Out for a good time

Monday, April 18 (Patriots' Day) 2011, 115th Annual Boston Marathon

Pre-Race: Woke up at 5:00 IN THE AM this morning in order to get down to Boston Common in time to catch the bus out to Hopkinton. I wasn't able to fall asleep last night until 11:00, but in spite of only having gotten six hours of sleep, I woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed (possibly due to the excitement of Marathon Monday having finally arrived). Gustavo had crashed at my place last night so that we could head out to the buses together, and apparently hadn't been able to get more than a couple of hours. Gustavo and I had our customary, ritualistic pre-race breakfasts (mine: some white bread with honey, a banana, a little bit of yogurt, and some tea; his: some avocados with honey -- really, these just serve as honey delivery systems) and then left at 5:30 to for the Central Square T stop to catch the Red Line into Boston Common.

Patriots' Day being a statewide holiday and Cambridge being a relatively small city, there was no traffic out so early, and the streets were deserted except for the small stream of runners (easily identifiable by their distinctive green gear-drop bags) trickling down the Inbound stairwell of Central Station. The station was thick with an air of nervous anticipation as the platform swelled with runners waiting for the next inbound train. I was surprised at just how many runners there were; ordinarily, Central Station isn't all that crowded, even at peak times, but we still managed to fill the platform. Finally, the next train arrived, and we all piled in:

What had started as a trickle of runners entering Central Station became a stream as we moved into Boston along the Red Line, until we finally emerged from Park Street Station to find a veritable sea of athletes inundating Boston Common, waiting to be shuttled out to Hopkinton:

Fortunately for us, Gustavo managed to spot a reasonably-sized bus line amidst this crush of people, and we actually made it out of the Common within about half an hour of having arrived. After about an hour-long bus ride, we arrived at Hopkinton High School, the athletes' village and staging area for the Boston Marathon.

My first impression upon stepping out of the bus was a slight shock at finally seeing the scope the of the Boston Marathon. I knew intellectually that this was a large race (~27,000 runners in all), but I don't think that intellectual knowledge really registered at a visceral level until I saw just how large the athletes' village was. Essentially, the entire school grounds had been overrun with athletes. The center of the playing fields was dominated by a huge white tent set up over long tables filled with bagels, bananas, Gatorade and coffee for the athletes, port-a-pottys had been set up around the periphery of the field (there must have been on the order of 75 of them or so), and one end of the field had been allocated to a pair of scissors-lifts and a Jumbo-tron. But the one thing I found most impressive was just the sheer number of people: nearly every square inch of the field had some athlete sitting, lying down, stretching, etc., to the point where one had to be careful while walking around not to accidentally step on some unfortunate (perhaps unconscious) athlete.

Gustavo and I had managed to get in to the athletes' village around 7:30, and the first group of runners wasn't scheduled to be called to the start line until around 9:15, which left us with just under 2 hours to kill before we had to start moving. Although Gustavo and I had qualified with nearly identical times (2:52 and 2:53, respectively), it just so happened that the cutoff time between corrals fell in between them (I was assigned to corral 1, and he was in corral 2), so we decided to split up and each prepare for our own race as we saw fit.

Unfortunately, at this point in the day, it was still fairly cold (~40 degrees or so) and very windy, and I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself until the start of the race. I eventually figured that a cup of coffee would help warm me up, and that a quick shot of caffeine might help "clear my system" (a crucial part of race preparation) before heading to the start line. I killed some time waiting in line for the coffee, downed it pretty quickly (for warmth), and then started looking around for somewhere to shelter from the wind until it was time to head to the start line.

I eventually noticed a recessed doorway in one of the brick school buildings around the edges of the field, and decided it looked like a pretty good wind shelter in which to hide out until it was time to go. It turned out that another runner had had the same idea - a cute blond club runner from Purdue who was running Boston for the first time. We were joined about 10 minutes later by an obviously very cold young-ish (maybe 30?) guy from the Dominican Republic who was also running Boston for the first time. The three of us sat huddling in this doorway chatting and trying to keep warm until 9:00, when I left to make my customary pre-race pilgrimage to the commode, drop off my gear bag, and head to the start line.

