Becoming the bison
Running into storms at the Boston Marathon
An interesting fact about bison is they are one of the few animals on the planet that runs into a storm. Most choose to run away. Yet, bison are no fools. They’re as smart as they are courageous because by running into storms, they inevitably spend less time trapped inside them.
“When it gets tough,” Avery wrote in my race plan. “Make a decision to run into the storm. Eventually the clouds will part.”
The problem with running into the storm is that we’re not talking about a passing shower. Sometimes the storm can last a very long time. Like say, the final 10 miles of a marathon. Still, 10 miles is a lot shorter than, say, 8 years, which is how long I waited to have the opportunity to run Boston again.
It’s crazy how similar 2025 conditions were to the 2017 version of the race. We had a blistering warmup on Saturday (just like 2017), followed by a blustery day on Sunday. All of which set the stage for a postcard perfect 60-degree day with a mix of sun and clouds and nary a storm in sight.
For spectators, it was a classic case of New England shoulder season weather where one feels trapped between the delights of spring and the last grasp of winter depending on where one happens to be standing at any given moment. That’s why we layer.
For runners, it was hot. You might not think low 60s would feel unseasonably warm, but you probably didn’t spend your winter training in sub-freezing temperatures with 30 mph winds howling from the north. Unfortunately from a physiological standpoint, all that cold rain and snow meant absolutely nothing when trying to acclimate my body to heat.
Fearing the potential for dehydration, I made the decision to carry two 20 ounce handheld water bottles throughout the race. One bottle contained Skratch hydration mix. The other contained two Hammer Fizz electrolyte tablets. The total amount of sodium within each bottle consisted of roughly 700 mg. That was for the first half of the race.
Midway between Hopkinton and Boston lies Wellesley where Lena and K handled their aid station duties like the ultra-tested crew they are. It wasn’t much, just a quick handoff of bottles and I love yous while Lena tossed a salt cap into my mouth. They’re the best.
To that point, I was running a smart and disciplined race. I made my half marathon split in an hour and 39 minutes and didn’t feel like I had actually started racing yet. An excellent sign. I thought, there’s going to be a lot of carnage on this course and reminded myself to keep drinking. Around Mile 15, a new thought dawned: Maybe I’m the carnage.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to run fast. It was that I couldn’t. My hips were cramping and my mind wasn’t fully invested in the idea of going to the well. I battled for a few miles, but realized somewhere around the Wellesley-Newton line that a competitive finish just wasn’t going to be in the cards.
It was then that I made a business decision. There was no sense trying to be a hero since there was a high likelihood that A) such a gambit would wreck me and B) it probably wouldn’t work anyway. However, there was also no sense in being a coward. Whining wasn’t going to help me, nor would feeling sorry for myself. What I needed to do at that moment was continue running into the storm.
The hills were tough, thanks for asking. I tried preparing for them in training. I cranked verticality on the treadmill and blasted up steep climbs whenever I had the chance. There’s just no substitute for running the Newton Hills as much as possible. The one flaw in our plan was I didn’t spend time on the course. Whoops.
As an ultrarunner by choice, I don’t think walking up hills is a crime. Still, I figured I could keep plugging away so long as I just kept moving forward. It wasn’t like I had to convince myself, like I had to back in 2017. I just did it. That’s toughness and experience talking. In so many words, that’s being the bison.
There are few worse feelings than getting passed late in a race while getting your ass kicked by the course. Yet, I didn’t allow any of that to bother me. (OK, one time late in a race when an older woman passed me, I heard someone say, “Go Grandma!” I did pick it up a little.)
For 10 long and fairly agonizing miles, I stayed true to myself and my purpose. I came back to this race to finish the job that had been left undone back in 2017. Not for any specific time or place, but to feel good about myself and my effort.
As my competitive goals slipped away one by one, I was struck by a feeling of relief that I wasn’t going to come close to qualifying and would therefore never have to do any of this ever again. All I had to do was finish the damn thing and this chapter of my life would be over.
Making my way through Brookline, I tried soaking up the energy of the crowd. All those people screaming and yelling can be overwhelming, especially for an introvert such as myself. Yet they carried me to the finish. I’m grateful for them. And the signs!
You know therapy was an option, right?
Pain is just French for Bread
You’re running better than the government
This seems like a lot of trouble for a free banana
You still need therapy
I made sure to smile coming through Kenmore Square just as the Red Sox game was getting over. How many chances in your life can you feel like you just hit a home run to beat the Yankees?
Toward the end I saw the fam one more time. I blew them kisses to let them know I was doing alright and ran down Boylston Street for what I assume was the last time in my life. I pumped my fist at the finish, which kind of surprised me, and let out a huge sigh of relief.
It was over, I had done it, and now I can finally get back to where I belong: On dirt, among the rocks and the trees, with only the wild animals to keep me company. I’d go looking for bison, but I already found him. He’s been right here the whole time.
Hell yeah, brother.
I am now intimately familiar with getting stoked on aggressive timing goals, only to have them go out the window, and then settle in for the grind.
Way to get that thing done, Paul.
Now, come back to the trails.