Guest Post: 2001 Boston Marathon Race Report

Posted on March 7, 2010 by threlkeld

Coach Kevin sent this to me and another runner he coaches, Kim Duclos, apropos of nothing. I love a good race report and this accounting of his personal best at Boston is a doozy. It’s also not anywhere on the web, which I think is a minor crime.

With his permission, here it is. I’ve reinserted the asterisked or otherwise obscured four letter words; if anyone is entitled to use foul language, it’s someone who’s managed to cover the challenging miles between Hopkinton and Boylston Street under his own steam in well under two and a half hours.

I hope some of you looking forward to Patriot’s Day — or any upcoming marathon, for that matter — can draw inspiration from this report. It reminds me of what it feels like to run a very good 26.2 mile race (a feat I have managed only once in six tries). It feels damned good, even it if nearly destroys you.

105th Boston Marathon — 4/16/2001

Got a revolution behind my eyes
We got to get up and organize
Got a revolution behind my eyes
We got to get up and organize

My experience at the 2001 Boston Athletic Association Marathon cannot, in fact, be aptly summed up by the lyrics of the Lo-Fidelity All-Stars club anthem Battle Flag, but since I like the song I will impose its besmirched couplets upon my race nonetheless.

My race began, of course, months, not weeks or days or hours or minutes, before high noon in Hopkinton, Mass., a nondescript if pleasant enough burg annually transformed into a freak show by the descent of fifteen thousand curious souls — aspirants with dreams too offbeat to fill their leisure time with the mundane corruptions of workaday society. But for purposes of this account, the story’s obligatory beginning is at the unfurling of my rendition of that dream — as I wandered blandly out of the Korean Church of Hopkinton, the temporary operating base of the two-hundred-plus seeded runners, slapping a modicum of restraint on the pulses of adrenalin that needed to be harnessed until a more opportune moment than this instant of contrived hype.

I said hallelujah to the sixteen loyal fans
You’ll get down on your muthafuckin’ knees
And it’s time for your sickness again

Under the direction of race marshals (who, much to my satisfaction, made sure I was wearing a seeded number beneath my BRADY/POSITIVE POWER T-shirt) I followed teammate Dan Verrington to the front of the first corral, the noisome belly of which I had narrowly eluded thanks to a 2:26:52 qualifying time in my last marathon in October 1999. The day was sunny and the easterly breezes ripe for bipedal showmanship. I remarked unaffectedly that I felt like an impostor among the Tanuis and Aberas and Nderebas and DeHavens traipsing along nearby. Dan, a 2:21 marathoner, gave amused assent. The thought was devoid of timidity; a half-accomplished runner knows his position far better than the wags who would lump him in the “elite” category for the sake of convenience, ignorance, and hyperbole. As if on cue, a public address speaker announced that every one of the runners streaming onto Route 135 between untold numbers of raucous observers and press corps members was capable of covering 26 point 2 miles at under five-minute pace. I smiled. The day was in order.

Given my position I was able to warm up in front of the starting line, and with a hundred introspectively light-footed others I ambled to and fro a few times more for the sake of nervous dissolution than to prime myself physically for the impending task. The trick here was not to undermine my chance of success in the first downhill miles. It is not an easy trick. The ghosts of a score of legends, realizing their mistakes too late even with the foreknowledge of what might happen on this unique stretch of asphalt, pepper the landscape between Wellesley and Boston, where luxurious debts are repaid to the fullest misery of the starry-eyed borrower.

Twin F-14 fighter jets soared by overhead toward the east, two minutes ahead of schedule.

I manipulate to recreate
This air to ground saga
Gotta launder my karma

We got two more minutes and
We gonna cut to what you need

Finally, as the final seconds were counted down, it was just like any other race. We were stuffed onto a very ordinary two-lane road, sweaty and anxious to escape the jitters and body odor. I can only imagine what the people crammed into the corrals must have felt.

The officials lowered and removed the rope stretched across the street. A simple pistol shot (or was it a cannon?) launched the 105th crazy parade toward the appallingly disorganized infrastructure of the most provincial city in America.

Hey Mr. Policeman
Is it time for getting away
Is it time for driving down the muthafuckin’ road
And running from your ass today

My plan was to run the first half of the race evenly, meaning I would run the first four or five miles with restraint and effectively pick up the pace as I traveled over the flats. (Actually, my plan was to run the whole damn thing evenly, but even I wasn’t buying that one.) Of course, I wouldn’t really know until I got to the flats whether I’d in fact held back before reaching them, would I? Oh, the cognitive gymnastics. I eased into what felt like something between mile and 50K race pace and listened to the fans yammering away behind the guardrails on either side.

Shortly I was joined by Eric Beauchesne, a Massachusetts runner who, until the Eastern States 20, had probably beaten me about a thousand times in a row. He had started somewhere in the first corral. “It’s a clusterfuck back there,” he announced. I didn’t doubt it. Meanwhile, a huge lead pack was forming up ahead. I was guessing the leaders were running “slowly,” but still felt that giving them any less than a half-minute in the first mile was probably imprudent. My time (note that in this account I am giving split times from my watch, an eight-second cushion on my official time) at the mile was 5:26, which told me nothing, really. Shortly thereafter I edged past the women’s leaders — a surprising development. (Later, at around seven miles, Beauchesne would remark, “I’m surprised the women went out so slow.” I replied by telling him I’d remind him of that comment when said women went zooming by somewhere within sight of skyscrapers.)

The next several miles were a continuation of an experiment — did I really feel good enough to hold on to this pace for two and a half hours?

Passing through splits of 10:52, 16:17 (16:51 at 5K — this was incorrectly reported on the BAA Web site), 21:39, 27:11, 32:40 (33:48 at 10K) and 38:05, I had no conscious bouts of either self-doubt or extravagance that I can recall. I was moving along as I had trained myself to do, which I suppose was the point.

Just beyond eight miles (43:30), I left a small group of runners, including Beauchesne, behind. The bodies ahead were already scattered into groups of three or two or one, and I was sure I would be largely if not entirely alone the rest of the way.
That was okay. Contrary to common belief, solitude can be a marathon racer’s ally so long as the occasional passing of a comrade-in-legs occurs, subserving the need for confidence-boosting.