By now the athletes village was pretty packed, even more so than when I had first arrived, and as I looked around at the mass of people, I began to think I may have just screwed myself by waiting too long to get in line for the port-a-pottys (I had budgeted 15 minutes for hitting up the bathroom, as corral 1 was supposed to leave for the start line at 9:15). Fortunately, in spite of the huge number of people, the standing army of port-a-pottys (which had seemed wildly excessive when I had first arrived that morning) kept the wait time down to a reasonable 25 minutes. When I got out, I quickly pulled off my warmups and stuffed them in my gear bag, dropped the bag off in my assigned bus, and headed for the start line.

Corral 1 had been scheduled to leave the athletes village at 9:15, even though the race wasn't supposed to start until 10:00; this is due to the fact that the starting line is 3/4 of a mile from the staging area, and the race organizers had budgeted 45 minutes for athletes to leisurely walk from the high school to their corrals. Unfortunately, by now I was running about 10 minutes behind the official schedule, and I hadn't actually had a chance to warm up yet, so I decided that I would just jog down to the starting line as my warmup, and then stretch out in the corral until the start of the race.

The street was packed with athletes walking, so I had to dodge my way through the crowd as I jogged out to the starting line. I fell in behind a line of athletes also working their way through the crowd at a jog, and as we made our way, I allowed my attention to drift from watching the guy in front of me to trying to soak up as much of what was going on around me as possible: the cops directing traffic, the spectators starting to line up around the starting corrals, even these awesome "No Stopping" street closure signs that were posted up and down the marathon route:

Unfortunately, I was sufficiently distracted while taking in my surroundings that I failed to notice the guy in front of me make a quick dodge to avoid something, and ended up running straight into the end of the handrail for a heavy metal guardrail street (where the athletes were) from the sidewalk (where the spectators were) . It nailed me right in the chest, about an inch to the right of my sternum, and left me doubled-over and stunned for a good 30 seconds or so (it also prompted a couple of audible gasps from some nearby spectators). Fortunately, in spite of the significant pain/shock of the initial impact, it had hit me in the ribcage and consequently hadn't really done any significant damage (aside from later producing an awesome-looking diamond-shaped bruise).

After I caught my breath, I continued jogging out to the first corral (now being careful to pay much more attention to where I was going, and running more towards the center of the street where there would likely be fewer obstacles). I got to corral 1 at about 9:35 or 9:40, and started stretching out. For whatever reason, the starting corrals seemed to be sheltered from the wind, and the sun had come out; it was in the high 50s/low 60s, clear and sunny - essentially perfect conditions. As I stretched out, I chatted with some of the other runners around me, who told me that we could also expect a tailwind(!). I mentioned something to the effect that it seemed like the stars were aligning for us weather-wise, and one of the older runners nearby mentioned to me that we really had lucked out - he said conditions like this only came around for Boston once every decade or so.

By 9:50, the corral was packed, the athletes had finished their pre-race preparations, and we were all standing around in that excited, nervous way that distance runners do while waiting around at the starting line. I tried to kill some more time by chatting with some of the other runners around me, asking them what their goal time was, etc. Gustavo was number 1041 and hadn't made it into corral 1; I was 905, which pretty much meant that I had just barely squeaked in, and I was curious to see how fast the other guys up at the front were. Many of them said they were going for times in the 2:45 range; I spoke to one woman in front of me who said she was trying to qualify for the American Olympic trials. Jesus these people are fast, I thought to myself; better not get too excited at the start, or you'll end up blowing up spectacularly around mile 20.

At 9:55, the race organizers brought out the men's elite field to the front of the corral, announcing some of the more famous runners by name (including American Ryan Hall, to much fanfare). As soon as the elite field was in place, they sang the national anthem, and an announcement was made over the PA system declaring that the race officials were ready to go, and this would be the final announcement prior to the starting gun. There was about a 30 second beat, filled with that familiar tense, eerie silence immediately prior to the start of a race...

and then the gun!

