Where everybody knows your name

Although the trip to the Boston Marathon start line and the vivid memory of those port-a-loos will never be forgotten, the race itself comes back to me in disjointed fragments and clips in which the chronological order is suspect.  I’m left with a series of fleeting impressions not tied to any particular location or mile marker.  I remember the line of kids jumping on mini-trampolines, Santa and his elves, the Harley Davidson biker bar patrons boisterously raising our spirits, the barefoot runner, Bill Rodgers, the families giving out food and drink (and landing on one of those generously provided plastic water bottles, so for one horrifying moment thinking I’d sprained my ankle and my race was over), the students giving out beer, the Wellesley scream tunnel (which you really can hear from half a mile away) and some creepy guys taking liberties with the generously offered free kisses, the Boston college spirit, people BBQing on the sidelines (and the smell fried onion making my stomach lurch), men wearing Gatorade cups (and that’s about all), the ominous firehouse turn to the awaiting hills, husband waiting for me just after said hills, the awesome handmade signs, hundreds of high-fives, the giant taunting Citgo sign signalling the end is near, the turn onto Boylston, beating husband and the Boston transit to the end, and the crowds five deep at the finish line.  I’ve read some marathon reviews with mile by mile breakdowns, but I can’t describe my experience that way.  And I can honestly say that more so than specific happenings along the course, my experience is a feeling about the entire event.  In fact, it’s more than a feeling.  I felt like I was part of something special and that I was damn lucky to be there.
 
What I do know is that wearing my name on my shirt was the single best piece of advice given to me with regards to the race.  Some people wrote their names on their backs, but that didn’t seem to be nearly as effective in generating audience noise.  At the start my name sticker went unnoticed on my shorts, but upon moving it to my t-shirt the cheering increased fiftyfold.  I propose that it is impossible to feel bad on a race course when thousands of people have enthusiastically yelled words of encouragement to you along the way.  The experience is nothing short of energizing.  Once those fans (and fans is by far the best word, as these people do not merely spectate) see a name they go crazy with personalized chants, power phrases, and words of inspiration.  I didn’t stop smiling for the entire 26.2 miles.  My cheeks hurt at the end.  I don’t think I’ve heard my name spoken aloud as many times in my entire life as I did during that marathon.  It was like every person on that course took on the responsibility of motivating me, another not-so nameless face in the crowd, to the finish line.  I’m more accustomed to people politely clapping until they see the one person for whom they specifically came out to cheer; I’m not used to being revved on so exuberantly by strangers.  I just couldn’t let them down.   Although I brought Roadrunner (my iPod) I never once considered listening to it.  To do so would mean missing out on the one thing that, in my opinion, makes the Boston course so fantastic – the heartening crowds.  Otherwise it’s just a particularly tough 42.2 kilometres (albeit with a lot of history).  With the ever present roar of the crowd the miles somehow seem shorter.  Instead of running mile to mile you start running crowd to crowd.  And that’s a whole lot easier.

The downside of the support – I walk when I take in drink/food.  No way I can run and gulp, and quite honestly the madness that I saw at some of those water tables (i.e. crazed runners trying not to lose a second from their pace as they frantically grab for and try to drink from a little cup) is not my thing.  I got caught in the cross fire a few times and I can only thank those dear citizens handing out wet-naps for saving me from becoming a sticky mess.  Anytime I stopped to walk to drink Gatorade or eat drink ingest a delicious PowerBar gel (I say delicious as a brain washing technique, if I believe it tastes good it will taste good)  the crowd took it upon themselves to try to inspire me back to running.  Slightly embarrassed, I almost wanted a sign saying “I’ve only temporarily stopped for fuel, don’t worry about me”.  When I did start up again I think they felt a personal victory in rallying another runner back on track.  Such is the passion of the folks on the sidelines. 
 
In keeping with my plan, I’m also pleased to report I managed to run almost entirely Zen.  I only peeked at my time once, at the half marathon mark.  I was a bit slower than expected, but chalked it up to the added burden of the wind and the energy spent high-fiving kids and drunken college students and didn’t let it faze me.  I don’t think Zen was the goal for the majority of runners near me.  While the crowd was gregarious and enthusiastic, the runners seemed to be singularly focused on the finish line.  No comrades-in-arms chatter amongst the runners, which I sorely missed.  I suppose having already qualified for 2010 I had the luxury of being able to relax and run for fun, whereas others may have been re-chasing that sometimes elusive qualifying dream.  As I crossed the line I knew my finish time was not my best ever, but I still managed to BQ and there is some satisfaction in that.  There’s more satisfaction in having enjoyed the entire race.  Yes, even the hills.  Yes, even the wind gusts.  I’ve read that only around 35% of Boston Marathon runners requalify at Boston (although I’ve always wondered if this percentage deceptively includes the 20% of runners who never qualified in the first place), so that’s not bad for a Zen “fun” run.  And it was fun, truly it was.  Goal achieved.

Title Reference: Gary Portnoy – Theme from Cheers (Where Everybody Knows Your Name).  1982.