The (very) full report

I thought about a brief version that you can read quickly and move on.

Naaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

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I stared down at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, painted across Boylston Street in Copley Square. After an arduous journey I’d finally made it.

Now all I had to do was run the marathon in 3 days time!

I always get really nervous before marathons, worrying about what might go wrong and make all the preparation count for nothing. With London I start to relax the moment I get off the coach at Blackheath on the morning of the race. Up until that point I keep thinking the coach is going to break down (the driver got lost one year and we were nearly late!) or some big hand is going to come down from heaven with a booming: "NO!" and dash all my hopes.

Boston has the added dimension of hotels and flights to arrange. I’d already had a cock-up with the hotel when they cancelled my booking after I failed to reply to an email. If you received an email that read "…If this arrangement is not suitable, you MUST respond to us by email or fax within the next 48 hours and this reservation will be cancelled without charges" would you reply, or assume that no reply was acceptance? I was very annoyed, but at least they managed to sort out another booking for me. Tip: don’t book hotels with e-bookers: they aren’t on-line and take ages to confirm a booking, often to tell you the hotel is already booked. Use Opodo – they are on-line and you get an instant confirmation.

As ever, I digress. I was convinced something would go wrong right up until the moment I was standing in Copley Square, having checked into the hotel, and I was looking at the finish line with the gantry being assembled around it. Breath in, out, and relaaaax! All the hard work had been done now!

As expected I woke early the following, Saturday, morning, so went for an easy 5 miles round (and round and round) Boston Common. There were some seriously thin people jogging round out there – seriously athletic! I gave knowing nods as I passed people – I felt like I was bonding already.

Next order of the day was a trip to the expo. I’d arranged to meet Nick there with what seemed like a fairly casual arrangement. I know how crowded these expos are (this one was heaving), and I didn’t have much confidence in his plan to look out for each other in the registration area at around 9:30. As expected I failed to spot him!

I had a fun time soaking up the atmosphere though, spent way too much money on shoes and logoed clothing, met Dean Karnazes (see previous post), and generally spent way too much time on my feet. After walking back to the hotel via the Boston Tea Party attraction (closed for improvements!), I was wrecked! Not good just before a marathon – at least I’d made sure I’d done all this 2 days before so I could get some proper rest.

I finally met Nick for a distinctly below par Chinese meal on Saturday night. He was very concerned about the state of his leg which had tightened up on the plane. He was seriously considering not running, and was going to use the 2.8-mile Freedom Run the following morning as a test. As I now know he did the marathon, I assume the run went OK, but I haven’t yet spoken to him.

I had no plans to run the Freedom Run but managed to shuffle out of bed in time to see the tail-enders coming in. I then went and booked on to the Duck Tour. I can heartily recommend this tour. They use converted WWII amphibious landing craft, or ‘Ducks’. They drive you round the sights of the city and then into the Charles River to cruise past Harvard and take in the views of the skyline. We drove up out of the water and on past the USS Constitution, to have the driver tell us that it was the oldest commissioned warship in the world. I couldn’t resist correcting him, to point out that HMS Victory is still the flagship of the British second fleet. Well I was my duty as a member of Victory AC! His error was omitting the words ‘still afloat’, so I guess we’ll call it quits on that one.

The great thing about the Duck Tours is you get all your sightseeing done without tiring your legs. It’s still more than I usually do the day before a marathon, but I think I got the balance right. After a nice pasta lunch, an afternoon watching King Kong in my room, and the evening pasta buffet in the hotel restaurant, I was ready to go.

Marathon morning was quite civilised compared to the insanely early start I make for the London marathon, After my usual pre-race breakfast, a measured amount of cereal imported from the UK, at 8:00am it was off to Boston Common a mere 400m away, to catch the bus to the start.

