The name Boston Marathon is a bit of a misnomer. More accurately it is the Marathon to Boston. The course starts about 24 miles from Boston in a wee little town, travels through other wee little towns and past colleges, with the finishing two miles within the city limits. For this first timer the race was everything I expected and more, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Settle in and I’ll start at the beginning.
For about sixty minutes three days before the race I wasn’t even sure if I’d make it to Boston. At the border the inspector looked in our vehicle and promptly took away our passports. Without telling us why. He directed us into customs, where we had to abandon our vehicle and await further instruction. For forty-five minutes we listened to an official looking person interrogate a woman with multiple names and, apparently, an unpaid cell phone bill. At long last a CBP inspector came over to us to enquire about the contents of our car. Specifically, did we have any spices or seeds? Confused (and naive) I responded, yes we have trail mix with seeds, but no spices. He sort of hid a smile and told me that my trail mix was fine. Husband later joked that the inspector meant “spices” not spices, as in, “but officer, it’s just oregano”. That may explain his grin when I openly declared my trail-mix. He then asked did we have meat, dairy, or fruits and vegetables. No, no, yes. In due diligence our fruits and vegetables were closely inspected. Curiously, four contraband Florida oranges were (apologetically) apprehended, but the lone California orange was granted safe passage. After much ado we (minus our four Florida oranges, but with our trail-mix) were back on the open road, destination Beantown.
I love Boston. I love Boston so much I walked about 42.2K around the city the two days prior to the marathon. In planning my trip to Boston common sense reigned and on the agenda was a nice relaxing trolley tour. But then I arrived and I got caught up in the mad excitement of the weekend and, well, the taper took a backseat to my wanderlust. We walked and walked and walked and walked some more. We left no stone unturned, no corner unexplored, no cherry blossom unsmelt. I have no regrets. Some sense remained and I avoided standing in the two hour queue to buy race merchandise in the craziness that was the Adidas booth. I still managed to leave the expo with a significantly lighter pocketbook. I went to a screening of Beyond The Epic Run (meh) and listened to an inspiring speech by Bart Yasso. I hunted down authors for booking signings (Kathrine Switzer – Marathon Woman, Bart Yasso – My Life on the Run, and Roger Robinson – Running in Literature). I was determined to embrace the full race weekend experience – from the expo to the seminars to the pre-race dinner to the post-race party, I wanted to see and do it all. And I did.
Pre-race revelry complete, the big event loomed. Monday morning I met a friend and we boarded a big yellow school bus to Hopkinton. Or so we thought. After about 30 minutes of driving along the I-90 Mr. Bus Driver slowed to a crawl as we approached an exit. We slowed, presumably, to turn. We watched empty yellow school buses return to the I-90 via that very exit, empty as though a group of runners had recently disembarked, but for reasons unbeknownst to me our driver decided to continue on along the I-90. Many minutes (and miles) later the runners started to get restless. We passed signs for towns most definitely not on the marathon route. Whispers spread up and down the seats – did we miss our turn? Perhaps sensing the rising anxiety, the driver made a call on his trusty CB radio and word comes back, we missed the turn-off to Hopkinton. Problem is, the next turn around point is miles down the road and traffic in the return direction is at a standstill. Oh, and our driver is incapable of going more than 40 mph. Finally we get to an exit that appears to connect back to the I-90 east and with much maneuvering and backtracking through toll gates we (and the four other buses in the convoy that absentmindedly followed us past the exit) manage to get back on the road heading to, rather than away from, Hopkinton. But we still have that traffic jam ahead.
