Running on Empty

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I had never been much of a runner.  In high school PE classes, when told to run laps around the baseball field I would hide behind the backboard until the last lap then re-join the group to cross the finish line trying to look tired so the coach wouldn’t catch on.  In boot camp we ran wearing heavy boots in a freezing cold Texas winter – I swore I would never run again.  Before a training academy at Quantico, Virginia it was suggested I do some pre-conditioning.  I forced myself to run a few laps on the local track but it made my legs so sore I could barely walk for days so, no more pre-training.

But during 16 weeks of running at the academy, I got in shape and came to enjoy it.  From then on jogging was my exercise of choice.  My wife and I regularly ran 2 to 4 miles several times a week for the next 25 years including several 10K races – a distance of 6.2 miles.

In our early 50s we decided to run a half marathon.  We chose one in Davis, California because it was level and near our hometown.  My sister-in-law agreed run with us and so training began.  Over the next several months my wife and I increased our long-distance training runs to 9 miles.  We felt we were ready.

The night before the race we stayed at my mother-in-law’s house in Sacramento.  We planned a dinner of pasta and fish to “carb-load” for long-lasting energy during the run.  My wife had read somewhere, or heard, or maybe just dreamed it, that it was best to run “empty”.  By “empty”, she explained, it was necessary to clean our systems through the use an enema.  It was never clear to me how that would improve the endurance of my legs and lungs.  Regardless, my brother-in-law and I were dispatched to buy three Fleet-brand enemas.  Now, truly, I’ve never had a problem buying my wife’s “feminine products”.  But, standing in line at the CVS, I began to squirm over what the elderly customers surrounding us might be thinking of two middle-aged men buying three enemas in the early evening hours of a Date-Night-Friday (not, of course, that there’s anything wrong with that).

Back at the house, we enjoyed our family dinner then suffered the humiliation of “emptying” our systems as instructed.  Then it was off to bed for an early morning trek to Davis.

On race day we shivered in the morning chill along with the other runners as we stretched and jogged in place to limber up.  As is typical of these fun runs, the participants ranged from young, lithe, zero-body fat runners to the over-weight, over-aged and under-trained.  We considered ourselves to be somewhere in the middle.  The start time approached so a last trip to the Porta-potties then we were off.

For the first mile or two we worked out the kinks, warming up, getting loose and finding our pace and stride.  Caught up in the excitement of the run I realized we were running faster than our normal pace.  I slowed to the pace we’d trained at.  That’s when I became aware of my wife right behind me, just off my left shoulder.  If I sped up she was there, if I slowed down she was there.  Shift left – there; shift right – still there.  She was always there and it began to play on my feeble mind.  I know she was just letting me set the pace but it began to feel like I was pulling her, dragging her along, and it was wearing me out!  At a water table I grabbed a cup of water and slice of orange then ran off trying to disconnect, to no avail.

I ran up behind an “old guy” – the ancient age of 60 or so (I was 53) – and decided to pace him a while then pass him.  I don’t remember even seeing him again and I don’t know who passed who but we were well into the race by then, over half way, and I was starting to have other issues.

The route crisscrossed town, so we periodically saw runners on different parts of the course.  Being unfamiliar with the course and missing the mile markers I had no sense of where I was or how far I’d gone or how much farther I had to go.  At one point, I ran under a bridge covered with runners going 90 degrees to me.  Who the heck were they?  And how long before I got to be up there?  Or, had I already been there and didn’t remember it?  The end had to be near, but it seemed like forever before I got to cross that bridge.  Not knowing the distances made it seem so much longer.  By the 10th mile I realized we had not had long enough training runs.  Finally, mercifully, I crossed the finish line barely able to smile for the picture my mother-in-law was taking of our grand finishes.

We ended with decent times given our age and level of training.  I wasn’t especially tired and I didn’t get sore but my desire to run was gone and we have not run much since.  Why?  My heart just wasn’t in it anymore.  I think it was either that the increase from 9 to 13 miles was too large an increase or, whether it helped or not, just like Pavlov’s dogs, thinking of jogging reminds me of that damned enema!

