Running Shorts

I blacked out for just a second. The sudden stop after hours of racing drained all the blood from my head. When I come to, I am being held up by a race official. I am also crying -- or, at least, tears are dripping down my cheeks -- and I don’t know why. Relief at finally being done with this goddamn race? Joy over racing faster and placing better than I ever thought possible? Disappointment about coming so close and then blowing it? All I know right now is that fatigue is just an emotional response to stress, and after 26.2 miles of racing and pacing and surging and slowing and blisters and puking, the fatigue is unbearable. “I’m sorry,” I say, on repeat. “I’m sorry.” To the official holding me up. To anyone around me. To no one in particular. To myself. I don’t any have any other words. “First American!” A disembodied voice around me shouts. “Who is it?” “I-- I don’t know… Not one of our elites!” “Well, someone look up his bib number!” “Pour some water over t

No one warned me about Hereford! Where the hell did this hill come from?! Screw Newton, this is the toughest climb on the course. Suddenly, the spectators are packed from the buildings to the fencing. I can see how the crush of fans could have suffocated races back in the ‘70s. I kind of wish it was still like that. But it can be still like that. An amateur can win today. I am about halfway up the block when the two leaders, paced by the media van and flanked by motorcycles, make the 90 degree turn and disappear from view. Pump your arms, drive your knees, quick turnover. There were a few times in college when the final kick saved my ass in a race. I was never a naturally fast-twitch guy, but my senior year I made the commitment to put a lot of effort into pure speed training, and it paid off. I could summon near-top speed on the last lap of any race, including on the 25th lap of the 10,000m. If there was ever a time to bring forth an unreal finishing kick, now

For the first time in who-knows-how-long, the endless song chorus in my head finally ends. A simple refrain takes its place: Last mile, fast mile. Say it again. Last mile, fast mile. Gold Singlet is coming back to me. No. That’s too passive. I am chasing him down. Since Heartbreak Hill, my legs have been dictating my race while my head hangs on to the ragged edge of sanity. They have just kept churning, churning, programmed by hundreds of miles per week and thousands of miles per year. They move on muscle memory alone, independent of conscious control. But now, I need them to go faster and they don’t want to comply. Any change of pace, either faster or slower, is difficult. They are numb; they don’t listen to the central governor. Last mile, fast mile. Passing under the shadow of Fenway Park, baseball fans on top of the Green Monster cheer for us runners. At this point, soaked in an unholy combination of water and sweat and Gatorade and blood, most of m

The biggest day I had during my training was 25 miles. A 13 mile workout in the morning, and then a 12 mile workout in the afternoon. I stole this from Italian coach Renato Canova. From what I could understand, it is called a ‘block’ workout and is the closest thing to simulating an actual marathon. My morning workout consisted of a two-mile warmup, followed by five miles at a steady pace (for me, one month before Boston, I ran 5:28 pace) and then five more miles at marathon pace: about 5:05. Close it off with an easy one mile cooldown, and the day was half over. Not too bad of a workout. I mean, it wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t exactly mind-blowingly difficult, either. Solid. I’d just call it solid. For the rest of the day I mostly just lolled around. Watched the opening round of March Madness on, mourning the early death of my bracket. Of course, my alma mater was a small enough school that they never qualified for the tourney, so I had to adopt a rooting interest. Maybe th

Who even knows what matters anymore? The entire concept of road racing is an absurdity. “Hey, let’s close down the street around town while a bunch of scantily-clad amateurs parade around. They’ll find this absolutely fascinating , and they’ll each pay hundreds of dollars just for the opportunity to subject themselves to needless suffering. Oh, and even more people will marvel at the spectacle and they’ll show up to watch people run by. A two-plus-hour race to see someone for 30 whole seconds! “And next year, we can do it all over again! We’ll make a killing!” What the hell am I doing out here? Each stride is a contradiction between sharp pain and utter numbness. The blister on my right foot are completely drowning out my entire left leg. One I am painfully aware of; the other exists outside of my consciousness. I can’t tell if I’m limping because I am feeling too much pain or not enough. Don’t slow down / Don’t slow down. There it is again. It’s a never ending