It’s a bit hard to put into words the magic of the Boston Marathon. How can you recap a race in which 26.2 miles of terrain are filled to the brim with cheers, screams, yells, amazing volunteers, medical staff, stampedes of runners, supportive spectators made up of friends, family, and those that might not have a horse in the race, but just want to participate in the electricity of the day?
I’m not sure when the goal to run Boston arrived. Like most things, I just blame Danny, my friend and brother, who really is the impetus for all this marathon running madness. The story goes, for those who might not know already, is that Danny ran his first marathon in San Francisco in 2018. I’m not really sure running a marathon ever entered my mind, but he was training for it and had visited my roommate Nate and I in New York and it was cool and inspiring to see how focused and dedicated he was while preparing for the race. Like most people, I had trouble wrapping my head around the distance. 26.2 wasn’t a number I was familiar with, nor had even come close to running at any other point in my life. I hadn’t run halves. I hadn’t really run much to begin with honestly, outside of a few bouts in college and to keep myself active while studying abroad. But I saw Danny run it and I told myself I had to do that, too. He gave me a training book that focused on a 12 week, 55 miles max training program and he also told me about a book called “Born to Run,” which followed the Tarahumara tribe and their long history of being some of the world’s most gifted long distance runners.
The next year, I ran the Brooklyn Marathon despite a horrible, extended counter with ITBS (Iliotibial Band Syndrome) that magically vanished the day of the race (which would be a theme for other races, as well). The performance was wonderfully undisciplined. Naturally, I got completely caught up in the adrenalin of my first marathon and came out way, way too quick. About half-way through I was completely gassed and the repeated laps in Prospect Park, despite being a beautiful day, felt like running a loop through hell. Nonetheless, the fire had been ignited. I ran it in 3:21:02 at an average pace of 7:40 per/mile. I knew I could have run it better, though. I started to wonder: had I not come out too strong and run a consistent race all the way through, what might my time have been? No less than a month later, Danny ran his second marathon in Seattle, which immediately spurred me to start looking for an opportunity to run my second one, too. It didn’t take long–I decided on registering for the NYC Marathon.
In retrospect, I do wonder what might have been had I run it in 2020 as planned, but as we all know the world and the pandemic had other ideas. I had returned to Seattle from New York at the end of March and needed an outlet since I was also out of a job. The free time made me irritable and I needed something that would exercise me physically and mentally. Not knowing that the pandemic would go on for as long as it did, I began to train and get my body ready for NYC. The expectation was that the pandemic and COVID-19 certainly wouldn’t last as long as November, which was when the NYC Marathon was slated to take place. I kept myself busy by running all over Seattle, particularly its many hills. I felt completely in form and ready to go, but alas, like most things that year, the marathon was canceled. Still, I knew that ultimately the marathon would happen, I just didn’t know when, so I kept going, kept training, kept staying ready. Sure enough, the next year I got word that the NYC Marathon was back on and I was more than excited to give it my best shot.
Yet, I’m not still not sure when the desire to shoot for Boston arose. I’m tempted to say it was Danny, once again, who introduced me to this guy named Nick Bare, a social media influencer of sorts, whose main forte was working out and accomplishing an extensive variety of fitness goals. His interest in marathon running sort of paralleled mine and I think it was Bare who mentioned this mystical time that was referred to as a “sub-3”, a Boston qualifier for my age bracket. So, there it was. NYC was in my sights and a new time objective…under 3 hours.
I’ve spoken on how incredible the NYC Marathon experience was before and I’ll always be happy to reiterate that it was one of the single best moments and events I’ve ever been a part of in my life. Pure magic in every way. Despite the fact that it was only at limited capacity due to COVID restrictions and other such factors (33,000 participants instead of 50), I still felt like I was running through a dream. A sea of runners through five boroughs with anyone and everyone cheering you on. I thought I had run a great race, but for one reason or another my body started to break down in the last 3-4 miles, forcing me to walk and sending my muscles into shut-down mode about a mile from the finish line. I managed to run the last little stretch, but didn’t achieve the time nor the goal that I thought I could reach. I finished with a time of 3:07:59 at an average pace of 7:10 per/mile, an immense improvement from the time before, but still not as good as I knew I was capable of.
