If you missed part one,
click here.
The morning of April 19th started early—at 4 AM. I had to catch the subway to the downtown, then along some 24,000 like-minded lunatics board the school buses, which drove us to the start in Hopkington, a village some 40-ish kms from Boston. I spent the whole morning in lineups: to board the bus, to grab a bagel, to take a leak, to check-in my bag for the transport to the finish, and finally to line up for the start. From my starting corral (based on the race bib numbers, each corral contained a thousand runners) I turned to soak in the atmosphere. We were a bedraggled bunch, in shirts of all colors and designs. Most of us were wearing garbage bags, or other big plastic bags, heads poking out from the hole torn in the bottom, to keep warm on the chilly and breezy, but clear and sunny morning. From my vantage point, as far as eye could see, the road was packed with runners. Something stuck in my throat at the sight of so many people. The crowd of spectators was already ringing the cowbells and cheering, a band was playing in one of the courtyards along the road, but the runners were mostly quiet with faces set in determined expressions. There was some excited chatter in corrals, but that was mostly muted. We hoped in place to keep warm and waited. The tension was almost palpable, but it was positive energy waiting to be unleashed.
At 10:00 AM sharp the race started. The huge snake of people set off toward Boston, consisting of thousand of bodies all moving as a part of that enormous organism, all moving with the same purpose. It was exhilarating and touching being a part of it. I remember thinking at that moment how there wasn't a better way to celebrate a birthday. That same thought I was going to have many times throughout the course, but that was the first time, when the procession of runners wound its way through the ceaseless lineups of fans cheering us on, that I thought how special this day really was. I turned 45 that day, and although there are (hopefully) many more birthdays to come, it will be hard to match this one.
The crowd was beyond description: 42.2 kms of people stretching beside the road, whose wholehearted cheering carried me over some naughty hills and through bad stretches, when legs were numb and mind even number. Their whooping penetrated through the stupor and nudged me onward. Children stood with their hands raised to high-five those running on the side; people were offering their own fruit and drinks; in one town a group of students promoted beer as a perfect energy drink and even shared some with willing runners. Then there was Wellesley college, somewhere around the mid-point. It's famous for its "Scream Tunnel". The Wellesley College girls pack the road on both side and make such a noise, you can't hear your own thoughts. They offer free kisses, too. Unprepared, I thought it all a wonderful joke (which it actually is), but then I saw runners diving into the crowd, claiming their free kisses. No marathon brochure prepared me for it, and I missed the opportunity. Yes, I know, I'm a sucker!
The crowd at Heartbreak Hill was just as memorable—they had a sign half the way up the hill marking the half-point and the message "Don't let the hill break you," and another one at the top saying simply "You did it!" As the legs struggled and the stride shortened, they got louder. It was impossible not to be affected and carried by them.
Somewhere about a mile before finish I decided to get my last drink at the water station. I never learned to drink on the run. There is a technique where you squeeze the paper cup and pour the drink into your lips, but I pour just as much over my face and down the chest. I was all sticky and soaked in Gatorade I splashed all over myself on previous water stops. So, this time I decided to stop and drink the whole cup. With the cup in hand I stopped by the side fence to drink. At that moment people behind the fence started shouting and screaming "Don't stop now," "you're almost there," "keep going" and so on. I took another sip and they climbed the fence, practically hanging over me and shouting right in my ears. So much about drinking the whole cup. At the first running step I made, they broke into ovations. I felt like a champion. They high-fived me and I splashed the rest of the Gatorade as per usual all over my face, running on.
Boylston Street is where it all ends. When I turned into it, lined with the crowd five-thick on both sides, the feeling was such a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration, it almost brought me to tears. It was also the place where my very special cheerleaders—mom and Meg—were supposed to be. But, there were so many people, it was going to be impossible to see them. I ran, head swinging left and right, checking the crowd, losing hope. Then the shouts "Zoraaaaaan" came from the left and there they were, ringing the cowbells and waving their hearts out. I blew them a kiss, but didn't dare to stop, uncertain if I'd have strength enough to continue if I did. The finish line was only a few hundred meters away.
A footnote: I used my iPhone with a GPS application called RunKeeper to track my race. I even sent the link to friends who could follow my progress in real time. Unfortunately, the GPS signal was interrupted somewhere two thirds along the course, resulting in the straight line for the last 10 miles or so. Still, here's the map:
Click for blog post with our photos and video from Boston.
That Old Cape Magic by Richard Russo
