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 is the time. A quarter mile left, or one lap of the track. Bell lap.
… Left onto Boylston.
Holy shit that’s a long straight! A blue and yellow banner beckons at the end of a long tunnel of high rises and loud spectators. It’s not getting any closer.
After 26 miles of running at a fairly steady pace, shifting gears to something faster is a monumental task. I am working harder, but I don’t know if I am getting any faster.
Stop focusing on the finish line, you still have a race to commit to.
The media van and motorcycles peel off. It’s just us three, all alone in a sea of spectators on the homestretch. The first survivors of the first wave on this unholy Patriot’s Day.
Heat waves radiate off the tarmac, blurring my vision. Or maybe it is my dehydration and impending glycogen depletion responsible for that.
But I am closing the gap.
A slight separation exists between the two leaders, about two dashed lane lines mark the distinction between first and second place. Another five back to third.
They have been running faster than me for most of the race, but now, in the final stretch, when it actually counts, I am running faster.
Four lane lines to second. The finish doesn’t feel any closer.
After 26 mile, point-two more should feel like nothing. But run it in a straight line when it is all that’s left, and it actually feels like everything.
Three lane lines to second. Five to first.
“Get ‘em, Eliot! Win it!”
A simple, sharp command stands out among the cacophony. That was definitely Amelia!
I can’t look for her, though; my gaze has to be locked on the two guys in front of me. The more I focus on the back of jersey number two, the more the crowd fades from my peripheral vision. They don’t exist anymore. All that matters are the three of us.
Now the finish line finally looks closer. Instinct takes over and I surge.
Two lane line to second. Then one.
And we’re even.
He glances at me and our eyes lock. I see fear in his look. I don’t know what he sees in mine. His gaze wanders to my blood-covered shoe.
Competition takes over, and all of a sudden we are both tearing down Boylston, kicking down first place. I can’t think straight anymore; hell, I can barely run straight anymore. I’m in full-on fight or flight mode.
We draw even with the leader. For the first time, the finish line itself, permanently painted onto the street, comes into view. It’s tangible; this is it.
The three tattered survivors, what is left of an historically bad weather day for the marathon, racing three abreast down the wide homestretch.
My knees knock. My arms swing wildly to maintain my balance.
I lose a half step. Then a full step.
I feel like I am sprinting all out. If I had any will left to fly faster, I would lean too far forward and my quads would give way. This really is it; I don’t have another gear.
I lose a second step.
I can read the clock now. It counts, “2:12:40… 2:12:41…”
Race officials stretch a banner across our path. One more surge. That’s all it takes.
I close my eyes and grit my teeth as spittle drips onto my chin. Between that, salt stains, soaked singlets, and a bloody shoe, I must make for a pathetic sight.
I open my eyes again just before crossing the line. I lean, doing my best to emulate a sprinter. Could you imagine if a marathon came down to a lean?
With my first step past the line, my right foot steps on the tatters of the finish banner. It leaves a red print, mirroring the tread of my shoe.
With my second step past the the line, my legs stop working. It’s finally over.
Everything goes black.
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