Tip of the Spear (miles 1 to mile 7): Holy shit, I thought, this is it, it's finally here! After six years of preparation and anticipation, I was actually, finally, running the Boston Marathon! And I'm in the front! I get to start out right at the beginning with the super-fast guys!

I hadn't really settled on a time goal or race strategy prior to the race; I figured I would let that be a game-time decision. I had run a 2:52 at the Austin Marathon a little over a year ago, but Austin was one of the faster courses in Texas, and Boston was supposed to be one of the toughest marathon courses around due to the presence of some rolling hills relatively late in the course. I had also been missing a lot of workouts in the final weeks prior to the race due to some health issues, so I wasn't sure how I would be feeling come race day. Consequently, I didn't have a good estimate for a time goal in mind, but I figured anything under 3:00 would probably constitute a pretty good day.

Furthermore, every experienced Boston Marathon runner I had spoken to before the race had mentioned that a classic failure mode for this course was going out too fast. The course is net downhill, with no significant elevation gains at all for the first 16 or so miles; however, mile 16 marks the start of the Newton Hills, a series of four hills culminating in the infamous Heartbreak Hill, which crests just before mile 21. Many runners, getting carried away by all the easy downhills early in the race, come out way too fast, and then crash and burn hard when confronted with a 5 mile hill series right at the point where they may already be on the verge of exhausting their glycogen stores.

In addition to the words of warning I had received from more experienced runners, I also knew that I myself had a propensity to come out way too fast in the early stages of a race and then crash and burn later on. Based on this, I decided that I would basically keep it in first gear until somewhere around mile 18 and then reevaluate how I was feeling. Besides, I thought myself, you've been looking forward to this for a long time; you shouldn't forget to enjoy yourself while you're at it.

I came across the starting line feeling surprisingly light on my feet (I had been concerned with a residual feeling of sluggishness in my final workouts in the two days leading up to the race). It felt good to finally be moving after the nervous anticipation at the starting line. The beginning of the course was actually on a downhill, and the sides of the course were absolutely packed with screaming spectators. This is fantastic!, I thought.

It probably also helped that I had decided to represent for MIT by wearing a maroon UnderArmor T-shirt with "MIT" written across the front in silver lettering. I was far enough out in the front of the race that individual runners were still visible, and the MIT logo seemed to attract the attention of a lot of the spectators. It was pretty nice having the "home field advantage" - pretty much every couple of seconds I could hear somebody yelling out "Go MIT!" or "Go Engineers!", which certainly made getting through the race a lot easier. Nothing quite like 26.2 miles of screaming spectators to boost the fighting spirit/ego :-).

I was having a great time as we cruised through the first mile mark - at 6:00. That is a bit faster than the agreed-upon pace, I thought to myself. Eh, it's cool, I'll just relax through this first downhill bit until the pack spreads out and I can lock in with some guys at around 6:30 to 6:45 pace.

I kept cruising along, not really feeling as though I was working especially hard, having a great time and just soaking up the experience. But I noticed, as time went on, that although I didn't feel like I was working very hard, my mile times were significantly below what I really thought they ought to have been so early in the race: I came through the second mile at around 12:15, the 5k at around 19:00, and the 10k at about 38:00. This was not the plan, I thought to myself, you were supposed to go out conservatively.

Somewhere between the 6 and 7 mile markers, I started to reevaluate my race strategy. You know, I thought to myself, I'm feeling pretty good. We have great race conditions - race conditions that only come around once a decade! - the energy from the crowd is great, and you're surrounded by guys that are legit as hell. If ever there were a time to go for the PR, this is it. Also, how awesome would it be to PR at the Boston Marathon?

As I was mulling this over, I passed a school that had about 50 or 75 people in front of it who looked like they were part of a sports team. As I ran by, they caught sight of my T-shirt and started chanting "M-I-T! M-I-T!", which 1) was AWESOME :-D! and 2) perhaps swayed my decision-making more than it strictly should have (I'll keep it real, I'm not totally immune to having my ego stoked on occasion :-p).

