Julie’s Boston 2013 Race Report

We all know how Boston ended yesterday.  Originally, I planned to write a quirky race report about my sixth Boston marathon on April 15th--how I spent a winter torturing my running partner, Felix, to run hundreds of laps around King Farm Park with me in morning darkness in an effort to end my streak of flat lining at Mile 23; how my Montgomery County Road Runners Club (MCRRC) training group came together to successfully coach ourselves under the name Broderick to Boston in memory of our beloved coach Mike Broderick; and how I fought off the voice of negativity in my quest to redeem myself after running last year’s Boston with a chilly towel around my neck in 85 degree heat.  I wish more than anything that I could write that race report, but I can’t because my sixth Boston culminated with the detonation of two bombs at one of the happiest places on earth--the Boston Marathon finish line.

The events leading up to the race did not disappoint this year.  Between meeting Dick Hoyt with Coach Lisa at the expo and belting out Sweet Caroline at Fenway in seats just a few rows behind home plate with my wonderful family, I enjoyed a perfect Boston day before another perfect Boston day--Marathon Monday, a day that is so much more about spectating than running, as what makes this race so special is not the course itself, but the spectators eager to greet thousands of runners streaming through each town with deafening cheers, kisses, beers, massages and beautiful children eager to give high fives to every runner who will to take a moment to do so. 
 

The pre-dawn school bus ride to Hopkinton with my fellow MCRRC runners the following morning was, as always, eerily similar to a bus filled with middle schoolers--plenty of laughter, raunchy jokes, and complaints of people needing to pee after drinking volumes of Gatorade en route.  We all remarked that the 85 degree temperature run last year, which, we affectionately referred to as the Boston Massacre, was a distant memory, and that unlike last year, this race was going to be a superb opportunity for a personal record.

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My biggest concern, like everyone else, was whether I would bomb my race.   That word has now been erased from my vocabulary as a means to describe a race performance.  With my Sandy Hook baseball hat in tow, I walked to the start line prepared to dedicate my 26 miles to the 26 victims of the Newtown tragedy without knowledge that yet another tragedy would occur that day.

 

Using my time from last year’s Boston, I was assigned to the third wave start at 10:40 armed with my own pacer, my friend Ken, a 2:40 marathoner who generously offered to pace me to hopefully a new personal record, while selflessly foregoing the opportunity to set his own personal record on a glorious day.  The gun went off and we calmly began our journey from Hopkinton to Boston.  My breathing was a bit off, but I remained calm and repeated my mantra, “Believe you can.”  By mile 8, I was believing I couldn’t.  Ken could tell I was dragging, and my thoughts wandered to leaving the course and calling it a day.  I got myself together and kept going hoping that these negative feelings would disappear.  They didn’t, and by mile 13, I knew I would not meet my expectations that day.  I adjusted my goal, moved forward and focused on taking in the moments--seeing my husband and children along the course with their “run like a mutha” sign , my supportive friends and family all over the country tracking me online, and--my legs--how lucky I was to be out there running on a course that so many will never have the opportunity to experience.  I crossed the finish line at approximately 2:15 pm.  My time--3:28--about 10 minutes off my goal, but well within the qualifying time I needed to return next year, and at that moment, while still hyperventilating with my quads screaming, I couldn’t wait to return in 2014.

 

 

 

After receiving my medal and my drop bag, I made my way to the local watering hole, Fire and Ice, a few blocks away from the finish line, to meet my fellow MCRRC runners.  Just minutes after entering the bar, reports of a bombing at the finish line began to materialize.  CNN images on television were horrifying, and cell reception was non-existent.  A nightmare was unfolding before us just blocks away as we remained inside confused, shaken to the core, and eager to find our fellow runners who had not yet arrived.  Thanks to Facebook, all runners in our MCRRC family were accounted for within a relatively short period of time.  Nonetheless, we are all family out there--spectators and runners alike--and members of our Boston family suddenly became victims of an unspeakable tragedy that instantly turned the finish line into a crime scene.

 

As we all grapple with this unfathomable act of terror,  I find solace, like so many, in the reports detailing what occurred within moments of the blast.  First responders, race volunteers, and bystanders exhibited extraordinary courage in response to the horrifying scene, while runners, exhausted from running 26.2, ran to nearby hospitals to give blood. The resilience and strength of the great people of Boston and the running community immediately surfaced in the midst of chaos and devastation at one of the most celebrated sporting events in the world.  

The people of Boston are defiant--they will rise above the chaos, and, like thousands of other runners, I am undeterred and eager to proudly cross that finish line next April.  As runners, we lost a part of our innocence yesterday, but we have not lost our determination, our deep appreciation for the great people of Boston and our love of crossing the finish line at the holy grail of running-the Boston Marathon.  See you next year, Beantown, and until then, stand tall and know that runnahs all over the world are with you.

HoJo and Heartbreak--Julie's Pocono Marathon Run for the Red Race Report

Marathons are like childbirth--agonizing pain, followed by a fabulous reward that completely overshadows the agony, and, as a result, serial marathoners willingly repeat the whole experience, while wondering, "How the hell did I end up here again?" I asked myself that same question on Sunday morning while sweating along a two-lane highway during the Pocono Marathon Run for the Red, just four weeks after running the hottest Boston Marathon in recent history.