It’s a slick operation: loads of virtually identical school buses steadily filing past, ferrying runners up the "Mass’ ‘pike", to the 2 athlete’s villages, one for each wave of the start. As my qualifying time was over 3:30 I was starting in wave 2 at 12:30, 30 minutes after the first start. Apart from the staggered start, the "athlete’s village" arrangement is pretty much the same as at the start of the London Marathon, the difference being we were going to have to wait nearly three and a half hours! I’d hooked up with some folks from Philadelphia, who were good fun, so the time flew by. As I lay there almost comatose in all my layers (it was surprisingly chilly under the canvas of the marquee out of the sun) I was prompted to stand for the national anthem. Everyone stood to attention as a woman soloist belted out the song. I was quite moved! We don’t seem to do patriotism very well in England!

We were ushered out at 11:45am to get to the 12:30 start. Over 45 minutes? Surely too long? And no peeing?

In fact, we made the start corral with only 5 minutes to spare. I hope everyone made the start on time. Huntington is a very small town – it was absolutely heaving. I wonder what it was like last year with 20000 runners in a single start.

Again everyone stood to attention, slightly less rapt this time, for the Star Spangled Banner. I looked around at all the slim athletic women around me. Due to the strict qualifying, all the men under 50 were in the first wave, so any men in our corral were over 50 and hence far fewer in number. I felt privileged to be standing in such a group. It wasn’t like the motley bunch you get at London, with all the beer bellies and football shirts. I’ll get shouted at for this, but I’m going to have to lose a few more pounds if I’m serious about my times!

And then we were off!

The start is quite markedly downhill for quite a way, and with a few rises, continues downhill for 3 miles. Immediately one of my fears was realised: as I was a corral or 2 back from my true capabilities, having improved so much lately, I wasn’t able to run at my full pace for most of the opening miles. While this might be a good thing in many marathons, and indeed you should save yourself in Boston for the hills at 20 miles, it meant that I was digging my heels in to slow down and wasn’t able to relax and let gravity take over, as I’d done in training. This was a recipe for quad abuse!

I felt OK though, and was able to enjoy the lovely rural views and white picket fences for a few miles. I was trying to keep to 143bpm on my heart rate monitor. I was mostly succeeding, but it seemed my average was up a few beats. The day had warmed up to a pretty ideal air temperature, but it was noticeable that every time the sun came out my heart rate would rise and I’d have to try to slow down. Despite the apparent cloud cover, we seemed to be running mostly in sunshine. As Boston is the same latitude as northern Spain, I can see why this race can be very hot some years!

The support along the route is excellent. I think though there are less crowds than London, largely due to the rural nature of much of the first half of the race, but you can’t fault the support in the many towns along the route. The difference a crowd makes was demonstrated most clearly as we neared Wellesley College.

For those of you who don’t know the Boston Marathon, Wellesley College is one of the things the marathon is famous for. It’s a women’s college which has educated such luminaries as Hilary Rodham Clinton. It was featured in the film ‘Mona Lisa Smile’ starring Julia Roberts. The college is a few years older than the marathon and from the very early days there has been a tradition that the women would line the route and scream for all they’re worth: the ‘Wellesley Scream Tunnel’.

As I approached half way I could already hear Wellesley, still a distance up ahead. The noise outside the college was incredible. It must have been amazing to be a woman runner in the late 60s and early 70s when the sexism of the race was starting to be broken down and a few women runners started to appear. The women of Wellesley reserved an extra loud cheer for the female runners. I gather this still happens at the sharp end of the field, but alas in my predominantly female part of the race it wasn’t so much in evidence. Even so the noise was deafening. As I emerged from the screams a half mile later, my ears were ringing!

A bit of history: in 1967, race director Jock Semple tried to physically remove Kathy Switzer - she turned up with an ‘official’ number having applied as K.V.Switzer – the entry form didn’t actually ask for the sex of the entrant – the resulting photo of Jock struggling with Kathy’s ‘minder’ made the front pages of the newspapers, and women’s marathon running was born. Roberta Gibb was actually the first woman to run the marathon in 1966, tolerated because she had no number, but Kathy is the one credited with finally breaking down the barriers. Women were finally officially permitted to race in 1972.

