So, as I do with every race, I came into the Tufts with a few goals--only one of which was time-based:
- My primary goal was to run the full distance.
- Secondly, I wanted to finish the race in under 90 minutes. (My 10K PR was 1:31:XX at the Patriot.)
- As always, I wanted to have a decent, reasonably comfortable run.
The walk from my Back Bay hotel was rather chilly that morning, since I didn't wear any warm-up clothes other than my thin long-sleeved cotton Surftown half marathon souvenir shirt (the one I bought, which I was wearing over my official Surftown race shirt, to which I'd attached my Tufts 10K bib--WITH prime number, baybee!), but knowing that my car was parked so close to the race venue meant I could always pop into the garage if I needed a haven from the chill. Besides, with the sun shining down on the parade grounds in the Common, I was warming up quickly; in fact, I wondered if I shouldn't have worn sorts and a sleeveless shirt instead of capris and short sleeves. (Fortunately, the sun would tuck itself behind clouds for most of the race, so even without much of a breeze on the Cambridge side of the Charles, I wouldn't have to worry about overheating during the race.)
I think I set a PR on PRPs that morning, but I figured with about 8000 women, I would take advantage of line-less peepee teepees every chance I got. (I also had to do vain and glorious battle with a big icky yellow spider in one of the peepee teepees.) I wandered around the little expo, but for the most part, I was really just walking around and doing an extended pre-race warmup.
As race time approached, Lola and I lined up in the back of the 10-minute pace group, which may have been rather ambitious, but with only the "10:00+ and Walkers" group behind us, we figured it was a fairly safe bet. Charles Street between the Common and the Public Garden provided ample room for all the runners without even the remotest feeling of being penned in. (Freihofers Run for Women organizers, please take note.) Women of all ages, from teenage girls (even a 12-year-old!) to women in their 80s--even a few men running in solidarity with nearly 8000 women--filled in Charles Street with plenty of elbow room to spare.
It took us several minutes to reach the start line just around the corner on Beacon Street, but Lola and I started off at a good, easy pace. As we passed Arlington Street, I mumbled to myself, "pass the walkers, pace the runners". I was rather surprised at how many walkers I passed. I didn't know if they'd gotten winded early by starting out too hard, or if they had started ahead of their pace group, but since there wasn't a lot of congestion, I didn't mind. (Plus, it was nice having targets to pick off so easily so early in the race.) Before long, I was coming up along a woman who had to be in her 70s or 80s, plugging along at a very Gingah-like pace. As I passed, I gave her a thumbs-up and said, "You go, girl!" She smiled and replied something like, "Looking good yourself!" Lola turned to me and said, "That's us in 20 years." I smiled at that thought and replied, "God, I hope so!"
One of my favorite features of Back Bay is its alphabetically ordered cross streets from the Public Garden to Massachusetts Avenue. Just as Arlington gave way to Berkeley and Clarendon and Dartmouth, Exeter and Fairfield and Gloucester and Hereford ticked by next. The turn onto Mass Ave. put us almost immediately onto the Harvard Bridge, and I entered familiar race territory, having run across the Harvard Bridge and along seemingly endless stretches of Memorial Drive in Cambridge (what I have since dubbed the "Cambridge Death March") as part of the 2011 and 2012 Run to Home Base.
As I neared the Cambridge side of the bridge, I saw the police escort and photographers' van preceding the race's front runner (and eventual winner), 34-year-old Hellen Jemutai of Kenya. Lean and fast and focused, she was perfect running form personified, and she had a substantial (and, from the looks of things, insurmountable) lead. We cheered her and the small groups of elite runners well in her wake until we turned east onto Memorial Drive.
Memorial Drive is always the toughest part of the Run to Home Base for me. You'd think that the view of the Boston skyline, that beloved stretch of "dirty watah" known as the Charles River, and the buildings of MIT would be enough to keep my mind occupied during the Memorial Drive segment, but...no. Regardless of what is playing on my iPod or how lovely the changing leaves are on the trees in October, Memorial Drive always feels like a long trudge. A hairpin turn before Longfellow Bridge provided short relief and sent us back up Memorial in the opposite direction. The short tunnel under the overpass provides entertainment as those who are standing on the overpass cheer us (even if they require a "How about a 'Woot' here?" cajoling from Gingah), as did the MIT mascot, Tim the Beaver. (I chuckled at the naughty humor of a beaver being the only mascot we saw in a run for women. Only later did I learn the mascot's name: Tim. MIT backwards. They're a clever bunch, those MIT whiz kids.)
Memorial Drive is always the toughest part of the Run to Home Base for me. You'd think that the view of the Boston skyline, that beloved stretch of "dirty watah" known as the Charles River, and the buildings of MIT would be enough to keep my mind occupied during the Memorial Drive segment, but...no. Regardless of what is playing on my iPod or how lovely the changing leaves are on the trees in October, Memorial Drive always feels like a long trudge. A hairpin turn before Longfellow Bridge provided short relief and sent us back up Memorial in the opposite direction. The short tunnel under the overpass provides entertainment as those who are standing on the overpass cheer us (even if they require a "How about a 'Woot' here?" cajoling from Gingah), as did the MIT mascot, Tim the Beaver. (I chuckled at the naughty humor of a beaver being the only mascot we saw in a run for women. Only later did I learn the mascot's name: Tim. MIT backwards. They're a clever bunch, those MIT whiz kids.)
