In Hopkington my corral was lining up on the uphill. Where is the crazy downhill everyone was talking about? Then we started walking, then running. Ah, here comes the steep downhill.
A sea of people in front of me. A few miles of making sure I am not running faster then 10 minute miles, and I reached Ashland. With so many people passing me by, I turn around, but there was still a human sea behind me. After Ashland, the area was becoming more familiar with every minute. By the time I hit the Framingham train station, I was so excited—I knew I was close to Natick, where people were going to cheer for me.
The miles between Framingham and Natick flew by as I chatted to a fellow runner. Lev was from Latvia, and has been running road races, including many marathons, for many years. We ran together till mile 16 where he stopped to say hello to his children, while I decided to run ahead.
Many of my coworkers cheering in Natick gave me an extra kick. Also, the idea that I just ran 10 miles without any significant IT band pain was exciting. My doubts about finishing were fading away, replaced by utter elation. Knowledge that I have run from Natick to Boston several times was also boosting my confidence.
The smell of fresh pine cones filled the air as we approached Wellesley College. Here I finally got to run through the “screech tunnel”, where the Wellesley College girls show off the incredible powers of their vocal chords. Yet, more amazing was the number of “kiss me” signs the girls were holding up. “Kiss me, I am Mormon.” “Kiss me, I am a virgin.” “Kiss me this Passover.” “Kiss me, I love you.” I did not get to read them all. Incredibly, numerous sweaty middle-aged men flocked to the barricades and followed the signs’ directions. Last chance? At the end of the “screech row” stood several tall young men, also holding up “kiss me” signs…
I reached Wellesley Square and cleared the half way point of the marathon. Now I was on a roll. Of course, according to the amazing DFMC coach and 1976 Boston Marathon winner, Jack Fultz, the real half point only comes at mile 17.
More people, cute dogs, the first real hill at the Route 95 overpass, and I found myself in the Dana-Farber cheering area by the Newton Wellesley Hospital. Mile 17 marker is in the relatively flat area right before the course makes its first turn ever onto Commonwealth Avenue. I felt so excited as I passed Jack’s half point in the race. Finally, I was facing major hills, as opposed to downhills for a change!
I was so excited, that the hills did not seem that bad. As I cleared the Heartbreak Hill the scenery changed. Mildly to heavily intoxicated Boston College students replaced the happily cheering families with cute labs. If you think the Wellesley girls are loud, you have not heard the BC crowd.
In training I have always found reaching the beginning of the B line depressing. Only 5 miles to the finish line, but I know these 5 miles with my eyes closed, so you cannot fool me into thinking I have only a short way to go. I thought the race day will be different, but it was not. The feeling of dread was compounded by a strong suspicion that my quads have solidified into brick, and lifting a leg was becoming an increasingly arduous task with every step. Who said that the last 5 miles are the most enjoyable? I was still hoping for running without feeling my legs as Jack promised.
People practically sit on the B line tracks along the “graveyard” mile of the course, and they do not move an inch when the trains blow the whistles and slow down to a crawl just to get by them. The familiar Washington Square and Coolidge Corner both looked unrecognizable, filled with the screaming crowds. I spent the next block debating about why Trader Joe’s is not passing out or selling anything to the crowds outside their store. Would it not boost the business? I then tried to remind myself that Nick and I have walked to Coolidge Corner, and that the John Hancock tower looming in the distance is really not that far.
I perked up after St. Paul Street. My personal cheering squad was supposed to be near Park Drive. I could see the Japanese bakery, and the True Value Hardware by St. Mary’s T stop. A little further a long there were my parents, pressed tight into the barricade. I was so excited to see them, that I did not notice Nick and my friends standing behind them. I was still looking for Nick, as I scaled up the Mass Pike overpass, the last noticeable hill on the course.
Suddenly it hit me—the screaming Dana Farber cheering squad at mile 25 on top of the overpass. It was as if the entire overpass was screaming. A sea of brown and yellow Dana-Farber shirts. This was it, the final mile. What fatigue? What pain? I could not feel any of it. I remembered Jack’s words—no one drops out in the last mile. Here was my darling dirty Kenmore square with at least 20 rows of Red Sox fans leaning against the barricades. I am sure I was not, but I felt like I was sprinting onto Hereford Street, and finally I was on Boylston running as hard as I could.
I know it sounds cheesy, but I was trying hard not to cry. I made it. I could see the enormous blue gate over the finish line, the cheering crowds behind the barricades, the sun and the beautiful blue sky. I reached the bleachers, and crossed the finish line with my arms raised high in triumph.
I am running the Boston Marathon in memory of my aunt Ada, who died of cancer almost a year ago at the age of 60. Her father had to bury his only child. Her grandson, who was not yet two years old at the time, would not remember his grandmother who spent so much of her time taking care of him.
