Ok - the first thing you have to understand is that the Boston Marathon is a very big deal.
It's not just a few lonesome and crazy runners running around Boston. This year, there
were 12,987 registered runners (not counting "bandits" - the unofficial runners who tag
along with the pack), 5,000 volunteers and an estimated 1 million spectators lining the
roadsides from Hopkinton to Boston. Assuming that each of the registered runners put in
three years to train for the race (a fairly standard training period), that is a total of 39,000
years or roughly ten times the age of recorded history. The Marathon is a very big deal.
I wanted to be a part of it.
My running partner, Jody Reese and I spent the better part of a year training fairly
obsessively with one goal in mind - running in the Boston Marathon. We ran absurd
distances, experimented with bizarre training foods, and talked of nothing else for weeks on
end - "The Marathon...the Marathon...the Marathon...". We even wore TIGHTS, for
crying out loud! In the end though, neither of us were able to run in the race - I was
sidelined by an injury and Jody's schedule made it impossible for him to prepare for a
qualifying race - but we thought we knew just about everything there was to know about
the race.
We didn't know Jack.
What you know about the Boston Marathon - or me or almost anybody, for that matter -
what you read about the front runners in the papers or in Sports Illustrated or see on TV -
is nothing - a tiny, microscopic, almost irrelevant sliver of what the race is all about. Last
Monday, I had the privilege of attending the race and having my eyes opened a little bit. I
can't tell you anything about what it's like to RUN the Boston Marathon, but I can share
my limited insight on what it's like to be there.
In a bizarre way, being at the race is a little like being in an episode of Star Trek. You
know the one - the show from the original series where they visit a planet so crowded that
all the people have to shuffle along in a big mob, packed in like sardines. Several hundred
thousand spectators are crammed along Boyleston Street near the finish line. The entire
street is blocked off to allow the runners and race volunteers access, so everybody is
packed onto the sidewalks. Also like Star Trek, there are colored uniforms to designate
race workers with different jobs - Members of the race's Organizing Committee wear blue
windbreakers, the medical volunteers wear white ones, the security team (several thousand
strong) wear bright orange, and the Press wears black.
Debbie Pearson wears an orange jacket. She is checking passes at the set of bleachers
reserved for VIPs at the finish line. She laughs at the idea of being "Security" - she is five
feet tall and must weigh about twelve pounds - but is having a great time. So what ARE
her qualifications to be a security guard? "Well," she says with a laugh after thinking it
over for a moment, "I've been to all the other Marathons as a spectator and I've been very
well behaved."
A moment later, she shows that in fact, she IS very well qualified. A woman with two
teenage daughters in tow enters the bleachers. She turns to Pearson. "Can anyone sit
here?" she asks in a voice that suggests that this isn't really a question.
"Anyone with a pass," says Pearson, indicating her own.
"Yeah, right!" snorts the woman. "What are they going to do if we don't have one? Pick
us up and carry us out?" This seems unlikely - the woman is rather large and very
formidable looking.
"Well," says Pearson, "you can stay here for a WHILE if you want, but by the time you
have to leave, all the spots on the street will be gone..." She leaves that possibility dangling
in the air. The woman scowls for a moment, snorts and stomps away to find another spot.
Pearson turns to me with a smile. "This is a fun job!" she says.
It's about an hour before the race starts, and a group of white-jacketed college-aged girls
are eating lunch on the sidewalk outside the Medical Aid tent. They are all Physical
Therapy grad students at Simmons College. "We're on 'wheelchair sweep'," says medical
volunteer Amy Biehmann. "We wait at the finish line and if anybody collapses or looks
like they're going to collapse, we scoop them up and take them to the Aid Tent." "Not
me," says glum faced Hillary Burgin. "I get to carry the 'sharps' bag - the nurses give us
their dirty needles for disposal." "I'm very excited," she says with dead-pan sarcasm.
