Boston Marathon fulfills runner’s lifetime dream, “The Super Bowl of marathons”

The Boston Marathon is a national event almost everyone has heard of, runner or not. Even I had heard of this American institution as a young athlete growing up in basketball-crazy Indiana. I had it in my mind that only someone genetically enhanced, or coming from Superman’s home, where the inhabitants had powers “far beyond those of mortal men,” would even think about attempting it. To run a mile seemed sufficient in my youth, but on Monday morning April, 20, 2009, I found myself at the Hopkinton School, where the 113th running of the famed race would begin.

The story really begins some years before, when my youngest daughter, Jessica, took an interest in running at the new Marco Island Charter Middle School. She was not a runner, but wanted us to be together, so we embarked on a seven-year adventure that would culminate at Lely High School and four trips to the state finals! Those were challenging, yet exciting, days and I recall them fondly.

From that start more than a decade ago, when running five miles took us nearly 60 minutes, we improved our ability with what seemed ridiculous distances on the sidewalks of Marco Island. These runs often were designed by Coach Mark McGarity, of Lely. I at first considered him as evil when we completed an eight- or nine-mile run. Then, college was in Jessica’s immediate future and another daughter, Jennifer, had long been in Orlando. It was time for a new segment to begin.

Days can be lonely for a runner. Most people enjoy the solitude of the morning, but it does have its emptiness after you have solved all the problems in your life, at least mentally. Running 20 miles or more allows lots of solitary moments, but the strength of a long distance runner is built and forged over the relentless, unending strides that make up each mile. That is a must before the marathon can ever be attempted.

Boston is a not just any race in which you can fill out an entry form and run. Many races dot the landscape, but not the grandfather of all marathons. No, you must prove your grit, with time and worthiness that do not come cheaply. So, San Diego, Miami and San Francisco marathons must fill the resume. Countless lesser distance races, with stops in Indianapolis, Sarasota, Naples, Knoxville, Orlando and other smaller towns add to the list. On you run, with a 20-second deficit causing the loss of a start in Boston.

New York City’s marathon finally provides the breakthrough. It is a Boston qualifier and seems like a great setting for a time under 3:45:00, as adjusted for my age. I race to the halfway mark well ahead of the requirement, but the marathon is an endurance contest and nothing can be assumed. Entering the last mile with time to spare, I get to within 200 meters of the end and see a runner frozen on the tarmac, with neither foot moving.

Only the gut-wrenching look on the face of this man gives any appearance of life. His feet seem like they had been imbedded in the very street we ran upon, right within sight of the Central Park finish line. The marathon can be cruel, right to the end.

I raced on and crossed the line in 3:35:16, but I could not help but look back and see that runner, still fighting to move his feet after 26 miles, with two tenths to go, and the reality of failure setting in.

For me, Boston was now attained. I toed the line at Hopkinton after a two-hour wait in 40-degree weather. It was a nice day for most, but for a South Floridian it was cold. In my mind was the 45-minute bus ride from Boston to get to the start. I looked around and took in the area; to run this race and not savor the setting seemed disrespectful to history. I looked at the crowd of runners and was struck by the moment and the place I was standing, thinking about what I had done to get there.

The Boston Marathon is run in two groups, called waves, each divided into corrals of 1,000 runners. I just missed wave one, that ended with number 13,999. My number was 14,281 so I was in the front of wave two, which was, as it turns, out very fortunate.

Thirty minutes after wave one left, we started. With great anticipation, we headed out of Hopkinton, racing downhill, which would be the pattern for nearly 13 miles. This is one of the traps this course sets for the reckless runner. The quadriceps, or thigh muscles, can only take so much pounding, and racing on a descent can be very damaging later in the race. I was well aware of this and my pace seemed good.

With my friend, Allyson Blasucci, of Naples, we ran comfortably through the small towns of Ashland, Framingham and Natick. The crowds were amazing, and very supportive. Around 10 miles out, in Natick, Mother Nature was calling; lots of pre-race water, Gatorade and coffee were taking a toll, but stopping was not in my plan, having run five kilometers in 23:30 or so and 10 at around 46:00. I was on a sub-7:30 per mile pace and wanted to keep the advantage I was building for the hills coming soon, which was a big mistake to talk about later.

As we neared halfway to the town of Wellsley, my time advantage for a personal best was growing, as was my confidence. Wellsley College was just ahead and that meant several thousand screaming coeds to draw energy from. This famous tradition starts about a half-mile from the actual scene. The roar can heard from that half mile and begins to build. When you reach the bedlam, it is overwhelming and loud, with screaming ladies as far as you can see, giving off free stimulus to the endless line of runners. Girls, costumed and painted, dot the front line, and signs like “Kiss me, I’m a senior,” are easily seen. It is a chaotic place and well-needed, because as the sound fades in the now increasing distance, you know that Newton and its hills are coming very soon.

My mind begins to prepare for what I know is upcoming, and still the bladder issue is gnawing at my thoughts, sapping me of my ability to plan–but on I go! I take a pack of plain M&M’s, some Tylenol and a goo packet and meet mile 16 head on. The climb starts and it becomes a battle of will.

The incline is not steep, but it seems endless, and the ascent is relentless. This is bad, yet I know this is not Heartbreak Hill, the physical mind-blower I have been waiting for. Up, up we go, and still the road winds forward, ever rising in front. “One more hill,” a spectator says, but this is bad information. I have just passed mile marker 19, so I know it is not done. Over a crest I go and a little downhill. I think I have done it and then a fellow runner says, “Here is Heartbreak!”

I climb, although it does not seem much worse than what preceded it on the hill section. At last, I see mile 21 and I know I have beaten the hills, though losing some of my margin of error. Then I made my only real mental error. I thought, just stop and go to the portolet and then breeze home. “NO.” My mind did not kick in and I stopped for nearly 90 seconds. As I began two run, after some water and nearly two minutes after I stopped, the toxins in my body began to solidify, like concrete. Slowly, as I reached my pre-stop pace, I felt the cramps begin in the hamstrings, then the quads, and then all parts of my leg ,from the hips to my feet. I did not have the reserve food stores to properly battle the increasingly perilous situation.

My pictured in my mind the frozen runner in New York just short of the finish line–was this to be my fate–and then, mile 23. I had no food, so I started looking at the fans and saw a spectator offering an orange and grabbed it, sucking it down like a vicious predator. It helped, but would not get me to the Copley Square terminus. I grabbed another, and then a banana. I felt better, but still had two-plus miles to go.

My running partner, who I had left at mile 10, tapped me as she passed. “Could I make it?” Her encouragement helped and on I went. I just needed a 10-minute pace to break my best time, but the GPS was wavering more above the needed pace, a little at a time.

At last, the Citgo sign and the hallowed grounds of historic Fenway Park! Around a turn to the right and a 400-meter run to a left, and then the finish, some 600 meters away! I turned the corner into Copley Square and there it was.

It looked to be more than a mile and yet I knew it was not. I had just over three minutes and pushed onward. I crossed the line, again seeing that frozen figure in New York and I thanked the heavens for my own fate. I had made it–the watch said it–3:34:14.

Roger D. Raymond had run and finished the Boston Marathon; something a young Hoosier boy only dreamed about, had been a competitor against the best and finished in his personal best time. I am humbled and have great respect for those who preceded me in those 112 previous Boston Marathons.