From the OWB to the Boston Marathon
By: Mark Rowe (Head Distance Coach: Owensboro High School)
This past Monday, April 18th, I stood aimlessly in a starting corral in Hopkinton, MA at the starting line of the USA’s most historic marathon, freaking out. After logging too many miles to count over the last six months, the quiet confidence I woke up with a few hours earlier was replaced with anxiety. I had gotten separated from my friend and unofficial “pace-sharer” Dean Roberts. Dean was a scoring member of the third State Championship cross-country team at my alma-mater- Daviess County High School. That day, he was coached by my father, Tony, in what would be Dad’s first title coaching at DC…now the tally is at eight and nearly 30 years later the count continues. I was fortunate to be on the school’s fifth team that won State and Dean got his coaching start coaching girl’s cross-country at Owensboro High School (Dad’s alma mater) a few years after. Given the fact that I now coach at Owensboro, it is ironic how God uses something as simple as running to unite people. The circle had come all the way around in a sense. However, being re-united with Dean was the only thing on my mind Monday morning just after 9am.
Dean is one of those guys that people look up to in our local running circles because he does everything the right way…from eating, to sleeping, to pacing. The last thing I knew was that he and Nate Pagan, also a runner from Owensboro, had gone to check their bags in for a much less stressful trip to downtown Boston than the one we were about to embark on. I was not aware that both had decided to go ahead and jog to the starting line. Once this was discovered, I practically sprinted to the 800 meters to the start corral to look for them both. At promptly 9:15am, the wheelchair start came and went, followed by the elite women at 9:30am. Still no sight of Dean. “28,000 people crammed in like a herd of cattle into a fenced-in area in Hopkinton, MA will cause that to happen,” I reasoned. “We traveled here, stayed in the same room, ate the same meals, got up and went to bed at the same time, discussed and re-disccussed race strategy, and I am the idiot that loses him not at Heartbreak Hill, but at the starting line,” I concluded mentally. At 9:54am, I found him, took a deep breath and mentally tried to compose myself for what became not only a race, but an experience, unlike any I have ever taken part in.
10:00am: The gun sounded to start the 115th Boston Marathon. I never saw the Kenyans, top Americans or even the crazy runners that took out too hard in what would become the fastest marathon ever run, anywhere, under any conditions. We ran our first mile in 7:03. We were ecstatic given the situation that it was the Boston Marathon and the elevation drop is significant early on in the race. The absolute last thing that we wanted to do was make any critical pacing mistakes that would cost us precious time, physically or mentally, late in the race when we rounded the corner on Boylston Street and saw the finish line.
Our race strategy was pretty simple: get to the notorious Newton Hills and the final and most famous, marathon climb in the sport (Heartbreak Hill) in one piece. We reasoned that this would ultimately mean for us to average around 6:40 per mile for the first six miles and then gradually drop the pace to the 6:20 range for the next eleven miles- putting us at the starting point of the Newton Hills at around mile seventeen. The plan from then on out was to stay consistent with whatever pace we were running during the duration of the hills, and then use whatever we had left in the tank over the last 5.2 miles of the race.
Six miles later: we had accomplished part one in this crazy drama. We weren’t feeling anything, just caught up in the moment. This was THE Boston Marathon. Moments earlier we had passed Team Hoyt, the father-son combo that has become famous for the father pushing the disabled son in such events as the Ironman. When we passed them, I remember thinking what a blessing from God it was to be able to run and compete- not just at Boston- but anywhere. I think I even got choked up as we encouraged the inspirational pair as we passed by and continued on our trek towards Boston.
Almost effortlessly, we picked up the pace to match our goal pace over the next several miles. The lone exception came at the halfway point (13.1 miles) when we passed Wellesley College, the all-female school I knew of more for its cheering girls that line the street during the race, than for anything else. Let’s just say they are crazy and leave it at that. However, just to clear anything up, examples of signs I saw included, “I am Graduating, Don’t Have a Job and Giving Free Kisses,” and the always-popular “Kiss Me, I’m Southern” sign. I didn’t stop (just in case my wife, Sam, is reading this) but certainly enjoyed high-fiving the stream of “well-wishers” not even realizing our pace descended below 6:00 that mile! Oh well, it’s Boston, I reasoned. I was having fun and caught up in the moment, running with a child-like, inexpressible joy that I had not experienced since I started running in 1994. After logging upwards of 90 miles per week in preparation for this one day, it was a moment and feeling I won’t soon forget. I was running completely free of anxiety, time, place, weather or any other external factor. I can’t help to think that is how we are supposed to approach running each time we lace our shoes up…
Roughly four miles later, we approached the town of Newton: The critical point in our conquest. I have a hard time explaining the next few miles. Three days later, I still really have more questions than answers. As we were on either the first or second Newton Hill, for just a brief moment, I decided to be more conservative and abandon our consistent pace. The Newton Hills were my only worry coming into the race because I had not trained exclusively for them like some runners do in their Boston preparations. Just like that, Dean had gapped me 50 yards, then 100. It was very strange. I still felt fine physically. I tried to stay as close as I could. Maybe a mile later, I hit the Wall…the one that anyone who has ever ran a marathon is all-too-familiar with.
The final six or so miles were a blur. I remember just telling myself to get to 25 miles and the famous Citgo gas station sign that greets you as you make your way towards Boylston. The crowd was deafening the last mile. It was probably a combination of the event, what I would later find out that transpired on the elite front (World and American records run), or the fact that it no one seemingly worked in the whole town last Monday and the party-like atmosphere surrounding the event.
I finished the 2011 Boston Marathon in 3:03.28.
I initially was not pleased with my time, still thinking with a couple miles to go, I could match the 2:59.51 I ran in Chicago last fall. However, I immediately remembered what I had heard a few weeks back…that the Boston Marathon is not a race, it is an experience. With that being said, it is one that I an extremely grateful for. Just being in that environment, I feel like I made strides in becoming a better coach, athlete and overall person because of what transpired over a four day time span. I wouldn’t change a thing….