Race Report: Boston Marathon…the Aftermath

Thinking: Just be cool. Just stay upright. Avoid the wheelchair purveyors.
Thinking: Just be cool. Just stay upright. Avoid the wheelchair purveyors.

3:50:34. Not my best day. (Not my worst – right smack in the middle of my [admittedly short] marathon career.) Considering all the math I’d been doing over the last five miles working out whether I could turn in something in the 3:forties it’s frustrating to have been 35 seconds off the mark. In my Tuesday morning quarter-backing it’s hard not to think I could have made up that time over 26.2 miles but then again, as I crossed the finish line I had less than nothing left.

I was in too much pain anyway to bemoan my time; I needed to focus on putting one foot in front of the other convincingly enough to deflect the attention of the race officials waiting with wheelchairs and medical transport. This was not easy.

Those last few miles had wrung every drip of functionality out of my quads and glutes – on both sides – and my left foot felt like a gnarled claw in my sneaker. Affecting a limpless, forward-moving gate took all my concentration.

A few meters after we were handed our medals and space blankets through the fog of right-left-right-left-be cool I heard someone shouting my name. I scanned the crowd and found my friend Jill – actually little sis to a college bestie. She lives in Boston and had kindly come out to cheer me and the other crazies on. Seeing a friendly familiar face was an immediate boost and I hobbled over to give her what must have been a rancid hug.

She had been texting with my mama and directed me to go down another block to where my mommy would be waiting. She then promised she’d meet us back at the hotel since security in the area was tight and neither of us could cross the barricades over which we smellily embraced. I thanked her profusely for being there and telling me where to find momalach because in my state I hadn’t yet even attempted to work my phone or make sense of the many waiting text messages. We parted and I joined the sea of slow-moving Marathoners heading  east and away from the finish.

I made it about half a block and had to stop and try to stretch my seizing muscles. I awkwardly leaned against a piece of barricade and displayed my embarrassing lack of flexibility to the world. I must have looked truly pained because a police officer approached and asked if I was ok and if I needed a wheelchair. Oh no! They’ve caught me! I don’t know why, pride probably, but I was horrified by the idea of having to be wheeled out. I’ve never judged anyone who needs the post-race medical care but I was desperate not to be one of them. I told him I was fine just needed a little stretch before continuing. He looked skeptical but walked away. After that meet-not-cute I put a lid on the stretching and kept shuffling east.

When I got to the intersection where Jill told me I’d find my mom – a block from the finish line that had taken me about fifteen minutes to traverse – I couldn’t take being upright any longer. I found myself a patch of sidewalk and sat my ass down. Once grounded I finally pulled out my phone and texted my mommycakes to tell her where to find me, ironically using the SoulCycle I was sitting next to, (SC is the butt of many of my jokes and a source of much elitist cyclist disdain) as my landmark.

It only took her a minute or two to locate me – I made sure she knew to look down…even lower than usual – to find my face in the crowd. I assured her I could make it back to the hotel on my own two busted legs, but needed to sit at that moment. She waited patiently as I summoned the strength and will and equilibrium to stand. I rose slowly and piteously, wrapped my reflective blankie around my shoulders, and soldiered on. Slowly.

We made it another block before I had to sit again. I don’t usually do a separate post-race post-mortem like this but the pain I was in immediately following Boston was so beyond anything I’d ever experienced in this sport it feels like it merits attention. (As badly as I didn’t want to be wheeled away, I’m totally fine telling everyone now what a disaster I was. Go figure.) So two blocks from the finish and just one away from the hotel I sat again.

In the middle of all the pedestrian traffic on the dirty, city sidewalk. Mama stood over me and waited once more, unquestioning and without pushing me to just make it that last block. I appreciated her acceptance without objection that these pitstops were what I needed. I watched other tinfoil-cocooned athletes as they embraced friends and family and smiled and milled around as if their legs weren’t the obsolete pipe cleaners that mine had become. Their at least sort of functioning quads and glutes left me feeling a little ashamed of my apparent lack of preparedness for the course as I sat like a ripe lump in the middle of the hubbub.

Eventually I again willed myself to standing and mama and I made it the final block back to the Plaza Hotel.

Where I sat again. This time indoors, but still on the floor as the lobby was chaos. Jill was on her way to meet us so we waited for her before heading up to the room. I half expected hotel staff to tell me to get up off the ground, but no one bothered me and Jill arrived shortly. We headed up to the room where I finally got a good (terrible, nightmare-enducing) look at myself.

I had salted through everything, and the white mesh shirt I was wearing had gone brown around the middle because apparently my sweat has melanin in it.

One of my french braids had also come undone a few miles into the race and in the moment all I’d been able to do was shove that half of my hair into the rubber band still affixing the other braid. Now I could behold the birds nest dreadlock situation I’d created. It took almost two full travel-size bottles of conditioner to separate the clump.

Brown sweat and dreadlocks! (Maybe it's good Scott sat this one out!)
Brown sweat and dreadlocks! (Maybe it’s good Scott sat this one out!)

I worked that situation out while my mom collected another Boston friend, Anni, from the lobby. Anni, Jill, and mama waited as I scrubbed myself – being mindful of the chafing. (I won’t get specific about that.) I poured what was left of my legs into a lose, pajama-like romper, sans-undergarments, and waddled back out of the hotel to find food. (That romper is coming to all races from now on – I highly recommend having something that comfortable and non-binding on hand for when you’re done endurance sporting!)

I also recommend:

  • Staying at the Plaza or the closest place you can to the finish line – if you can financially swing it it’s worth the extra change to have a short walk home.
  • Knowing how to read an elevation chart.
  • Wine.

The Boston Marathon ended up being one of the most difficult race experiences I’ve had so far. That shouldn’t be a surprise, but the difficulty of the course (and the weather) caught me off guard. As I put some distance between myself and that day, I expected to become more disappointed with my finishing time, but I’m not. I feel fine about it – even about those 35 seconds. My glutes came back quickly, and my right quad eventually started speaking to me again – it took almost a month though! With those key muscle groups back in action I hope very much to return to Boston soon – shooting for 2019. I have big goals to get there and I think if and when I get to run up and down those 26.2 miles of hills again it will go better. Till then, lots of swim-bike-running to do, and the best news is that poor performance got my head back in the game and since then I’ve had a good season. More on that soon!

With Anni going commando in my chafe-saving romper on the way to wine and noms!
With Anni going commando in my chafe-saving romper on the way to wine and noms!