Frog Pond Reflections: The Boston Marathon Race Report Story

While Boston may not have initially topped my bucket list of endurance events, I have to admit that it was a really fun run. It’s apparent that the city loves the runners, and runners love the event. There’s a lot of hype from the fanboys/fangirls/fandogs/fancats, but it’s mostly well deserved. Even with the tremendous pain in the gigantic butt that is COVID-19, the Boston Athletic Association put on a memorable and safe event.

A challenge for all the city folk

Getting into the city for packet pickup on Saturday was a little on the stressful side because I don’t love city traffic. City slickers are pretty terrible at driving, which is an understatement. I 100% fully stand behind that statement and will challenge 100% of city slickers to any type of driving contest at any time because I am competitive, and you will 100% definitely lose. I see the dents on your cars and your hunched posture over the steering wheel. I have spoken.

Is this an Ironman triathlon?

Wandering around the finish line area before the race reminded me of how people become obsessed with Ironman triathlon events and get Ironman tattoos and can hardly let themselves be seen in public without Ironman apparel and no conversation can pass by without mention of Ironman. (Not saying I haven’t done this, hence the reason I have earned the authority to poke fun.) In this case, there’s a ridiculous number of Boston Marathon jackets EVERYWHERE.

At the time this seems a bit premature, to assume that you will complete the event. Just about anything can happen on race day, and then won’t you feel silly having celebrated a finish that never came? It’s purely a statistical probability that out of my conservative estimate of 8,000 finisher jackets wandering the streets in those 48 hours prior, at least two of those jackets came down with a crippling case of the shits on race morning and didn’t even make it to the start line.

But maybe I misinterpret the purpose of such jackets.

By the numbers

The evening prior to starting, I realized I hadn’t done a true road race since a turkey trot 5K in 2016, so yeah, I don’t make road racing a priority. I had done 36 other events since then, 35 of which were trail races and 17 of those were ultramarathons from 50K to 100 miles. I’m well aware that I’ve given up exactly 23 seconds per mile of marathon speed to run stupidly long distances in the woods and that’s just fine, hater. I own like three or four pairs of road shoes and have over 20 pairs of trail shoes in rotation at any time. The wonderful race I used to qualify for Boston was a largely flat, crushed limestone rail trail at the Greenbrier River Trail Marathon in 2018, so still not a “road race.” And then there was some sort of pandemic recently that kinda killed off road races so an opportunity to include those in the lead up has unfortunately been lacking.

Why?

Plenty of runners do this Boston race as a celebration of their sport without any intention to kill themselves, which I totally understand because it felt like 26.2 miles of partying. Some runners want the bragging rights of a particular time or PRs. I was somewhere in the middle, where running semi-quickly would be a nice bonus, but I wanted to appreciate the day and take in the surroundings because I don’t have much intention to run Boston again in the near future. Besides, the grey hairs signal that maybe it’s time to savor the process.

Some whining and complaining

I hadn’t had a satisfying running performance all year, which left me putting all my eggs into one road marathon basket. Training for Boston was already off to a rough start thanks to a terrible ankle sprain on July 3 during the Finger Lakes 50K. For over a week I couldn’t run, then I couldn’t run very fast for a couple more weeks, and not very far for about a month, and downhills, especially at speed, were a problem for multiple months. Good thing I enjoy riding the mountain bike.

The ankle would ache, swell, and remind me every time I’d finish a run that was pushing the limits of what it could safely tolerate. And I definitely couldn’t safely do any amount of trail running for about a month and a half so I had to frequently remind myself that it was best to put the time into road-style training anyway. It was surprisingly enjoyable to head back to the rail trail and track for speedwork that I hadn’t tried in years and see the specific adaptations that consistent, fast, anaerobic training brings. Even mixing in those less frequented locations was a fun change. But as the event approached and more work was invested, every passing week became a little more stressful with frequent illnesses amongst my children and near misses with the ever-present cloud of COVID-19.

Then suddenly, it’s race day, baby!

Since we stayed outside of Boston and I had no interest in riding a bus with that whole pandemic thing, Anne dropped me off a little more than a mile from the start line and I walked in on a lovely rural road that was closed to traffic. Instead of the mass start that April’s marathon would have, this super delayed, special fall version of the Boston Marathon was altered to have 20+ minute rolling start windows for groups of runners based on their expected finish time. This was a nice, low stress way to begin whenever the courage came about.