I took a bottle of fluid from Bob Hodge, 3rd-place finisher in this race in 1979 and my gracious host for the weekend, just beyond nine miles (48:56) and noticed for the first time how warm it seemed to be getting. I felt fresh, no worse for the wear than I would be on a long training run. Concentration is a funny thing; ask me to run nine miles cold at faster than 5:30 pace on some stretch of road somewhere and I doubt I could do it without extremes of effort.

As I passed ten miles (54:27), I realized I was flirting with the Olympic Trials “B” standard pace; this meant nothing here, in April 2001, and even less in the face of the 16 miles remaining. But every benchmark helps and I was on a roll. I covered the next two miles in 5:19 and 5:18, my fastest two of the day. Passing Wellesley College — where the noise was so fearsome I edged grimly toward the center of the road but broke into a reluctant smile in spite of myself — I urged myself to ease up, one of running’s peculiar oxymoronic demands, and reached thirteen miles in 1:10:30 and halfway in 1:11:06. Another benchmark. Verrington, who had been at least 200 meters ahead, was slowly coming back. It was almost time to begin playing mental games: “How much can I slow down and still run…” but I managed to keep most of these idiotic mental maneuvers at bay.

It was here that I realized the low-grade gnawing need to unload biological ballast from at least two orifices was not subsiding, as I had assumed it would with the persistent effort. Perhaps my display back in the church basement, where I’d served as the equivalent of the town drunk by bellying up to the coffee bar far more often that my fellows, was leading me down a crueler path than this habit of mine had managed to do in the past. Other than this distraction, I was feeling fine, and continued to reel in runners I didn’t recognize. At first these runners had worn bibs with three and four digits, but a few of the guys I was now catching wore bibs with only two. Benchmarks.

I passed fourteen miles in 1:15:55 and fifteen in 1:21:2X (I rely on memory for splits and here is where mine begins to fail), and noticed as I began the long descent toward Newton how subjectively different this race was from the 1996 version, my only prior bout with this particular fool’s errand. Not only was I running half a minute per mile slower, but the nuances of the course — in this case the downhill that had begun the rapid unraveling of my quest for a sub-2:30 in the 100th Boston — seemed kinder. That sort of thing is always as important as the numbers on the clock with each passing mile. When I reached the bottom of that hill still feeling fresh (sixteen miles: 1:26:48), I was confident this was going to be a fine day. I passed Dan somewhere on that hill and set my sights on the next singlet. The heat seemed to have cast itself aside.

My seventeen-mile split was in the 1:32-twenties. I would be climbing for the next four miles, and my general distaste for downgrades notwithstanding, I could still find myself in trouble in short order. But the rumbling in my guts was becoming a truly unmanageable problem. I reluctantly began scanning the sidelines for portable toilets. When I finally found one (having never looked for them in a race, I was surprised and distraught at how few of them were actually available in such a large race), I startled the people nominally gathered around it by veering toward then with a cry of “anyone in there?” “Yes,” a woman told me (guiltily — not that it helped) and with a cry of “FUCK!” I skedaddled back onto the road. Strike one.

Eighteen miles passed in just under 1:37:5X. My mental mathematician, aroused briefly from her slumber and divorced from the equally busy gastrointestinal disaster-management engineers below, busily informed me I still had over a one-minute cushion on 5:30 pace. That translated into a sub-2:23:00. If…so many ifs.

I trundled by 30K in 1:41:25 and was told by an official I was in 39th place. I knew that if I simply held form and passed only a few runners, I would likely move into the top 30 through Boston’s unique disbursement of attrition. My legs were still quite willing, the mind equally so. Nineteen in 1:43-thirtyish. I guessed that three of the supposed four hills encompassed by the Heartbreak stretch were behind me. I was noticing lots of cries of “Alright Kevin!” and “Go New Hampshire!” but was clueless as to their sources. I made yet another foiled attempt at a port-a-john entrance. Strike two. Not yet truly desperate (yet obviously desperate enough to do the unthinkable and stop in a race), I graced everyone nearby with another cry of “FUCK!” and sullied on.

Twenty miles went by in under 1:49:00. That benchmark was very real – it meant I was somehow clinging to 5:30’s even in this revered stretch, known, if perhaps hyperbolically, for dismantling the races of legends. I then began climbing Heartbreak Hill proper. Six tenths of a mile of altitude gain which, compared to the roads I had carved my life’s initials on all winter, was a piddling hump. As I threw myself up the hill, passing a Brazilian masters runner, a South African runner and New Jersey’s own Joseph Aloysius McVeigh (a former top American at this race and one of its biggest proponents), I smiled inwardly at my dismissal of Heartbreak Hill. A little well-placed arrogance, properly applied, can never hurt.

Come on and tell me what you need
Tell me what is making you bleed

At twenty-one miles (about 1:54:30), CMS team manager Gary Bridgman appeared, bearing, as promised, a drink similar to the one Bob had supplied. I waved him off and gave him the thumbs-up at the same time. I had been taking Gatorade at most of the aid stations and, feeling as strong as I did, felt no need to torment my innards with any further sugary insults. I started the long descent into the belly of Boston.

35K in 1:58:40. The crowds grew thicker and more flamboyant; the personally directed shouts from the sidewalks flew toward me as before. Twenty-two miles in a shade over two hours even and I had reached Cleveland Circle. Whether by playful fate or playful coincidence, I knew as I spotted the lone portable toilet to my right as I rounded the turn onto Beacon Street that I could no longer defer relieving myself, and that I would be forced to do so with several hundred people more or less watching. As I shot into the port-a-john, I swear the cheers doubled in volume. Great.

I won’t delve into the unnecessary details of my communion with the port-a-john, but I believe I was in and out in about forty-five seconds. I recall no toilet paper, but had there been any, I would have flown out of that foul little edifice trailing it behind me in place of the Superman cape the gathered throng (whose cheers had now surely trebled in volume) evidently expected me to have donned.

Your construction
Smells of corruption

I plunged back into the linear ring of combat. My legs seemed no worse for the wear, and I was eager to leave this particular group of onlookers in my odiferous wake. As a result, I fairly flew by McVeigh and the South African again (if they were confused by my apparent lapping of them, they didn’t show it) and, given that I reached twenty-three miles in close to 2:06 flat, actually covered the twenty-third mile at close to 5:15 pace. This may have been my biggest mistake of the race, but it didn’t wind up costing me that much. I knew a sub-2:23 was clearly out of the question now, but a sub-2:24 was not.

