There are fleeting moments during long runs when it really seems possible to escape the physical, to transcend the bones and sockets and stringy fibers that propel us, and become what Plato would have seen as pure running, an ideal unencumbered by the sluggish stuff that is the human body.
I had such a moment one overcast April morning on Heartbreak Hill, a stretch of Boston’s Commonwealth Avenue that has brought home the stark realities of human limitations to countless runners. Heartbreak Hill comprises much of the Boston Marathon’s 21st mile. It comes at the end of 5 miles of uphills, and it is crowded every year with cheering spectators who can peer into the often agonized faces of runners navigating one of sports’ legendary pieces of real estate.
When I got there, I was sailing. I had hit stride at mile 13, when the aches and discomforts of the early going vanished, swept away by a great surge of energy and strength. Eight miles later, I was still strong, passing people left and right, on pace to break three hours, a more than respectable time for a 45-year-old man running his second marathon. I knew I would cruise comfortably to the finish line, and I ran in unencumbered bliss for two more miles. Unfortunately, that left three more to go. I would indeed finish, but I was woefully mistaken about the ”comfortably“ part.
Running is as pure as sport gets. There are no balls, bats, rackets, or clubs, no pinch hitters, time-outs, or referees. No matter how much cross-training you might do, you ultimately prepare yourself for a marathon one way—by running. I ran 3,707.4 miles between Jan. 1, 1997, and the April 20, 1998, marathon. The workouts ranged from quarter-mile repeats on a track to 26-milers wherever the next road took me. Mostly, it was 6 to 10 miles in the morning, and sometimes another 3 or 4 at night.
The miles, though, were not the big deal. Setting my mouth right was. Buddhists call it ”right concentration,“ in this case meaning the mental and spiritual state necessary to sustain the training and diet needed to run 26.2 miles at a good clip. It helps if you can find bliss in the process.
I was supposedly training for a December marathon in Huntsville, but Boston was the real goal. Participants qualify by running a specified time at a certified marathon. I had to beat 3:20, and on a windy, 30-degree day in Huntsville, I ran a 2:57. I sent an official copy of the time and $70 to the Boston Athletic Association, and I was accepted. Once I recovered from the December race, I began training again.
By the time I made it to Boston, the single best move I’d made had nothing to do with training—it had to do with my shirt. The flimsy sleeveless shirt runners wear is called a singlet, and following the advice of friends who’d been there, I wrote my name on mine in big, black letters. ”Rob,“ it said above the chest stripe. ”From Nashville,“ it said below that. It was magic. I heard my name thousands of times. Mile after mile, kids, college students, old people, blue-collar types, parents with babies, and faceless blurs all yelled, ”Go Rob!“ and ”Do it, Nashville!“ It was as close as I came to any glamour associated with the race—there is precious little of it behind the scenes.
Nowhere is this lack of glamour more evident than at the ”Athlete’s Village,“ where the majority of runners wait for the race to begin. The Village is actually the grounds of a high school in Hopkinton, Mass., southwest of Boston. It’s basically a huge tent and long rows of Port-A-Johns. I moved from one to the other most of the morning, shivering and hoping the nether regions of my digestive tract would be vacant by race time.
Your bowels and bladder occupy a great deal of your consciousness the morning of a marathon. If you’re going to spend hours running, intensely aware of every sensation, you’re going to be intimately acquainted with your insides, and you want to be cleaned out. I was sitting in the Port-A-Johns once an hour beginning at 8. I was peeing every 30 minutes. My stomach felt awful. All of which was about par for the course.
The temperature was in the mid-40s, which is perfect for running but terrible for waiting; I was cold even with warm-up clothing on. It had rained overnight, and a misty dampness enveloped the thousands of fidgety, distracted runners. I’d get up and walk every 15 minutes or so, trying to warm myself and still my nerves.