As I passed the 7 mile mark I pounded back the first of three energy gels I had brought along with me (based on my favorable experiences with them in the Austin Marathon, I had decided not to mess with this part of my race strategy), and reached a decision: Fuck it, we'll do it live!

Natick (mile 7 to mile 12): Ok, I thought, what's the new plan? I took stock of my situation: my two most pressing concerns were 1) I was currently running at a pace that far exceeded what I had trained for, and 2) I was starting to feel slightly warmer than I would have preferred (I realized then that wearing a dark-colored T-shirt might not have been the wisest possible choice).

I concentrated on checking out how my body was functioning, particularly my legs and breathing. I'm not breathing hard - in fact I've actually been chatting with some of the other runners around me throughout the race - and I don't feel any of the characteristic burning sensation in my legs, so I'm probably not running above my lactate threshold pace, I thought. Thank God I hammered the LT and V02-max training runs. That means the only thing I have to worry about is premature glycogen depletion.

I knew as a result of having read this study (coincidentally, produced by a researcher working in CSAIL, my own research lab) earlier in the year that since I was running faster than I had planned, I would be burning through my glycogen stores more quickly than what I had trained for. The only way that I could stave off hitting the wall would be to take on more carbohydrates during the race than I had originally planned. I had a fixed number of energy gels with me, so there was nothing I could do about that, but I had only planned to stop for Gatorade every third or fourth mile or so. Fortunately, I knew the Boston Marathon had Gatorade stops every mile, in contrast to most marathons. Ok, I thought, I'll just have to take on some additional carbohydrates in the form of Gatorade. I decided to start taking on Gatorade every other mile. That'll boost your carbohydrate intake, I thought, and should also help keep you a little cooler.

But what to do about pacing? I knew that I was going to be in serious trouble if I already felt fatigued when I hit the Newton Hills. Ok, I thought, you started running at this pace because you just naturally fell into it - no straining. Just keep going at constant effort - stay relaxed, and if you need to drop pace to do it, that's ok. The race isn't really going to start until mile 16; you just need to make sure that you show up there in good shape.

So the new goal was to stay relaxed and keep it together until mile 16. I figured that if I could arrive at the start of the Newton Hills in good shape, I shouldn't have too much trouble getting over them in one piece. If you can just get past Heartbreak Hill, you'll be alright, I thought; hell, even if you blow up afterwards and drag ass all the way into Copley Square, you'll have made up so much time already that it'll probably still work out fine.

The course between miles 7 and 13 passes through the town of Natick, and is fairly unremarkable terrain-wise: there are minor speed bumps, but the course is essentially flat. This section of the race passed uneventfully: I stayed relaxed, kept up the carbohydrate intake, and stayed on pace as planned.

Entering Wellesley (mile 12 to mile 16): The halfway mark for the Boston Marathon is in the town of Wellesley, right next to Wellesley College. In fact, the marathon course actually passes through the Wellesley campus, and it's traditional for the students to come out and cheer for the runners on Marathon Monday, creating something known as the Wellesley Scream Tunnel. I'd heard prior to the race that the cheering is in fact so loud that it's audible from a mile away.

As it turns out, this is in fact the case.

As we entered the town of Wellesley approaching the 12-mile mark, it actually was possible for us hear the Wellesley students off in the distance. As we approached the Scream Tunnel, I somewhat amusedly noticed that some of the runners around me were actually perceptibly increasing their pace (I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the mile times near the campus drop precipitously :-). The Scream Tunnel itself was somewhere between a half-mile and a mile long (depending upon which parts you wanted to count), and was pretty thickly packed with students pressed up against the metal crowd barriers on the sides of the course. As is customary among the marathon spectators, many of them had brought signs with encouraging messages on them; however, in a part of Boston Marathon tradition unique to the Scream Tunnel, some of them had brought signs asked for kisses: I saw "Kiss me, I'm Californian", "Kiss me, I'm graduating", etc. It was pretty epic :-).

