I am definitely in Newton now: despite a plummet into Newton Lower Falls about a mile ago, I have since done more climbing than descending, and it doesn’t look like that is going to let up any time soon. I just hope that my quads aren’t trashed from all the downhill running.
At the same time, the crowds are getting bigger and louder. Earlier on in the race, crowds support happened in pockets. Some of those pockets of crowds -- like in Wellesley, for example -- were some of the best in any venue, regardless of sport. But between those fans were long stretches of lonely silence, just me and my thoughts (especially after I had been dropped by the lead pack).
Now, though, Route 135 headed east is much more consistently lined with people. As hot as it is for us marathoners, it really is a great morning to be a spectator. This area seems much more residential than some of the more rural towns we ran through, so there are more fans out to cheer. Plus, the Newton hills are another one of the legendary features of the course, and it seems like the spectators are trying to will us up the hills.
At the same time, I am willing myself back to the leaders. It looks like it is still a fairly cohesive pack of about ten; I can’t tell who is leading though. For it to be this intact this late in the race tells me that no one has shown his cards yet. I’m sure most of the guys in the lead group group are hesitant on account of the heat.
As the road has flattened out, I am able to get into a decent rhythm and focus on bringing them back one stride at a time. No need to get it all at once this time.
They make the right turn at the firehouse, disappear from view, and I am on my own again.
Stay on it, I tell myself. Bring ‘em back. Bring it back, I repeat. Bring it back up.
Bring it up.
Oh no.
Something’s not sitting well.
***
Some people have an iron stomach when they run. They can pretty much eat anything at any time and then go run as hard or as far as they want and be totally fine.
I am the opposite. You know how they say not to swim within an hour of eating? Through years of trial and error, I’ve arrived at a strict time limit between eating and running: three hours. The only time that doesn’t apply is if I’m running first thing in the morning; then, I’ll scarf down a granola bar or cookie or some small snack before heading out the door. But for all other times, it’s gotta be a three hour window.
That said, I have only puked once because of running. I have had some absolutely miserable, torturous, almost-going-to-spew moments when I ate too close to a workout (especially when that meal was carry-out Chinese in college), but I have only gone over the edge that one time.
That time was my junior year in high school, cross country season, the qualifying race for the State Championship. Top 10 runners from my Region go on to State, plus qualifying teams. My team didn’t even qualify to Regionals, so I wasn’t going to State that way, and based on the way I had been running all season I had no business being anywhere near the top 10.
But it was an Indian summer, an unseasonably hot day in mid-October, and I was a stupid and ambitious high schooler. I went out hard and kept going hard. Two miles into a three-point-one mile race, I found myself in seventh place. Two-thirds of the way to State.
But then I started wobbling. My balance began to falter and I drifted from side-to-side on the course. My stride began to fall apart as well. My knees knocked (more than they normally do) and my heels scraped the opposite calf. I was locking up, and then my legs couldn’t support my weight any more.
I fell to my knees, rested for a few seconds, then got up and plugged along for a few strides.
But it happened again.
So I got up a second time, struggled through a few strides, and then collapsed for a third time.
I didn’t get up this time. Someone -- I don’t know who -- pulled me off the side of the course, presumably out of the way of all the athletes who were passing me.
On my hands and knees, out of the race and off the course, State dreams wiped out: that’s when I threw up.
I was severely dehydrated and not much came back up. But the worst thing about the whole ordeal -- worse than the acidic taste of bile, worse than failing to accomplish your season’s goal, worse than not even finishing the race -- was the look to abject pity on peoples’ faces. Seeing other people see me that way was just absolutely crushing. That’s what I remember about that day more than anything.
***
I have only been taking the nutrition and hydration that has been offered on the course so far. It had also been so cold this winter that I didn’t practice much with anything, either. Clearly, that was a mistake.
But Alberto Salazar won in ‘82 without taking in anything. Yeah, and it might have also ruined his career.
I start to wobble again, and my stride drifts off to the right of the road. That’s fine I suppose, since I’m turning right at the intersection anyway. I will just be cutting the corner closer than normal.
I try swallowing my spit and breathing out of my nose to keep it down, but that appears to have the opposite effect. I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold it back. The only question is: can I get it out while still running?
I dry heave once. I slow down.
I dry heave a second time. I slow down a little more.
I don’t dry heave a third time. I stop, hands on my knees, looking down at the curb. There’s gotta be a sewer grate somewhere around here, right?
Too late.
My legs wobble, my stomach clenches, and everything that I had taken in throughout the race evacuates itself onto the sidewalk. It is the same color as a highlighter -- lemon-lime, you might say.
The great thing about spectating a marathon is that you can get up and close and personal with the athletes. Seriously, in no other sporting event (besides maybe the Tour de France) can you basically reach out and touch the competitors.
Unfortunately, I don’t think these spectators were hoping to get quite that close today.
No time to think or to apologize, just turn and start running again. The firehouse turn is the most densely-packed part of the race since Wellesley, but I can’t even bear to look at the fans.
Don’t slow down.
I need to get back on pace; I lost a lot with that stop. Is it all in my head, or do I actually feel better having gotten that out of my system?
The Japanese runner hasn’t passed me, thank goodness, but I have been completely separated from the leaders. I can barely see them up ahead as I split a 5:14 seventeenth mile.
**********
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