Two things were immediately evident after Wellesley: the comparative silence was quite a let down. A further let down was that it was now quite noticeable after only half the race that my quads had indeed suffered early on. The very marked and long downhill stretch into Wellesley town was very uncomfortable. My right knee was aching badly. The uphills were now coming as something of a relief. Every time I hit a downhill my legs would complain.

I’ve worked out that there is roughly 1000ft of climbing and 1500ft of downhill, so it’s quite a hilly and challenging course. The feature that marks it out though is the downhills. I’d been warned they would test my quads, and I was now finding this out for myself.

Still though, I felt comfortable, and the occasional shouts of ‘Susie’ kept me going. It’s a shame I chose silver for the colour of the letters on my top though – it didn’t stand out enough. The shouts of ‘Tammy’ and ‘Cindy’ were far more evident, as was the fact that I must have kept pace with Tammy for much of the first half and Cindy for much of the second.

I passed halfway in 1:43:26. While I felt that sub 3:30 was still a possibility, I knew that the hard work was still to come with the infamous Heartbreak Hill, and my mind started turning to the task looming ahead. Heartbreak is actually the third and last of the Newton Hills, and this is what marks it out. It’s no worse than any of the others. I got a bit of a shock after 16 miles though when we went over an intersection and I thought it was the start of the hills. It seemed just as tough to me! As we hadn’t yet entered Newton though I realised that worse was to come.

After 17 miles we turned right at the Newton Fire Station, a landmark I’d read about, and realised the hills were about to start. They really aren’t as bad as their reputation. Our club regularly runs up Portsdown Hill from Bedhampton to Glebe Park Avenue, a rise of about 100ft over half a mile, and that is about what each of the hills is like. Heartbreak Hill is the third and final hill at around 20 miles. The only thing that makes it tough is the fact that it is the third hill. If you’re running out of steam at that point then I guess it must be really hard, but if you’ve paced yourself well then you should be OK. I was OK.

Far worse are the downhills. Heartbreak Hill is now the highest point of the course since the opening miles, and it’s downhill most of the way to the finish. After feeling OK up the hill, as I crested the top back came the aching to my knees as my quads tried to pull them apart. In training I’d been able to run the downhills so that I’d get back most of the time I’d lost on the uphill. Here though, I was struggling to keep form and despite the gradient I wasn’t running much quicker than on the flat. I joked on the Runner’s World forum that I had great flaps of muscle trailing on the ground behind me from my exploded quads. OK, I exaggerated, but the downhill was not the relief that I might have expected after the hills.

I was still hopeful of making up the lost time on the downhills and getting the 3:30 I’d hoped for. It was going to be a close call though.

A nice feature of Boston is that it must be one of the only marathons where you can see the finish line from 5 miles out. As we crested the hill, the Hancock Tower, the huge glass monolithic skyscraper, came into view. Not far now then. Got to just hold it together.

I kept telling myself to push. I remembered how painful the last 2 10k races were. I told myself that the last miles of the marathon had to hurt as much as they did. This was a one-off event. The pain is momentary. I had to give as much as I could or regret it afterwards. It had to hurt like hell!

Marathons are a different pain though. In the 10k races at Eastleigh and Totton, my legs and heart were OK. It was my lungs that were the limiting factor. I was gasping for air. I couldn’t breath. It hurt! Here in the marathon though, it’s the legs which are the limit; heart and lungs are functioning within normal limits. OK, my quads were painful, but that eased as we hit the flat of the last few miles. What remained was just a pair of seemingly lifeless legs. I wanted it to hurt, I really did, but no matter how much I pushed I couldn’t go any faster.

I contented myself with catching the lime-green girls. I’d noticed them in Wellesley as they crossed in front of me to kiss their supporters, then nearly knocked me over as they returned to the race. They were wearing very distinctive kit. I suspected it wasn’t club kit, as I suspect not many team mates would want to wear it. They stood out and I guess that was the objective. They’d got away from me at half way, but now I was catching them. Soon I’d overtaken them and could target some others, this time the ‘Multi-sport’ guy.