At 11 a.m., we started shuffling toward the starting line, seven-tenths of a mile down a little hill from the Village. There was idle chatter and introspective silence. People rubbed their legs and tied their shoes, smiled gamely, and wished each other well.
I stowed my warm-ups. I was wearing my jock and shorts, socks and Nikes, a singlet, a T-shirt over that, a baseball cap, and cheap garden gloves. I had two packets of carbohydrate gel—a quick-energy substance runners call ”goo“—pinned to the waistband of my jock. Laced into my shoes was a ”chip,“ a round plastic gizmo a little bigger than a quarter. It would trip electronic timing devices along the route. I had smeared Vaseline on my prime chafing points—nipples, crotch, and feet.
I walked to the area reserved for the elite runners. There, the bony Kenyans and Mexicans and Americans and others who would compete for the first hundred places signed a few autographs and warmed up, running relentlessly back and forth on a little side street. They had a dozen of their own Port-A-Johns, which were mostly vacant. I paid one last visit, then took my place behind the starting line at 11:30. I warmed up by jumping up and down and stretching my legs. I wasn’t about to add to the 26 miles I was going to run. I handed my T-shirt and hat to two friends among the spectators.
Just before 12, amid the last nervous prancing, I started seeing little puddles on the blacktop. It wasn’t raining, so I couldn’t figure out what they were. I saw another. And another. I finally realized that right there, at the starting line of the Boston Marathon, guys were subtly hanging it out and relieving themselves. I decided that even though I had to pee for about the 20th time, it wouldn’t be there.
The elite athletes came out to line up in front of us. TV helicopters hovered with loud thup-thup-thups overhead. A cannon went off, and we were running.
It took me 19 seconds to reach the starting line, where the chip-triggered timers sounded like countless crickets and peepers. Thousands of sneakers slapped the blacktop. I was moving quickly, relatively near the front of the pack in perfect weather in the Boston By-God Marathon, and all I could think about was how much I really, really, really had to pee. My bladder was hammering away at my lower abdomen, telling me forcefully that I would not know comfort until I urinated. So I did. Not a quarter mile into the greatest road race on earth I took three steps into the woods and took a 10-second pee. Others who hadn’t been raised to pee at starting lines did the same. I jumped back into the long stream of humanity and started running again.
The woods were cool and lovely. People waved and cheered in front of scattered split-level homes. My stomach still felt bad, and my whole body felt sluggish. But even with the pee break, I hit the first mile marker at 6:48, which was 18 seconds slower than I’d hoped for, but acceptable if I could hold it all the way.
Gradually, the crowds picked up. Kids held out their hands, wanting to touch ours as we went by. People had their stereos cranked, and a band played on one guy’s porch. People spilled out of bars to hoist one to the runners. The road was one long tailgate party.
Volunteers handed out water and Gatorade near every mile marker, and I knew enough to fear dehydration, even on an overcast 50-degree day. I grabbed a paper cup of water every mile and drank what I could. My sluggishness was showing up in my split times, which weren’t improving. Then at mile 4, I got a side stitch; it was bad, but I could bear it, so I just kept running. As I entered the town of Natick, shortly after mile 7, I could feel the outside toes on each foot chafing.
An hour into the race, I was at mile 9 at Lake Cochituate, fully warmed up and feeling a little better. The side stitch was still with me, but even that disappeared at mile 11.
Then came Wellesley. The women of Wellesley College, at mile 12, are renowned for being the loudest cheerers on the course, and they were in fine form. Their screams were nearly painful—and they helped. The cheering and the oxygen and adrenaline coursed through me, turning the run at last into joy, and I was off on those 10 miles of bliss.
The marathon, most experienced runners will tell you, doesn’t really get started until you’re well down the road. Mile 20, in fact, is viewed as the unofficial ”halfway“ point. It is then that you hit The Wall—the point at which you run out of glycogen, the fuel the human body runs on. There are tricks for pushing it back, including longer training runs, heavier carbohydrate loading, and proper hydration. Realistically, though, if you’re running hard, there’s no denying it. In Huntsville, it hit me at mile 20, right on schedule. But here, somehow, I was still feeling strong and thinking, ”I’m going to sail to the finish.“ I ran the 22nd mile in 6:35, my fastest split of the day; the 23rd mile was just a little slower.