Next in the journey was Missoula, Montana. By this point Danny and I were all tied up, but his desire to do another marathon was waning, while mine was getting more feverish. He was getting busier and I think he was noticing that I was getting a bit more psychotic about wanting to qualify for Boston. I trained as hard as I could, even before the actual training had even started. I was back in New York at this point and running the subway lines to keep my mind and my fitness schedule occupied. I had to accomplish the goal this time. Sure enough, in late June of 2022, at the crack of dawn and with my mom’s hometown as the backdrop, I ran the Missoula Marathon–staying with an awesome group of guys that were also trying to qualify. The infamous 20 mile mark came once again and my body went into overdrive mode. I worked as hard as I could to keep it moving and stay with the pace. In the last few miles, I did start to panic a little bit because many of the sub-3 paced group started to push ahead, but I kept on going and kept on pushing, despite the fact that they had all but vanished from my view. When I finally made that last turn on Higgins, I emptied the tank. I knew I was close to the finish line and I also knew I was close to the sub-3 threshold, but I didn’t know how close. As I got to the bridge I saw my family and saw the time ahead and knew I was going to be able to do it. I crossed the finish line at a time of 2:59:08 and an average pace of 6:50 per/mile. I had done it. I had qualified for Boston.
It’s hard to put into perspective what running all those marathons felt like. Looking back on it though, there is a certain level of gratitude I have that I was able to develop this affinity for running. To have been able to find something that stoked my competitive fire and harnessed a focus, while also doing wonders for my physical and mental health, feels like such a gift. Running has become such a necessary part of my life. It has allowed me to see places I’ve never seen, both in my hometown and around the world. Whenever I have the opportunity and privilege to travel, one of the things I look forward to most is running wherever I’m going. I’ve been lucky to run through beautiful parks in Paris. Alongside highways in the Dominican Republic. Promenades in Lisbon. The searing heat of Atlanta and the humidity of Miami. You see people that might also be visiting wherever you go or maybe they’re a resident just going for their daily jog. Either way, you make eye contact, you give a hang loose hand signal, a smile, or you mirror their looks of exhaustion with one of your own, to which an understanding smile sometimes might follow. Everyone seems to be in it together.
So much hard work went into Boston that, leading up to the training, I wondered how I would approach running the course. Would I try to keep pushing the limits and attempt to set a PR or would I take my foot off the gas and just enjoy it. I had only heard such positive things about the race, though everyone did seem to agree that the course itself was quite the challenge.
“Rolling hills”, I would hear.
“Lots and lots of rolling hills.”
“It’s downhill at the beginning.”
“It’s uphill at the end…but then there’s more downhills.”
“You need to train for the hills, gotta make sure your legs are strong.”
“But don’t forget–you need to practice running downhill. People forget that.”
It didn’t take me long to switch my approach from “just wanting to enjoy it” to wanting to try for a new PR. The only trouble was I got way too ahead of myself. It went from I think I can do a 2:57 to I think I can do a 2:55. Then it went from I think I can do a 2:55 to I think I can do a sub 2:53, which would be a NYC qualifier (since I wanted to run NYC again and do it better). I just figured that since I had reduced my time every subsequent marathon that I’d be able to continue to do so. I mean, how different could 6:50 per/mile be from 6:40 or 6:40 from 6:33 (an NYC qualifier)?
In preparation for Boston, I went back to the only training I know, the 12/55, and just like the few times before I made sure to be in solid running shape before beginning the program. I also planned on incorporating an extra 20 mile run to make sure my fitness would be strong and considered including another one, as well. Training for the first couple of months went pretty well. I might have been a hair slower on a few of the tempo runs, but otherwise I was right on schedule. Then, during one of those super long runs, I tried to incorporate several steep, steep uphills and was able to do it without issue. At the time, it didn’t seem like my body responded negatively, but during the next week my body started to feel a little off and I noticed a new pain I wasn’t accustomed to feeling. I think initially I chalked it up to the month-before-race ailments that had popped up for every other marathon, but this felt a little different. This was my achilles heel. At the beginning, it felt like fatigue, but as the runs got more challenging the pain intensified and that low-degree pain started to feel more like a grab, until the grab evolved into a vice grip every time my foot landed. The swelling around my heel and my ankle grew and grew. After getting professional help via a PT and podiatrist, I agreed to take a week off. It made me so antsy not to run that it felt like I was going crazy. To combat the restlessness and attempt to keep the cardio fitness on-par, I went to the gym and tried to mirror the amount of time I would be running by switching to the exercise bike. After a week off, the swelling went down and I was able to pick up the training plan to complete the last two taper weeks. I figured I was in a good place and ready for the race.