Walking to the start in Hopkinton

This Definitely won’t give anyone nightmares tonight

I won’t reveal much about the course that hasn’t already been said by many other participants over the years. While the whole course averages a downhill gradient from Hopkinton to Boston, the earliest miles are definitely the ones that will trick you, even more so than most races, because there’s such an abrupt drop of elevation in the initial five miles. It’s just too easy to go fast with that combination of excitement, crowds, number of runners, terrain, and highly competitive ostriches. I’m not sure why other race reports hadn’t mentioned the ostrich category but maybe that’s new this year? I was perfectly content with letting myself hold back on these miles by 10-20 seconds per mile and drafting those long, sexy legs though I don’t like the feathery exhaust much.

It wasn’t long into the race that a human runner came close, and I noticed her hard footstrikes (because that’s a normal part of my job and brain function). Maybe a half mile or so down the road she began grunting and hitting the ground even harder on a steeper downhill, to which I was thinking, “isn’t it a little early to be suffering that much?” Her nearby friend asked her multiple times if she was okay and finally she said, “my stress fracture...I have to drop out.” I passed and never saw her again. Rough day. Bone stress injuries are not easy to get around, and hard downhill running is a surefire provocator. I did feel bad for her.

It’s not flat

Moments later, I heard my name yelled from the side of the road and looked up to see a fellow Morgantown-area friend spectating, waiting for his wife to come through. That was an awesome surprise to actually recognize someone. Then I saw a runner spit on his hands and wipe them on his shorts. I assume he wanted to get something off of his hands, VERY BADLY. Gross. I personally would have waited until the next aid station and just used water, because they are literally every mile apart.

And then there was the guy that looked like he had been shot in the back because the chafing of his heart rate monitor strap must have really eaten through some skin and left an 8-inch long fresh blood streak down his shirt. I’d like to imagine he also had super bloody nipples like that 5K fun run scene from The Office.

Can you tell I’m just people watching this whole time?

I’m trying to make sure I get at least two cups in at every aid station because it’s plenty humid and warm already, and I constantly want to inadvertently suck water up my nostrils. The other thing I’m absolutely making sure to do is achieve the most awkward facial expressions possible for the professional marathon photographers so my wife won’t be tempted to buy any photos of me looking terrible once this thing is over. It’s also more entertaining for the other runners who might happen to find one of my awkward race photos in the process of looking for theirs. It’s no wonder they take so many photos. Most of them just make you look like a complete buffoon. They are also a Physical Therapist’s paradise: Look! I can tell from the amount of frontal plane collapse of your pelvis and excessive femur adduction that your gluteus medius and gluteus minimus muscle are less functional than those of my 85-year-old grandmother! And she’s even had a hip replacement that nicked her sciatic nerve!

Even though the post-race coverage indicated that the spectator crowds were smaller than typical years, I didn’t notice. As best as I can recollect, the route had cheering faces and smiling babies nearly the entire distance with only a couple short sections lacking a crowd. The run goes through multiple smaller towns where more people gather to cheer, but the connector roadways in the middle were still busy with onlookers. I’m sure many were asking “Is there some kind of race today?” It was still such an enormous number of people compared to any other “normal” race that I would never complain about a lack of spectators.

Down the line I began wishing/hoping for a way to acquire some real food on the course that wouldn’t be the standard palate-offending Gatorade Endurance or the oddly textured Maurten energy gels. Magically, a lady appeared alongside the road with a banana, which I promptly ate because I couldn’t just ignore that kind of holy gift. Since I was obviously vying for the overall win, I hope no one disqualifies me for outside assistance. Rat me out and I will find you on Strava and make your life a living hell. I noticed this crowdsourced support at several points along the route, especially later on. Amateur road racing on this scale is clearly not about self-sufficiency. It’s about wasting $200+ on carbon plate shoes, $90 finisher jackets, $200+ entry fees, chafed nipples, and trying not to crap yourself in public.

