Sunday, the 'rents and I leave for Boston. Dad drives 6 hours with a few food stops along the way. What can I say? The dude likes to eat. We get to the expo, and I think all of us were overwhelmed by the amount of people, which turned out to be absolutely nothing compared to the actual race. We get my stuff, take the customary pictures, and head off to the hotel. The rest of the night is pretty mundane, but of course none of us sleep all that great in anticipation of the day ahead.
Monday morning 5:30. I finally let myself get out of bed after a pretty restless night. I throw on my racing clothes and throw away shirt, and inhale a bagel and coffee. A few hours later, I am standing in a corral with my BRF (best running friend) and the field of 5,000 plus people goes absolutely silent. And not silent like when you just shut out sound in your own head, but silent like we all know this is going to be a long 4 hours ahead of us and we are all a bit apprehensive, but excited about what is going to happen. Marathons are a strange animal and anything can happen. The 26.2 gods laugh in your face when you think you have a plan. Good luck with that one....
Fast forward to the 5k mark. I am in great position. Pushing the pace a bit, but at this point, we have spent the last few miles on basically a decline or flat. I've already lost my friend, so I am just going with it. 10k still in great shape. Banging out 7:05-7:15 pace and still feeling ok. 10 miles and shit hits the fan. I feel my body temperature spike and my skin feels like it is burning. I drop the pace to 7:35-7:45. I am drinking Gatorade every aid station and also dumping water on myself. 13 miles in kinda shitty shape. It is just freaking hot. 16 miles and we start a significant climb. My watch has stopped and I am supposed to be looking for my family somewhere around this area. I have no idea what my pace is, and I start to panic. My quads feel like they are just tearing apart, my skin is burning, and I am starting to have tunnel vision from looking for my Sherpa team. I finally hear my family (before I see them of course, our volume control problem is finally coming in handy) and almost in tears, I hand off my belt pack because it is chafing my skin off under my wet tank top.
20 - 21 miles is Heartbreak Hill. Well, that wasn't such a big issue, since I was already half running/half walking. I am at the point where I am trying not to collapse and the medical tents are looking very attractive. However, I also hear my mother's voice berating me for running marathons if I stop, so I say f- it and continue my walk run. Mile 24 I see the Citgo sign. I may have flipped it off. Now I am pissed. Not mad because I am not in shape, but pissed that I made some major rookie mistakes. Going out too fast on a hot day, not breaking in my shoes enough, getting caught in the crowd, I mean really it couldn't have been much worse.
Mile 25-26 finally turns the corner and heads down Boyleston Street. I had dreams for weeks of this moment being absolutely life changing and magical, but it wasn't. It felt like I was absolutely crawling and I couldn't even bring myself to put my hands over my head for the customary Boston celebration picture. Nope. Nothing. I felt nothing. Even walking over to the medal area and seeing my family, I was glad to see them, but I didn't feel the gut-wrenching pride that I prepared myself for. Then, we left. That was it. Just done.
The marathon is a different animal than any other race, and that day it bit me in the ass. BUT, there's always next year and now its time to start on the next training cycle, so next time, I bite back.
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