The weekend preceding the race was filled with foam rolling, tennis ball rolling, echinacea, honey and oranges. Not the first time my eager anticipation of vacation also precipitated a drop in my immunity, shedding an adrenaline fueled shield that exists to survive stress and conveniently diminishes when your body knows it will soon rest. Friday morning it was swollen lymph nodes and a deep alto voice but no other symptoms. I worried about developing strep throat. Saturday and Sunday brought mild sinus headaches. I have always run throughout the winter - in fact, I really like running in winter - but usually it is under the guise of an off season. This was my first winter of pointed training for a big, long race, yet once again I had to forfeit my ego and my pace goals in lieu of taking things however they fall. A little disappointing, but I was tired enough that just getting through it was becoming a fine goal.
How suddenly the importance of something can change.
*****
My pre-race fatigue became a somewhat emotional mental game for the first 13 miles. I had a hard time wrapping my head around what is basically a very straight run without much visual change, and a sea of thousands of runners packed in together leading you forward. No other race has so many of similar ability in each corral, so when the race starts it doesn't expand as faster runners leave slower runners behind and the pack expands - the whole crowd upheaves at once and plunges down the first long hill en mass. Imagine the drive from Kansas City to St. Louis via I-70, only one car length between each vehicle but everyone charging at full tilt.
The body aches hit at 10k, and the novelty of such a prestigious race wore off. This was not exercise fatigue. These were cold/flu/virus body aches. I was tired. How then was I keeping my pace? Thanks to those innumerable downhills. I used the sighting of Michael Wardian as a distraction, watching him zoom past with Hokas on his feet and a Go Pro camera strapped across his chest. Another runner behind me commented that he'd rather be doing a trail ultra than a road marathon any day. I nearly stopped in my tracks to turn and hug him for that, and used the moment of mental relief to remind myself that this race was to be taken one step at a time. Back to a focus on cadence and salt pills and those things that ultras have taught me, only then for me to catch up to Wardian three or four miles later. He had obviously slowed rather than my "catching up." Turned out he was pacing a friend part way, and using the rest of the race to have fun and prep for the Big Sur marathon in a couple weeks.
I mustered my way to the half-way point, only to get shell shocked by the Wellesley girls. I knew they were coming, but was not prepared for the scream storm. They were lined up for an
entire mile, only 1-2 girls deep but producing enough noise to deafen those who are hard of hearing. They always try to get kisses from male runners. Signs called out "I give tongue." "Kiss a chemist." "Give me a
kiss job." I stayed to the other side, on the verge of tears from all the noise. Memories popped up of a dance studio Halloween party from grade school. A room packed full of all the kids from the studio competing to see which team can pop the most balloons in a given time by sitting on them. And screaming. I stood frozen in place and crying until one of the mom's pulled me into the hallway with the two toddlers who were also too overwhelmed. Then, mercifully, the scream storm dissipated just as quickly as it began.
After that, not much could be worse. Miles started ticking off faster, my mind made peace with the straight race course (helps to be past half way!), Heartbreak Hill became a much welcomed relief from the monotony, and I began counting down the miles until I would see Nathan, Andrea (our wonderful hostess) and Mike cheering from mile 24. I had no chance of matching or besting my time at Philly, but I was able to finish strong enough to pass many people in the last two miles (holy pulled hamstring, Batman!) for a satisfying time of around 3:17:20. The hobble of which I so proudly did not have following the NYC Half last month? Yea. It was back. But I earned it.
*****
It took me about thirty minutes to get through the finish chute of water, medal, heat shield, photo, food, and past the bag pick-up. Nathan had been really worried about dealing with the crowds at the family meetup point, so I agreed to meet him on the opposite corner of the street. I'd dumped a lot of water on myself to keep from burning up (53 degrees that felt like 75) and now I was cold, wet and shivering. I stood in the sun, looking around and trying to stretch out my hips. A half hour passed, no Nathan. Maybe the subway trains were that slow? Maybe he had to divert to a farther station and walk back? The ease of not checking a bag was now biting me in the butt. Twenty more minutes of shivering and I'd had it. A supporter was nice enough to loan his phone briefly. Nathan had been patiently waiting at the B in the family waiting area. *Sigh.* He ran over and I started towards the train, but when he saw my shivering he made me pull over to change into a dry shirt and my sweater and down vest.