Twenty-four miles in 2:11:30-ish. Another 5:30-ish split. I was feeling nicks and quivers in my stride now, but nothing tragic. I focused on the long lane in front of me, an unbending stretch of asphalt that would be my proving ground for the next ten-plus minutes and forever all at once. I now rallied behind the humming, belching noise of the most scholarly and enthusiastic marathon crowd anywhere, white noise I had fought to ignore until this, the proper time. Gamely, I edged by another runner, a Japanese. He wore bib number 6. Benchmarks.

So one of six so tell me
One do you want to live
And one of seven tell me
Is it time for your muthafuckin’ ass to give

The “pain” of a marathon, to a well-trained and focused athlete, is not unbearable by any means. Those who speak of The Wall in hushed tones and with overstated reverence have either never trained properly or have executed a marathon race foolishly, their well-intentioned ambitions toppling them beyond the crest of their physical and emotional means. No, it is not the pain of non-responsive limbs that plunges marathoners over the brink into a purgatory of utter helplessness that can only end with a shambling, hacking wobble across the finish line or to the sidelines; it is the frustration, the apocalyptic frustration of a racer’s cardinal sin: Slowing down when the mind says go, go, we MUST cover this mile in five thirty and change…

And just like that, at twenty-four and a half miles, the realization was complete. There would be no more surges or bright-eyed gambits or pleasant surprises. I was hanging on, fighting to keep the house of sub-5:30 cards I had assembled over the past two hours from being blown all over the city of Boston. For the next ten minutes – and hopefully no more than that – my life effectively depended on it. I had a mile and a half left to run – to race.

I’m blown to the maxim
Two hemispheres battlin’
I’m blown to the maxim
Two hemispheres battlin’
Suckin’ up, one last breath
Take a drag off of death

40K in 2:16:21. That meant nothing too me. Still, I noticed the big Citgo sign near Fenway Park and the small teaser of a hill at Kenmore Square, right at twenty-five miles (about 2:17:12). I had no memory of these things in 1996. At least my brain was still functioning. Functioning and skittish; a quartet of motorcycles zipped by me with just under a mile to go, causing me to flip my head to one side far faster than I could have moved my legs. The policeman astride one of them grinned and said something. I glanced around. Sure enough, I wasn’t entitled to my own personal motorcade: Catherine Ndereba was coming, coming strong, and was about to roll me like a wet log. A mental comedian took center stage and joked that in my first national television appearance, I might well be splattered with the sort of unsavory matter one learns to dispose of properly by the age of three. But it didn’t last long; Ndereba was gone as quickly as she appeared and I was alone again.

Fighting to maintain the one pace I was now seemingly capable of running, whatever it was, I dragged myself up the street. I decided swinging my arms really, really hard was a good idea, because any good coach knows the legs have to follow. Or something.

A minute passed; two. The vehicles ahead darted to the right. There, I saw a blessed, blessed sign:

HEREFORD STREET

and as the South African drew alongside, another, this one on the left:

BOYLSTON STREET

I could see the finish line.

Now tell me if do you agree
Or tell me if I’m makin’ you bleed
I got a few more minutes and
I’m gonna cut to what you need

It wasn’t as close as I thought.

Is it time for your muthafuckin’ ass to give
Tell me is it time to get down on your muthafuckin’ knees
Tell me is it time to get down…

But two hours, twenty-four minutes and seventeen seconds after some forgotten point in time, it came. It came with a little lurch and a righting of my miraculously intact body and it was in the books – a personal best by about a half-mile, here, on the course I knew I couldn’t run, on a day when I couldn’t, for once, run the whole way. I had covered the last mile in about 5:48, a yeoman effort lost in the shazam of Ndereba’s five-flat, a time I would bet fewer than a half-dozen men bettered.

Come on baby tell me
Yes we aim to please

105th Boston Marathon — 4/16/2001

http://www.last.fm/music/Lo+Fidelity+Allstars/+videos/+1-ZuwWvPGul3o
Also, you’ll want to change the link for Bob Hodge to http://www.bunnhill.com/BobHodge.

Got a revolution behind my eyes
We got to get up and organize
Got a revolution behind my eyes
We got to get up and organize

My experience at the 2001 Boston Athletic Association Marathon cannot, in fact, be aptly summed up

by the lyrics of the Lo-Fidelity All-Stars club anthem “Battle Flag,” but since I like the song I

will impose its besmirched couplets upon my race nonetheless.

My race began, of course, months, not weeks or days or hours or minutes, before high noon in

Hopkinton, Mass., a nondescript if pleasant enough burg annually transformed into a freak show by

the descent of fifteen thousand curious souls — aspirants with dreams too offbeat to fill their

leisure time with the mundane corruptions of workaday society. But for purposes of this account,

the story’s obligatory beginning is at the unfurling of my rendition of that dream — as I

wandered blandly out of the Korean Church of Hopkinton, the temporary operating base of the

two-hundred-plus seeded runners, slapping a modicum of restraint on the pulses of adrenalin that

needed to be harnessed until a more opportune moment than this instant of contrived hype.

I said hallelujah to the sixteen loyal fans
You’ll get down on your muthafuckin’ knees
And it’s time for your sickness again

Under the direction of race marshals (who, much to my satisfaction, made sure I was wearing a

seeded number beneath my BRADY/POSITIVE POWER T-shirt) I followed teammate Dan Verrington to the

front of the first corral, the noisome belly of which I had narrowly eluded thanks to a 2:26:52

qualifying time in my last marathon in October 1999. The day was sunny and the easterly breezes

ripe for bipedal showmanship. I remarked unaffectedly that I felt like an impostor among the

Tanuis and Aberas and Nderebas and DeHavens traipsing along nearby. Dan, a 2:21 marathoner, gave

amused assent. The thought was devoid of timidity; a half-accomplished runner knows his position

far better than the wags who would lump him in the “elite” category for the sake of convenience,

ignorance, and hyperbole. As if on cue, a public address speaker announced that every one of the

runners streaming onto Route 135 between untold numbers of raucous observers and press corps

members was capable of covering 26 point 2 miles at under five-minute pace. I smiled. The day was

in order.