I am honestly not sure what led me to pay top dollar to stay at the finest Howard Johnson in the Poconos last weekend in exchange for the opportunity to run 26.2 miles in hot-but-not-as-hot-as-Boston temperatures in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, other than my constant quest to run the marathon of my life. 

Like so many of my other psychotic runner friends, I am constantly setting new goals for myself, and, as I mentioned in my Boston Race Report, my running bucket list included a sub-3:20 marathon before I hit the big 4-0. My bucket list did not include running my fifth Boston Marathon with a Chilly Towel tied around my neck and ice shoved down my pants, so about three days post-Boston, I found myself clicking the "register" button on the Run for the Red website, which described the race as one of the fastest courses out there. Holy crap--I'd never run two marathons in one season, let alone in one month.

                                    

Luckily, many of my psychotic running buddies had run two (or more) marathons in four weeks, so I sought their advice and devised a post-Boston recovery and pre-Poconos taper plan to get me to the Poconos start line with fresh legs for racing. Although my Boston recovery was not as quick as I had hoped, I managed to squeeze in a couple of longer runs and a few sharpening speed workouts, including surpisingly winning first female at a local 5K, prior to tapering for race day. Unfortunately, once again, the forecast for race day was less than ideal--hot and sunny, and, I must admit, I seriously thought about throwing in the (Chilly) towel, as I really had no desire to run another sub-par hot marathon again. Eventually, after much obsessive pondering, I made the decision to give it a shot, packed a bag, said goodbye to the family (who thought I was crazy), and headed up for a night at the HoJo in Stroudsburg.

Race morning was unusually low-key.  After consuming a breakfast of Quaker oatmeal and berries while watching an excellent Three's Company rerun in the hotel lobby, I boarded a school bus from the local Stroudsburg Mall and headed up the start line at Pocono West High School. Sitting in the high school, I noticed how many people were wearing Boston attire, and, like me, were looking for a post-Boston redemption race. Although the temperatures at the start were certainly not cool, the conditions were WAY better than Boston, and maybe, just maybe, I could achieve a personal best on this fast net downhill course. I started out running a 7:30-7:40 pace range and felt strong and in control. I stuck to my fueling plan, and drank 8 ounces of Gatorade every two miles, while dumping two cups of water over my head to keep cool. Every four miles, I ingested 3-4 Clif Shot Blocks and every hour, I took a salt tab. The hills were steep, so I was careful to stay in control and not go too fast on the downhills. The shade was typically on the right side of the course, which, unfortunately, was slanted, so I found myself debating whether to opt for shade and slant or sun and smooth. I consistently selected the former to ensure that I remained as cool as possible. As the miles ticked by, I grew more excited as I continued to feel strong and the possibility of hitting a 3:15-3:18 finish time was well within my reach. As I passed through the mile 20 water stop with relative ease, I took my last shot block and buckled down for the remaining hot 10K.

While climbing the final hill at mile 22, I felt a sharp pain near the outside of my left knee. The pain continued and suddenly, I couldn't run. My leg felt like spaghetti, and I immediately stopped to massage the area. I was calm and hopeful that this was not my ITB, which had never been a problem for me until this moment, but the coach in me knew that this was likely the case. I tried to run again, made it to the next water stop and just collapsed on one of the cots behind the water stop. I was stunned. Ironically, this was my thirteenth marathon, and as I furiously massaged the area in a futile attempt to eradicate the pain, I could not help but think once again, "How the hell did I end up here?"


The terrific race volunteers surrounded me and asked me if I needed medical transport. I refused, tried again, walked back to them, and with tears streaming down my face, accepted the offer for a van to retrieve me and take me to the finish area at Stroudsburg High School. I took off my timing chip, waited another minute and quickly realized that, given the narrow roads and the traffic situation, I could walk to the finish and at least finish my unlucky thirteenth marathon faster than the time it would take for me to be retrieved by a vehicle. As I hobbled through the town for the next 3 miles, I could not help but think about my first marathon in 2000 and how determined I was to finish in under four hours, and how excited I was to finish in 3:59:56. I heard the voices of the runners passing me, many of whom would finish in that exact time, and I listened to their breathing, their excitement, and observed their pride as they realized that they would likely break four hours. Ironically, I limped across the finish line in approximately four hours feeling beaten down, disappointed, and frustrated.

I found my friends, who led me to a torturous bucket full of ice, which was exactly what I needed for my ITB. As I submerged my lower body into the ice bath, I clenched my buddy's hand and thought about the season, the crazy training, my own goals, and to be cheesy, Kelly Clarkson. It's true-what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and, this experience, along with my previous twelve marathons are constant reminders that the marathon is a different animal that often presents unpredictable challenges, regardless of your knowledge and experience. In this case, I learned the hard way that, unlike many of my running peers, my body is not capable of running two marathons within four weeks.  

And, as I write this 24 hours later after a delicious post-race meal at Sheetz off the Turnpike, I have perspective once again. It's just another race, and I am damn lucky to have the choice and the opportunity to run. Some days are better than others, and what makes running challenging and analogous to our own lives is that while it's constant, it's also unpredictable, challenging, rewarding, and, in this case, character-building.  

                                          

I would like to thank my sponsors of this year's race, Howard Johnson's and Sheetz.  Special shout-out to the Run for the Red race volunteers, who could not have been more kind and understanding. Congratulations to my MCRRC peeps who ran outstanding races, and to all of those who ran for the Red on Sunday. See you in Boston next year!