The twelfth mile starts innocently enough. The road, a two-lane highway bordered by woods, is quiet. All I can hear are staccato strides and short breaths. No one in the field really seems like they are truly exerting themselves yet. Myself excluded.
As we crest a small rise, I can sense spectators again. Actually, I hear them before I see them.
We’re entering the famous Wellesley scream tunnel.
All of a sudden what used to be a pack of runners is now a line. Kelley and his companion extend their lead and, in doing so, string out the field. He’s a good enough runner -- and well-known enough -- that no one else will let him build up a lead gap. At least not this late into the race.
Now we’re racing, and here I am left at the back just managing to hang on. This is a noticeable change of pace on a not-yet-noticeable decline.
The Wellesley mile is so famous that I had been told about it by people who had never run Boston before.
***
“A girl from my high school went to Wellesley,” Amelia said over lunch in the teacher’s lounge a week before race day. “I’ve seen her posts on facebook, it must be so exciting.”
“I’ve heard some of the stories; people stopping for kisses, selfies, all that stuff. That’s mostly exaggeration, isn’t it?”
“No! It really is that insane! She shared a video one year where people from her dorm were flashing runners as they passed. Facebook took it down, of course.”
“How did you find out about it if facebook removed the video?”
“She posted it on Snapchat the next day.”
We paused for a bite of food.
“But seriously,” she continued, “I think the Wellesley scream tunnel is the best crowd in all of sports. I’m biased towards running, of course, but I can’t think of anything else that is so consistently loud, year-in and year-out, over such a long time frame. Those stories about marathoners kissing Wellesley girls are absolutely true. More so for the back-of-the-packers, not so much the front runners.”
“You’re getting me hyped up when I should be tapering and relaxing!”
“Good! You should be hyped! You’re going to have an awesome race at Boston. Regardless of how you finish, you can at least enjoy the Wellesley mile. I’m disappointed I won’t be there to watch you race. I’d be partying it up with the undergrads.”
“I’ll make sure to give some high-fives as I pass. I remember watching Ryan Hall do it the year he ran crazy-fast. It looked like he was have so much fun.”
“Yes! Do it! Have fun! Enjoy the race!” She was mostly standing up now, her hands supporting her as she leaned over the table. “Running sucks so much, you know? Workouts suck, being out in the crappiest weather sucks, running in the dark sucks; and that all builds toward a race that sucks. Because even if your race itself goes well, it still hurts and is just a generally all-around unpleasant experience. And then after you finish, your reward is the poop gut and the same crappy medal that everyone else gets for just finishing. But you do it because it’s the suck that reminds you of your purpose. So few people have the gift to be a great runner, and even fewer have the courage to see it through because doing so requires suffering. Self-imposed suffering, at that! You have to be a little bit of a masochist to be a great distance runner -- whatever ‘great’ is, anyway. There is a sense of purpose, of pride, of nobility in chasing that greatness, especially since we can quantify it by the unyielding hands of time in a way that no other sport can! It’s people like the Wellesley girls that make it worthwhile to embrace the suck.”
She paused a moment to catch her breath.
“I miss it, Eliot, I really do. Don’t get me wrong, I love coaching; it’s just not the same as actually being out there kicking ass.”
“You can always live vicariously through me, you know.”
“Believe me, I am. We can all tell I’m clearly invested in your performance, so don’t screw it up.”
We both laughed. The bell rang; lunch was over.
“Shit, I’m late,” she said, striding towards the door. “Wellesley will be awesome. Just don’t kiss any of the girls.”
***
I thought I knew what to expect out of the scream tunnel, but racing through it today blows my mind. I’ve never heard spectators cheer this loud for runners. I’ve certainly been on the cheering side of a cacophony, but never have I been on the receiving side.
It really is incredible.
I think of Amelia and extend my hand to high-five the crowd. It is electric. I’m not the only competitor doing so, either. Kelley leads the charge, and the other American athletes follow suit. The internationals? Not so much. Boston’s tradition means more to us than it does to them.
What makes Wellesley even better is that we are bombing downhill. With the extra push of the scream tunnel and extra pull of gravity, the pack continues to spread out. There has been a noticeable change in pace, and I don’t know if I can hang with it. I don’t belong with these runners. I don’t belong in the lead pack. I don’t belong on the television broadcast. I’m a no-name, never-qualified-for-NCAA, random runner from podunk Kansas. What the hell am --
No. No negative thoughts. Use the Wellesley motivation to embrace the suck. Quicken your turnover, shorten your stride, and lean into the uphill coming out of Wellesley. Close that gap back to the front.
This is the toughest mile of the race so far, and it is one of the fastest, too -- 4:59!
**********
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