During the Cambridge segment, I passed a few women from time to time who were wearing 36-year T-shirts, indicating they'd run the race every year, dating back to 1977 when what was then known as the Bonne Bell Mini Marathon expected 200 runners but drew more than ten times that. (Despite the "mini marathon' moniker, it was still a 10K, since half marathons for women were all but unheard of at that time). Every time I passed someone in a "36" shirt, I'd say, "Congratulations! Here's the 36 more!" Thankfully, not one of them ever said, "Oh, dear God, NO!"
We neared the DeWolfe Boat House for the final turn in Cambridge and one last stretch of running on Memorial Drive back toward Harvard Bridge. I'd worn my two-bottle Fuel Belt just in case, but I made sure to hit every fluid station. (Better to skip one of the later ones and finish with water left in my bottles that to run dry like I did at Surftown). I only needed to take a few sips from the Fuel Belt when I ate a GU about a quarter mile past the halfway point of the race. I'd also muscled the GU packet a bit and ended up with Lemon Sublime GU on the fingers of my left hand. Thankfully, there are no race photos of me licking my fingers. It did, however, bug me for the rest of the race that my left hand was sticky. Euw. So now you know what was occupying my brain for the overwhelming remainder of the race: An endless mental chatter of YUCKMYFINGERSARESTICKY multiplied by, oh, damn near infinity.
There were a few times during the race when my brain got a little too bored and suggested I try walking. As usual, I did a quick body inventory: Since nothing hurt and everything was still functioning, I told my brain to STFU and run. As I turned back onto the Harvard Bridge, crossed over the Charles and returned to Back Bay and was still running, I knew I could run the full distance. I didn't dare check my Nike+ watch for fear of a jinx-inducing glance at my pace. Based on the mile clocks alone (and not even taking into consideration that it took us several minutes just to get to the start line), I knew I was on pace to beat my 90-minute goal, but had no idea by how much. I just tried to relax into the run.
The turn onto Commonwealth Avenue brought back the relief of Back Bay's predictable cross streets (in reverse this time) and the most creative fluid station of the race: men in tuxedos on the right side of the street in front of Victorian-era brownstones offering Dixie cups of water. I gladly took one even though I still had plenty of water in my Fuel Belt. Of course, handsome men in tuxedos also took my mind off the GU on my left hand...which means I forgot to use any of the water in the Dixie cup to rinse my hand. Oy.
We finally turned onto Arlington and the western end of the Public Garden. The last half mile of the race seemed to take forever to pass by, but Arlington meant just two streets over to Boylston and then one block on Boylston to Charles. As I turned onto Charles Street, I could feel a huge smile form as I saw the finish line in the distance at the other end. As I drew closer, I saw the clock. On gun time alone, I was going to PR big-time. I still refused to look at my Nike+ watch, which I'd started as I crossed the start line. (As it happens, I always forget to turn it off as soon as I cross the finish line. When I'm lucky, I remember to turn it off within a minute or so of finishing.) When I finally remembered to turn it off, it read 1:22:00. (My official race time was 1:21:22.) I'd not only PR'd, I'd blown my previous PR right out of the water.
And then came the best moment of the race: Not only did I run the full distance. (YAY!) Not only did I PR. (DOUBLE YAY!) There, at the finish line, congratulating runners as they crossed, was my running idol, Joan Benoit Samuelson, winner of the 1984 Olympic Women's Marathon (the first Olympic women's marathon) and someone I'd had the pleasure of briefly meeting in Albany for the screening of the documentary There Is No Finish Line. (The link takes you to the trailer; the entire film is only 48 minutes long, but it inspiring and filled with surprise moments of humor.) She shook my hand and I said, "I doubt you remember me, but I met you in Albany before my first half marathon at Surftown!" She smiled and nodded and kept saying, "Yes! Congratulations!" And I thought, I don't care if you're lying through your teeth, I love you for it anyway! She was, as always, incredibly gracious. It wasn't until after the race that I found out she had run the race, finished in 38 minutes and change, and then stayed at the finish line until the rest of the runners crossed, congratulating as many of them as possible. Her initials may be JBS, but in my book, she's Class with a capital C.
And once again, Lola was there to capture another wonderful moment on video. (This is why I don't mind at all when she starts pulling away from me, as did back on Beacon Street before we even got to Mass Ave: she's there at the finish line, iPhone in hand. God love her!) For the record, although it looks like a run-by mugging and attempted kidnapping, Joanie let go of my hand last:
It wasn't until I saw the video, as Lola and I copped a squat on a piece of cardboard on the wet grass of Boston Common (our own version of Occupy Boston), that I realized she had given JBS a heads-up about the approaching redhead, as you can hear early in the video.
Once we were able to stand up again and headed our separate ways toward our cars, Lola turned back to me and said, "Two weeks to Myrtle!" If I hadn't been so high on endorphins, I would have shit a brick. (And I believe my verbal response was similar to such an emission.) But given the moment and all that had transpired that morning, instead I thought, Bring it!
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