Runner's Words

When I put up the infamous “No More Marathons” Facebook post off the back of London 2018, I genuinely meant it.

That race remains, to this very day, the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. I crossed that famous finish line on The Mall absolutely battered and broken after the hottest London Marathon on record took me right to the edge. There was no way I was ever going to let anything like that happen, ever, ever again.

The 127th Boston Marathon took me back to some of those dark places at times. But, it was also one of the best experiences of my entire life. I still can’t really believe it actually happened. The oldest annual marathon in the world and the one that is on almost every marathon runner’s bucket list, and somehow, I snared myself a place and went over to the US of A and bloody did it. But it was hard, hard going my friends.

I know I didn’t post much in the run up to the race but I hoped that what I did manage to get out highlighted some of the challenges I was facing. And it turned out for the most part I was right. Yes, it was hilly. Yes, the weather was shit. Yes, it was an absolute nightmare to pack for. And on top of all that, I unexpectedly decided to get a nice big old dose of illness on top of it all.

Despite constant negative tests, my wife is convinced I had Covid. Writing this now over a month later with my smell and taste still about 50% missing I’m starting to think she might be right. The stinking cold I spoke of at the end of my last blog escalated from there and led to the most abrupt marathon taper of my life, but by the time we flew out except for the lack of smell / taste and the occasional coughing fit, I felt largely OK. The pressure was off as I already knew I wasn’t pushing for any sort of time, and at the end of the day, c’mon it’s the Boston bloody Marathon. This was happening.

Arriving in Boston from New York a couple of days before the race the first thing I noticed was how much the marathon had kinda taken over the city. For Londons 2017 and 2018, apart from around the Expo and that you wouldn’t really know the marathon was on at all. Boston was different. Whether it was the marathon daffodils everywhere, the slew of runners in their celebration jackets from this year and many previous, or just the general buzz around the place (especially around the North End with everyone trying to carb load in the many Italian restaurants around there), there was no escaping the fact that it was marathon weekend in Boston. It felt amazing and at times a little emotional to be there and be a part of it all.

Despite all the logistical headaches I thought I’d planned my race weekend about as good as I possibly could and so, despite the magnitude of the event all the usual pre-race anxieties were strangely absent. I felt oddly calm about everything, that was until I discovered my Garmin charger had gone missing at some point anyway. It seems like such a trivial thing to worry about but on a race where – thanks to the first eight miles or so being largely downhill – pacing is so, so important, it sent me mentally a little bit west for a bit until I could form a plan of action.

Happily, I managed to sort it early doors the day before thanks to a Garmin rep letting me charge it at their stand across the road from the Expo and all of a sudden I was calm again. I could then head over the road and enjoy the experience around the Expo, soaking up the atmosphere before picking my number up and then heading back out to stroll across the finish line almost exactly 24 hours before I would be due to do it all for real. I actually felt a bit emotional when I first held that cherished bib in my hands, and it certainly wouldn’t be for the last time this weekend.

After a day exploring Boston, a few enormous slices of pizza and much-later-than-expected bedtime giving me only four or so hours sleep, it was showtime. With the logistics of heading in from our hotel in Revere to the shuttle buses to take us out to the startline in Hopkinton, it was probably the earliest ever start for a race, but raceday adrenaline and a feeling of “the time doesn’t matter” meant somehow all was still calm. It just felt amazing to be a part of it all, rattling along the I-90 in a massive convoy of old yellow school buses before being dropped off on a high school playing field 26 or so miles from where I needed to get back to.

It was such a weird environment to be in before running one of the biggest races of my life. It’s the world’s oldest annual marathon but as one of my good friends said, it looked a bit like a village 5k.

Here we all were, huddled under marquees in the morning gloom, waiting to be summoned to run while some guy whose voice I could barely make out was droning on with some probably-really-important race information over a tannoy. I half expected there to be a tombola or something on one side of the playing field, or Alan Partridge shouting FIRE FIRE, THE MARATHON’S ON FIRE in the background. People were strewn about all over the place, making chit chat to each other trying to kill the time before we all had to run all the way back to Boston. Some were even trying to get a bit of kip with one guy laying there half in a sleeping bag looking like the sort of casualty I’ve come across at the bottom of the stone circle at Glastonbury at 6am. It all felt incredibly surreal.

Time rolled on and eventually it was time to walk the 10 minutes or so up to the startline and here’s where things began to take a turn for the worse. I’ve been incredibly lucky to have never had a wet marathon, and even an hour before the race it looked like that record might continue. Then almost immediately after I dropped off my extra layer and the bin bag I’d taken to wear in case of rain, it began to crap it down. The rain gradually increased as we stood in our pens but then after a quick rendition of the US National Anthem we were off heading back the way we’d just come on the bus, and lo and behold I was actually out there running the Boston Marathon.

The opening chunk was pretty amazing. For a start, I was running the Boston bloody marathon. For second, it was all downhill. The third and best thing about it all though was just the atmosphere. Literally from mile zero the crowd were out there giving it their all, and all the different shouts from what I was used to in the UK, a “great job!” here or a “you got this!” there were inspiring. A guy in the crowd was dishing out cans of beer at mile 9 and I gladly took one, although the practicalities of running with it fizzing out all over my hands left a lot to be desired. Still, it’s the thought that counts and even despite the pissing rain and chilly headwind it went down surprisingly well. At one point, and I swear I’m not making this up, one guy shouted “THERE’S SANTA UP THE ROAD” and sure enough at the top of the little climb a couple of hundred yards up the road, there he was. I’ve never experienced a start to a race quite like it in my entire life.