It might feel like I’m skipping ahead a bit, but let’s go to the day of the race. I got dropped off near the expo by my Pops and walked towards the extensive line gathering by the Boston Commons that would be escorted to the buses, which would then be taking us to the Athletes Village at Hopkinton (where the race would begin). On the bus, I sat next to a guy named Marc, who was completing his sixth Boston Marathon and 23rd overall. We had an awesome talk that covered all of the marathons he had done, the few that I had done, the Buffalo Bills, the Seattle Seahawks, and the joy and agony of being a sports fan.
We must have arrived at Hopkinton around or a little before 8AM. There were so many people and the majority of these first arriving buses were for wave one alone, which would then be separated into eight separate corrals and beginning at 10AM. The runners were doing all of the things that runners do pre-race and with a lot of time to spare. Long lines queued the porta potties, swaths of people hovered under the two tents fueling and hydrating, people started to shed their extra clothes that were keeping them warm, and a collective started their stretching routines. An announcer/mc was keeping us updated and letting us know that at 9:15 the Red Wave would be walking to their corrals. The energy in the crowd was palpable and a deep fog, which had kept us mired in mystery and anticipation, slowly began to clear. By this point I had already consumed my last pre-race fuel and had gone to the bathroom for what felt like the gazillionth time.
I’ve probably already begun to conflate the next couple of things, but the announcement for the Red Wave to start heading to their corrals sounded and the huge crowd began to migrate to the next checkpoint, where we got into about four different sections. On the way there was also one final opportunity to go to the bathroom ahead near a CVS Pharmacy. The minutes were winding down, the last of the keep-us-warm clothes were deposited, and we started lining up ahead of the race.
None of us could really see the start line because there were so many people ahead of us, but we were all checking our timers and phones and smart watches and counting down, internally. All of the preparation. All the training. All that running. Mental, spiritual, physical, emotional hurdles. The ups and downs. To bring us here. It was 10:00 AM. The first people at the starting line would be taking off. The streams ahead would be pushing forward. Seconds running off the clock. We craned our heads to learn what we might find. Some looked down at the ground, at their shoes, at the things that would be taking us to the end, and readied for the person ahead to start moving. Some held their breaths, while some inhaled deeply and closed their eyes. Exhaling. Those directly ahead of us started to move. We started to move. Fast walking became a slow trot. A slow trot became a light jog. We looked for the starting line, so we could start our timers. Here it is. There it was. And the race began.
The first downhill came almost immediately, sending shockwaves into our legs and feet that some of us had expected (and the unlucky or ill-equipped hadn’t prepared for) and was almost immediately followed by a slight uphill. It felt like this was the theme for the first ten miles–these steady declines followed by slight inclines and, in the moment, it’s hard to clock exactly how far you’re descending. In the first nine miles, there’s a 300 foot decline. This is where that downhill practice comes in handy. Beyond that, I noticed a never-ending stampede of people after every turn, before and after every hill. This is what made me nervous going into the race–the fact that everyone around me would be fast, but I knew I belonged. I might not have been the fastest, but I knew I could hold my own. I knew people would pass me–that would be inevitable, but I tried to just run my own race. I figured that if I could stay in the 6:30-6:45 range I would be just fine. It was a PR pace, but a pace I felt comfortable with. The potential problem was I also got into the 6:20 range a few times in those first thirteen miles. The other thing I was aware of in those first several miles was that my body, particularly my legs, didn’t feel optimal. They were moving and moving fast, but sometimes you can just tell something is off. There weren’t any signals or shockwaves necessarily, but the lower half lacked strength. I could feel it and it’s a bit scary to have those thoughts and those fears so early because you have no idea when and where they might come back louder and stronger. I kept it pushing, though. At every hydration station I got a cup, alternating between gatorade and water.
