Ellen's Race

Ellen Recounts Her Experience:

The forecast would not have been better if I had hand-picked it myself: cool with a tailwind.

Thirteen weeks ago, I got an email from my sister-in-law who is on the Board of Directors of MAB Community Services (formerly Massachusetts Association for the Blind) whose Team With A Vision had an extra charity number for Boston. Could I be ready to run the marathon in thirteen weeks? Could I raise $3,500 for the charity? I stared at the screen. I panicked, deliberated, sweated. I always wanted to qualify for Boston, not run it for charity. I’ve run four marathons, though my last one was in 2005, when my son was three and before I had my daughter. I email Rosemary, who quickly responds, "Dude! It’s Boston! Take the number!" I am stuck at my desk, unable to move, the weights of indecision and excitement canceling each other out. "Get it before it’s gone!" she emails again, and to this I respond by emailing the people in charge: “Hi, I’m Ellen, and I’d love to take the number if it’s still available.”

With a 25 mpw base, I started a 12-week marathon training plan. It was not an ideal amount of time to train and I knew this going into it, but hoped for a best case scenario to get to the starting line ready, to get to the finish. The program included only a two-week taper as opposed to my accustomed three. No matter; I was going to do this.

My training paces and pre-marathon races suggested I could shoot for 4:10-4:20. This did not account for unexpected cramps at the half.

The night before, I get a phone call from someone who ran the race over 50 years ago. “The early downhills are seductive,” he tells me. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking the race is shorter than it is.”

Right before I pack my bag onto the baggage bus, I pull out a sharpie, ask Scott, who is guiding one of the blind runners, to write my name on my shirt for me.

My goal pace is approximately 9:30-10:00 per mile. We start.

Mile 1- 10:00

Mile 2- Agh! I hit the start/stop on my watch instead of lap. For the rest of the race I try to add ten minutes to my watch. Or is it subtract? By Mile 19 I’m not sure.

Mile 3- 9:53
4- 9:42
5- 10:22 (also included pee-in-the-bushes stop)
6- 9:47
7- 9:45
8- 9:57
9- 9:53

Miles 10 and 11- 20:26 “Kate,” I say, “I’m getting tired. Can you run for me for a minute? Are you there?” I turn my head to see if people hear me. My friend Kate emailed me last night, told me that if I got tired, to call on her to run for me. Yeah, I know, it’s hokey, but I love it anyway.

12- 10:12 I think to myself, maybe, no more marathons.

13- What the hell… why are my lower legs suddenly not obeying me and why do my feet feel like they are curling inwards? Stop to stretch angrily by a tree. 11:01

Wellesley. I hear the sound come from far away. I say to a woman beside me, “what is that noise?” “The wall of sound,” she replies. I run through the Wellesley women, move to the right, lift my right arm and slap every hand available, almost cry as they call my name, constantly, over and over, reading my shirt, urging me on, yelling, yelling, "go on, go on, you can do this, you’re awesome, this is all yours, go, go, go."

14- I know Arrojo from chrunners.net is going to be at the Mile 14 clock. I approach the clock and yell wildly, “AH ROH JOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” and wave my arms like a crazy person. This imaginary friend has never met me, but I’ve got my name written on my shirt. “Ellen?” he hesitates, and I throw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck, spinning him in a circle. I try to start running again and realize I have to stretch, again. He whips out his camera. “Is that how you want to pose?” he asks, and I say, “I’m cramping, I have cramps. I need to stretch.” He takes my picture, gets me to stand up straight anyway, takes another one. These will be my favorite pictures for years. “Nice hair!” he yells, and wave a grateful goodbye. 10:57.

15- 10:49. I quietly realize that I am going to have to stop every mile to stretch my legs. I drink gatorade at every stop.

16- 10:38

17- 12:29. I start to wonder if I will make it. I have never had cramps like this before. They’re not letting up. I pass aid stations, drink gatorade, see medical tents, worry. I think, I do not want to stop at a medical tent.

Some kids with peeled bananas are on the side of the road. “Potassium,” I gasp to myself, and grab one, drop it, pick it up off the ground, eat it anyway, eat the gravel; I don’t care. Any time I see a kid with a banana for the rest of the race I take one.

18- I have to stop and stretch for longer than anticipated. I hold a tree. I curse; I am now concerned. My husband, two little kids, sister-in-law, charity, all waiting for me at mile 24.5. I have to get there. I raised $3,500 for this thing, I owe people a report that includes a finish. I frown. A passerby spectator gives me a questioning look. “I’m ok,” I mouth, and she says, “Oh Good.” I punch my thigh, face the course again, rejoin the race. 13:27.

19- 13:08, more of the same. I run a mile, find a tree, stretch it out.

20- 14:34 I don’t know how long I stayed by this tree.

21- 12:02. Boston College. People talk about Wellesley, and they’re right. But I’ll tell you: the emotional connection I felt at this point to the spectators, grabbing my hands, calling my name, making me continue – I had to cover my hand to my face to keep from crying. Somewhere here I stop dead amid the crowd, need to stretch. The students yell at me, “you’ve got this, get back out there, you have to do this,” and I say, I have to stretch, my legs, I have to stretch, and they say, go, stretch, then go, and somebody grabs my forearm; I kiss his hand. Again I rejoin the race.

Miles 22 and 23- 24:46 I think, "soon I will see my kids. They’re waiting for me. I’m late, but I’ll see them." I start to tear up, stop myself, turn my face to stone, keep going.

24.5- There they are. I yell, "BENJAMIN! SARAH!" and run to the side of the road, picking up my son; my daughter is crying about something, and I pick her up and hug her too. My son says I’m smelly, and I laugh. How am I doing? "I’m cramping," I say, "it’s not so great." They take photos. I hug Karen, kiss my husband, and once again, rejoin the race. I smile and wave, passing MAB charity folks a hundred yards down the street.

24-25-26-26.2- Now I have trouble interpreting what is a mile on my splits; did I take ten minutes to stretch out or is that two miles? It doesn’t matter anymore. The crowd closes in. We run down Beacon Street. I write this and have to wipe away tears of memory, complete strangers calling my name, chanting, urging, shouting. I’m thinking, "my legs aren’t working so good." I’m thinking, "you’re here just for me." I’m thinking, "I have to finish this race."

We turn down Hereford Street, we turn onto Boylston Street. I turn my head but can’t get away from the emotion, cover my eyes. Then I think: "this is it. There’s the finish. GO." I try to pull myself up straighter. I uncover my face. I run.

I run. I cross the finish line. I finish the Boston Marathon. Official time comes in shortly thereafter: 4:54:57. My second to worst marathon time ever. Do I care? What does my reader think?

Thank you for your support. Thank you for your donations. Thank you for the opportunity.

Thank you, for reading.

Ellen S. Goldberg
4/20/10