And then it happened. It was as though the air had gelled or the road had been tilted suddenly at a steep angle. My arms were heavier. My legs didn’t stretch as far. My chest felt constricted. Every stride took willpower. And there were 3 miles to go.
Under ordinary circumstances, 3 miles is a cakewalk; it barely counts as warming up. These were not ordinary circumstances. My bones ached, my muscles were sore, and there was no denying the profound weariness. I felt a three-hour finish slipping away. I ran mile 24 along Beacon Street, with its old brick apartment buildings and cheering spectators, in 7:15.
Mile 25 ends with a gigantic Citgo sign, which tells you that you have just over a mile to go. My body’s reserves were by then depleted, and the pain was increasing rapidly; my mind would have to pull me through. I had to stay locked on the thought of finishing, even though I was past tired, past uncomfortable, past being in pain. ”Why,“ something inside me asked, ”are you putting your body through this?“
Then I was nearing the end, about to finish, in a not unrespectable time, the world’s most famous marathon. But I did not feel particularly historic or elated or anything of the sort. I was exhausted and hurting terribly, focused like a zealot on the finish line. I simply wanted to cross it and be done with this madness. I had run the 25th mile in 7:35, 40 seconds slower than my average for the day. I was running even more slowly now. Hundreds of the runners I had passed so gleefully on Heartbreak Hill, a lifetime ago, passed me in those last 3 miles. I wanted to pick up the pace, but I couldn’t.
I had known the joy back at the starting line in Hopkinton, and during those 10 miles from Wellesley to Heartbreak Hill. Now I was simply trudging toward the finish-line banner that drew closer and closer, then finally passed overhead. The clock read 3:01:42, my official time. Deducting the 19 seconds to the starting line, I had a run a 3:01:23. I was 1,126th overall. I hadn’t broken three hours, but I was happy. It was over.
I walked down Boylston Street, past Old South Church and Copley Square, toward the exit. I was given a big throwaway foil windbreaker to help break the chill. Volunteers offered water or Gatorade. I winced as I eyed them. My legs hurt horribly. Every step shot needles through me.
I shuffled toward the medical tent. ”Can I get ice on my legs?“ I said to a woman out front. ”No,“ she said, ”unless you’re really bad. We’ve got people in here on IVs.“ These were the runners who hadn’t kept drinking and were now dehydrated. They had cramps and had stopped sweating and were in varying degrees of trouble. ”Do you think maybe you can walk it off?“ she asked me.
Walking off a marathon feels like putting hot wax on a burn, but eventually it helps a little. I walked to where I was to pick up the bag I had checked in Hopkinton. I wanted to pass out. I wanted to throw up. I wanted someone to inject Novocain into my legs. My friend Bruce, who was putting me up at his house, stood on the other side of the police barricades, shouting encouragement and snapping photos. I waved as gamely as I could and continued walking, feeling for all the world like an extra in Night of the Living Dead.
My last stop was to pick up a bag of food. My body was screaming for carbohydrates, and races generally offer a sampling of bagels, bread, fruit, and cookies at the finish line. Boston had the most pathetic food bag I’ve ever seen. There was a small bag of potato chips, a piece of chocolate, dried cranberries, a power bar, and a cranberry drink. I looked at it with such shock and disappointment that the woman behind the table said, ”Do you want another?“
I walked past the barricade, and I was again a civilian. Bruce and I hailed a cab. I backed into the car gingerly, then slumped slowly backward, like a poorly oiled tin man. I moaned as Bruce gave the driver his address. I opened the little bag of Wise potato chips and stuffed a few in my mouth.
They were the best potato chips I have ever eaten.