A roar in the distance told me I was nearing the halfway point. The loud ladies of Wellesley College are known for giving random kisses to the runners, but all I’m giving them is a photo because, seriously, COVID-19. It was about this time that Danica Patrick, famed professional NASCAR driver and ostrich racing enthusiast pulled up beside me on her smelly, squawking bird, Olivier. I could tell after about three minutes that I could get this foul French-named beast to redline and started to take the corners extra wide, throwing my elbows out (an old XC trick) to drift them up closer and closer to the crowd control barriers. Racin’ is rubbin’, Danica! Besides, ostriches aren’t known for having the highest VO2 max. You could say I ruffled a few feathers.

Why do all of these people want to hurt me? Hey, that guy has the same shoes as me!

The course has small roller climbs of varying sizes the entire route. The section of bigger climbs that runners fret over is from Newton to the top of Heartbreak Hill, which spans about five miles from roughly 16 to 21. I really like prolonged climbing and it felt better on my stiff, old body (and booty, in case you wondered) to take away the near constant fast descending and make the demand more fitness oriented. Doesn’t mean I was flying, but it was a more enjoyable part of the course. I could actually pass several people midway up the climbs without digging deep and I liked having another movement pattern. Why don’t we all run this course in reverse one year, and I bet people will be far less sore afterward?

I think I started to see runners cracking and starting to walk by the 16th mile, but the course continued to take many casualties from this point onward. It seemed like every couple minutes people were quickly pulling to the side of the road to stretch their calf, hamstrings, or quad cramps. More than I would have ever guessed. Though I felt fine, the thought crossed my mind, “will I be one of them?” Only you can decide if this is foreshadowing.

There was something, or should I say someones, to look forward to just prior to Heartbreak Hill because I knew my wife and son were waiting there. One of my biggest goals as a parent is to demonstrate to my kids that it is possible to do seemingly difficult things and to seek out challenges as a way to make the rest of life seem a bit easier. Maybe it won’t work, but I know running and sport has taught me plenty of coping skills. Even if they just learn to get outside and be active to stay healthy, I’d be happy and consider that a success. I was super glad I got to see them for some high fives, which still makes me a little emotional.

Exiting the High 5 Zone, obviously

Topping out on Heartbreak Hill the course begins to trend downward once again, dropping into Brookline where I swear all I could think about was how it reminded me of a real-life Sesame Street. Doesn’t take much because I’m from the country, after all. Plus, I saw Big Bird getting on the T. Or was that a rogue ostrich? I was extremely disappointed to see that I somehow(!) didn’t get the KOM/CR crown on Strava for Heartbreak Hill. The only plausible explanation is that the satellites must have been overwhelmed with all the unique GPS watch signals pinging from such a tiny area.

It seemed like for every runner dropping like a fly there was a runner who somehow paced well and was hauling ass down this final stretch of road. I wish I had those quads after all that prolonged high speed road descending. I also wish I could survey the motivations of each of these people at this point. Question #1: Do you realize that you are an absolute jerk for passing me? Question #2: On a scale of 0 to 10, how much does it hurt when I stomp on your toes?

The pedestrian control for all the city slickers trying to cross the road (to get to the other side) was a thing of wonder and beauty as these amazingly gifted volunteers would somehow siphon the now easily confused runners down to a three foot wide path with mysteriously alternating giant arrow signs. Was it a single arrow they would flip over along an x, y, or z axis? Did the sign have an arrow on each side? I still haven’t figured out that trigonometry. I would have paid more attention but I was too busy playing a revolving game of “I bet that person is a triathlete/trail runner/pure road runner/fitness enthusiast.”

I don’t understand how the word “chiropractic” is supposed to be a motivator

At this point something bites me hard on the left ass cheek as I detect a vague scent of fried chicken. Dammit Team Olivier/Danica! I thought I’d disposed of these two clowns. I’d obviously have to play my best hand. I tolerated their presence until the next aid station when I repeatedly batted the Dixie cups away from Olivier’s ugly beak, as he tried to poke me in the eyes but it ultimately forced him into an even deeper state of dehydration. Birds are particularly sensitive to dehydration. I know, because my chickens told me.

By mile 22 or 23 I had started to tighten up my neck and shoulders as my quads began to deny their role, causing a slight slowing of pace, until a random runner a few yards behind and beside me yelled, “drop those shoulders” and some other piece of possibly encouraging information. This person may not have even been talking to me, but I tripped him anyway and proceeded to relax my shoulders. I did need to be told that very thing in that moment, so it worked out and I got a little faster for a bit plus that guy won’t be running his mouth at people any time again soon.