I came through the half-marathon mark at 1:20:28, just over a minute slower than my half-marathon PR, but still feeling pretty good. Just after the halfway point, we began a gradual incline that continued up to around mile 15 or so. I figured that if I were going to make a critical error at some point during the race, it would be here: we were close enough to the start of the race that I still felt reasonably fresh, but still far enough out that if I burned through my glycogen stores trying to motor up the inclines I could look forward to a long, slow, agonizing death march to the finish. Just stay relaxed, I thought to myself. If these other guys want to blow by you, just let them go; you gotta show up to the start of the Newton Hills relatively fresh.

I eased up on the pace a little on some of the inclines through the next couple of miles in order to maintain constant effort. As I passed through miles 14 and 15, I was pretty pleased with myself. This isn't so bad, I thought, so far I'm really not feeling any negative effects from the increased pace.

Around mile 15 1/2, we began about a half-mile stretch of relatively steep downhill, which was immediately followed by the start of a relatively steep incline, one of the steepest we'd seen so far. As I began the climb up, I passed some road signs indicating that we were entering the town of Newton.

Newton Hills (mile 16 to mile 21): As I started my climb up the first of the Newton Hills, I though to myself, these next five miles are the race. Once you get out of these hills, it's either flat or downhill to the finish, and there are going to be tons of screaming people around. All you have to do is get through the next five miles relatively intact, and you'll be able to gut out a good finish. Just stay relaxed, and keep it together.

The first two of the four Newton hills didn't actually seem all that bad; I crested the top of the second one just past the 18-mile mark, and began a gradual 3/4 mile downhill stretch that preceded the final two hills. As I passed the 19-mile mark and started the ascent up the third hill, I started to feel the first creeping effects of fatigue. Still, that was to be expected; we were coming up on the later stages of the race, and I'd been running continuously for almost 2 hours. You're doing fine, everything's going according to plan, I thought to myself, just stay relaxed, keep it together, and continue making forward progress.

After the crest of the third hill, we had about a half mile stretch of relatively flat ground before the start of the final climb. As I passed mile 20, in spite of my increasing fatigue, I was feeling increasingly optimistic. You're almost out of the woods, and you're definitely on PR pace, I thought. One more hill to go, and you'll be home free.

As we passed the 20.5 mile mark, we encountered what is traditionally regarded as the crucible of the Boston Marathon: Heartbreak Hill. This part of the course was pretty thickly lined with spectators who had come out to help motivate runners to just keep moving up this final incline; a lot of them were carrying signs to the effect that this was the last major hurdle before the finish line. As we started up the incline, I mentally steeled myself for this last push skyward before the final downhill stretch into Boston and the finish line. Just keep on doing what you're doing, I thought, stay relaxed, stay focused, keep making forward progress. As the grade increased to its steady state, I settled into my familiar hill-climbing rhythm and resigned myself to one last uphill slog...

And then looked up to see a giant, inflatable, bounce-house looking thing on the side of the course with a big sign on top proclaiming that I had just crested Heartbreak Hill. Wait, what? I thought. I'm at the top? THAT was Heartbreak Hill, terror of the Boston Marathon? That piddling speedbump?

Turns out that Heartbreak Hill isn't actually all that big: according to Wikipedia, it has a total elevation gain of only 88 feet over the course of only .4 miles. You can imagine my surprise when after less than 5 minutes of serious hill-climbing effort, I found myself at the peak of what I had often heard more experienced Boston runners speak of as though it were part of the Himalayas.

Awesome! I thought. It's all downhill from here, and you're still on pace for a huge PR!

No stopping (mile 21 to mile 24): Just after the crest of Heartbreak Hill, the marathon course passes by Boston College on Commonwealth Ave. In particular, it passes right in front of a row of BC frat houses, so the street is packed with drunken, screaming frat boys who've been drinking continuously for the previous two hours; also epic :-).

