Please put that directly atop the List of Things I Never Thought I'd Type. (Probably also somewhere on the List of Things I Have No Business Typing.)
But I did it. All of it.
I actually have no idea how to process this accomplishment. I mean, I trained outside for months in weather I would otherwise choose to avoid. I became stronger and more confident than I knew I could be. I tackled injuries for the first time and learned what it meant to suffer. (It sucks.) I logged hundreds of miles and saw my city from an entirely new perspective: from my running shoes. I loved training. I hated training. I called my friends and cried to them about how my foot hurt and how I didn't want to run but felt obligated to run and felt like this whole dream of running a marathon was stupid and I would never be able to do it but I really, really want to do it but I just couldn't. And, because they are good friends, they listened to my run-on babbling and then kindly told me to shut the fuck up and go running. And then I loved training again. The whole process was exhausting.
I must have reminded myself to enjoy the run at least one million times since I started training in November. Those three words became my marathon mantra. Enjoy the run. It occurred to me sometime in one of my first long runs that, while running a lot of miles is challenging and can often lead to some discomfort, it's something I was choosing to do. I am fortunate enough to have the ability to choose to run. My legs work. I have legs. Although I don't know this for sure, I'd be willing to bet someone confined to a wheelchair would give a lot to have the ability to choose to run. And I had that choice. I still do. Regardless of whether my foot was in pain or whether the temperature was in the teens, I could choose to run. I vowed not to forget that. Enjoy the run. Sometimes I needed to say it once. Come March, I would spend miles repeating that phrase in my head, trying to essentially trick my body into doing something it was not actually enjoying at the moment.
When it came time to finally run the Boston Marathon, I wasn't convinced my mantra would be enough to carry me from Hopkinton to Boylston Street. Because of my aching heel, I hadn't run a lot in about three weeks. People kept saying I was just tapering, but I wasn't buying it. I wasn't actually tapering, I was hurt. I was also scared shit-less. Even while waiting at the Athletes' Village in Hopkinton, I felt helpless. There were over 26 miles separating me from a goal for which I had been preparing for months and I wasn't even sure I could make it. I wondered if my students would think less of me if I bailed somewhere in the middle of the marathon. I thought they might.
I remember pensively walking up to the starting line of the marathon with my friend, James. We strolled and chatted and nibbled on various energy chews. I don't normally require additional caffeine, but I figured anything would help that day. James reminded me to start my GPS watch so it would be ready by the time I reached the starting line. After a few minutes, both of our GPS watches beeped at the same time, indicating they had a signal and were ready to go. "Looks like we're on the same cycle," I joked.
James chuckled. "Yeah, that happens when you spend a lot of time together."
That was the moment I knew I was going to finish the Boston Marathon.
I was en route to the starting line of one of the most prestigious races in the entire world and I was cracking (co-cracking, really) borderline inappropriate menstruation jokes. This is my comfort zone, folks. That one joke put me in check in a sense; it righted my ship that, for two months, had been derailed by extraneous annoyances and negativity. I had become so wrapped up in the idea of achieving personal goals and pushing through pain that I'd forgotten why I decided to run the Boston Marathon in the first place: to have fun. Nothing about running in both March and April was fun. I hurt, it was cold and I felt overwhelmed by the emotional gravity of this particular race. That one lame joke magically alleviated any stress or worry I had about the day or about the marathon. I remember looking around at all the other runners and thinking to myself I am at the starting line of the Boston fucking Marathon and am about to embark on a 26 mile block party. This is going to be awesome.
I remember saying good bye and good luck to James and then starting to run. I could feel my heel with every step I took, but I wasn't worried, really. Enjoy the run. I rationalized that I could literally run myself into the ground that day; I could dislocate every joint and rupture every tendon in my body because tomorrow? Tomorrow I didn't have anything for which I was training. Today was what mattered. So I kept running, just sort of trotting along by myself, taking in the sights along the race course and secretly looking for the hottest male runner who was running the same pace as I was. (What? Is that wrong?) I never found him. Sigh. I did, however, find a tween-aged girl screaming my name at the top of her lungs somewhere around the Mile 2 marker. (Side note: my name was on my race shirt.) I awkwardly smiled at her to silently express gratitude for her somewhat off-putting enthusiasm. Right before I passed her, she bounced uncontrollably and yelled at me, "Alissa! That's my name, too. We have the same name!!!!" I ran over to her and gave her a huge hug. Let the games begin, I thought.
