Boston Baked My Bean

If someone has not written a treatise on the psychology of memory and the pain of extreme endurance events, they should. Exactly three days ago I ran the 116th Boston Marathon, the hottest on record with race temperatures cresting in the upper 80s. For the last two hours of the 3 hour, 24 minute and 5 second ordeal, I was in extreme physical discomfort, hated running and swore I was done with marathons forever and ever. After crossing the finish line I was spirited into the medical tent after my friend Paul thought it irregular that I was on the ground in a fetal position complaining that I couldn’t move my arms. An hour later I could barely walk without violent nausea and was extremely close to letting loose the contents of my GI tract through both ends by the mere act of standing upright.

My opinion softened within three hours after the race ended and now, three days later, I’m looking forward to running the Pittsburgh Marathon in two and half weeks.

Is it the endorphins? Is the memory of pain overwritten by the glory of survival?

Let me start from the beginning. This was my third Boston Marathon. In 2010 I ran a 3:01:32 and last year I ran a 2:59:17 which remains my marathon PR. My training was solid, with decent fidelity to Hal Higdon’s Advanced II training program. The week before this year’s race my BM friends and I were aflutter about the weather reports. First forecasted was an anomalous 80F in a week of 64F highs. Then down to the 60s. Then up to 80F. The day before Boston-area weathermen gravely predicted 87F.

The Boston Athletic Association offered deferments until 2013 with the slight asterisk that runners would have to first appear in Boston to pick up their race bibs to obtain the right to defer. Only 427 runners did so. The race was on. And the forecast dominated every conversation.

I arrived in Boston from Pittsburgh on Sunday morning, checked into the hotel, loosened up with an easy two miler then picked up race materials and officially licensed gear at the Expo. I came to break three hours again but the unlikelihood of that prospect was becoming apparent. Three ten, I told myself, or worst case scenario I could pull under 3:15 still giving me access to 2013 Boston under the new, tighter qualifying standards.

On Monday morning I rode on the Quarter Century Club bus to Hopkinton, thanks to an invite from my uncle, Ed Donoghue, who, at age 72 was running Boston for the 33rd time in a row. Ed ran Boston hot and cold and is full of sound advice about all things running. He explained the physiological effect of heat on heart rate and suggested that whatever I had going on in my grey matter about running near my typical marathon pace I should ignore and run safe. Both Ed and my dad, a Boston veteran, suggested dousing my head with water at every water station to keep the old bean from overheating.

I was assigned bib #2682 based upon my qualifying time, which put me in the third corral, first wave. A bright sun and cloudless sky had already warmed Hopkinton to the mid-70s. This was my ninth marathon. My warmest ever had been in the upper 50s.

My friend Paul and I ran together for the first few miles. I bested Paul last year at Boston but Paul can be a 2:57 guy and cleans my clock at every shorter race. We both agreed to go out easy, but I felt Paul pulling, so I backed off and dropped to 20 seconds per mile slower than last year’s pace. Within forty minutes the temperature cracked 80F. There was very little shade. Kind spectators offered water and ice cubes and sprinkled us with hoses. I kept a 7:15 pace until Wellesley, about the half marathon point, where I stopped checking my Garmin splits and resolved just to finish the race. I wasn’t yet miserable but nor was I enjoying the race. For the uninitiated, Boston is a marathon runner Olympics. The crowds along the course are massive and inspiring. But on Monday all I could think about was finishing.

I didn’t walk, if you don’t count walking through water stops, a first for me. But I plodded dizzily up the Newton hills. My last two Bostons I got a second wind on the top of Heartbreak Hill at mile 21. This time I got the feeling of intense dread that I would end up walking to the finish line. My pace declined but I kept jogging ahead, pushed on by spectators shouting Ben! Go Ben! (on Saturday I ironed my name on my singlet). Even though I would never see any of them ever again, I didn’t want to be remembered as Ben, the Guy Who Walked in the Boston Marathon.

I finished in 3:24:05, 25 minutes slower than last year. I was dizzy with dehydration, despite drinking water or Gatorade at every water stop. As mentioned above, I made a detour to the aid station and nearly pooped my pants. But I finished in the top 20% of my age group and lived to tell the tale.

So bring on Pittsburgh. Unless, of course, it’s 80F on race day.