From the jump, the people alongside the course were roaring and going crazy. It was a supercharged environment and certainly a reason that I felt propelled to keep on moving forward. There were entire families, kids, grandparents, tents, people grilling, people playing music, people handing out towels, banana slices, orange slices, paper towels, the works. I was trying to stay focused, but I was also aware of how incredible the atmosphere was. And again, I kept realizing how little separation there was, in a couple of ways. The same people that were there at the start were still there miles in and, while there was a widening space for people to navigate, it was still quite crowded. I also was carrying a couple of fueling gels that I figured I would use at miles six or seven and later on around 23. The course would already be providing some at 11, 17, and 21.
Those first 8-10 miles went by so quickly. I wasn’t laboring to keep pace, but I was still not feeling ideal. For me, it was all about getting to the next mile at the right time. Enjoy all of it. Immerse yourself in the energy and ride the wave. At miles 10-13 I started to notice my calves trying to communicate with me, but I just wasn’t sure what they were trying to say. It was almost like these mini lighting strikes that were making me hyper aware of a certain muscle working hard. I just didn’t know how to respond. By the end of mile 13 I knew I had run a really solid half (though I seriously doubted if I could duplicate it), but I also knew that I was slowing down a tiny bit—not enough to greatly affect my overall per-mile pace, but enough to know that my body was responding to the signals from the muscles. However, I almost forgot about it completely around mile 14. There, the Wellesley scream tunnel, hundreds, if not thousands of students attending the school, provided an uplifting and seemingly never-ending hyperdrive stretch that almost made time disappear. More than a few of us expressed feelings of sorrow that that stretch had ended due to the sheer energy boost it had given us.
It wasn’t very long after Wellesley that I started to feel my body reacting to the course. Now those signals being sent by the calves had made their way to my hamstrings. Again, nothing too serious, but certainly a cause for concern. So, for the next two miles I tried to change my gait, stride length, and whatever I could to take the pressure and strain off the muscle groups that seemed to be affected the most. I tried to find my heel more on downhills to help with the landing and my mid-foot on uphills, instead of the balls of my feet. Even at this point, I started to become aware that my time was beginning to falter. I was now running miles above my PR pace, but still better than a sub-3, which kept me motivated and positive and kept me moving forward, one foot in front of the other. Sadly, that over-accommodation to lighten the load only seemed to work in the short-term. By mile 15-16, right as I was beginning to enter the rolling hills of Newton, my body began to fall apart. These weren’t just signals anymore and this wasn’t just tightening, this was full-on cramping. I did whatever I could to keep moving, even as the pace fell further and further behind. I kept trying to ease the tension on one muscle group, but it didn’t take long before another muscle group started to react in response. The calves went first. Then it was the hamstrings. Then it was the groin. Then it was the lower part of the quads. I felt part of my legs cramp and spasm that I didn’t even know about. Finally, I had to come to a complete stop, an action that I always tell myself I can never do.
I tried stretching the muscles on my own. That worked for a second. I tried walking, but even that was unbearable, at a certain point. I stopped in a medical tent and immediately regretted it, visualizing my time spiraling out of control. I asked if they could give me a sped-up version, so they sprayed biofreeze on my calves and hamstrings. I left the tent and pushed forward. I just couldn’t get going for more than a quarter-mile before it would go back into spasm. There was one moment where my hamstrings grabbed like a seizure and my whole legs pulled up, so much that I had to basically spin around and lie on the sideline. I tried to raise my legs to stretch my hamstrings, but then another muscle started to cramp. Three unbelievably nice people; Justin, Julian and Genevieve, came to my rescue. Julian helped me stretch my legs, while Julian and Genevieve talked me through the cramping. I was probably down for a few minutes, at least. Like many of the other people I had passed by to stretch my muscles, they asked if I needed any additional help and support, if I needed water or food or anything else. At this point, the rain, which had stayed around earlier and longer than people had expected, started to get stronger. It all felt very symbolic. A storm had arrived and all the while I had to come to terms with a new reality–the timing was now irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was finishing the race.