The great part about having your name on your shirt is that literally hundreds of random strangers will shout personalized words of encouragement your way. (Some will go as far as to tell you how fab you look even though you're in the middle of running a marathon. Pretty sure that's the best-timed flattery, like, ever.) After hugging the other half of Team Alissa at Mile 2, I made the conscious decision to somehow thank everyone who screamed my name in an effort to will me toward the finish line. Maybe it's ridiculous, but I could not believe someone, let alone hundreds of someones, would take time and energy out of their day to send me love, all because I decided to run 26 miles. It's overwhelming. I felt obligated to thank them all. I figured high-fiving everyone who said, "Go Alissa!" would be too germy and would potentially slow me down. After no thought whatsoever, I decided I would flash the hang ten hand symbol to my cheerleaders. To each and every one of them. I knew the hang ten hand represented staying loose and enjoying the moment, which seemed more than apropos given my hedonistic approach to the race. So I ran and, each time I heard someone cheer my name, I curled in my middle three fingers on each hand and rotated my wrists, hoping to reciprocate the positive energy sent my way. Because of the name on my shirt and the nearly one million screaming fans along the course that day, my arms were pretty tired by Mile 20. These are good problems I reminded myself and continued with the hang ten hands for the remaining six miles.
I passed Doug Flutie somewhere in Wellesley. He was unnaturally tan and was wearing American flag board shorts better suited for a frat boy than for a middle aged former quarterback. Much like the Dropkick Murphys or any Wahlberg brother (excluding Mark), Flutie is one of those Boston-only celebrities. Pretty sure no one beyond the 495 loop gives a rat's ass about Doug Flutie, but you wouldn't know that if you were running near him during the Boston Marathon. Flutie was God on Marathon Monday. People shouted uncontrollably for him and nearly knocked over barriers hoping to get a high five from the former BC golden boy. It was a little crazy, but I'm glad Flutie extended his 15 minutes of fame for at least another 26.2 miles. He seemed to be really enjoying himself.
Because of the relatively warm weather, I kept dumping water from the seemingly countless hydration stations on me. Doing this every other mile or so kept me at the perfect running temperature and, consequently, never made me feel like I was over-exerting myself. Sure, it was kind of annoying that my wet shirt and shorts were sticking to me, but whatever. It's not like I was trying to win a beauty pageant or anything, right? (I probably would have been more concerned about this had I found the hottie with a similar pace.) I remember entering the 17 mile marker and looking down to make sure my damp shorts hadn't rode up my legs enough to make me look both foolish and skanky. They hadn't. What I did notice, however, was that I could see the fleshy color of my legs through my mostly white and then-wet running shorts. Fuck. If you could see my legs through the front of my wet shorts, I assumed it was the same in the gluteal region, too. Fuuuuuuck. Had I really been giving the Metro West suburbs a free booty show for the past 17 miles? You bet'cha. So much for not looking foolish and skanky. I was understandably embarrassed about this for a bit. Then, the man running next to me scooted to the side of the road and puked his brains out. At least I wasn't that guy. (And, Boston? You're welcome for 26 miles of dat ass.)
I remember running up a big hill and thinking I was ready to be done running up big hills. Like immediately. Despite James' thorough instruction, I forgot how many hills there were in Newton. I had no idea if I was on Heartbreak Hill at that moment, but I did remember Heartbreak was the last major incline of the race. (See, James! I do listen when you tell me things about marathons! Well, some of the things.) I decided to ask a police officer my whereabouts:
Me: Officer, is this Heartbreak Hill?
Officer: (Looks down, shakes his head and laughs.) Yes. This is Heartbreak Hill and you're almost to the top of it.
Me: (Gazes into the distance and sees many signs proclaiming "You're at the top of Heartbreak Hill!".) Oh. I guess I am. Um... thanks.
