Winner, Patrick Moulton on the course
5:30am on Sunday morning and the alarm goes off. I roll out of bed and prepare myself for the two-hour drive to Derry, New Hampshire. When I signed up for the Boston Prep 16 Miler back in December, I didn’t realize that January 23rd would be one of the coldest days of the year. I stumbled downstairs in the darkness to read the outside thermometer. -9 degrees does not make for an ideal race.
I questioned my sanity for a moment before ate my standard pre-race meal of steel-cut oats. I grabbed my race bag, a few extra layers, a PowerBar, and headed out the door. My husband wished me good luck before he went back to our warm bed alone.
I signed up for this race to kick off my training cycle for Boston. A hilly, 16 mile course would serve as a great test to gauge my fitness level in the dead of the cold New England winter. I’ve always stated that the hardest part of the Boston Marathon is not the Newton Hills, but training through a New England winter. January 23rd was such a day to test my commitment to my training schedule.
I headed to Derry’s West Running Brook Middle School with the hope of a decent time, but I dampened any high hopes with the realistic assessment of conditions. I had seen several elevation profiles of the course and I knew it was a hilly course. I decided to start out conservative, knowing there were hills at miles 1 and 5. I planned to check my pace and push miles 5 through 9 before the “big hill” at mile 10. After the big hill I resolved to let go and push the last four miles. I had figured that I could run 16 in 1:55, but on this course, I would be happy with sub 2 and focused on a 1:57 or 1:58.
I had no motivation from the start through mile 9. I kept asking myself where was that “runner’s high” that I read about. My race experience was downright miserable – cold, breezy, hilly, and miserable. I never quite found my zone as I trudged through the first 8 miles. At mile 4, my GPS watched beeped at me, signifying a low battery. I thought it might be the running gods stopping my watch and saving me from the ego-crushing news of my sluggish pace. However, I trudged on. At least I’ll be finished with my long run by noon today and can rest for the remainder of the day. I did not think about the race I was running. Instead, I fantasized about changing into my dry, warm clothes back in the school gymnasium.
Mile 9 brought on the infamous 1.5 mile long 4% grade hill. I started slow, not knowing what lie ahead. I overheard veteran Boston Preppers warning about the plateau half way up the hill. I warned myself not to think the hill was over before it was over. The vets advised me to wait for the radio antenna that signifies the top of the hill. I battled on at a slow pace. I passed a couple of men and exchanged comments of misery. It loves company, you know, and I had 668 other runners in my company today.
I crested the hill, spotted the antenna, and allowed myself to start pushing the pace. The course was mostly downhill from here and I could allow my legs to let go. Throughout the race my legs never felt relaxed. They didn’t have any pop and they were heavy. The wind picked up on the last 4 miles and nearly brought on a case of frostbite on my upper lip. I ticked off a few sub 7 minute miles during the last few miles, despite the numerous icy corners that proved dicey to maneuver. The last few miles seemed rather beautiful as the course snaked through a pastoral, snowy, New England landscape. I thought to myself, “this is beautiful country, I wish I could see it.” By this point, the wind had caused my eyes to tear up and the cold air had frozen my tears. I watched the last few miles of my race through foggy eyes.
As I closed in on the last half mile, my hand, arms, and quads grew heavy and warm. I knew the lactic acid was building in muscles. Rather than grimacing at the pain, I took pleasure in the fact that I pushed myself. If I’m feeling this in the last mile, I knew that I had accurately estimated my “lactate threshold” and ran my race along the thin margin of sustainable pace and lactate threshold.
I ran down the finish chute and heard the announcer call my name as I crossed the finish line. I grabbed my space blanket and headed to the gymnasium to gather those warm clothes I dreamt about.
Donning warm, dry clothes I headed to the school cafeteria for the post-race lunch. I grabbed my bowl of piping hot tomato basil soup and looked like the new kid in school trying to find a place to sit at lunchtime. I came to the race alone, but I quickly found other runners in which to share my lunch and swap running stories. Strangers became friends in a matter of minutes as we talked about training schedules and marathon experiences. I complemented my new friend on his 19 completed marathons. He complemented me on my race. We both commiserated on the stress of marathon training and its toll on our spouses. The awards presentation began and we all complemented the winners and their impressive times.
As I left the race and started the drive home, I realized that I found that runner’s high for which I was searching. It was in the cafeteria with the community of runners of which I am apart. Yea, the air was cold, the hills were steep, and my muscles were sore, but I had fun.
