Just as I rejoin the leaders, one move off the front shatters everything.
As Kelley glances back over his left shoulder, so too does another competitor running off the right shoulder of the leader. That guy then taps the arm of the leader and says something terse.
The leader, one of the Kenyans racing in Nike’s grey singlet, glances over his right shoulder, his eyes seeming to lock onto mine. He puts his head down and shifts gears, quickly opening up a five and then ten meter gap over the rest of us.
Did I spook the contenders? Were they tipped off by the media pointing me out? Did the realization hit that they had been too complacent and were letting people back into the race?
Whatever the reason, this is the Move.
In mid- and long-distance racing, you only have one card to play. In energetic terms, most athletes only have the metabolic tools to make one distinct injection of pace during a race. When you throw down that card, you had better be able to sustain it to the finish. Usually, the winner of a distance race is the person who shows his hand last -- that is why you see so many competitions end up as a sit-and-kick affair: everyone is afraid to show their card early, so they wait, and wait, and wait; until one person gets too impatient and lets it fly.
A patient distance runner is a successful distance runner.
For the top contenders, this year’s Boston Marathon had obviously been a test of patience up until this point. Maybe they were afraid of the heat taking its toll -- and it has been a factor, to be sure, as evidenced by the number of people dropping off a relatively slow pace for them. Maybe they were just trying to wait as long as possible before charging to the finish.
That doesn’t matter anymore. For the six of us at the head of the race, the cards have been played, laid out on the table for all to see.
And I’m being left behind. Again.
The lead pack is left in tatters. These guys had all been pacing together for 21 miles, slowly dropping competitors since Wellesley. To that end, it had been in their best interests to work together, but now it’s every man for himself.
In a matter of 30 seconds, we are strung out in a single-file line. The media van accelerated to stay ahead of the Kenyan runner who made this move, while the two motorcycle cameramen bridge the gap.
Just behind the leader, his countryman who tapped his arm is close to making contact, racing just a few strides off his right shoulder. About 15 meters back, the lone Ethiopian left -- the man in the gold singlet -- labors in no-man’s-land. He tried to go with the surge, but he wasn’t able to sustain it. Now he is just holding on for dear life.
Not much farther behind him, Kelley and I run side-by-side on either side of the double yellow line. He hasn’t had a response to the Move. I was hoping I’d have some time in the pack before the Move came. We are both caught flat-footed.
I feel much like I did at this point in my first marathon: completely helpless. I know I shouldn’t think of other races right now, especially bad ones -- keep your head in the moment, I scold myself -- but I just can’t help it. This mile was where I first walked at the Olympic Trials.
My tank was totally empty at that point in the race. My pace had been steadily slowing for the previous ten miles, from race pace to steady pace to easy run pace and finally to jogging pace. I was fighting the mental demons for most of the 21st mile, an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other.
“Just keep running, it doesn’t matter how slow. You can just jog it out to the finish line. Simple.”
“No. Take a break. You’re not going to make the Olympic team anyway and the promise of a respectable finish time has come and gone, so just walk.”
I gave in.
First I walked through a water station. I started jogging again, but then I walked a little bit later again.
Once you give in, it’s impossible to take back.
Much of those last miles were spent with my hands on my hips, head down in utter defeat, walking through Central Park. At the time, that was my top speed; I couldn’t have run faster even if I had wanted to.
The worst part of it all was when one of my walk intervals took me past a police officer monitoring the course.
“Are you all right?” He asked, with a tone of abject pity in his voice.
“Yes.” I replied. It was all I could muster.
“Well, you’ve made it this far,” he tried to encourage me, “you might as well finish.”
God damn it. I hated him in that moment. But truthfully, I hated how right he was.
My tank ran empty that day, but I still managed to shuffle through the final mile without walking.
Do I have any more in the tank today? I don’t know. Two more miles down in my final four two-mile sections before the finish. Despite being dropped again, this mile still passes in 5:00.
I ask my legs for something, anything, but don’t get any response. Racing at this pace for almost two hours, and they are locked in. I can’t speed up at all.
Kelley starts to fade from my peripheral view. I make a circular motion with my right arm in an attempt to encourage him to stay up with me. I could use all the help I could get. I have trouble reading his response, but it seems to be something along the lines of, “who the hell is this kid and why can’t I stay with him?”
He is separated from me, a tiny physical gap giving way to a psychological chasm.
Well, you’re in the top five now, I tell myself. That’s something.
**********
Click here for the previous chapter: Mile 21
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