Love/Hate this day

In case you’re not in Eastern Mass. today or otherwise living under a rock, it’s Patriots Day and time for the annual Boston Marathon.

Lots of people and most schools have a vacation day. I don’t, but that’s not why I dread this day.

Roads are closed and cops brought in from other parts of the state are complete Nazis about not allowing people to move within a 1/2 mile or so of the race route. I hate that, but that’s not my main issue with this day.

I love that everyone around here has some connection with the race: they’re volunteering, hosting a runner, or have a neighbor who’s participating. It’s a huge deal.  I drove through Natick this morning and saw people setting up bleachers in their front yards, the usual “Shortcut!” sign, hand-lettered posters in every telephone pole, grills in the driveways, and all sorts of gimmicks. Everyone gets into it.

I grew up on the 1 mile mark. The race was always the first REAL day of spring, the first cookout, the first gathering of neighbors without shovels. The pounding of thousands of feet on marathon day felt like a heartbeat to me.

The beat grew stronger as I grew. In my late teens, I was a frequent runner, and of course people always asked if I planned to do the marathon someday. It was hard to answer either way: I thought myself a serious runner, which meant I’d have to run it, yet I couldn’t grasp what running 26 miles would require in terms of training.

I was finally ready in 2003. I’d trained all winter, suffered bronchitis and pleurisy, and told myself I didn’t really have to do it. But I knew I would. It had taken a lot of dedication to do all of the training necessary, and anyone with a kid knows that putting the necessary time in for something other than work and parenting takes huge effort and tons of compromises. Just getting to the starting line was like running a marathon of self-doubt and regret every day.

You’ve heard how Boston has some hills to overcome? Running past the street where I grew up was just the beginning of the emotional rollercoaster that day. The neighbors who waved to me as a teen were cheering loudly, and my kids were there too. It was as though my feet weren’t touching the ground for the first 8 miles or so as I cruised past familiar landscape. At 10 miles, I looked at my watch and was amazed at how fast I was running. Sure, the elite runners were already in Boston, but I didn’t care: 10 miles in 90 minutes was pretty damned good for me. The best part was, there were still people behind me!

At 15 miles my knees started to revolt. They’d never given me trouble before, but that day they felt like rocks rubbing together. I started to run/walk between water stations to ease the pain. I’d tell myself I could quit at any time, but then my husband and kids would appear around the next bend and I’d find the stamina to keep going. The other runners also kept my head in the game. We chatted a bit, enjoyed the spectators, offered one another unexpected courtesies. Then a guy ran up beside me, spun around and fell flat on his back. The reality of the race hit me: not everyone is equipped to endure this. I wondered again if I really could finish.

The sound of metal rakes scraping pavement will forever remind me of the race. That’s because I was so far back by the time we hit Newton that they were cleaning up the cups at the water stops by raking them off the pavement. On Comm Ave between BC and BU a new issue arose: avoiding drunk students who’d enjoyed a day off school and were stumbling among the stragglers like me. Not a proud tradition, folks.

That’s where I met the guy from Texas who was doing his 50th marathon. His last, he said, because there was no cartilage left in his knees. That was a sobering thought. We were both shuffling at that point, just trying to imagine finishing.

Around Kenmore Square the noise picked up again, and there were still (!!) people standing three deep, cheering at the top of their lungs. I mean, the race had started 5 hours before. The best runners were done 2.5 hours ago. What were these people still doing there? I wondered. Their voices carried me, dulling the pain in my knees. I was actually running again. I rounded the corner onto Boylston Street and was elated to see the finish line in the distance.

It hit me: I’d covered the miles. It wasn’t pretty, and I still don’t use the word “race” – I say I “ran” it -- but I did a marathon. THE marathon, the one that had been sitting on my shoulder through my fat years, the times I tried to run in Texas and people thought I was nutty so they’d offer me rides, the years I’d run at 10pm in a gym because I had to wait for my husband to get home from work. It took me about 5 hours to get there, but I DID.

Today’s the anniversary of that accomplishment, which I love. But it’s been 6 years. My knees aren’t getting any better, and it’s taking forever to subdue urge to run. Realistically, I’ll never do it again. So when the race comes to town, it’s agonizing, like an addict walking past a liquor store. That is painful.

But I love the event. There were people sitting out in lawnchairs along the road at 8am this morning, hours before any runners lined up. There were reverse runners on their way to Hopkinton from Boston, people so tough that they’ll just get to the starting line, turn around and go back to Boston. There were soldiers in full BDUs, boots and packs passing a chubby baby-faced cop. There was a replica of the Zakim bridge in somebody’s yard (OK, it’s just part of the pageantry)... and I’m sure there were runners in tutus, tuxedoes, Superman outfits and bright orange fake afros. Somebody will stop to get married along the way. People will cheer on the blind runners, the Hoyts, the woman from Canada with an inoperable brain tumor. And they’ll hobble across the line until it’s dark. That’s what I love.