It will always be Marathon Monday

This Monday should mark the 125th running of the Boston Marathon. We can wait.

When I was six, my family moved from a suburb of Boston to New Jersey. My first grade teacher asked the class to name their favorite holiday and I naturally said Patriots Day. Most people today know it as Marathon Monday, or that day when the Red Sox play an 11 a.m. game. My wife calls it the one time when everyone in town is nice to each other. 

Commemorating the battles of Lexington and Concord that began the Revolutionary War, Patriots Day begins with historical reenactments in the morning. We then make our way to Wellesley to honor our friends and celebrate our neighbors. If we time it right, we can make it home to catch a few innings of the Sox in the afternoon. 

Back in 1980, however, my teacher thought I was making it up. She even called my mom, who told her, yes, there was a holiday in Massachusetts called Patriots Day, and that it was, in fact, my favorite. It has remained so to this day. 

I’ve told that story before, in a piece for SB Nation way back in 2013, after the bombs went off at the finish line. Patriots Day is more somber and reflective than it used to be, but no less affirming. It says something about the runners up here that they willingly train through New England winters to run 26.2 miles from Hopkinton to Boston. 

It was on that awful day that I made a vow to honor all those affected by that horrible tragedy to become a serious runner again after so many years of sporadic training and half-hearted efforts at staying in shape. My goals were to re-dedicate myself and set an example for my son who was a few months away from being born. What better way to prove that commitment than by qualifying for the Boston Marathon? 

I was successful in becoming a dedicated runner, and I’d like to think that’s made a positive impression on my son, but I never did qualify for Boston. I missed the 3:15 time for my age group by seven minutes on my first attempt, and by 15 on my second. There aren’t too many levels of runner frustration worse than knowing at Mile 23 that you’re not going to get a BQ, unless the realization sets in earlier. 

When I finally did run Boston in 2017, it was as a charity entrant. For many reasons that I plan on exploring in greater detail in Tuesday’s post, it was the worst running experience of my life for about 25.9 miles. 

That all changed just after we made the turn on Boylston St. The roar of the crowd was unlike anything I have ever experienced before or since. The energy they generated propelled me through the final chute with a burst of speed that made the whole thing worth it. 

I think about that moment whenever I see someone around town wearing a blue jacket with white trim that marks a 2017 participant. If I’m wearing mine, our eyes will meet, and we’ll know that we have a bond that doesn’t need words to signify. Once you run Boston, it’s forever. 

A year to the day after I ran Boston, I completed my first ultra on an unmarked course without fans, aid stations, or medals. It remains my favorite race of all-time, and it changed the trajectory of my life. I have no plans to run Boston again, but I won’t rule it out either. Just knowing it’s there is a comfort, and I miss it terribly. 

We didn’t make it out to our usual cheering spot in Wellesley that year. I was banged up from the 50K and that was the year of the deluge. I can’t remember why we didn’t go in 2019, but after the 2020 marathon became a virtual event because of COVID, it struck me that I still haven’t gone back to witness the race as a veteran. 

This year’s race has been postponed to the fall. I’m sure it will be a great event, but it won’t feel like we have the race back until the following spring. I plan to be there this time next year, proudly wearing that blue and white jacket, yelling encouragement to both friends and strangers.  

Take a journey back in time to Italy as I relive one of my favorite all-time runs. 

The road to Vaiano, a small village in the central Italian region of Lazio, is paved with pockmarked asphalt and non-existent shoulders. It runs the length of the valley floor, beginning on the outskirts of Bagnoregio and plunging downward, ever downward, until bottoming out and disappearing beneath a tall cluster of trees. What lingered down there in the valley was a mystery. 

Music, packing, pre-race fueling, and more. You asked questions. I answered. 

Then one day I went out without headphones and it was like a whole new world opened up. For starters, it was just one less thing to worry about and one less thing to weigh me down. Then, I started observing things, like the way the wind affects the current on the Charles, or the way the birds changed with the seasons. I wasn’t running against my environment anymore, I was participating in it. 

I began meditating three years ago and it goes hand-in-hand with my training. Here’s how a runner thinks about meditation. 

I started meditating in my early 40s because my life was spinning out of control. While I was keeping up outward appearances and maintaining my responsibilities to work and family, inside I was a mess of conflicting emotions and self-doubt. At the time, running was one of the only things keeping me anchored to the ground. 

It was through running that I discovered meditation because they seemed like natural allies. Indeed, I found great resonance between the two. Ritual, repetition, breathing, focus, boredom, bliss. It’s all there. 

My training has really picked up under the direction of my new coach. Over the last few weeks, we’ve explored recovery and managing heavy mileage. This past Friday, we emptied out the closet and got ready for spring with gear tips and recs. All that, plus: recipes, workouts, reading suggestions, foam rolling, and a trip inside the pain cave. 

I will admit to being fascinated by pain. Not in a masochistic way, but as a concept. As runners, we know that pain is part of the deal. The longer we go, the more things are going to hurt. Yet, we still get out there, pushing the envelope and seeing how far we can take it. The more I run, the more convinced I become that managing pain is more mental than physical. 

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