Given my position I was able to warm up in front of the starting line, and with a hundred

introspectively light-footed others I ambled to and fro a few times more for the sake of nervous

dissolution than to prime myself physically for the impending task. The trick here was not to

undermine my chance of success in the first downhill miles. It is not an easy trick. The ghosts of

a score of legends, realizing their mistakes too late even with the foreknowledge of what might

happen on this unique stretch of asphalt, pepper the landscape between Wellesley and Boston, where

luxurious debts are repaid to the fullest misery of the starry-eyed borrower.

Twin F-14 fighter jets soared by overhead toward the east, two minutes ahead of schedule.

I manipulate to recreate
This air to ground saga
Gotta launder my karma

We got two more minutes and
We gonna cut to what you need

Finally, as the final seconds were counted down, it was just like any other race. We were stuffed

onto a very ordinary two-lane road, sweaty and anxious to escape the jitters and body odor. I can

only imagine what the people crammed into the corrals must have felt.

The officials lowered and removed the rope stretched across the street. A simple pistol shot (or

was it a cannon?) launched the 105th crazy parade toward the appallingly disorganized

infrastructure of the most provincial city in America.

Hey Mr. Policeman
Is it time for getting away
Is it time for driving down the muthafuckin’ road
And running from your ass today

My plan was to run the first half of the race evenly, meaning I would run the first four or five

miles with restraint and effectively pick up the pace as I traveled over the flats. (Actually, my

plan was to run the whole damn thing evenly, but even I wasn’t buying that one.) Of course, I

wouldn’t really know until I got to the flats whether I’d in fact held back before reaching them,

would I? Oh, the cognitive gymnastics. I eased into what felt like something between mile and 50K

race pace and listened to the fans yammering away behind the guardrails on either side.

Shortly I was joined by Eric Beauchesne, a Massachusetts runner who, until the Eastern States 20,

had probably beaten me about a thousand times in a row. He had started somewhere in the first

corral. “It’s a clusterfuck back there,” he announced. I didn’t doubt it. Meanwhile, a huge lead

pack was forming up ahead. I was guessing the leaders were running “slowly,” but still felt that

giving them any less than a half-minute in the first mile was probably imprudent. My time (note

that in this account I am giving split times from my watch, an eight-second cushion on my official

time) at the mile was 5:26, which told me nothing, really. Shortly thereafter I edged past the

women’s leaders — a surprising development. (Later, at around seven miles, Beauchesne would

remark, “I’m surprised the women went out so slow.” I replied by telling him I’d remind him of

that comment when said women went zooming by somewhere within sight of skyscrapers.)

The next several miles were a continuation of an experiment — did I really feel good enough to

hold on to this pace for two and a half hours?

Passing through splits of 10:52, 16:17 (16:51 at 5K — this was incorrectly reported on the BAA

Web site), 21:39, 27:11, 32:40 (33:48 at 10K) and 38:05, I had no conscious bouts of either

self-doubt or extravagance that I can recall. I was moving along as I had trained myself to do,

which I suppose was the point.

Just beyond eight miles (43:30), I left a small group of runners, including Beauchesne, behind.

The bodies ahead were already scattered into groups of three or two or one, and I was sure I would

be largely if not entirely alone the rest of the way.

That was okay. Contrary to common belief, solitude can be a marathon racer’s ally so long as the

occasional passing of a comrade-in-legs occurs, subserving the need for confidence-boosting.

I took a bottle of fluid from Bob Hodge, 3rd-place finisher in this race in 1979 and my gracious

host for the weekend, just beyond nine miles (48:56) and noticed for the first time how warm it

seemed to be getting. I felt fresh, no worse for the wear than I would be on a long training run.

Concentration is a funny thing; ask me to run nine miles cold at faster than 5:30 pace on some

stretch of road somewhere and I doubt I could do it without extremes of effort.

As I passed ten miles (54:27), I realized I was flirting with the Olympic Trials “B” standard

pace; this meant nothing here, in April 2001, and even less in the face of the 16 miles remaining.

But every benchmark helps and I was on a roll. I covered the next two miles in 5:19 and 5:18, my

fastest two of the day. Passing Wellesley College — where the noise was so fearsome I edged

grimly toward the center of the road but broke into a reluctant smile in spite of myself — I

urged myself to ease up, one of running’s peculiar oxymoronic demands, and reached thirteen miles

in 1:10:30 and halfway in 1:11:06. Another benchmark. Verrington, who had been at least 200 meters

ahead, was slowly coming back. It was almost time to begin playing mental games: “How much can I

slow down and still run…” but I managed to keep most of these idiotic mental maneuvers at bay.

It was here that I realized the low-grade gnawing need to unload biological ballast from at least

two orifices was not subsiding, as I had assumed it would with the persistent effort. Perhaps my

display back in the church basement, where I’d served as the equivalent of the town drunk by

bellying up to the coffee bar far more often that my fellows, was leading me down a crueler path

than this habit of mine had managed to do in the past. Other than this distraction, I was feeling

fine, and continued to reel in runners I didn’t recognize. At first these runners had worn bibs

with three and four digits, but a few of the guys I was now catching wore bibs with only two.

Benchmarks.

I passed fourteen miles in 1:15:55 and fifteen in 1:21:2X (I rely on memory for splits and here is

where mine begins to fail), and noticed as I began the long descent toward Newton how subjectively

different this race was from the 1996 version, my only prior bout with this particular fool’s

errand. Not only was I running half a minute per mile slower, but the nuances of the course — in

this case the downhill that had begun the rapid unraveling of my quest for a sub-2:30 in the 100th

Boston — seemed kinder. That sort of thing is always as important as the numbers on the clock

with each passing mile. When I reached the bottom of that hill still feeling fresh (sixteen miles:

1:26:48), I was confident this was going to be a fine day. I passed Dan somewhere on that hill and

set my sights on the next singlet. The heat seemed to have cast itself aside.

My seventeen-mile split was in the 1:32-twenties. I would be climbing for the next four miles, and

my general distaste for downgrades notwithstanding, I could still find myself in trouble in short

order. But the rumbling in my guts was becoming a truly unmanageable problem. I reluctantly began

scanning the sidelines for portable toilets. When I finally found one (having never looked for

them in a race, I was surprised and distraught at how few of them were actually available in such

a large race), I startled the people nominally gathered around it by veering toward then with a

cry of “anyone in there?” “Yes,” a woman told me (guiltily — not that it helped) and with a cry

of “FUCK!” I skedaddled back onto the road. Strike one.