Although fatigued, I was feeling pretty great coming off the crest of Heartbreak Hill, and the BC frat boys going nuts when they spotted "MIT" on my shirt just added fuel to the fire. This is great! I thought. Now you just have to ride the downhill all the way into Copley Square!

And then as I was passing mile 22, I hit the wall hard. It felt like somebody had just completely drained all the energy out of me. I started sucking wind, my head snapped back, my hands curled up into the characteristic "death claw" posture, and my pace dropped significantly. Shit, I'm still four miles out, I thought. I was definitely on PR pace before, but I'm still far enough out that if I really blow up here, I can still lose it. That's still a long way to go.

I found myself in precisely the situation I had hoped to avoid: I had the pleasure of looking forward to a long, agonizing slog into the finish. As I survival shuffled along, sucking wind and struggling to make forward progress, I considered the fact that I still had on the order of 30 minutes of agonizing running until I reached the finish line (one of the advantages of having run cross country in high school and college is that I have a relatively quick survival shuffle; it's on the order of 7:00 minute pace) - but that assumed that the situation did not further deteriorate. How much worse off would I get over the next four miles? Was I still going to be able to hold on to PR pace? Was it even sensible to try?

For some reason, as I found myself considering this, my mind drifted back to the "No Stopping" street sign I had seen earlier in the day:

I had stopped to take a picture of it prior to the race because I had felt that the juxtaposition of the phrase "No Stopping" with the image of a runner crossing the tape at the finish line was the perfect symbolic encapsulation of everything that distance running was supposed to be. (I can only assume that this was intentional on the part of the sign's creator).

The sign is right, I thought to myself, you're in sufficiently bad shape now that if you fall off the wagon here, you may very well not have the psychological resources to recover. Forget about what might happen 20 minutes from now, the most important thing is to KEEP MAKING FORWARD PROGRESS RIGHT NOW. NO STOPPING!

(Yes, I actually took mid-race inspiration from a traffic sign. In my defense, I was not thinking clearly at the time, for reasons which will become clear later :-p).

Having reached this epiphany, I set myself to the Sisyphean task of continuing to set. one. foot. in. front. of. the. other. The next 2 miles were hellish. I did my level best to maintain pace on the flat, but I found that I was tired enough that even the most modest incline just completely took the wind out of my sails. For the first time in the race, I started getting passed. At the moment, it was only a few guys at a time, and they weren't going all that much faster than I was, but I knew that I was getting to be in pretty bad shape, and that if I got much worse things would start rapidly spiraling out of control.

And then right around the 24 mile mark, a miracle occurred. From off to my left, I heard a phenomenally loud "YEAH DAVE!". What the hell... I lolled my addled head over to my left to survey the scene...

just in time to see Garrett Drayna bust through the sideline LIKE A BOSS and dart out into the street, fist pumping maniacally and screaming like a banshee. "LET'S GO DAVE, I'M GONNA RUN THE NEXT MILE WITH YOU!"

Jesus, he's got a lot of energy, I thought, as he bounded over to me. Does he really have to run quite so fast? Garrett later told me that as he came up to me, the only greeting I was able to produce was a long, audible groan :-p. Nonetheless, in spite of my total inability to articulate it at the time, I was extremely grateful for the assist, and resolved to take full advantage of the psychological lifeline Garrett had just thrown me. All right, let's pick up those feet.

Shock and awe (mile 24 to finish): The next mile was still torturous, but misery loves company, and at least now I had my old teammate to run with. And I actually found that having picked up the pace slightly at Garrett's insistence had somewhat revived my fortitude. Although I was by no means moving quickly, I found that I could at least manage to keep plodding forward.

Garrett ran with me for about 3/4 of a mile or so, and then (not wanting to get too close to the finishing area) peeled off to the sideline again so that he could wait to run with Gustavo. I passed mile 25 and saw that my time was in the high 2:30's. Holy shit, I thought, I can still make a sub 2:50! I just need to hang on a little bit longer.

