Boston Marathon 2014 Race Report

Almost two weeks after the race, I met Meb Keflezighi, the 2014 Boston Marathon Champion and the first American male to win the race since 1983.  It was a brief encounter during which he shook my hand, congratulated me on my run, and signed my race bib. Meb congratulated me as I congratulated him.  Unthinkable.  Sidelined with an injury last year, he had spectated for hours at the Marathon near the finish line and had stepped into a shop for some tea when the explosions occurred.  Since then he had been determined to come back and win the race.  What I admire most about my new hero is that he wrote the names of each of the victims killed on his bib. So simple and so heartfelt.

I got a glimpse into the mind of this elite athlete at Lifetime Fitness in Cary, NC while listening to him for about 20 minutes as he answered questions and recalled his thoughts during the race this year and about last year.  On this promotional tour for Generation UCAN, a sports nutrition company, he was genuine, down-to earth, and humorous.  He had been surprised the pack  let him go early and described his strategy of picking up the pace going into the Newton hills and closing in on the finish. Even as he masterfully executed his race plan, he almost got carried away by the chants of USA, USA from spectators. I was glad to hear that he had not run since Boston, and that he could barely walk the next day.  He is human after all.

My trip to Boston was great; the Marathon was amazing; and no words can explain the feeling that I had when I crossed the finish line.  The Boston Athletic Association, the city of Boston, the towns along the course, the volunteers, and the spectators and participants could not have done better.

The highlight of my race was just behind the finish line.  For a year I had wanted to run that race, take back that race and show the world that the human spirit can overcome adversity.  For hours on Marathon Monday my body had been in motion and the sound of the crowds had helped propel me forward.  I ran as hard as I could down Boylston Street to the finish line, and behind the line everything slowed and softened.  The striving was over. I finally felt a sense of peace and great joy.  We had done it:  Boston, the spectators, the runners, myself included.  The back of the race shirts declare "Boston Runs as One."  We were all one. I was part of something bigger than myself and something historic. This year that was a good feeling.  Behind the line there was a restrained, reverent celebration of resilience partly because we were all exhausted.  A man to my left pulled out his phone and began videotaping himself and shouting with joy at the screen.  It must have been loud there because he was yelling two feet way, and I couldn't make out what he said. I found all things good behind that line.  I heard a roar from the crowd after I passed the finish.  I crossed the line at about the time of the bombings last year.  Maybe the crowd was celebrating that we passed that mark.

Two men perched high in chairs welcomed us to Boston and congratulated us.  I began taking a few pictures, and a volunteer offered to take my picture.  They let us take our time and soak it all in.  The space was larger and less crowded than last year, and we had a mile walk to Boston Common to retrieve gear bags and meet family.

Behind the Finish Line

The BAA handled the logistics of 32,000 participants beautifully.  Dry bag drop off and bus loading went smoothly.  The bus caravan to Hopkinton was uneventful.  During the ride I talked with a mother of three from Canada who had vowed to return to Boston while she watched last year's events unfold on TV. She had trained alone at 4AM in the snow and cold.  It was apparent we were there for the same reason.  When I arrived at Athlete's Village, I could tell we were all in this together.  The runners appeared to follow the new method of getting from the village to the corrals and the start line in an orderly manner.    The portable restroom lines seemed longer than last year.  When I arrived, I got in line right away and waited for 25 minutes.  Then I relaxed sprawling in the sun on a tarp for about 30 minutes.  I noted the security personal on a rooftop and walking among the runners.  This is the new normal.  I later spotted security personnel on a rooftop in the corral area.

My daughter and I ran along the Charles River to loosen up the day before the race.

The second time I was in the portable restroom line, I was in it for at least 30-35 minutes.  My group was called to the start as I stood in line about five people back.  If you set up camp in the village, you are mostly alone in the crowd.  If you stand in a line with a bunch of people with nervous energy, it can be like a social event.  The man in front of me was calm and did not worry about getting to the start on time because he has run 50 marathons.  I was a nervous wreck. The man behind me was calm given his circumstances.  A firefighter from Natick, one of the towns through which the race passes, he grew up watching the race, but never thought he would run it until two weeks before the race.  At the last minute, two spots opened on a team of firemen.  I assumed that the spots were of the firemen who recently lost their lives battling a fire in Boston.  He didn't hesitate to join the team even though he had only run half marathon distance previously.  To train he ran 16 miles two weeks before the race.  He was all heart and determination.  I finally made it out of the village and never stopped moving.  When I arrived at the corral, the runners were moving toward the starting line.  Then we took off.

The spectators were amazing!  It was odd to hear, "Thank you, runners!" shouted by spectators.  Children sought high fives, and I offered more this year as the crowds swelled in the heart of each town.  I got my energy from them.  I did not get emotional thinking about last year's tragedy while I ran, but I came close to tearing up seeing small children cheering and watching the race.  As I passed Team Hoyt the cheering grew louder for the father and son team who have run Boston for 32 years -- with this year being their final year. I cheered for them, too.

Walking to the start.

It was sunny and approaching 60 degrees at my start and topped out around 70 degrees around the time of my finish.  Perfect race conditions would be in the 50's. I started in Wave 3, corral 5.  My coach told me a few days before the race what my time goal should be and the pace that I should run. She told me that I could set a personal record at Boston because my training had gone well.  My strategy was to run an 8:10 pace for the first miles of downhill and then target 8:15.  She told me not to "freak out" if the first mile was slow because of the crowd.  I knew not to do that, but when I saw I was around an 8:30 pace at the one mile mark, I sort of did.  I made up for it in the next several miles.  I felt great and had boundless energy until around mile 16 when my quads began to hurt.  The hills were a blur, and they just kept coming!  I had to tell myself to keep my legs moving and made a mental note that I should learn how to deal with mind games associated with pain. I felt warm and took fluids at every station in the last half of the race.  That had not been my plan, but dousing myself with water a few times felt good.

Raleigh, NC area runners after a group pasta dinner the night before the race.

Coming into Boston in the final miles, I felt strong but slow. I passed double amputees running in the final miles and thought I had no business dwelling on pain.  I wove around people for most of the race having started with bib 22,367 and finishing at 13,560.  I was focused on finishing and more cognizant than last year of making the right onto Hereford and the left onto Boylston.  The crowds in this area were unrivaled.  I missed a personal record by one minute.  It didn't matter.  The race was never about that.  I did meet my goals or running faster than last year and of re-qualifying for next year with a time of 3:43:48.

One of the most emotional parts of my experience was two days before the race while my family and I took a walking tour along the Freedom Trail.  An elderly Bostonian approached me as I lagged behind the tour group.  She told me about her race day last year. She had spectated near the finish line for 30 years, and on that day, she heard God telling her to leave the area.  She left before the bombs exploded.  She told me that through prayer she is at peace with last year now.  I listened and could only nod because I was not yet at peace with it. She brought tears to my eyes and then asked to take a picture of me wearing my celebration jacket from last year.  I found my peace with it shortly thereafter at the finish line.