I gave that officer a high five. In fact, I high fived most of the law enforcement officials for the rest of the marathon. I thought about the array of emotions they must have felt that morning when they got dressed to go to work. You know, when they were preparing to work an event that, last year, ended when two bombs exploded on Boylston Street. Were the officers scared? Worried? Did they give their kids extra big hugs before they left the house? I hated how I even had to consider those questions. I still hate it.
I am the ultimate silver lining-seeker. I have the special, if not unfortunate, ability to smile and laugh my way through anything. What that really means is I have no ability to process and handle significant emotions. I just giggle my way through moments when I should be serious; moments from which I should be learning. And for most of the Boston Marathon, that's exactly what I did: I ignored the significance of the day, ran my race and enjoyed every step of it. I saw my friend, Annette, and her wonderful son, Draylin, at the Mile 22 point. Out of all the signs and all the people crowded in Cleveland Circle, I saw Draylin from about half a block away. I sprinted toward my little buddy and hugged him as tightly as I could. Although I had avoided dealing with the feelings from the marathon until that point, they were unavoidable once I embraced Draylin. I tried really hard not to cry. It wasn't easy, but I was pretty dehydrated by that point, so that helped. Seeing my tiny friend reminded me the Boston Marathon is not about me. It never was about me. That day, that race was all about the people lining the course. It was about the locals in the Boston Strong t-shirts who, for reasons I don't totally understand, felt like this race was some sort of Phoenix-rising-from-the-ashes moment. It was about kids like Draylin who dutifully made signs with their parents and then baked in the April sunshine waiting patiently for the five seconds where they would see their favorite runner trot past. Maybe most significantly, the race was both about and for the people who needed closure from the chaos of last year. The more I ran, the more I realized the Boston Marathon was merely an event around which over a million very confused people could rally. In a sense, I was like an extra on the world's largest movie set. I was ok with this.
I saw my cousin, my students and even my lawyer as I ambled toward Boylston Street. I shouted "Let's go, Boston!" to the crowd and flailed my arms in their direction as I turned from Hereford onto Boylston. I was obnoxious. I didn't care. I was about to finish the Boston Marathon, which until about four hours prior, was something I didn't think I was going to be able to do. But then I did it. Holy shitballs I did it. Almost immediately after crossing the finish line, I saw Caroline, the organizer of our Tenacity marathon team. She asked me about the race and I and peppered my immediate reflections with a bunch of f-bombs. I forgot her husband was getting that all on video. My bad. I walked pretty gingerly away from the finish line and toward Arlington Street where I knew my dad was waiting. I remember looking up at the tall buildings and thinking how comforting and familiar they were in that moment. I grabbed one of the protein recovery drinks a volunteer offered to me. I remembered how much I hated protein drinks. I wanted to find my dad.
I'm lucky. Not only did I run the entire 2014 Boston Marathon, but I spent the remainder of Marathon Monday laughing and celebrating with my dad and with a collection of people I am so thankful to have as friends. There was a moment after the race where the whole group of us were relaxing and enjoying some beers on perhaps the most baller rooftop deck in all of Boston. (Just in case the day wasn't badass enough, there was a penthouse overlooking the Commons thrown in the mix. I can't.) My dad and I were standing off to the side, looking out at the city's skyline. "It's hard to believe all this," my dad began. "In the past two months, my son got a first ascent in the Argentinian Patagonia, my daughter just ran the Boston Marathon and Union College won a national friggin championship." (The Ferro family loves us some Union College hockey.) He shook his head in disbelief.
"And don't forget you retired, too," I reminded him.
"Whoa."
For me, running the 2014 Boston Marathon sort of comes down to what my dad observed: life is good. In a few weeks, I'll start to forget exactly what happened on race day. The details will blur and the excitement from the event will have faded. The world will keep spinning, just as it always has. And life will still be good. I'll still have my family, my friends, my city and the ability to choose to run. I'm sure I'll find some new goal to tackle and I'll dive right into that. Because I can. Because life is more than good. It's pretty fucking awesome, actually.
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| Baller roof deck. The greatest friends and father on the planet. Finisher medal. Post-run Sam Adams. Oh... and a crown. (Obvs.) I may not have won the Boston Marathon, but I totally won Marathon Monday. |