The perspective change was necessary, but it certainly didn’t make things any easier. I felt stuck on the hills that were alternating up and down (rolling you might say), triggering opposing muscle groups. I was still 8-9 miles away. Every uphill would cause one muscle to cramp. I’d stretch. Walk it out. Then a downhill would come and antagonize something else. I stopped in a second medical tent. This was for much longer. I still wanted a sped-up version, but I knew that without a deeper stretch or some type of massage, I’d be screwed. The medical staff was extremely helpful and, in a weird way, I was grateful that they could see my muscles visibly shaking in front of them. I think you get to a point where you think that all of these ailments only exist in your own mind like we’re all just making a big deal out of nothing. But to see my hamstring being stretched and then my lower quad start to throb and spasm and see the staff member acknowledge and witness it too, made me feel like I wasn’t going completely crazy. Those three groups went back and forth for a while until finally they calmed down. I took some deep breaths and tried to get my head back in run-mode. I expressed my deepest gratitude and told them I intended on going back out there, but even then, the guy who massaged the cramps still had to get a co-sign and release from the head doctor. Luckily, he gave me the OK. Truth be told, I was going to try and go back out there, regardless.
I couldn’t even remember how much time had passed since everything had gone to shit, but ironically it was a little after that second tent that I got to the top of Heartbreak Hill, around Mile 21. It felt like so much time had passed and also no time at all This was another symbolic moment because, to some degree, I knew the rest was downhill, but it also posed a threat because going downhill would almost certainly raise the muscle demons again. Still, five miles to go seemed way more reach in than nine miles.
The last five miles was a heightened continuation of the incredible spirit that the entire course provided. I was still cramping, still laboring, but was able to manage and push-through via a mix of gimp-running, stopping, walking, and stretching. When the problems first arose I think I felt a medley of disappointment, frustration, and defeat, but when the issues continued to a lesser degree, I tried to just smile through it and stay positive. It might have gotten the best of me time-wise, but I was determined to conquer the course, in any case. Luckily, the last couple of miles were long, straight stretches. I was still cramping and had to pull up several times to stretch and transition to a walk, but at least I was picking up the pace well enough for a slow, slow run.
Finally, I got to the home stretch, which consisted of a straight away, a right, and then a final left down Boylston. When I got to that point of the race I started to speak to myself out loud. I needed to be able to hear what I was saying, to keep me going. I had to stop and stretch one more time during that straight away, but when I made that final right I began to yell, “Keep fucking going! Keep fucking going!”. I told myself that I wouldn’t stop so that I could stretch, despite my muscles crying for me to stop. I wouldn’t stop running until I crossed that finish line. The crowds were roaring. My dad was yelling “Go Josh Go!” I turned that final left on Boylston and saw the finish line ahead.
“Don’t stop until you finish!””
“Keep fucking going!”
“Keep fucking going!”
“C’mon, Josh!”
“Let’s go, Josh!
“C’mon!”
“Keep fucking going!”
“You got this shit!”
“Don’t you dare fucking stop”
“Keep going!”
“Keep going!”
My muscles were grabbing, trying to pull me down and pull me back, sending their final shockwave attempts searing through every part of my leg, but it was too late and I wasn’t listening anymore. There was the finish line. There it was. There it is. I had done it. Despite everything, I had finished the Boston Marathon.
Perspective can be as interesting as it is necessary. A marathon is a roller coaster of emotions. Three days after the fact, I have taken time to reflect on everything that has transpired and still, the overwhelming feeling that remains is one of deep, deep gratitude. I got to run the Boston Marathon. It took a ton of work to get there and getting there in and of itself was not only a privilege, but also a tangible sign that hard work pays off. It is true that I had a different idea of how it would go and an expectation that I would “do” and perform better, but that didn’t happen and that’s OK. I am proud that I was able to finish, despite intense adversity, and that I was able to come away from the event with the only perspective that could possibly make sense, a solely positive one. In a way, I think going through those hurdles for the second half of the race gave me opportunities to interact with the spectators and volunteers in a way I might not have seen had I just blown through the course. I was able to have conversations with them, some long and some small, and on as many occasions as I could thank them for their help, their support, and their words. I had my aching muscles to keep me in the present, but I had all of those wonderful people to thank for keeping me on my feet and on solid ground. In that sense, what more I could have asked for. It made it truly unforgettable. Undoubtedly, there have been points after the race that I have tried to diagnose when and where I might have gone wrong. In the coming days I’ll be excited to go back to the drawing board to see what things I could do differently and improve upon, but I’m still happy and content right now to revel in the moment and appreciate all of the truly good things that will come from the experience. I know that I will qualify for Boston again and I know that I will run another Boston marathon very soon and I know that the next time I will be more prepared. I, for one, can’t wait.
