I have mixed feelings about the Boston marathon. For a middle-of-the pack, long distance runner who could never hope to win an age group (let alone a marathon), running a "Boston qualifier" is one clear-cut goal for which to strive. Whether or not the qualifying times are scientific or fair is a debate for a different post. The fact remains that the qualifying times are a reasonably difficult standard for most average runners (of which I am one), and Boston is the only race which requires a qualifying time for entry (although there are a few ways, such as running for a charity or being well-connected, to get in the back door). The allure of qualifying, combined with the "legendary" Boston crowds and historic course, make this a race that every semi-serious marathoner hopes to run at lease once.
I first qualified for Boston at my third marathon, the Cincinnati Flying Pig, in 2006. As mentioned in my first post, this was one of the most significant days of my adult life. I worked extremely hard to get there and it signaled, for me, my transition to a semi-serious athlete. I didn't come down from by "BQ" high for weeks. My husband framed my Flying Pig poster along with a plaque of my time and "Boston Qualifier" status, and it hangs proudly over our "mantle" (which, in a NYC apartment, is the Ikea shelf above our television). I trained for Boston in 2007, hoping to cement my status as a "recurring" qualifier at that race. My parents and in-laws flew across the country to witness the momentous occasion. I was excited to have finally arrived as a runner!
Boston turned out to be a bit of a let-down for me. Race weekend was hit by one of the worst Nor'easters in Boston history, and it was the only marathon since WWII that the organizers apparently considered canceling (the jury was still out at 5 am on race day). The day before the race was bitterly cold and stormy. At one point, my mother looked at me and said, "You're not actually going to run in this, are you?" -- as if I was reserving some secret option to drop out at the last minute!! Marathon Monday (Boston is run on Patriot's Day, which is observed in Massachusetts) turned out to be a bit less rainy, but slightly warmer and more humid, than most people had expected, which was not a good thing, since many (myself included) were totally overdressed. The morning of the race, I (along with thousands of others) stood around for two or three hours in a football field, ankle-deep in mud, trying to stay shielded from one of the last torrential downpours. When the gun finally went off, I was a mile away from the starting line, stuck in a different (but no less important) queue for the port-o-potty; I had to frantically weave through the streets of Hopkinton and about 10,000 runners to try to catch up with my corral. I spent most of the first six miles dodging in and out of runners who were meant to be much further back than me, and I'm convinced that I ran at least 27.2 miles that day. I killed my quads -- and I mean killed my quads -- with the steep downhills in the first part of the race, for which I was totally unprepared. (It is absolutely true that running downhill is much harder than running uphill.) Unfortunately, when it was time to climb the Newton Hills, my quads had permanently seized to function. On top of it all, most of the "legendary" Boston crowds failed to materialize that day. My co-worker, Jim, a Massachusetts native, was stationed on the sidelines somewhere around mile 23. By the time I got to him, I was in excruciating pain and cursing myself for ever wanting to do this so badly. I greeted Jim's call-out of "Jodi!" by rolling my eyes at him (I'm pretty sure Jim will not be coming out to cheer me on at any future races)!
Me at 5 am, dressed for the weather
Unable to stand up after my Boston experience
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