The final major course landmark comes at exactly 1 mile to go: the ‘Citgo’ sign. I only found out on the morning of the race what Citgo is: it’s a petroleum company. They have a huge sign on the outskirts of the city. As soon as I saw it my heart lifted as I knew we only had 1 mile to go and now surely I was going to break 3:30. Trouble with a huge sign though, is it is a lot further away than you think. The seconds kept ticking until it was 3:24 as I passed the sign. I knew now that 3:30 was not possible. I mustn’t let that slow me though. Keep going. Give me pain. Keep up with Mr Multi-sport.

A final cruel kick, just as you think you are nearly there, is the short uphill section as you turn right then left into Boylston Street and the final straight. I pushed on and was able to overtake Mr Multi-sport up the hill. I was still strong despite the miles. The final straight seemed to last an eternity. It’s much longer than the Mall in London, and not quite so stately, but this is the most historic finish line in the world. I enjoyed it!

I crossed the line in 3:31:45: a personal best by 10 minutes.

I was disappointed at first, as I knew that on the flat I was so much quicker, but with hindsight I’m really pleased to do that time on such a tough course.

As I crossed the line, I couldn’t help thinking I knew the marshal on the finish line. After a few more strides it came to me: I’d sat opposite her in the departure lounge at Heathrow. I went back to introduce myself. She said she remembered looking at me at Heathrow wondering if I was a marathon runner. Now she knew! She was catching the same flight back. She lived in Edinburgh, and was part of the organisation for the Edinburgh marathon. If I ever wanted to do Edinburgh I just had to get in touch for VIP treatment!

Spookily, on the trip back, I got talking to the woman next to me in the check-in area at Logan Airport, and she turned out to be part of the organisation of the Dublin marathon. If ever I wanted to do Dublin, I just had to get in touch for VIP treatment. Wow! I now have international marathon connections!

The baggage collection was a bit of an ordeal. They use the school buses to transport the bags to the finish. You deposit your bag through the window corresponding to your number and then go back to the same bus at the finish. The thing about being so much ahead of my qualifying time is that I was one of the first back to the bus (the numbers are allotted according to your qualifying time so all the folks on this bus were the 3:40 crowd). Trouble was though, I was one of the first to hand my bag in, so it was right at the bottom of the pile. The people on the bus couldn’t find my bag. I was waiting for maybe 15 minutes until most of the others had returned and collected their bags. The organisation is slick, but London have the edge on that one I’m afraid.

There were free massages, without too huge a queue, but I didn’t think much of the massage. After a few minutes of gentle pressing on my legs, I asked if that was it. "We are allotted 15 minutes per person, but try to save that for those who really need it". I guess he meant that my legs weren't cramped or otherwise damaged. I suppose I should feel grateful, but I was a little annoyed at not getting the same level of service as more 'deserving' cases. I’d just run my little legs off!

A sign that my legs were probably a little more shot away than he reckoned came on my return to Heathrow. After spending Tuesday after the marathon on my feet all day doing the art galleries (which are excellent by the way, particularly the Museum of Fine Arts) I returned to Heathrow to find I had to walk all the way to terminal 2 from 3 to catch the temporarily re-routed car park bus (I’m assuming something to do with all the terminal 5 works). After pushing my trolley up and down far too many ramps I could hardly walk when I got to the bus stop. A short mini-bus ride later and the driver handed me my bags out of the back of the trailer. I promptly over-balanced and fell in an undignified heap in the car park. To add insult to injury I couldn’t then get back up and the passengers had to lift me back onto my feet!

Well I didn’t get the pain I wanted during the race, but I certainly got it 2 days later!


Would I do Boston again? Definitely. I’m doing London next year come hell or high water, but I’ll be back at Boston one day. London may have the edge in spectacle, but there’s a certain quality to Boston that’s more subtle: the history, the scale, the part it plays in the life of the city, the sheer quality of the runners taking part. You really feel privileged to take part.

I saw a poster at the expo: one of the Adidas series of "Reason number xxx….". It read:
Reason number 2006: Three words "I’ve done Boston"