Eighteen miles passed in just under 1:37:5X. My mental mathematician, aroused briefly from her

slumber and divorced from the equally busy gastrointestinal disaster-management engineers below,

busily informed me I still had over a one-minute cushion on 5:30 pace. That translated into a

sub-2:23:00. If…so many ifs.

I trundled by 30K in 1:41:25 and was told by an official I was in 39th place. I knew that if I

simply held form and passed only a few runners, I would likely move into the top 30 through

Boston’s unique disbursement of attrition. My legs were still quite willing, the mind equally so.

Nineteen in 1:43-thirtyish. I guessed that three of the supposed four hills encompassed by the

Heartbreak stretch were behind me. I was noticing lots of cries of “Alright Kevin!” and “Go New

Hampshire!” but was clueless as to their sources. I made yet another foiled attempt at a

port-a-john entrance. Strike two. Not yet truly desperate (yet obviously desperate enough to do

the unthinkable and stop in a race), I graced everyone nearby with another cry of “FUCK!” and

sullied on.

Twenty miles went by in under 1:49:00. That benchmark was very real – it meant I was somehow

clinging to 5:30’s even in this revered stretch, known, if perhaps hyperbolically, for dismantling

the races of legends. I then began climbing Heartbreak Hill proper. Six tenths of a mile of

altitude gain which, compared to the roads I had carved my life’s initials on all winter, was a

piddling hump. As I threw myself up the hill, passing a Brazilian masters runner, a South African

runner and New Jersey’s own Joseph Aloysius McVeigh (a former top American at this race and one of

its biggest proponents), I smiled inwardly at my dismissal of Heartbreak Hill. A little

well-placed arrogance, properly applied, can never hurt.

Come on and tell me what you need
Tell me what is making you bleed

At twenty-one miles (about 1:54:30), CMS team manager Gary Bridgman appeared, bearing, as

promised, a drink similar to the one Bob had supplied. I waved him off and gave him the thumbs-up

at the same time. I had been taking Gatorade at most of the aid stations and, feeling as strong as

I did, felt no need to torment my innards with any further sugary insults. I started the long

descent into the belly of Boston.

35K in 1:58:40. The crowds grew thicker and more flamboyant; the personally directed shouts from

the sidewalks flew toward me as before. Twenty-two miles in a shade over two hours even and I had

reached Cleveland Circle. Whether by playful fate or playful coincidence, I knew as I spotted the

lone portable toilet to my right as I rounded the turn onto Beacon Street that I could no longer

defer relieving myself, and that I would be forced to do so with several hundred people more or

less watching. As I shot into the port-a-john, I swear the cheers doubled in volume. Great.

I won’t delve into the unnecessary details of my communion with the port-a-john, but I believe I

was in and out in about forty-five seconds. I recall no toilet paper, but had there been any, I

would have flown out of that foul little edifice trailing it behind me in place of the Superman

cape the gathered throng (whose cheers had now surely trebled in volume) evidently expected me to

have donned.

Your construction
Smells of corruption

I plunged back into the linear ring of combat. My legs seemed no worse for the wear, and I was

eager to leave this particular group of onlookers in my odiferous wake. As a result, I fairly flew

by McVeigh and the South African again (if they were confused by my apparent lapping of them, they

didn’t show it) and, given that I reached twenty-three miles in close to 2:06 flat, actually

covered the twenty-third mile at close to 5:15 pace. This may have been my biggest mistake of the

race, but it didn’t wind up costing me that much. I knew a sub-2:23 was clearly out of the

question now, but a sub-2:24 was not.

Twenty-four miles in 2:11:30-ish. Another 5:30-ish split. I was feeling nicks and quivers in my

stride now, but nothing tragic. I focused on the long lane in front of me, an unbending stretch of

asphalt that would be my proving ground for the next ten-plus minutes and forever all at once. I

now rallied behind the humming, belching noise of the most scholarly and enthusiastic marathon

crowd anywhere, white noise I had fought to ignore until this, the proper time. Gamely, I edged by

another runner, a Japanese. He wore bib number 6. Benchmarks.

So one of six so tell me
One do you want to live
And one of seven tell me
Is it time for your muthafuckin’ ass to give

The “pain” of a marathon, to a well-trained and focused athlete, is not unbearable by any means.

Those who speak of The Wall in hushed tones and with overstated reverence have either never

trained properly or have executed a marathon race foolishly, their well-intentioned ambitions

toppling them beyond the crest of their physical and emotional means. No, it is not the pain of

non-responsive limbs that plunges marathoners over the brink into a purgatory of utter

helplessness that can only end with a shambling, hacking wobble across the finish line or to the

sidelines; it is the frustration, the apocalyptic frustration of a racer’s cardinal sin: Slowing

down when the mind says go, go, we MUST cover this mile in five thirty and change…

And just like that, at twenty-four and a half miles, the realization was complete. There would be

no more surges or bright-eyed gambits or pleasant surprises. I was hanging on, fighting to keep

the house of sub-5:30 cards I had assembled over the past two hours from being blown all over the

city of Boston. For the next ten minutes – and hopefully no more than that – my life effectively

depended on it. I had a mile and a half left to run – to race.

I’m blown to the maxim
Two hemispheres battlin’
I’m blown to the maxim
Two hemispheres battlin’
Suckin’ up, one last breath
Take a drag off of death

40K in 2:16:21. That meant nothing too me. Still, I noticed the big Citgo sign near Fenway Park

and the small teaser of a hill at Kenmore Square, right at twenty-five miles (about 2:17:12). I

had no memory of these things in 1996. At least my brain was still functioning. Functioning and

skittish; a quartet of motorcycles zipped by me with just under a mile to go, causing me to flip

my head to one side far faster than I could have moved my legs. The policeman astride one of them

grinned and said something. I glanced around. Sure enough, I wasn’t entitled to my own personal

motorcade: Catherine Ndereba was coming, coming strong, and was about to roll me like a wet log. A

mental comedian took center stage and joked that in my first national television appearance, I

might well be splattered with the sort of unsavory matter one learns to dispose of properly by the

age of three. But it didn’t last long; Ndereba was gone as quickly as she appeared and I was alone

again.

