THE ROAD TO RECOVERY
After a sobering injury in the Marine Corps Marathon last October, I began a deliberated recovery that involved a lot of ART therapy and rest. Weekday mornings involved a pot of tea and the daily newspaper instead of a run or swim. Weekends were open for socializing and it was easy to take a beach vacation that involved lots of horizontal time.

While this was a much needed break and time to heal, I was ready to jump out of my skin after the holidays. It was time to get back into the game… slowly. I made a list of races I wanted to do and then it had to be narrowed down. I think the hardest part of narrowing that list was admitting to myself that it would be in my best interest to take a year off from ironman racing. I want to be enjoying these activities when I’m well into my 70’s and hopefully longer!

The list became more of a circling exercise rather than a crossing out exercise. First race to circle – Boston Marathon. After that, it didn’t really matter. Toss in a couple half ironmans, maybe a fall marathon, and focus on my half marathon speed. Do a bunch of social racing with friends. Seemed like a good plan.

TWO STEPS FORWARD, ONE STEP BACK
The season started out great. I PR’d in my first 2 half marathons. However, the second race aggravated my piriformis injury and gave me a bit of a scare. I was only weeks away from my first half ironman and suddenly I felt the pain again.

Oceanside 70.3 was a lot of fun. Racing a half ironman in March isn’t the easiest thing. I certainly wasn’t near my peak, but I wanted to use this as an endurance training day leading up to Boston.

Days after Oceanside I came down with a miserable cold that put me on my back for days and set me back longer than a week. I had major sinus pressure and congestion in my lungs. I was winded just walking up the stairs – how could I possibly run a marathon? These questions lingered and I didn’t know what to expect. From the couch, I eased into a taper. I decided that I needed to release myself from my own race pressure – I was just going to go to Boston and see what race day dealt me. It could be my best day or it could be a complete suffer fest. I let go of the race stress and allowed myself to get caught up in the excitement of Boston. This is every road runners dream. I think it should be a celebration once you get there, but my competitive nature pushes me to want that next PR – that incredible feeling of digging deeper and overcoming adversity. I would have no idea what Monday morning would bring.

Excitement was building as the weekend progressed. I watched the women’s Olympic trials on Sunday morning. If watching people realize their dreams isn’t inspirational, I don’t know what is. These women ran with grace. With passion. With intent. Some of them didn’t really have a chance of qualifying, but to be there and run that race had to be a lifetime dream.

THE JOURNEY BEGINS
Race morning I was ready to run. It had been weeks since I did anything strenuous and the last long workout was the Oceanside race. My Boston Sherpa and dear friend, Michelle, hosted me at her place in Cambridge and also drove me to the start so I could avoid the chaos of buses. As I walked down Grove Street in Hopkinton, I got goose bumps. I was in Boston again, running in what could be compared to the world series of road racing. I was surrounded by some of the fastest runners in the world. I felt incredibly honored to just be there to run with them.

The clouds protected us as we waited to enter our corrals. And just as we started moving in our waves, the sun broke through and the 55 degree temps were ideal to start the journey from Hopkinton to Boston. The forecast was for mid 60’s by the time we approached Newton and headwinds as we rolled into Boston. It didn’t matter – it was the perfect day to race.

The gun went off and I settled into what seemed to be a comfortable race pace. I smiled wide, high-fived every kid on the side of the road, and enjoyed the support of the crowds. The spectators are really what make the Boston Marathon special. They cheer for you like your own Mom would. They look at you in the eye and scream your name and say wonderful things to motivate you or make you laugh. I can only imagine what it’s like to be a rock star or a starting quarterback in a super bowl, but after running Boston, I think I have a feeling. It’s pretty amazing to have almost a million spectators cheering for you for 26.2 miles. These spectators aren’t necessarily runners. I especially liked the Harley riders, donned in leather, beer in hand @ 10:30 am with rock and roll blaring to keep us moving. Grandmas were sitting in lawn chairs banging kettles with wooden spoons. Kids were waiting for Mom to run by. Entire communities were there with their own aid stations – oranges, water, licorice, Kleenex, etc. Little kids held oranges in their hands, just hoping you would grab it. It was like a game for them.

Time was flying as I passed the 10K mark. I felt great. My lungs were tight, but it seemed like the excitement of the day was taking over. I rolled into Wellesley College at the half marathon mark, well ahead of my marathon pace. The students cheered me through that half mile and I felt like it was going to be my day. I was dreaming of that PR.

TURNING THE CORNER
As I approached mile 16, things changed. My butt hurt as I started climbing the Newton hills. I was struggling and I still had 10 miles to go. It’s amazing how you can go from such an extreme high to a low in a matter of minutes. I shouldn’t have hit the wall until mile 20. It was too early. I ran the hills with caution since I felt that twinge in my butt. The last thing I wanted to do was re-injure my piriformis. I had time to spare, so I used it. I shuffled the hills to spare my body. I figured once I got past heartbreak hill, I would reassess and then pick up the pace again. But those hills were tough this year. It seemed like they went on forever. At one point, someone with a slight southern accent yelled – GO TRACY – and I looked over to a man that appeared to be Brett Favre. It was a strange moment and I took it as a sign that I was now getting crazy visions in my head, but I used it to persevere to the top of that last damn hill.

I picked up the pace once again, but it wasn’t easy. I couldn’t hold that pace for long. It hurt. I was proud of myself for not pushing it on the hills. I realized that I was finally running with intention. I was running to have fun. I was running to stay healthy (not reinjure myself). And I was running with the hopes of qualifying for next year’s race. If I could do all of that, it would be an incredibly successful day. And I believed that in my heart. It’s hard to let go of a PR. It’s hard to not run faster. But sometimes you have to make smart decisions. I felt like I had matured as a runner. I was now on another high!

I kept looking at my watch to make sure I was on target to requalify. Nothing like doing a little math in your head to distract yourself from the strain. By my calculation, I would have no problem finishing with a qualifying time. I was moving along at a pace almost 2 minutes slower then my initial miles, but it was not going to be a problem. And then the rollercoaster of pain and emotions continued. I felt like I was slowing to a point where I wasn’t going to qualify. I had already decided which race I was going to run in the fall to get that qualifying time. Maybe Chicago. Maybe California International. They have flat and fast courses. It’s heart breaking to look at your watch and think that you might miss it by only a minute or two. At this point in the race, I couldn’t hear the cheering. I couldn’t hear them calling my name. Everything was cloudy. Nothing was clear. I could only hear the demons in my head and feel the strain of the race course on my muscles and joints. A little clarity set in and I realized that pushing harder to cut those 2 minutes would be a lot easier than all of the training for another marathon. 2 minutes or 3 months? Hmmm….that’s easy math. But it’s not easy running.

I became a math wizard those last few miles. Every stride was calculated. Every undulation in the road changed things. Every corner was harder than the last. I was running in a haze. As I made the final turn, I could see the finish line ahead. A quick glance at the watch and some fuzzy math meant that this was it – I had to throw down. I had to give every last bit of energy in my body. I surged. Or at least I felt like I surged. I couldn’t see anything except the finish line and the clock. I only knew the crowds were there because of their screams and cheers.

I crossed the finish line within 1 second of where I expected to finish. Not bad for fuzzy math.

I raised my arms in celebration and then hoped I could contain the contents of my stomach and stay upright. I was exhausted. I was elated. I had grown up in this race. It didn’t matter to me that I didn’t PR. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t a fast day for me. I was in Boston and ran the greatest marathon in the world. Somehow I was part of this exclusive club of runners. And I am invited back again next year. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Tracy
Athleta Merchandising Product Manager