The bus driver oh-so casually asks us what time the race starts. Someone responds 10:30 am for some, 10 am for others. He’s all like, no problem. Concerned at his cavalier response we hastened to clarify that although the race start is 10 am, we needed to be there early to check our bags, go to the washroom, get to the starting line, etc. We advise him that 9:30 am would be the absolute latest we could arrive and be reasonably assured of an on-time start. He says okay, we “should” be there by 9:30 am. Should. I do not like the sound of should. Should is not nearly a definitive enough answer for me. Should is nothing more than a disguised ‘cross your fingers and hope for the best’. Although putting up a confident front, I suspect the bus driver had his own concerns about the feasibility of a 9:30 am arrival, given the traffic mess. Mr. 40 mph suddenly decided to get aggressive. As did the four other bus drivers; afterall, the clock is ticking for all of us. Our driver opts to bypass the traffic by speeding along the narrow shoulder of the road on the rumble-strip, passing truck after truck of patiently waiting – and now confused/bemused – truck-drivers. Eventually we forced our way back on the road. Relaxed because he made up some time, he lifted the lead foot and reduced the speed back to 40 mph. The other drivers weren’t nearly so complacent and we were promptly passed by the wayward buses. I noticed some strange movement in the backseat of the bus ahead. Shortly thereafter a water bottle filled with yellow-tinged liquid streamed out of the back window. When you gotta go you gotta go.
All the while, waiting for us in the Athlete’s Village were two friends. They were starting in wave one and so caught an earlier bus, but we figured we’d have time for a quick hello/godspeed before the 10am start. We prearranged to meet by the banana table at 8am. 8am is about the time we first drove past that exit to Hopkinton. When we realized that we were in for a long bus ride, with no hope of ever meeting them at the banana table, we wondered how long they would wait before giving up on us. We imagined them casually loitering around the banana table, trying not too look weird or suspicious. We amused ourselves by trying to guess how many bananas they were tempted into eating as they waited and waited. I amused myself by thinking about how much I like the word banana. Banana. Hee. Based on their report, they ate a lot of bananas.
After 95 minutes on the bus we at long last arrived in Hopkinton. Thanks to the creative driving, we even arrived ahead of our 9:30 am deadline. Ours was the last bus to arrive and so the driver dropped us outside of the usual bus unloading zone, just to speed things along. And to avoid a full-scale riot. It took a minute to orient ourselves because of the weird drop off location. First up, port-a-loos. Unlike some, we did not fashion a makeshift toilet on the bus and 95 minutes of driving + the 30 minute wait time in Boston = a long time to go without a bathroom break. Especially before a race. Unfortunately, last to arrive in Hopkinton means last in the loo line. As I’m sure you can imagine, a portable toilet is a terrifying place after 25,000 anxious runners have gone though its doors. Be warned, you don’t ever, EVER, want to be last in a pre-marathon loo queue. To fully appreciate the horror that was our pre-race pottie break some graphic details are necessary. As we approached the smell nearly knocked us over. Gag-inducing is the best way to describe the nasty odours emanating from the stalls. I had to cover my nose to keep my breakfast where it belonged. When my turn finally came I slowly opened the door and tentatively peered in. I was greeted by a mountain of poop so high it nearly reached seat level. In all my days of port-a-pottie use I have never seen anything like it (and I hope to never see anything like it again). If one were to sit rather than squat one would risk direct contact, such was the size of poo mountain. The port-a-loo capacity had been exceeded at least 60-minutes before I even arrived in Hopkinton. Closing that door took all of my available willpower. With little choice, I did what I needed to do as fast as possible and got the hell out of there.
Next up, bag check. We went directly from the Port-a-Pottie of Terror to the bagcheck buses and tossed the volunteers our big yellow bags. We had not a moment to spare to explore Athlete’s Village, indeed we didn’t even set foot in it. We never even made it to the much talked about banana table (which is a shame, because I was craving a pre-race banana after all that banana talk. Banana. Hee.). Immediately after bagchecking our gear we followed the signs for the mile walk to the starting line. We arrived at the starting area with only minutes to go before the gun went off and we still faced the daunting task of getting to our assigned corrals, way at the front of the pack. The road was flooded with people and trying to work our way through to the front would have been a battle to rival the upriver swimming of spawning salmon. Instead we took a more unorthodox route that entailed some off-road running (and trespassing), but we made it. We parted ways and stepped into our respective starting areas.
Approximately three minutes later wave two started. That’s right, three minutes. Talk about timing. I had a solid 90 seconds to relax and become zen before the footrace began. About 30 seconds after the race started I crossed the big blue and yellow starting line. Whew. All that and I still had 26.2 miles to go.