Fighting to maintain the one pace I was now seemingly capable of running, whatever it was, I

dragged myself up the street. I decided swinging my arms really, really hard was a good idea,

because any good coach knows the legs have to follow. Or something.

A minute passed; two. The vehicles ahead darted to the right. There, I saw a blessed, blessed

sign:

HEREFORD STREET

and as the South African drew alongside, another, this one on the left:

BOYLSTON STREET

I could see the finish line.

Now tell me if do you agree
Or tell me if I’m makin’ you bleed
I got a few more minutes and
I’m gonna cut to what you need

It wasn’t as close as I thought.

Is it time for your muthafuckin’ ass to give
Tell me is it time to get down on your muthafuckin’ knees
Tell me is it time to get down…

But two hours, twenty-four minutes and seventeen seconds after some forgotten point in time, it

came. It came with a little lurch and a righting of my miraculously intact body and it was in the

books – a personal best by about a half-mile, here, on the course I knew I couldn’t run, on a day

when I couldn’t, for once, run the whole way. I had covered the last mile in about 5:48, a yeoman

effort lost in the shazam of Ndereba’s five-flat, a time I would bet fewer than a half-dozen men

bettered.

Come on baby tell me
Yes we aim to please

Filed under: coaching, elites, inspiration, racing | Tagged: , , , | 4 Comments »

Shiver in my bones just thinking…

Posted on January 28, 2010 by threlkeld

…about the fucking weather.* Not just thinking about it. Being in it. Specifically, trying to run in it.

I typically like to think that here in New York, we’ve got it good. I follow other bloggers who live in godforsaken places like Michigan or Wisconsin and think, “Hey, at least I don’t live there.”

But this year, is it really any better here? In the entire month of January, we’ve had three days that got above freezing. Many days, the windchill was in the single digits or even negative digits. It’s already snowed three times.

I felt compelled to rant about winter because today I was actually looking forward to doing a 9 mile recovery run with strides. In a day packed with meetings and other sources of stress and dreariness, I especially appreciated the opportunity to get outside for 90 minutes and clear my head of the shit that kept me awake for 2 hours in the middle of the night (followed by a nightmare in which Jonathan died).

The forecast called for “flurries.” Maybe on some other planet heavy snow that sticks and accumulates counts as flurries, but not in my world. I got out of the house around 8AM, about an hour after the snow started. There was around half an inch on the ground by that time, and it was coming down heavily. But aside from bare pavement, I had traction on the snowy bits. Or so I thought.

I’d already decided to nix the strides today, not wanting to tempt fate. So merrily I ran along at 10:30 down toward Bronxville on the first of two local loops. I safely made it across Tuckahoe road (where no one ever stops for pedestrians, not even cops!), wended my way down toward the lake and…bam! My feet fly out ahead of me and I’m suddenly looking at the sky. Knowing I’m going to hit hard, I attempt to keep my head up, to no avail. My head actually bounced on the icy pavement a la Robert Cheruiyot.

Nice way to start the day! Now I have a huge goose egg and bruise on my head, plus when I turn my head too far to the left, the area around my left scapula burns. It burns!

Clearly this was not the day to run outside, so I got up and headed back. But in the 10 minutes or so that I’d been outside, the conditions had gone from acceptable to treacherous. It took me nearly 25 minutes to go the .7 miles back to our house. I managed to run a little, but by the time I hit the local streets (and big hill up to our street), the road was like an ice rink.

So in about 40 minutes I managed to run about a mile and give myself a concussion in the process. We’re supposed to get rain this afternoon, but I’ll believe that when I see it. In the meantime, we have a friend from South Africa coming to town for the Gift Fair. The forecast for tomorrow is “real feel” of 2F. I think she’s going to go into some sort of metabolic shock when she steps off that plane. Fortunately, she’s a wool designer, so she can swaddle herself in her own creations.

*Apologies for quoting one of the most boring bands of all time, 10,000 Maniacs (closely tied during that unfortunate era with Edie Brickell and The New Bohemians).

Filed under: elites, everyday life, injury, westchester | 19 Comments »

Spectator Report: NYRR Emerald Nuts Midnight Run

Posted on January 1, 2010 by threlkeld

I spent New Year’s Eve and day playing host and driver to another coachee of Kevin’s, Kim Duclos. Unlike me, Kim is young and fast. She just ran a 2:38 at Huntsville in mid-December and is gearing up for an even faster run at the L.A. Marathon in the spring.

Kim had been invited by NYRR to to run in the elite field of their four mile Emerald Nuts Midnight Run. She drove down from Worcester, MA for the race yesterday, hanging out at our place for a few hours before we drove in. Jonathan has a bad cold, so he skipped the festivities.

Despite the fact that I felt like I was a combination interloper/running groupie, accompanying her to the race and hanging out in the elite tent was a huge treat, as well as a glimpse into how the other half races.

NYRR required that Kim pick up her number by 11PM for the midnight race. Since I didn’t want to be responsible for missing that deadline, we left ridiculously early — 9PM for what’s usually a half hour drive to the Upper West Side. I’m glad we left early since not only did I space out and miss the Boat Basin exit, but no one knew where the elite tent was (we’d walked right by it, unlabeled). Half an hour later, we found a volunteer who knew where it was and settled in.

The conditions in Central Park were awful. A snowfall of around 1-2 inches earlier in the day had turned to icy slush. NYRR had salted the course, but it was still treacherous just walking around. We claimed a couple of chairs in the heated tent and surveyed the table of cookies, water and tee shirts. I spotted a few others who were not there to run, so didn’t feel too self-conscious in there, although I did eventually give up my chair when it started to fill up.

The highlight was when the star of the evening, Erin Donohue, appeared about 40 minutes before race start. At two feet away, this was about as close as I was ever going to get to an Olympian (unless, of course, Kim continues to get faster over the next couple of years, heh heh) and I tried not to stare. But, people, that girl is built: 5’7″ (she looks shorter in person) and around 145 pounds. Solid muscle. She’s got legs like cherry tree logs and you can see every muscle in her shoulders. She was friendly, but I sure wouldn’t want to piss her off.

