Boston

April 24, 2017

Greetings from the Unicorn Hunter,

I ran through empty streets and through Boston Commons and onto Boyleston.  I was a little conflicted, not sure if it was appropriate to run across the finish line before the race.  Kind of like seeing the bride in her dress before the wedding. 

It was early Sunday morning but there were already dozens of runners warming up on Boyleston.  The street was closed, and it was easy to imagine it is always closed for us.  It was unnaturally quiet, even for this time of day.  A few people talked in hushed tones.   Pictures were taken.  Runners autographed a piece of art there.  Groups ran through talking quietly. 

I stood there longer than I realized. I couldn’t name what I felt at that moment, except I knew I was in a very exceptional place.  I had no concrete thought, only felt this welling of emotion and then I was crying.  I was a little shaken by how suddenly this took me.

I wiped my eyes and began to jog away, and I turned and looked back and I knew what had been pulled through me.  For 121 years people had poured themselves into the herculean effort that would bring them to this spot, and I was a part of that.  And right there, this close, was where something evil had tried to disrupt all of this beauty. 

Months of running alone, cutting through snow and ice, long before the sun comes up.  On my own in the dark, doing the hard work to get ready for this marathon.  It is easy to forget that I am part of a tribe.  It all came back to me in that moment.

At the Old South Church, a few steps from the finish line, the Sunday service ended with the Blessing of the Athletes.  We stood and were prayed over, and then they played the ‘Highland Cathedral’, a powerful and moving piece, complete with bagpipe.  I wept.  I watched runners around me sobbing, holding one another.

The pastor had opened the service, welcoming us, saying “We know many of you have travelled a long way, and we want to be your community, to stand in for those at home who want to support you.”

That was Boston.  And so it was in Hopkinton, Ashland, Framingham, Natick, Wellesley, Newton and every block in between.  ‘Be Boston.’  That was the theme all weekend.  What’s interesting is that I think it was a message held by the runners, and by the hundreds of thousands who by extension were part of our journey. 

The next morning I stood in Athletes Village, over twenty six miles to the east, and soaked in the company of the men and women who were branded with the BQ.  Some stretched or rested on the grass, others stood in the infinite lines to the portojohns, which is where all the real running strategy is exchanged.  Runners signed each other’s bibs, wrote on each other’s arms and legs, shared last minute bagels.  Everywhere was nervous laughter, from warriors and hopeful newbies and determined Olympians and women with a cause and somebody’s Dad.  People from all over the world, some of whom did not share the same language, but all spoke the same language. 30,000 people like this.

We flowed into the race, a river of color and sweat and energy bracketed by screaming supporters, a roaring noise that was like a surprise party that lasts for 26 miles.  Music and singing and signs and cheering and threaded into all of it was hope and optimism and victory over anything small that would divide us.

Somewhere after the halfway mark I knew it was not going to be as fast as I planned.  The heat and the hills took their share of me, and I gave the course its due.  It is humbling, but there was no self pity.  I kissed the Wellesley girls and saluted the Newton Fire Station.  I churned up the hills without stopping and waved at the man at the top who held the sign “The Heartbreak is behind you.”

It was not what I hoped for and it was so much more than what people hope for.  My legs seized up and the crowd rushed to the curb to push me on.  Runners called to me to not give up.  The people in the water stations told me I could do it.  They were right.

I ran past the man with one prosthetic, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed, bent over his good leg, trying to make it carry him forward.  Passed the woman in the hijab, covered from head to ankle in the sweltering heat, her eyes facing toward the next step, struggling but not succumbing.

In each step I remembered what I told myself weeks ago; to be the best version of me, to enjoy every mile, to embrace the energy of the day.  I knew it would be tough, I would be tougher.  It’s Boston, it’s hard.  If you want easy you stay home.  Even as my stride eroded, I took great satisfaction every time my legs turned over, every time I said no to gravity and inertia and giving in.

