BOSTON 2011

Thanks to prednisone, acupuncture, massage, and a big-ass tail wind Boston turned out OK. I took it fairly easy with the thought in mind that all I was out to accomplish was to get a four hour marathon to use to move up a few corrals at Comrades. For some mysterious reason a nine and a half hour fifty miler starts you way behind a four hour marathon, although there is no comparison in the degree of difficulty of the two. A nine and a half hour fifty is way, way tougher.

Anyway, I resolved to maintain a moderate pace and just get through it without beating myself up--if the dreaded pes anserine bursitis would let me. The Gods of pain kindly loosened their grip enough to let me go the distance and the last several weeks of stair master and stationary bike drudgery seemed to have been enough to stay in reasonable shape. My qualifying time got me a spot in the rear of the first wave so once the gun went off and the elite runners took off, leaving me to trudge along at a gentlemanly pace, I pretty much had the road to myself, until, that is, the fast runners in the second wave caught up and began to pass me by the thousands. That was hard to take. I was sorely tempted to pick it up and go with them, especially when I got passed by a guy dressed like a giant French Fry. I was really steamed by getting dropped by somebody in a foam-rubber suit and took it as a direct affront to my dignity as senior gentleman runner. I was just about to abandon my resolution to behave reasonably when the French Fry's partner also blew past me dressed like a big sloppy Cheeseburger.

At that point it dawned on me that it just didn't matter if I got passed by the whole fast food menu; all I needed to do was just plug along and get in under four hours. From then on it was fun. I slapped hands with all the little kids and laughed with all the early morning drinkers standing out in front of the taverns. I winked and smiled at the Wellesley girls and soaked up the support of the crowds lining the whole way up Heartbreak Hill. The final stretch as you round the corner where the Elliot Lounge used to be and then turn for home down Boylston is like no other race in the world. The roar of the spectators and the joy of the runners as they were pulled toward the tape actually sent a shiver through this jaded old body. It was a great day. Conditions were so good that the winner broke the world record and I managed a 3:51:01 without doing any real damage to myself.

So, it's on to Comrades. Now that ought to be something. I was talking to a South African guy who I met right after the finish at Boston. He said the hilly part of Boston, including Heartbreak Hill, would be considered the flat part of Comrades. Oh well, at least it's only a little more than twice as long.