And then, a few minutes after I had passed the 25-mile mark, I came upon a truly glorious sight. Off on the right-hand side of the street, the BAA had set up an additional timing station with one of their customary gigantic digital clocks, and above it had hung a sign, written in all yellow caps against a blue background (the BAA's official color scheme) proclaiming what were surely the four sweetest words my eyes could have beheld: ONE MILE TO GO.

As I made the right-hand turn onto Hereford Street I checked my watch one last time and saw that the current time was in the low 2:40's. This is it! Just need to gut it out for a few more minutes! I forced my head up and concentrated on mentally wrestling my body into submission: I quickened my pace, de-clawed my hands, and concentrated on maintaining running form for a final push into the finish line.

I made the final left turn onto Boylston Street, and then at last, just over a quarter mile up the street, I finally saw it: the finish line! The digital clock over the finish line showed 2:45 and change. My goal finally in sight, I put the hammer down and poured on every ounce of speed my exhausted legs could muster. As we closed within 200 meters I picked off a pack of five or six guys and broke into my best approximation of a sprint, crossing the line with a time of 2:47:20, a 5-minute PR :-D!

Post race: Flush with the thrill of victory, I interlocked my hands on top of my head and sucked wind as I staggered up the chute in my customary post-race breathless zombie-walk. W00t, new PR! I thought, as I random-walked my way towards the volunteers passing out heat blankets. One of the volunteers wrapped a heat blanket around me, which I tried to clutch closed in front of me with unresponsive hands so that he could secure it in place with a strip of tape. Unfortunately, this proved to be a surprisingly demanding task, as I was still sucking air and my hands seemed strangely unresponsive. I looked down at my numb, worthless claws in what must have been a slight look of surprise. What the fuck guys, I thought, help me out here.

The volunteer noticed me impotently pawing at my chest. "Dude, you don't look so good" he said. He put a hand on my shoulder and stared intently into my face. "Do you know what race you just finished?" "The Boston Marathon" I managed to choke out, or rather a slightly slurred approximation, as by now my face had started numbing out as well. "I think you should go to the ICU tent" he said.

I tried to tell him that I was sure I'd be fine in a couple of minutes, but he nevertheless called over another volunteer with a wheelchair, and insisted that I sit down so that they could wheel me into the medical tent. As it turned out, that was a good decision on his part (not so much mine), as on the ride over I started getting horrible cramps in my hands and lower body, and I was feeling pretty woozy. When we got to the tent, one of the triage nurses checked me out, and then called over a doctor to help steady me as I tried to stand up on unresponsive, cramping legs to transfer myself onto a cot. By now about four people had shown up (a doctor and several nurses) to start checking my blood pressure, pulse, body temperature.

By now an appreciable length of time had elapsed since I had stopped running, and yet I still had an uncharacteristically elevated heart rate, low blood pressure, and a low core temperature. Long story short, it turns out that that feeling of fatigue I had started experiencing back in mile 22 was not just the result of glycogen depletion, but was also being caused (at least in part) by dehydration, which had progressed to the early stages of shock by the time I had reached the finished line.

So I spent the next 45 minutes or so hanging out in the medical tent and drinking Gatorade while I rehydrated, warmed myself up, and waited for the cramps and wooziness to subside. Turns out that some fluids, warmth, and time really was just about all I needed - I did feel pretty much back at full strength by the time I left. And I was in good company: a few minutes after I got there I noticed runner #32 was hanging out in a wheelchair at the foot of my cot, so I gave him the thumbs up, 'cause as my old high school coach used to say, it's ok to wind up in the medical tent if you PR :-P.

So all in all, I'd say it was a pretty successful day for me :-).

(Turns out that it was also a successful day for Geoffrey Mutai of Eldoret, Kenya, who finished in a time of 2:02:03, crushing Haile Gebrselassie's world record time by a phenomenal 57 seconds. So there's that too :-).

Until next year... :-).

Out for a good time

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Peak mileage

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

No clever title this week

First week back

Break's over, back to the war!

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

The Greatest Show on Earth

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Final Approach

Thursday, April 7, 2011

No clever title this week

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