As I turned onto Boyleston and saw the finish line again, my heart soared.  The crowds roared for me, and although I know I didn’t pick up my pace, I flew the last quarter mile.  I was reminded how grateful I should be as I passed others, statues of runners, frozen in pain, unable to take another step within site of the finish. 

I was smiling, my arms lifted up in victory and crossed the blue and yellow band that separated the effort from the triumph.  Only a few steps more and then I was walking, amazed that this was the same place.  This was where I felt reconnected to the tribe, felt those tears and now felt them again.

People said ‘Congratulations.’ And everyone after that line, every person who saw I wore the medal, or the marathon shirt, said something.  Nice going.  Congrats.  You should be proud.  Good job.  These people, the same tribe that lined the roads from Hopkinton, were my tribe too.  They stood in for the community that knew me.  They were Boston.

 ‘Be Boston’, the signs challenged us.  Be determined.  Be brave.  Be resilient. Be adaptable.  Be strong.  Be positive.  Be encouraging.  Be undefeatable.  Be more because of the crucible that forges strength.  Be part of what makes people come together for good. 

 I was Boston.

Hope this finds you celebrating,

David

Copyright © 2017 David Smith

Spring

April 10, 2017

Greetings from the second fittest,

“In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.”  Tennyson

Spring had officially graced our territory some weeks ago, but due to communication issues nature did not acknowledge the change until it had one last paroxysm of winter.  This spasm of snow and wind and sleet was followed by a spike in temperature so severe that many people felt convinced (again) about climate change issues.  But the warmer weather was not the true indicator of the arrival of spring, of course.  Spring is mating season, which Tennyson described much more delicately.

In our yard there are regular visitors from other species.  Squirrels, chipmunks, raccoons, skunks and the occasional fox, and while we don’t see them, we know there are coyotes prowling nearby.  Deer come through a few times a day, and I still find myself amazed to see small herds milling about.

And the other visitors.  It is not uncommon for large flocks of turkeys to walk through our yard, but that is not to say that it is not unusual.  Because they are far from ‘usual’; there is something strange and unsettling about them.

Every day I can hear them laughing maniacally.  I don’t know if they have found something amusing in the woods or if maybe they have lost their minds.  Or perhaps this is how they frighten the other animals around them.  Probably that.  It works if you think about it.  Which occasionally, in the middle of the night, I do.

And these are birds, right?  But they walk around in groups, like hoodlums with spindly legs.  Coming out of farmers’ fields where they eat whatever they want, walking in that deliberately menacing way.  They can fly, I know they can, but they choose to walk just to make a point. 

All this is strange enough, but yesterday for the first time I saw the leader, the man turkey.  The Tom.  I can’t say where this guy has been, but after seeing him it was probably wherever it is he wanted to be.  He is the boss.

The turkey menagerie meandering through our yard is made up of well fed, big birds.  The Boss turkey is bigger; CrossFit bigger.  As I watched him strut around the yard, arrogant in my world, I realized something important; this turkey could take me.

This was a bird from a different era.  It was a Tyrannosaurus Rex Turkey.

By most comparisons, I am the superior specie.  I can reason, I can fashion tools, I can philosophize, make fire, search the internet, travel the globe.  But if it was a showdown between me and T Rex Tom, I have a feeling I would be a victim of fowl play.

I grew up in the city so most of my experience with turkeys was watching come out of the oven, which is the way I like it, especially now that I have been intimidated by one.

I’m glad I didn’t know this yesterday, but turkeys can run up to 25 mph.  They have talons.  They have sharp, pointy beaks.  And a snood, a wattle and just for good measure, a beard.  I don’t even know what the snood is for but I am a little frightened by the fact he has one.

Fact is I know this T Rex is not interested in me, unless I come between him and his girlfriends, which for the record I have no intention of doing.  He is out in all his grandeur to impress as many females as possible with his strut.  I will admit, even lacking the instinct of the hens in my yard, I was impressed. 