Runners got the call to get ready to get their asses outside in 10 minutes. Then Mary Wittenberg wended her way through the tent for the pre-race meet and greet. I hid behind Derek Scott, who was conveniently tall, serving as a potted plant proxy. I’d told Kim that I planned to introduce myself as her “handler” if anyone asked, a term that she said had come up for her in a few interactions with race directors. I love how it makes the runner sound like a circus animal.

The race started at midnight sharp, as did an impressive show of fireworks. I watched from the start/finish in a prime spot, thanks to my elevated hanger-on status. Despite the crap weather, people were clearly having a blast. It took close to 12 minutes for the entire race field to pass the start line, and lots of the back-of-the-packers were jolly already. Good costumes, many fist pumps, and some unsteady legs!

As for the elite race, which was the only one being timed (at least for the top five in each gender field), it was pretty competitive, considering the conditions. The first man, Patrick Smyth, came in less than half a minute off the course record, and Donohue won the women’s race in a little over 21 minutes. Kim came in shortly thereafter, perhaps a minute slower than would be expected under normal racing conditions. But she was smiling as much at the finish as she was at the start, so she had a good time, which was her goal. Not falling on her ass was a bonus.

After her cooldown we wandered around, hitting the dance party and pretending we didn’t speak English when some guy started babbling to us about portapotties. But the ground was an ice slick and it was getting cold, so we headed home for some wine and other treats. Got to bed around 3:30AM, which is probably a personal record for me for New Year’s.

All in all, a great start to 2010.

Filed under: central park, coaching, elites, olympics, racing | Tagged: , , , , , | 18 Comments »

Fall Training: Week 8

Posted on November 1, 2009 by threlkeld

09fall-training-08This week was a planned recovery week, although it featured exceptionally low mileage due to lingering issues with my hamstring. Interestingly, after watching Paula Radcliffe drop off to fourth place due to a hamstring problem in today’s New York Marathon, I can understand how that happens. It’s possible to run with a problem hamstring, but not as fast as you’d like to. I learned all about this on Friday.

I took Monday off because the hamstring bothered me running. Instead, I took a walk to get the blood flowing to it, then spent some time massaging it to try to head off any scar tissue buildup. On Tuesday I did a little test run in the morning, in which the leg showed improvement, although things were still iffy, so I did another walk in the evening rather than a run.

Wednesday was a turning point, as the leg no longer hurt while walking and I had a lot of range of motion back. It could also tolerate being rolled along the foam roller and massaged fairly aggressively.

I pushed things a bit further on Thursday, with a slightly faster run and an experimental stride at 7:15 pace. There was still some stiffness present, but no pain at that speed. Again, to give it 24 hours rest for the big test on Friday, I cross-trained, this time on the stationary bike.

Friday was the day of reckoning: Could I run fast on the bum leg? The answer turned out to be: well, sort of. But only in a certain direction. I ran to the track and all was well on the way there. Then I started into the tempo work and within half a mile of trying to run fast the leg stiffness evolved into pain. And, like Paula, I couldn’t run fast. The first mile was a disappointing 7:47, owing to my inability to extend my stride with my right leg.

I have no idea why this occured to me, but I thought about the fact that I couldn’t extend my right leg properly and realized that every time I hit a curve on the track I was forcing my right leg to extend further out than my left leg was extending. So, much to the confusion and annoyance of others on the track, I reversed direction for the next three miles and got much better results. At least I was considerate enough to take the extreme outside lane (there’s one guy there sometimes who runs “the wrong way” in the middle lanes and it’s confusing — and probably dangerous — on a track crowded with people).

So I’m not sure whether to call Friday a success or not. I could run fast, but only clockwise on a track. Is that good? Or just necessary for the time being?

For obvious reasons I skipped strides and any speedwork this week. Yesterday was very easy, with another experimental 30 second surge down to 6:40 pace. That speed had my hamstring not so much hurting as tapping me insistently on the shoulder, as if to say, “Uh, what are you doing?”

Fortunately, I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere near 6:40 pace on today’s run (boy was I right about that, as my speed sucked today). But the run today was about endurance and, without making too many excuses, I could still feel Friday’s effort in my legs in addition to having to fight a steady headwind for most of the miles.

I still consider it a successful workout, though. I easily maintained 77-78% effort for 12 miles and then had no problem stepping it up to 88-89% for the last five. I also wasn’t trashed by the workout — no need for naps or other forms of collapse. I credit that more to the lower mileage this week than I do to some leap in fitness.

Toward the end of the run I had matching fatigue and complaints in both hamstrings, which offered some comfort. Although now, six hours later, the right one is definitely complaining slightly more than the left. I have trained injured before, the latest example being the 10 weeks I trained with a mild groin pull, which I suffered on a cold and slippery half marathon in Central Park in January. That was probably worse than what I’m experiencing now (can you hear me rationalizing this away?). But it’s always unnerving to have in the back of my mind, every time I put on my running shoes, the knowledge that something’s not quite right. Kind of like living with faulty wiring and wondering if your house is going to go up in flames at any moment.

Filed under: central park, elites, injury, racing, recovery, training | Tagged: , , | 7 Comments »

Marathon day reprise

Posted on November 1, 2009 by threlkeld

In honor of the throngs running the New York Marathon this morning, I offer up a couple of past posts.

Last year I went out and watched the elites fly by (or not) at mile 20 in the Bronx. Then, in April, I followed a couple of runners as they took on the hills of Boston using an “athlete tracker.” I won’t be watching the marathon from the curb this year, as I’ll be out doing my own training run.

And even though I should be back, watching live coverage by about 10AM, I won’t track runners I know, as it’s just too anxiety-provoking.

Filed under: elites, racing | Tagged: , , | Leave a comment »

New links

Posted on October 30, 2009 by threlkeld

I recently updated a few of my links. Yeah, uh, so what, you say? Well, I think a few of them are worth pointing out.

First, I added a link to Run Away Fast, Jaymee Marty’s running blog. Jaymee just took second at the Marine Corps Marathon, three weeks after running a 2:46:26 at Twin Cities. She’s a latecomer to running and to marathoning, as am I, and she’s also part of the over 40 set. She’s currently gearing up for a qualifying run for the 2012 Olympic Marathon Trials in six months. I doubt she’ll have any problems achieving that goal.

I also added links to sites for two runners in trouble. The first, set up to benefit Jenny Crain, has been around for awhile. Jenny was hit by a car while out running in August of 2008 and suffered horrific brain and other physical injuries as a result. The second site deals with Kevin McDermott‘s plight after a recent diving accident left him paralyzed, although he has made astonishing progress in restoring mobility since then.