Some people aren't as interested in the Marathon itself as they are in the crowd that it
draws. Several small groups of protesters use the crowd and the inevitable media coverage
at the finish line to all attention to their opposition to NATO's bombing of Serbia,
premarital sex and the US's policy toward Iraq. Two men wearing sandwich boards and
carrying signs warn the crowd over a megaphone of their impending doom. The crowd
cheerfully ignores them.
A small street fair is set up a few blocks from the finish line where vendors sell food and
various companies hand out free samples or promotional literature about their products.
Gina Rodgers has set up a booth that seems incongruous in such a health oriented setting.
Between booths that explain the air cushioning in Rebocks' new running shoe and Guiltless
Gormet fat-free snacks, Rogers is getting out the word on her product - Gina's Cigars.
"We're the number-one selling cigar in Boston," she says. "In a way, we ARE Boston, so
where else would we be today?" She turns and finishes filling up her display case with
cigars and beer.
The sidewalks, which have been crowded all morning are starting to get distinctly cozy.
Spectators are starting to cram together like sardines. It's odd though, that nobody seems
to be getting annoyed by it. Normally, when people are crowded together like this,
claustrophobia sets in and tempers fray. This crowd shows a cheerful, party-like attitude.
There is an ACTUAL party going on above the street. In what has to be one of the most
valuable pieces of real estate in Boston on this particular day, there is a party going on in an
a second floor apartment about 50 feet from the finish line. A group of students can be
seen through the window, celebrating.
"Hey!" I shout up. "I'm writing for the Newspaper. Do you mind if I come up and talk to
you?"
Some heads pop out of the window and stare at me, trying to focus. Even though it's only
about 11:30 in the morning, the kids are already in a fairly advanced state of cognitive
disfunction. "Just a minute..." one of them calls out and the heads withdraw to talk it over,
presumably arguing about the underage drinking / ID situation. The another head pops
back out after a few minutes.
"No, no, man. We don't want to talk to the media, Dude."
Whatever.
Back on the ground, the Grittie family has been here since early in the morning. "I just
love this!" says 80 year old Mary Grittie. "I've been at every race for 66 years - I've only
missed one!" She has brought a collection of grandsons and their wives and girlfriends
with her to keep her company. Interestingly enough, nobody the Gritties know is running
in the race today. "I just love being here at the end of the race," Mary continues. "I like to
be here for the runners when they are at the end of their ropes. I like to think that I'm
helping them through the home stretch."
After all those years of observation, I figure that Mary must know a lot about Marathon
running, so I try to get some tips from her on how to predict a winner. "What do you think
the secret is to winning the race? I ask her. She shrugs. "Running fast, I guess," she
replies.
And that's another odd thing - at any other type of sporting event, the spectators would all
be experts of some sort, discussing strategies and intricate details of the sport. Ask even a
simple question at Fenway Park, and you will get a long lecture on the Infield Fly Rule
from any given spectator. Here though, everyone seems content just to watch. Aside from
friends or family that might be running, most people in the crowd don't even know the
names of the runners. They are all here simply "to watch the runners". I like that.
That's all well and good, but since I'm obstensively covering the race for a newspaper, I
feel an obligation to learn some finer points of the race. I go looking for experts. I seek
out a group of Kenyans in the crowd. I lived in Kenya for a couple of years and I figure
that if anybody will have an inside line on who will win the race, it will be them.
As it turns out, I choose pretty well. Kibai wa Gikuyu and Karanja wa Kimani are the
authors of a new book, "Out of Kenya - Kenyan Running Secrets". They are hanging out
with some friends, waiting for the race to start. They are glad to talk about running in
general, but even they can't help much on the specifics of predicting a winner. "It will most
likely be Moses Tanui," says Gikuyu, "but it's hard to predict who will be the winner.
These people are all of the same caliber and who actually finishes first is largely a matter of
luck." Everyone in the crowd assures me however, that no matter who wins, it will be a
Kenyan.
