The start of the Boston Marathon is insane. Not only is it the freakin’ Boston Marathon -- the everyman’s Olympics -- but Route 135 out of Hopkinton also drops almost 150 feet in the first mile (and about 300 over the first three!).
People are stupid, man. Everyone’s gotta have their Rocky moment, charging down the street feeling like they can take on the world. And with the sheer mass of generally competitive runners, that’s somewhat unavoidable...I mean, you are trying to beat all these people, after all, so you can’t let them get ahead!
Unfortunately, no one ever won a marathon in the first mile. But an untold number have certainly lost marathons then. Of course, that first mile doesn’t catch up to you until you have twenty more under your belt. But when it does -- and for most of us it will, it’s just a matter of when -- ohhh boy...your race is over. Thanks for playing.
It’s hard to start disciplined in any race, but that’s especially true in Boston. It doesn’t help that the masses begin literally one step behind the professionals. Those guys can run.
While we’re camping out at the high school, they’re relaxing in the local church, away from the conditions and the general hubbub of modern marathoning. But when they come out to do strides on the starting line, man, they look unreal. Totally natural, absolutely brilliant. Like they were born to do this (they probably were). Shaped by uncountable miles of training, not a single movement or muscle on their body is wasted.
Put them in regular street clothes and they look weak, flimsy, scrawny -- if you even notice them. Put them in a singlet and split shorts and they look downright ferocious. A scant 120 pounds of pure intimidation.
A few months ago I was hopeful I could claim a spot in the elite field. I’m not on the level of a full-scale professional runner, but I’m getting there. I was hopeful that the race organizers would see some competitive potential in me, but I think most of that fizzled in the final six miles of my first marathon. At the very least I was hoping they’d say, “You know what? This guy might be slower than the rest of the field, but running at the back of the pack he shouldn’t get in anyone’s way. It can’t hurt to have him in there, and you never know; he might pop off a great race.”
You have to be an eternal optimist to be a successful runner, in spite of all the feedback that tells you otherwise. I guess the Boston Athletic Association didn’t see me the way I did, so here I am huddled with the masses.
My last race in a college uniform had a similar feel. It was the 10,000m in the NCAA West Regional Final, the official “first round of the NCAA Championship.” Of course, everyone knew this wasn’t really NCAA Champs since it wasn’t in Eugene. It was Regionals -- a big deal, for sure, but most definitely not the Big Dance. No sugarcoating that.
I had actually graduated college three weeks before the race (I can’t believe that was almost a year ago). Listened to a speaker drone on calling names, walked across a stage, shook hands and smiled for a picture, and that was about it. I had a diploma and the past four years of my life were succinctly declared over. Not all that much pomp and circumstance, if you ask me.
Going into the race I came in with the 11th fastest seed time. Top 12 qualify on to Nationals.
Based on my fitness and previous results, I felt that if I stuck myself into the lead pack, then I’d have a shot at moving on. Coming from a small college and an even smaller high school -- neither of which could be considered a powerhouse in any sport -- I certainly didn’t have the pedigree of most of my competitors. But Regionals was going to be my statement, my breakthrough. My announcement to the insular running world that hey, Eliot Swift is someone to be reckoned with. Look out for him at this level and the next.
It didn’t happen.
Twenty-five laps around the track is a long way when it’s not your day. It’s even longer when you figure out early that you don’t have it. When I was struggling and then looked at the lap counter to see “21 to go,” I knew my NCAA dreams were over.
During my best 10,000m races on the track, I hadn’t looked at the lap counter until the final two miles, when the real racing began. During my worst ones, the numbers 21, 20, 19 taunted me with a tantalizingly far finish.
I honestly don’t really remember too much about that race. I went into it thinking I was in great shape, but clearly I wasn’t. I don’t know if I was physically overcooked from too long a season or emotionally drained from the end of an era; I suspect it was some combination of both. All I really remember was losing contact with that lead pack just after the first mile and then desperately trying not to be passed...and failing. I remember hearing my teammates cheering for me on the lonely backstretch and being completely ashamed that they came all this way just to see me shuffle with the stragglers.
I finished 32nd out of 44 finishers in a distinctly unremarkable time that I don’t even remember -- and I remember all my finishing times, back to my first 5k as a high school freshman on the cross country team (20:41). I walked off the track, college career over, completely broken, not even bothering to cool down. What the hell am I doing next?
Come on, Elliot. Don’t think about your bad days on the starting line. Usually you can relax in the opening mile of a long race, but here -- with the competition and elevation drop and everyone else starting like a bat-outta-hell -- you have to stay mentally present. You can turn your brain off after 5k, but for now you’ve gotta be smart.
The silence before the start of a race is bone-chilling. Tens of thousands of people, all waiting for one gunshot to pierce the morning. It’s the anticipation that kills you: anticipation of the pain, the misery, the abject suffering that you are about to willingly subject yourself to. You are bringing this upon yourself on your own volition, but is there still time to back out? At this point, performing hara-kiri seems more palatable. At least would be over quickly. One last deep breath -- eyes closed, lungs full -- to steel yourself for the descent into the void that’s about to come…
CRACK!
I was within arms reach of the professional runners...and I am no longer. How can they go out so fast for such a long race?!
As close as I am to the starting line, my acceleration is pretty smooth. Behind me, a wave of 10,000 is beginning to slowly stir, a mass stampede starting at a shuffle but gathering collective momentum. But in front of me -- all around me -- the race is on.
I can hang with these guys. Don’t get out too hard. You’re falling back already. Just relax, find the groove. Why am I in pain already?
Damnit, man, keep your head on. It’s more important this mile than perhaps any other.
Navigating an undulating mass of humanity and a fragile athlete’s psyche, the first mile seems a blur. Soon -- too soon -- I spot the clock off to the side of the road.
“4:59,” it reads as a pass.
Shit! Too fast! Cardinal sin.
I can see the pros settling into an organized pack about 100 meters ahead of me. And I can’t remember the last time I was surrounded by this many fellow competitors a mile into a road race.
It’s nice having the company, being reminded of why I’m here: running is just plain fun. Running fast even more so.
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