We got to the Arlington station a few blocks from the finish line, which was absolutely packed and chaotic. A woman said participants were being allowed through free of charge, but that meant going around the other way through the thick crowds again. On the platform people were elbow to elbow, waiting for the tiny T trains. (I swear one individual NYC subway car can hold more than an entire Boston T train.) T staff kept yelling at people to re-organize how were standing on the platform over and over again. One runner stumbled on the edge of the platform and fell onto the tracks while trying to see which train had just left the station. More chaos. T staff pushed everyone back. The guy was fine, just clumsy. Slowly, a C train chugged down the line and stopped at the platform. No doors opened. One minute passes. Two minutes.
"Why aren't they opening the doors?"
"What's the big idea here?"
"WE ARE EVACUATING THE STATION. EVERYONE UP TO THE STREET. MOVE IT. TO THE STREET."
We did as we were told without knowing why. Maybe with all the straphanger chaos we had exceeded the station's maximum occupancy and it was deemed unsafe?
The nearest exit led us to the next street parallel to the finish chute. We saw no runners. Nathan speculated that someone passed out at the finish. Maybe, I said, but you don't usually shut down a race for a cardiac arrest. Next cross street, just after the finish line. Still no runners. A couple argued up ahead, and the man took off running down the street while the woman anxiously dialed her cell phone. We overheard another runner behind us saying two bombs had gone off, but at that point who knew what was true or speculation or rumors. Another block. We waited while ambulances zoomed toward the course. Definitely no runners, but lots of police.
"I think the only way we are guaranteed to get home is on foot," I said.
"But are your legs okay with that? Maybe the trains are running at the next station."
"Those would have to come from the station we were just evacuated from. And no way anyone will be able to get a cab at this point."
"But your legs?"
"So far its actually helping."
To get back to Andrea's apartment we had to follow the course backwards for about 3 miles. Still no runners, no music, but lots of sirens and people walking away from the race. On Beacon a national guard directed everyone to get a half mile away. One more block west and we saw the line of runners held by police escorts, standing in a pack thicker than at the start and extending by the thousands back along the course. Police cars, marked and unmarked alike, came by the dozens from all directions, racing the wrong way down one way streets, even racing on the course itself before turning off at the clog. Everyone who had a cell phone was calling/texting like crazy but no one could get through, including Nathan. Everyone was anxious, many in tears. Two local runner sopted to not wait in the mass clog, instead turning around and heading toward home. The woman's Garmin beeped 26.2 just in front of us at a Dunkin' Donuts. They shared a congrats with perplexed looks on their faces. A few of the drunken townsfolk nearby cheered for them. Those slower runners who had not yet reached the clog were oblivious to the events at hand and their impending hold.
We were walking fast, and I was finally warming up. A little girl had a little lemonade and cupcake stand. She saw my emblazoned heat shields, and her eyes got wide.
"Did you run today?"
"Yes I did."
"Do you need any... thing?"
It was cute and made me laugh. "No, but I very much appreciate your offer. Thank you."
And as we turned to keep walking she yelled out "Congratulations!" My stomach flipped and knotted up. The previous four and a half hours now had very little significance.
We got back to Andrea's just after 4:00, with just enough time to change clothes, confirm Logan was still open even though we could not confirm if our flights were on or cancelled, and head out the door. Had Andrea not already rented and picked up the zipcar then I'm not sure what we would have done. (Did you know Andrea is awesome? Because she is.
Totally awesome.) I shoveled food into my mouth along the drive, and zipped through a heightened security check. I even got my palms randomly tested for explosive remnants. I washed my face in the airport bathroom sink, then settled down to try and contact the twenty or so people who had left messages.
Logan had stopped letting planes land until security was confirmed, only letting planes leave, but ours was miraculously on time. Weather slowed our arrival in Denver, with us circling the air for an extra hour. By the time we picked up our rental car and got to the hotel it was about 2 a.m. local time (4 a.m. eastern). We were out of our minds. Trying to get from the car into the hotel without soaking our feet in the slush put us on edge. We were starving, especially since United apparently does not even give the stupid miniature snacks on a 4-hour flight anymore. Room service? Not in our super high class dingy hotel. Our room card said for room service to call Domino's. They closed at midnight. My eyes burned when I blinked. I silently changed for bed. Nathan was determined to eat something, anything. He set out in a fury to find vending machines. I climbed under the covers, wondering if I should have given him some dollar bills since he may have only had a five. When Nathan returned, the door opened with significantly less gusto. I cringed, knowing the result.
"It wouldn't take my five, so all I could get was this one ounce bag of Fritos."
He tossed the bag on the bed. I felt awful, but sat up to eat a few as though that might help bring some accomplishment to our travel food fail. I passed him the bag after a couple fingerfuls, laid back down and cried. It had been such a long, bizarre day.
Thankfully our honeymoon could only improve from there.