Ok - that's a point I've always wondered about. What's the deal with Kenyans and long-
distance running anyway? In the two years that I lived there, I wasn't able to find anybody
with the slightest interest in competitive running, though the country is mad for soccer and
cricket. I ask the group why the Kenyan marathon runners are so consistently good. They
tell me that it's because Kenya is such a poor country and running is something that a
talented athlete can get into without a large financial investment. That makes sense on the
surface, but there are many, many countries at least as poor as Kenya - why aren't there
more runners from, say, Burundi or Bangladesh? Why Kenya? "Because Kenyans are the
best," they reply, looking at me like I've lost my mind. I bid them good-bye and go looking
for a professional overview of the race.
I use my press pass to get into the Marathon's official Press Room in the Copley Plaza
Hotel. As I open the door to the grand ballroom, I know exactly what I'll see - a couple of
folding tables with telephones and a few sportswriters sitting around typing furiously,
drinking stale coffee and chain smoking.
I open the door and am stunned to see literally hundreds of reporters working on computer
stations, comparing notes, establishing satellite uplinks and making frantic cell-phone calls
to their editors. Giant flat-screen TVs show the moment by moment progress of the top 4
or 5 runners in each Division. I immediately make up my mind not to ask ANY stupid
questions.
As it turns out, I don't have anything to worry about. High tech or not, these are reporters.
They have the same attitude of reporters anywhere. They have been drawn here by the
irresistible triple lure of up-to-the-minute information, phone lines and free food. I join the
line at the sandwich buffet and talk to a couple of people as I muscle my way up to the
pasta salad.
"How many of us are there, do you think?" I ask a guy next to me who looks like he knows
what's going on.
"A lot," he says. "The rumor is that there is something like 1,200 of us here. This is the
biggest press coverage for any single sporting event in the world aside from the
Superbowl."
A P.A. system announces the Men's leader at 10K. "How far is 10K?" a guy from Fox
asks me. I tell him 9 miles, then realize that I meant to say 6, but he is gone before I can
correct myself. I spend the rest of the afternoon wondering if I've accidentally
misinformed millions of people about metric conversion.
At this point, it will probably be a while before runners start to approach the finish line, but
I decide that it would be a good idea to get outside and find a good seat. I make my way
through the crowd and feel very cool as I flash my Press ID to get through a barricade. I
go to the VIP bleachers and find a seat right up front.
I am joined by Gina Godbout, a physical therapist from Marietta, Georgia. She is here to
cheer on her husband Kent Worman, who is running in the race. "He is totally hooked!"
she says. "He just started running a few years ago when he turned 40. This is his 25th
marathon in 4 years and his 5th one so far this year." She laughs. "He's sick in the head -
I think it's a 'middle-aged' thing"
In point of fact, Gina is just as hooked as her husband. "It totally takes over your life," she
says. "We do our 'long run' on Saturdays, so by Friday night, we're in bed by 9 o'clock.
We don't have any social life any more. I just grabs hold of you. I'm upset that I'm not
running the Marathon this year, but kind of glad at the same time. You THINK you know
what pain is, but you really don't know until you get hooked on running."
About half a block down the street, there is a giant TV screen set up to show the crowd
how the race's leaders are doing. The picture cuts back and forth between race coverage
and shots of the crowd. People are waving frantically to the cameraman, trying desperately
to get his attention, but he has been doing this for a couple of hours now and is starting to
get a little bored. By this point, he is mostly scanning the crowd for shots of little kids and
pretty girls. Once Gina joins me, I get on screen three times.
There is a real excitement in the crowd now, as the first of the racers near the finish line.
The first racers to finish are the wheelchair athletes - the men first, followed shortly by the
women. If you've never seen competitive wheelchair racers, you have no idea how
amazing they are. (Spend a few minutes in a wheelchair sometime and see how exhausted
your arms and shoulders get after just a few yards.) They are quite simply the most fit
human beings I have ever seen. Even Gina, a professional, is stunned by them. "Oh
wow!" she says as the Men's Division winners zip by us in there 3-wheeled racing chairs*
"Did you get a look at those BACKS!?"
*Which look really, really cool, by the way. I want one.