It probably does not reflect well on me to admit that I am so willing to abdicate alpha status to a bird that in fact I am not even competing with.  I know that.  I think if we really were seeking the affection of the same hen I might not be able to win her heart just based on my snood, or the fan of my tail feathers.  But I would have the advantage of poetry, since turkeys cannot hold a pen and have no sense of meter.  Take that T Rex.

Hope this finds you gobbling,

David

Copyright © 2017 David Smith

Living with a runner

April 3, 2017

Greetings from among us,

You know you live with a runner if:

You are used to sweaty running clothes drying on the towel rack, the deck chair, the plant hanger, the side-mirror of your car. 

You don’t even look up from your breakfast when they say things like bonking, PR, ITB, fartlek,  plantar fasciitis, BPM, cadence, turnover, repeat, beer mile, or supination.

You’re not surprised they can remember the date of their fastest marathon, when Boston registration opens, what year Joan Benoit won LA, but can’t remember your children’s birthdays with complete confidence.

You plan to be out of town during their taper.  You can predict to the minute when they will be cranky, paranoid about sickness, over focused on minor pains, worried that 20 weeks of training will fade in 10 days, and obsessed about race day weather two weeks away. 

Any conversation with a major city name is associated with a marathon.  Watching movies is almost always related to this: ‘Hey that’s New York.  I ran there in 1988.’

You have ever been driving somewhere and they tell you what their split was at this mile.

Half your meals are centered around carbo loading and the other half seem to be all protein.  Except for chocolate, which is proven to be good for recovery.  Gu is considered a food group.

They have accidentally spit inside the house.  They have stepped into the shower still wearing running shorts.  Naked warm ups in the living room are normal.  Dressing like a ninja with a headlamp and reflector vest is normal. 

You know Body Glide is not a romantic accessory.  You have enough equipment in your home to start a physical therapy clinic.   

You have secretly compared their behavior to symptoms of certain mental illnesses.

Your neighbors no longer ask what is going on with all the running.

You live in modern civilization and yet you have to watch for signs of dehydration.

You have left a party early because they have a long run the next morning.

The laundry is 90% race shirts.  You can tell what season it is by the volume of laundry.  You purposely do not count the number of running shoes in the house. Or old race bibs, medals, trophies, or outdated Ironman watches. 

You have watched ‘Chariots of Fire’ more than twice.  You are acquainted with the quotes of Sheehan and Prefontaine.  You have chosen a destination vacation that coincides with a race. 

You have stopped reacting to screams from the shower when the hot water hits the chafed places on the Runner’s body.  You have been awakened in the middle of the night from their leg cramps. 

You know Garmin is not a character from Lord of the Rings.

Every conversation at the kitchen counter involves stretching hamstrings.

You have watched the post marathon Frankenstein walk.  Or, the post marathon backward descent down stairs.  You no longer are taken aback by the gasp that accompanies lowering to a sitting position or candid conversations about sore nipples.

You’re aware that when they meet other runners it will be at least an hour long conversation.  Longer if they actually KNOW the other runner. 

You have awakened to find a post it note: ‘Gone for a 20.  Happy Anniversary.’

You already know that the Runner will talk about his injuries like they are family members.

You’re used to spending more on rehabbing an Achilles tendon than you did on your last vacation.  Blisters do not provoke comment. Black toenails are commonplace.  You know the first name of your Runner’s podiatrist.

You know you live with a runner if: You have waited for them.  You have held a sign for them.   You have eaten overcooked spaghetti in tents surrounded by people who smell like Ben Gay because that’s where the Runner is.

You have wondered if they are in the medical tent.  You have worried they will fall asleep driving back from a race.  You have bought Builder Bars for them.  You have looked at the bottom of their feet for them.  You have put ice in the tub for them.  You know when you should not ask how it went.  You felt their pain when they were defeated and shared the elation when they were victorious.  You don’t question the why.  You live with them anyway, even though they could never, ever, thank you enough.

Hope this finds you patient,

David

Copyright © 2017 David Smith