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VIEWPOINT: PETER HADZIPETROS: BACK OF THE PACKThree times lucky
For the third year in a row, mid-April is more like early summer in New England. While it‘s a good 15 American degrees less oppressive than 2004’s Boston Steambath, visions of dehydration still dance in my head.
Bottom line is, it’s tough to run in warm weather when you’ve done most of your training in the dead of winter – especially when your race starts at high noon.
And the worries hang around as we settle into starting corral No. 4. I’m with running buddies Bryan and Andy – both with several Bostons in the books. And there’s young Evan, just emerging from his teenage years and moments from his first run down this magical route.
Nerves and a rigorous hydration plan have me shifting from foot to foot. With moments to go and no way to get to a portable toilet, I discreetly and slowly deal with the issue. I know that once I’m moving, any fluid I take in will only exit through my pores.
All that lifts as the elites are sent off. And then the rest of us – almost 18,000 people who couldn’t pass up the chance to follow in the footsteps of Jerome Drayton, Bill Rodgers, Alberto Salazar, Jacqueline Gareau, Catherine Ndereba and John A. Kelley – take the first steps towards Boston.
I ease away from my friends early, carefully negotiating my way to the other side of the road. Racing for me is intensely personal: focusing leaves little room for talking.
By the second mile, you can’t wipe the smile off my face. Somebody else seems to be doing the work for me – at a 7:10-per-mile pace. I’m just here for the ride.
I pass a group of kids handing out orange slices. I think about grabbing a piece until the mom in charge tells one of the boys: “I think it would be a good idea if you go wash your hands first, Johnny.”
More miles on cruise control, through Ashland, Framingham and Natick. And on into Wellesley and the Scream Tunnel. It is deafening as thousands of students and staff at the girls’ college cheer you on. Harnessing some of that energy would be great because you realize, as the cheering fades behind you, that the work is just about to begin.
You tend to see the same backs for long periods when you’re running a marathon. From almost the start, two guys remained steps ahead of me. Fellow Canadians, Boston rookies. They spent precious energy veering to the side of the road to slap every hand they could, whooping it up, and encouraging the Wellesley crowd to scream even louder.
By mile 16, one had dropped back. The enthusiasm of the second had waned. The sun and warm temperatures had begun to take their toll.
I struggled through mile 17, nicknamed Hell’s Alley. It’s a mile-long gradual incline over a highway and past a hospital – the part of the race where more people drop out than any other. It’s where you begin to realize that the downhill sections of the first 15 miles have taken their toll on your quads.
My 7:10 per mile pace was but a faint memory now. Implosion was a possibility. Canuck number two had drifted back.
The rolling hills of Newton loom, culminating in the infamous Heartbreak Hill. On their own, they’re not really that intimidating. But after 20 miles, a third of the pack is walking.
You reach the crest, where a big sign says “Only 5.5 miles to go.” Then it’s straight downhill. The quads scream out in pain.
I’ve never come closer to dropping out of a marathon than between miles 22 and 25. It was like my brain had to give individual commands to get each foot to move.
There’s a slight incline with a mile to go – a spot where last year, in the heat, someone yelled, “Look at him. He doesn’t even look tired.” Well, this year, my chin is practically scraping the pavement – but I’m 45 minutes ahead of last year’s pace.
Most people around me are just as worn out. I try to focus on someone who doesn’t look as though they’re going to drop. I imitate their movements and somehow find some energy for the last mile.
While I finish strong, I have nothing left at the end. A volunteer walks with me, just to make sure I know where, and who, I am. I avoid the medical tent, but need time to get through the finishers’ area.
When I do emerge, my wife and daughter are there, to help deal with the last of my dizziness. My daughter hands me my favourite post-marathon beverage. No, it’s not hops-based. That’ll come a little later. It’s ice cold, sugary and carbonated. Recovery has begun.
This Boston took more out of me than the previous two. But good stuff happened. I buried a couple of old demons: managed to cope with a noon start and post a decent time on a challenging course in unseasonably warm weather. And no toenail damage.
Yeah, I made the same mistake by going out too quickly. But I didn’t implode nearly as badly as I deserved to in the second half. And that’s got me thinking that maybe I can squeeze a better Boston out of this body. And if the weather cooperates for a change? Hey - anything’s possible.
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Peter Hadzipetros writes background and indepth features
for CBC News Online. Until he got into long distance running a few years ago,
he was a net importer of calories. He's run several marathons, including two Bostons.
In Oct. 2004, he recorded a PB of 3:09.21 in Columbus.
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