Boston Strong

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Memorial a few days after the 2013 bombing.

 

I have never been an athlete – no hand-to-eye coordination; never enjoyed participating, always enjoyed watching. Lately I’ve become a gym rat and workout six days a week, staying fit with Pilates and other forms of working out.

My husband always was a sports enthusiast, on intramural football and softball teams in college, but got into running in a serious way in the late 70s. He ran his first marathon in 1977, qualified for the grueling Boston Marathon many times and I became a race groupie. All our friends were runners and they competed in various events: the Falmouth Road Race, The Charles River 5K, and of course the Boston Marathon; always needing to run a marathon earlier in the season to qualify. His best time was 2:44! We lived in the Back Bay, near the finish line, so I would wait for the guys there. I saw Rosie Ruiz, the cheater, come across the line on a hot day in 1980 and snapped her photo, seeing the first woman’s number. Dan never came across. He had “hit the wall” at the 21 mile mark, “Heartbreak Hill”. At the time, we had friends living there, who threw a big party. I drove out there to find him lying on the grass, recovering.

When those friends moved away, we took over with the big party. For 29 years, we’ve lived in Newton at the crest of Heartbreak Hill, where we always watch the Marathon. I had friends running it three years ago and was out on the course waiting for mother and daughter in the afternoon. Helene’s daughter had gone by, but I waited and waited for my friend. At about 3pm, a young woman came out of the pack to speak to me on the sideline. She asked if I’d heard any news. She had gotten a text from her brother, a firefighter at the finish line. He informed her that two bombs had gone off. She looked to me for confirmation or more information, but I had none. I had been standing there for a long time with no phone, no link to the outside world. I told her I was sorry, I could not provide more information. It was the first bit of news I had and I ran home to turn on the TV. Coverage is supposed to end at 3pm, but this was turning into a huge news story. I stood, stunned, watching it unfold, real time. Texts and phone calls started pouring in from across the country; all knew that I watched the Marathon on the course and wanted reassurance that I was unhurt. Eventually I posted an account on Facebook, thanking people for their concern.

We received a robocall from the City of Newton to “shelter in place” early on Friday morning of that week. Newton is next to Watertown, where the shootout between the two terrorist brothers and the police took place overnight. One died, one escaped. As the day wore on, my husband grew bored and decided we should go outside the designated area, go to a movie and out to dinner. News alerts came across my phone that the surviving brother had been captured once the “shelter in place” order was lifted. A homeowner in Watertown went outside to check on his boat and noticed blood on the side of the tarp, covering it. He called in the police immediately and the bomber was captured. The next week I was in the area of the finish line, walked over to the bombing sites and thought of all that had happened there. Three young people lost their lives, countless others seriously injured. The unthinkable. I had lived in that neighborhood for seven years and loved it. Now it was the site of an act of terrorism. The motto of the city became Boston Strong. The sports teams rallied. David “Big Papi” Ortiz, famously said at the next Red Sox game, “This is our fuckin’ town!” and perfectly captured the sentiment around the region.

The 120th Boston Marathon is happening as I write this. I have just returned from Heartbreak Hill. Everything has changed. There were always various forms of barriers, as the race became larger and larger, but it was a festive atmosphere. Awakening from the New England winter, this rite of spring was a place to see your neighbors, run across the road and see people on the other side of Commonwealth Avenue, buy fried dough on the mall, have a great time. Now serious barricades block access to the mall and the other side of the street. National Guardsmen jog the entire course. The feeling is one of caution and restraint. Granted, I was there to see the leaders go by, (a relatively slow day). The crowds will swell as people come to see their relatives running. 4,000 qualified runners did not get numbers. Now the emphasis is on the large hordes of charity runners; most are not qualified to run this event. While they are raising huge sums of money for great causes, the race is not necessarily an elite event, except at the very front of the pack. The road is now closed from 8am until 6pm, hours longer than just a few years ago.

It is still the Boston Marathon, the greatest marathon of them all, but it has irrevocably changed.