This giant Citgo sign appears and everybody starts pushing to empty their tanks, making me feel a bit like a slacker. Then I had an “ah ha” moment: there must be a limited supply 50-cent sale on slushies. The psychological threat of missing out on the sale triggered my chimp brain into causing a couple left calf cramp pings, to which I was thinking, “apparently these stupid super shoes don’t actually let the calves rest that much compared to regular shoes.”

As I looked down at said shoe, I realized, all too late, there’s a tiny gauge on the inside of the heel, registering on “E” and you are supposed to fill the shoes up with “high octane 95% minimum fructose only energy gels” at the start line. To make matters worse, one gauge was slightly above “E” and could explain the awkwardly asymmetric run technique I adopted. It’s 2021 and shoes bonk now, are you kidding me? Agggghhh, I should have known there was a way shoe companies could milk more money from the consumer beyond the already ridiculous $230+ price tag and 150-mile durability threshold. Not surprised these things weren’t equally filled when I drove them off the lot two weeks ago. The things you miss when distracted by that new shoe smell.

But it was probably the fact that my quads died a mile back, so I was trying to rely on my calves more to maintain the same speeds. Maybe. Nah, I bet the shoes were bonking. I was torn between picking up the pace to increase the chances of slushie success while risking full calf lock down, or just ride it out because it was already far from a PR day for me after that meaninglessly intense Heartbreak Hill KOM attempt, even though this lackadaisical approach might just cost me a slushie.

That final section down Boylston Street was great. The crowd was wildly flinging discounted slushies at the runners. I am still not sure if they were maybe just trying to hit me? If so, jokes on them. One quick sip of Chuck’s Cherry Charger is all it took to make me want to sprint hard, and I did pick it up a little, just to pass those runners nearby that I had secretly entered into my own personal highly competitive 0.5-mile event because how dare these amateur schmucks try to pass me. WHERE ARE YOU DANICA PATRICK? I’m beating you SO BADLY right now Danica Patrick! There’s nothing like a sip of corn-syrupy ice granules to boost a man’s ego to superhuman levels. But I honestly didn’t see the point of truly hammering and just tried to be appreciative of those final few strides and savor the spectacularly loud crowds that were obviously cheering for only me.

Now give me that medal! The food bag the kind volunteers with melting faces give you past the finish line was marvelous. What an unbelievable apple that was (no joke). Though I actually wanted the Cheetos and not the plain Lays chips. I briefly developed a kinship with and harassed an older man with a West Virginia University sling bag because you’ll say and do lots of odd things in the 15 minutes after a long effort. As I lie soaking my sore quads and chafed nipples in the Boston Common Frog Pond, I was finally able to reflect on the morning’s 28.4 mile journey.

Frustrated, Danica recounts the barrier incident in a post-race interview, image credit CBS Boston

Look at these cool capes

Frog Pond Reflections

While I had a decent sense of the course structure beforehand, to execute this race optimally for speed, it seems like a marathon that you could do once to fully understand the course and then come back to do it again after having tailored your training specifically to the course layout. Fast downhill road running in the carbon plate cheater shoes would have been a lovely training addition in the couple months prior to Boston, but my ankle wasn’t going to allow that in large or even medium doses. Oh, well.

It definitely didn’t feel as much about cardiorespiratory fitness. I say this because I had far more aerobic fitness than I needed for a marathon from all the long ultra efforts, so that part was oddly easy and I actually felt physically good in the hours immediately afterward. I never really felt like I was breathing hard but just cruising along, albeit more and more stiff legged in those last couple miles from the blown quads. It’s a weird course.

Here Froggy Froggy

It’s borderline humorous how I’ve done events in the past 4-5 years with 10,000 to 20,000 feet of ascending and descending that didn’t ruin my quads because I was moving slower overall, deviating between many paces and terrains, and wasn’t wearing evil carbon plate super shoes. The only time I’ve had that much soreness during a race was from incorrectly executing the Laurel Highlands Ultra when my quads had imploded by 40 miles. Usually in ultramarathons they hurt and get heavy but it’s somehow a manageable, less sharp and less abrupt pain until the next day. The multiple days of systemic soreness from an ultra still takes the cake, though. #ultratrailrunsnob

Back to the woods, away from these beardless, short shorts road runners!