The closest finish of the day is between the two Women's Division Wheelchair racers, and
it was definitely the high point of the day. The entire crowd rises to its feet as the Thomas
Menino crowns the winner, Australian Louise Sauvage with a laurel wreath and her
national anthem is played. At this point, I suppose that I SHOULD be feeling awed and
inspired - and I am, a bit - but the main thing running through my mind is, "You mean the
national anthem of Australia ISN'T 'Waltzing Mathilda'?"
The crowd is getting worked up by this time. As each wheelchair racer crosses the finish
line, there is a huge outwelling of applause and cheering. As word reaches the finish line
that the Men's leader - Joseph Chebet of Kenya - is approaching, the spectators are in a
frenzy. Even I, the most cynical man on Earth start to get worked up. As he comes into
view, the crowd goes nuts. I hear somebody cheering Chebet on in broken Swahili and
realize that it's me. (If he heard me, I hope that he wasn't offended - I'm PRETTY sure
that what I said was complimentary.)
By the time they've played the Kenyan national anthem, I'm so worked up that I feel like I
could run the race myself (though my throbbing Achilles tendon and fat belly argue
otherwise. I'm cheering so hard that I hardly even notice when the Women's Division
winner, Fatuma Roba of Ethiopia comes in. As each runner comes in, a P.A. system
announces his or her name and home city. By the time a runner from New Hampshire
comes in, I'm totally berserk. "Woo-Hoo!!! New HAMPshire!!" I scream. My neighbors
give me a combined look of worry, pity and amusement. I don't care. "Woo-hoo!" I
shout, "HA! Take THAT, Vermont!" (A few minutes later, as a runner from Vermont
finishes, I hear, "HA! Take THAT, New Hampshire!" from a few seats down in the
bleachers.)
A lot of runners have their names written on their shirts and Gina is cheering them on by
name. "Do you know them?" I ask her at one point. "No," she says. "I just like runners."
Most of the elite athletes finish fairly early - in well under three hours. This is a bit of a
wake-up call for me - I remember how impossible my goal of 3:10 seemed a few months
ago when I was in shape[italics]. After cheering for 2 1/2 hours, I am starting to suffer
from a bit of "woo-hoo fatigue". I sit back and watch the runners come in.
And come in.
And come in.
Eventually, I realize that it will take a VERY long time for 13,000 runners to cross the
finish line. I wait until the walking wounded (or as I like to think of them, "My People")
start coming in - the runners who look like they would die on the spot if they didn't think it
would take so much effort. The men who forgot to cover their nipples with bandages and
have "jogger's nipple" so badly that blood is running down their chests. The woman who's
legs have seized up so badly that she can't bend her knees at all and marches, strait-legged,
like a toy to the finish line. One man collapses twenty feet or so from the end and crawls
on his hands and knees across the finish line to ecstatic applause from the crowd.
And still they keep coming.
I'm feeling very sober all of a sudden. That could be me out there. It SHOULD be me out
there. I feel really odd and I don't want to be here anymore.
I give my press pass to Gina so that she can get in to see her husband who is just crossing
the finish line and looks like he is headed for the medical tent, then I turn around and leave.
As I make my way to the subway, I pass by hundreds, thousands of runners, all wrapped in
silver "space blankets" to keep them from chilling down too fast. I know that I could
interview any of them that I wanted - they all seem like nice people. I know that I
SHOULD interview at least one or two of them - maybe the man who ran on his 50th
birthday, with his daughters on either side wearing shirts that said, "Go Dad, Go", maybe
the man who's shirt said, "Will You Marry Me, Tenny?", or maybe the woman who's shirt
says, "Is It Over Yet?".
But somehow - for a variety of reasons too stupid to mention - I can't do it. I walk through
the crowd toward home.
Ironically, I am cheered up at the last moment by an argument I overhear as I walk by. A
red faced, silver blanketed runner is yelling at his wife. "Oh will you cut me some slack
already!? I've been running for FOUR HOURS AND TWENTY MINUTES!!"