One thing that was a bit concerning though was how I was actually feeling physically. I don’t think I’ll ever know if it was the hills, the weather, the lack of sleep or even the after-effects of having not-Covid, but whatever it was, I just didn’t feel quite right. The heatwave at London 2018 excepted, generally for a marathon I don’t usually start feeling like shit until around mile 16 or so. On this cool, rainy day in New England though I was struggling before we’d even hit double figures, and it wasn’t the beer’s fault. Everything was just so much harder than it should have been which didn’t bode well with the infamous Newton Hills looming ominously in the distance.

There was a lot to take my mind off my struggles though. The energy from the crowd was absolutely incredible, especially at around half distance through Wellesley as hundreds of screaming college students lined the route. You could hear them literally from nearly a mile away and then the roar as I went through the “scream tunnel” was deafening. How on earth could they all stand there doing that for the whole time it took for the runners to come through? It was incredible and one of my highlights of the entire race. Absolutely fair play girls. Absolutely fair play.

Despite the growing fatigue I made it to the start of the Newton Hills mostly unscathed and now it was time to really grit my teeth and get my head down. Everyone talks about Heartbreak Hill as the big one, but for me the first of the four climbs was the hardest of the lot, with two (slightly) easier ones shortly after and then Heartbreak to round things off. There were some properly hard times through those hills and I felt like I was nearly walking at times, my pace creeping up over three minutes per mile from what it would usually be. The first one was so bad I couldn’t fathom how I could possibly climb the rest, not to mention run the ten miles I still had to get to the finish line, but after a real struggle I got through all four of the buggers and from here it would be more or less downhill to the finish. Job done?

Not quite. Despite the gradual descent back down into Boston it was still tough going. The students at Boston College were almost as impressive as those nearly half a marathon away back in Wellesley but even with this all going on it was so, so hard to summon the energy to keep going, my body feeling completely and utterly drained. Unlike London 2017 where I was the one picking off all the runners ahead of me, here I was being swamped by the faster runners in the white wave who’d all started nearly half an hour after I had and it was so incredibly demoralising feeling like I was going backwards through the field. Then as we rolled into Boston proper the weather went full Manchester with an absolutely torrential downpour, literally what turned out to be the worst bit of weather of the entire holiday right when I needed it the least. I could have cried.

I nearly cried for different reasons shortly after, my amazing wife stood there in the pissing rain to watch me stumbling around like a baby giraffe on ketamine. We had a brief sweaty / soggy embrace and I tried not to let the emotion get the better of me as I still had the final leg to bring it all home. I can’t really remember what was said but after a quick chat, a couple of photos and a wave I was back on my not-so-merry way to get it all done and dusted.

That final mile will live long, long in the memory, the minute or two I spent with my wife just the start of it all as the entire race came down to one massive crescendo. Suddenly all the pain and fatigue had melted away and my attention was drawn away from the race itself and towards the incredible support down the flanks of it. The roar of the crowd was immense and every time I waved or fist pumped back at them it grew even louder still. I turned though the famous final section – right on Hereford then left onto Boylston – and finally I could see the historic finish line in the distance, my journey nearly complete. No more hills, no more turns, there was even no more rain at this point. Just one last push to bring it all home. I had no idea what the timer was on and I barely even cared, the energy of the crowd drawing me to the finish and then just like that I raised my arms in the air as I crossed the line, my epic journey complete. The 127th Boston Marathon and my second World Marathon Major star in the bag.

I stumbled around a bit not really knowing what to do with myself, feeling a bit teary, barely able to comprehend the fact that I had just completed one of the most famous races on earth. The cherished unicorn medal was placed around my neck and I tried to hold back the tears as a few of the official photographers snapped me looking dazed, broken, but elated. And then after that all that was left to do was meet back up with my one-lady support crew and then head to the nearest boozer for the time-honoured post-marathon recovery session of lager and chips. They’d never tasted better.

It had been a surreal but beautiful occasion, a race quite unlike anything I’d ever taken part in before. Nothing had been straightforward, at all, but I look back now incredibly proud that I went over there and did it, honoured and privileged to have been lucky enough to be one of the chosen few that had made the journey. The history of the race and the emotion of being a part of it all was absolutely amazing, and writing this a month on I still can’t quite believe it happened, but there are the photos to prove that it did. I was even caught on TV crossing the line which was pretty cool as friends and family watching the world over saw me complete my journey, arms aloft and close to tears after one of the most beautifully horrific three and a half hours of my life. The 127th Boston Marathon is an experience I will literally never forget as long as I live.

So where do I go next? Let’s see, eh. Now that the dust has settled a bit I’m not pushing myself in any meaningful manner to plot the next adventure. There’s no rush to decide. My time was way, way off what I’d need to qualify for Chicago so that’s on the back burner for now, but it was never about any of that this time around anyway. It was never about the next race. This was always about the here and the now, the journey not the next destination. An opportunity to tread those hallowed roads and embrace being a part of the occasion, not to worry about where I go after it’s all done and dusted. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to run the oldest annual marathon on earth, and it was all I could have hoped for and more. I caught my unicorn, and no one can ever take that away from me.

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My 2023 marathon is dedicated to Pip, who sadly left us shortly after our return to the UK. Our little flat is a much quieter place without her around causing chaos and we both miss her dearly. x