks away from the finish line. The driver made a poor choice and attempted to drive down a street completely full of runners and their families. He was pulled over by a policeman. As he was pulling the bus over to the side of the road, we heard the loud explosion. The bus driver thought that he had hit something. I could tell something was wrong, as people were running and moving frantically outside the bus.
I immediately checked my phone to see the last check-point update I had received for my mom—the last update was at 30K. I did some quick math and was confident that she hadn’t made it to the finish line. A quick text to my dad let me know that he was okay as well. It turns out that the train he was on had been delayed—he was nervous about not beating my mom to the finish line after he had run a ½ mile with her after Heartbreak Hill. I felt super grateful they were both safe. My mom was shaken by the news and felt pangs of sadness for such a senseless act and for feeling robbed of her opportunity to cross the finish line. Fortunately, she had decided to run with her phone, which allowed her to get in contact with my dad quickly and provided comfort for many other runners who also made phone calls to family.
After waiting a few minutes, we decided to walk to the subway. The trip home was another adventure, but I’ll sum it up by saying we walked most of the three miles back to our place in Southie.
We joined the rest of the world in watching the recap of the shocking events that took place near the finish line. The stark contrast between the excitement and joy of the marathon and the fear and panic following the explosions is tough to explain—how could something so hurtful ever be a part of something so beautiful?
(The following are the words I would like to share if given a microphone to the world. It’s definitely a soap box ramble, and if you’re tired of hearing from me, I’d recommend you go for a run or something instead of reading the rest. Be forewarned!)
A dear friend of mine made a comment about how nice it could be if one day it didn’t take such an impactful event to bring out the best of humanity. When we witness widespread human suffering in such a public way, we tend to put aside the petty disagreements, judgments, differences, and focus our energy and thoughts toward those who are suffering—we run to their aid in so many different ways. We experience for a brief moment of time what it is like to show up and love unconditionally—we love simply because another human being is suffering. Would it change if we found out that they were gay, a Democrat, a Republican, or of this religion or that? Maybe. But when we look beyond these incredibly insignificant details and see each other as people sharing in a very similar path, we can feel true empathy and compassion.
While there is a part of us that rushes to the aid of those who have been injured, there is often another part of us that wants the perpetrators to be punished, brought to justice. We experience anger, fear, and even hatred. I’m not going to argue that that those who have committed this act should not experience the results of their choices, that by the way is inevitable. Whether they experience justice like we envision it, there is always a natural consequence—karma is a real thing.
The deeper question for me is what is the root cause, or series of life experiences, that would lead somebody to desire to hurt so many other people? Did they change in an instant? One day in love with humanity and the next day a demon with the intent to kill? That idea is of course ridiculous. Without knowing the individual or individuals responsible for the Boston Marathon bombings, it’s easy to assume they have had some painful experiences that lead them to committing such a violent act.
We are quick to respond to human suffering when it is so visible, when we see the injured as victims. We are much slower to respond to the more pervasive inner and often silent suffering. When will we wake up and recognize that we are all accountable to a degree for these acts of violence? How many of us, collectively speaking, ignored the signs of suffering that could have been healed long before they reach the boiling point.
I would challenge us to take a close look at how we feel about those who committed these bombings. Do we experience feelings that canker us inside? Feelings that make us hardened, to lose hope in humanity? This war inside will always manifest itself as war on the outside. The greater challenge we face is to put the fires out inside so we can show up not just for those who experienced the blasts from the bombs, but for those who prepared them as well. From this space we can start to do the real work of healing and rehabilitation the world is crying for.
It is time to step up, to show up, and play this game of life in a very different way. The 20th century was a bloody mess—millions and millions killed in tragic, senseless wars. Events like the Marathon bombings serve as a reminder to me to wake up and recommit to a much different vision for the world. Peace on the inside will result in peace on the outside. I have a dream that one day I will be sitting around my dinner table and one of my grandkids will ask, “Grandpa, what is war?” That dream starts with us personally, in our homes, in our communities, in our nations, and in the world. It starts with me! It starts with you!
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