Going to bed the night before the race, I told my wife, "I've done all the things I don't care for--newspaper and television interviews, speaking to groups of people, public attention. Now that's over. Tomorrow I get to do the thing I really love to do." And so I triple-checked that my alarm was set, a little before 5:AM, knowing full well I'd wake up before it could go off.
A short walk to the train station in order to get to Copley Square where I need to check in around 6:30. And the waiting begins. Of course I'm fidgety, just ready to run this race, but my wave doesn't start until 11:15, and with my corral I probably won't cross the starting line until close to 11:30. But this is the Boston Marathon, so whatever gripes I may have don't linger. In the fundraiser tent on Copley, I eat some breakfast and alternate among coffee, water, and a little Gatorade. Then some volunteers tell us it's time to load the buses and head to the starting line in Hopkinton. The bus ride is close to an hour in length, and I just wish the gentlemen behind me would stop talking. Please stop talking! Let a guy be quiet with his thoughts and maybe take a nap. Oh well.
We arrive around 8:15. Three hours until the start. That's agonizing, but I have no choice. A little more food and hydration, but at least I find a bench in a hallway inside part of Hopkinton High School away from most of the chatterboxes. So I wait, take a few trips to the port-o-johns, mostly stay off my feet. My friend texts that he and his brother of arrived at the Athletes' Village and I decided to try to find them. Now, I've never been to a refugee camp, and I don't mean to be too careless in discussing this, but after displaying my bib number for security and wading through a multitudes, smelling the football field-sized line-up of temporary toilets facilities, I come upon this. And this. And this. And this. And rather than wait in line for the toilet, there are some runners opting for the fence line. And I'm not talking just for #1, friends. Sorry, fellas. Run well, and I'll see you later. I head back to my secluded bench.
After hours of more waiting and a brief conversation with a John Hancock employee about to run his first marathon (hope you liked it, Jimmy!), they call my wave, and I begin the 20-minute walk to the starting line. Finally! It's shoulder-to-shoulder the entire way, and people along either side of the road are offering shots of sunscreen because the sun is already high. One last port-o-john stop, and I find my corral, filing in with thousands of other runners. This is when I get very quiet and simply pray, "Let this run glorify you, Lord. Thank you."
Now a general fly-over about the race. Because you're likely to become bored if I detail each mile.
A quarter-mile in, I see a few dozen men duck into the woods, regretting not hitting those port-o-johns near the start. Despite the number of participants (27,000+ finishers that day), I'm able to hit my stride early and settle into a decent pace. Around mile 3 my body says it has to make a pit stop (just #1), and I tell it, "If you still have to go at mile 10, I'll stop." Seems a reasonable arrangement.
I've adopted a practice from a friend of mine who prays and crosses himself at each mile marker. We're both Protestants, but it makes enormous sense to me. In fact, I see running as an offering, as another way to show my love for God. So at each mile I cross myself and say, "Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Thank you for that last mile. Give me strength in my legs and breath in my lungs to honor you with this next one."
Mile 6, Framingham, is very cool. Families are out in full force, cheering on the runners. The smell of barbecue and the sound of music fills the air. That party seems fun, but I have several miles to go.
I'm wearing my custom-made OHIO singlet, knowing full well this will elicit some specific cheers from the crowd (which "they" estimated around 750,000 that day, I think). "Go Ohio!" "Yeah Ohio!" "Hey, Ohio is a swing state!" I couldn't help myself when I heard a guy around mile 8 yell that, and I responded, "Your mom is a swing state." Yeah. I really said it.
Mile 10 comes and goes, and my body reminds me of my promise. As soon as I stop running, I start counting, to note how many seconds this lasts. When I hit 15 seconds, I've starting again. I'll double-check my splits after the race. And this is so wild because it feels like the miles are flying by.
Mile 14 is the infamous Wellesley Scream Tunnel. A thousand or more Wellesley College students screaming for and kissing (if accepted) the marathoners. It was deafening...and maybe a little annoying.
The Newton Hills (which culminate with Heartbreak Hill in mile 21) start around mile 16, and this is where my wife and our friends had planned to be on the course. I don't see them and continue to look for them at each subsequent mile. Having prepared to run hills, especially late in the race, I determine to make sure I'm actually running up them, even if it only feels like running. It's psychologically important for me to knock down some roadkill (a classy term for runners you pass during a race) on these hills.
Around mile 19, I let myself think about my friends and neighbors at the Rescue Mission because it is seven miles from my house, and I have just seven miles to the finish line.
By the time I near mile 20, I figure I'll just meet up with my crew at the finish line, that transportation was difficult, so I likely won't see anyone on the course. As I check my watch to see my overall pace and determine what the final 10k might look like, I hear someone shout, "Rick Blair!!!" And it's Cakes. And there's my wife holding up a sign that reads, "I love Rick!" And there's my friend Dave, shouting. Shouting? Dave? I've known Dave for more than 20 years, and I've never heard him shout. (He later tells me that he's been saving it up for that moment.) What a boost!
There is no sign indicating Heartbreak Hill, but when I'm halfway up what I believe is the legendary s.o.b., I think, "God, please let this be it. Because this just sucks." At the top I see a homemade sign: "You've reached the top of Heartbreak Hill." Hallelujah. I'm tired.
My prayer around mile 23 changes ever so slightly. "Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Thank you for that last mile. Give me strength in my legs and breath in my lungs to honor you with this next one. And oh s#%*, God, this is hard."
The famous Citgo sign is near Fenway Park and is the place where runners know they have just one more mile to run. The problem is that you can see it for a mile and a half before you actually reach it. Torture, but I keep pressing on. This landmark is also where it all sinks in, that I'm running the Boston Bleepin' Marathon. That I'm going to finish the Boston Bleepin' Marathon!
As I turn onto Boylston Street, I remember what Doug told me on Friday: "You're no long running; you're flying." And it's true.
Several people have asked me since then how I felt after finishing. The only honest answer is "Grateful."