As a side note, both these runners and their families are struggling to pay medical bills despite having been insured at the time of their accidents. If that isn’t a wake up call to people who for some baffling reason don’t support health care reform, then I don’t know what is.

Filed under: elites, injury, inspiration | Tagged: , , | 5 Comments »

The sub-13:00 love train

Posted on September 5, 2009 by threlkeld

Last last month in Switzerland, Dathan Ritzenhein became only the second third fourth non-African-born man to run under 13:00 for the 5000m, clocking a new American record of 12:56. It took 13 years for someone to break the previous 12:58 American record held by Bob Kennedy. Then, just a few days later, Matt Tegenkamp went well under 13:00 too in Belgium, missing also beating Kennedy’s record by about half a second.

Watching those two races was nothing short of mind-blowing. What shift had occurred to allow for this dramatic twofer? These were huge PRs, not just the usual incremental ones. I know it made me think about what’s possible for myself.

I was also reminded of an article from Matt Fitzgerald in Running Times late last year, How Records Are Broken, which examined the forces that push records downward and what everyday runners can learn from them. The gist being: While we hobby runners may not break any world, national or age group records, breaking our own personal records in a regular and dramatic fashion is a worthy goal — and an achievable one.

Incidentally, that article link also includes an interview with none other than the now-former American record holder for the 5000m, Bob Kennedy.

Filed under: elites, inspiration, reading | Tagged: , , , , , | 5 Comments »

Summer Basebuilding: Week 8

Posted on August 23, 2009 by threlkeld

sum09-base-08Every single run this week was inside on the treadmill. But I’ve gotten used to it. Just as I sometimes have stretches of many weeks during the winter when the ice on the ground necessitates running inside, so I’ve accepted the same fate during the steambath summer months.

I just remind myself that runs inside in reasonable temperatures and humidity will be much more productive (and faster to recover from) than runs where I struggle outside in heat indices approaching 100F.

This week concluded week six of taking iron and vitamin supplements. I feel like a new person lately, especially in the past three weeks. I’ve also been sleeping remarkably well (but not too much) and my resting HR has been in the 45 or below range most days.

On the training front, this was another very good week. I ran most of the recovery runs at a very low HR% (around 59-63% in most cases). I wanted to have plenty of energy for the harder runs and I did. The Wednesday run was tough, but it’s certainly easier doing those faster miles when they’re stuck in the middle of a run rather than tacked onto the end.

Friday’s run was gratifying primarily because I was able to run a lot faster that I’ve ever been able to on the treadmill. I managed 6:20 or better for the repeats and even managed to run 6:00 for two minutes during the first repeat before having to drop down to 6:10.

Today’s long run was the most satisfying run of the week. I’ve been working up to a faster pace on the last three weekend long runs, just to see what I can manage at a reasonable heart rate. Today I did an easy two mile warmup of 9:00 average pace, then dropped the pace down to 8:20 for a couple of miles, then 8:10 for the majority, finishing up with the final three at 8:00. My heart rate for the entire run averaged 74% (and that’s about where it was for the bulk of the miles), although it topped out at 80% for the last two.

Comparing this week to the previous two, my paces have gotten faster across the board for the faster workouts, with about the same amount of effort applied. This is giving me tremendous confidence. But it also makes me a bit wary. I was running spectacularly well in April and then everything fell apart in the following weeks. It’s hard not to worry about that happening again. But at least I know I’ll be more attentive to signs of a problem.

As with last week, I had no issues with the mileage either. Hitting 95 wasn’t difficult and I don’t feel particularly tired today. Next week is a recovery week with just 80 miles on the schedule. I’ll treat it as such, although I am keen to do another fast long run on Sunday, this time with a goal of averaging 8:00-8:05 for the run, to see if that yields a HR% in the mid-70s again.

I dropped the weight work this week, primarily because I didn’t have time for it. But I was also tired in the evenings. I may take it up again during the coming recovery week.

Now I go into mourning, since the IAAF World Championships have concluded. There were some wonderful races, not the least of which was today’s women’s marathon. I’m glad I’m not a betting woman, because none of my picks (which did not include Kara Goucher, for the record) podiumed. But at least I got two of the countries right (China and Japan), even if I picked the wrong runners.

Filed under: basebuilding, elites | 15 Comments »

A weighty issue

Posted on July 21, 2009 by threlkeld

Elite runner Cristin Wurth-Thomas has been on a roll over the past few months. Earlier this month she broke 4:00 in the 1500m in Rome. During the broadcast of that race, one of the commentators noted that her coach had told her that she needed to drop 10 lbs., which she did. While her performance gains over the past few months can’t necessarily all be attributed to her having lost weight, shedding some poundage obviously hasn’t hurt in this case.

Here’s a photo of her looking particularly porky last year (sarcasm!).

When this was mentioned on air, referring to a woman who is sporting a body fat percentage in, maybe, the 18% range (I’m just guessing), it gave me pause. Is it really a good idea to draw attention to the “need to drop 10 lbs.” in a sport already rife with athletes suffering from eating disorders? I had mixed feelings about it. True, it’s helpful to have this kind of insight into why an athlete’s performance may have been boosted. On the other hand, since it’s impossible to know with certainty if weight loss was a factor, it seems…I don’t know…more prudent to just not bother mentioning it.

What do you think? Does the informational value of learning that an athlete (either male or female) has dropped some weight trump the potential harm that such information might cause?

Filed under: elites, poll | 12 Comments »

NYC Half + Fresh Air Fund = Doing Good

Posted on July 16, 2009 by threlkeld

Sure, the insanely popular* NYC Half Marathon is sold out, but you can still run in the footsteps of Catherine the Great and other fast ladies (and gentlemen) by signing up to run with the Fresh Air Fund. FAF is just one of a boatload of charities you can run for. Just think how good it will feel to run through the streets of NYC…in order to help a kid get a little break from the streets of NYC.

*And I do mean insanely popular. A race of over 10,000 run in the high heat and humidity of NYC in August? That fills up in a couple of hours? Along the West Side Highway? Yeah. Um. Insane.

Filed under: elites, racing | Tagged: , , , , | 4 Comments »

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