Journey: Sand Diego, Destination: Boston

Enjoy the ride, stop and smell the roses, it is better to travel than to arrive, it's the journey not the destination. No matter who said it or how it was said, most of us have tried to embrace some form of this advice. Most of us A-typers have failed. I think of these words when I need to relax before a race. I remind myself of the fact that race day is the easiest day of my entire training schedule; all the hard work has already been completed when you arrive at the starting line on race day. You have already battled your demons during your lonely 120 mile bike rides and your solo 20 mile runs. All I have left to do is enjoy! It is not race day that makes you who you are, nor is it your finish times that prove your worth. In short, it is the journey.

The Boston Marathon calls bull shit on all of this nonsense.

Boston says, if this is not the hardest run you've ever raced then you have not worked hard enough If you don't finish this race on the brink of consciousness, the you did not push hard enough. If you "saved" yourself for any part of the course, then you did not try hard enough.

By the time I got to Boston, Friday before the Monday race, I was at ease. This would be my 7th marathon -- I was a vet. The work was done, my qualifying time verified, the registration complete, the time off work scheduled, the trip planned. The only thing left was just 26 miles. I was ready to run what is arguably the world's most well known and prestigious marathon. It was almost too real. The mystique was gone, the journey was over. It was almost a let down.

That's when Boston slapped me across the face.

After I left the humble starting town of Hoptinkon I cruised for 10 miles averaging 7:45 per mile. Sure, it was faster than I had planned, but it was a steady decline and I knew I would slow a bit in the second half thanks to the hills. So giving myself a little buffer would help get me to my anticipated finish time of 3:30. I mean PUH-lease, it's not like Boston would be THAT much harder than any of my previous marathons. I knew what it was to run 26 miles. And 26 miles is 26 miles wether you're in Arizona, California, or Boston.

That's when Boston punched me sharply in the gut.

At the half way point, although I was still going sub 8:00, the miles seemed noticeably harder. My stomach began to turn. GU, Powergel, Accelgel? Even the thought made me sick. Not even water was sitting well, so I began looking for places to puke. But that is difficult when the entire course is lined with white-haired grandmas, little kids, frat guys, you name it -- all of Boston is out. You are exposed, in all your glory, or all your misery. Just try to keep it together, I thought to myself. As I approached mile 20 where my support team had planned to set up camp, I had slipped to about 8:30's. It felt like a snail's place compared to earlier in the day, but I knew that if I could make it to 20 and get that boost of energy from my family, I could cruise for the last 6. Although I wouldn't be finishing in 3:30, at least I would be finishing.

Jab, jab, right cross . . . Boson had me cornered.

As I crested Heartbreak Hill, my legs turned to glass. Every step felt as if I was being hit it the quad with a baseball bat. Each time my foot hit the ground it felt like my muscles might shatter. Could I run 6 more miles like this -- an hour more -- when each step was reverberating through my body like a mini earthquake -- one after another, after another? I felt like a pile of rubble. I wanted to go faster. I didn't want to finish doing 9:00 miles, but I couldn't make my body move any quicker -- not even if my life depended on it. I felt sick, light headed, thirsty, cold, like I was going to pass out, like I WANTED to pass out, like I wanted to DIE! I wanted it to be over. I wanted to stop moving. I wanted to revel in the last 6 miles of the Boston Marathon. I wanted to enjoy the crowds, the Citgo sign, Commonwealth Ave -- but I couldn't.

Boston landed one final blow and I was down for the count.

It didn't even feel good to finish. The damage was done. Multiple volunteers asked me if I was ok -- I guess ashen skin and blue lips are signs that something is up -- I couldn't even formulate a sentence; my words weren't making sense. I started to shiver uncontrolablly. I took my gloves off and realized that even with the 40 degree weather and intense headwinds everything I was wearing was totally drenched with sweat. I had about a half mile to walk to get to my gear bag which at least had dry gloves in it, but every step was a struggle and I wondered if I would make it. The race had literally taken everything I had. I had nothing left in my muscles, in my head, in my heart.

Long story longer, this is what I was reminded of when I ran the Boston Marathon: that sometimes it's not JUST about getting to the finish; SOMETIMES it's about how fast (or slow) you get there. When we forget about the importance of performance, we lose a large part of what it means to be an athlete. We cannot run ALL our races or live ALL our days thinking ONLY of the journey and never the destination. And when it comes to Boston, you better believe that the starting line is NOT your destination. Honey, that is only the beginning! Sure, it's great to make it there, to look around and see a sea of 25,000 of the world's best marathoners and know that you have earned a spot amongst them. But if that is your final destination, your "journey" is about 26 miles short. Because, I assure you, it's the FINISH that you want to make it to -- proudly, and quickly, having truly earned the privledge of every step you took on that hallowed course, having earned the opportunity not to run the race, but to race the race; because this is the Boston Marathon SUCKAH!

Five weeks later, against my better judgement, I found myself once more at the starting line. This was the San Diego Marathon. I stood next to a long time running friend, the one who had convinced me that two marathons in 40 days was a good idea. I don't usually run with people and with good reason. I was hoping this would not be the beginning of the end of our friendship. Although my 8th marathon, it was full of firsts. It was the first time I would run with company. It was the first marathon where I would not dictate the pace. It was the first marathon where I would opt out of using my I-pod. And it was the first marathon -- gasp -- where time did not matter. This was my promise and my challenge: this race would be about friendship, beautiful San Diego, the crowds, the guy wearing the inflatable monkey and the two girls in the fairy costumes. This was, very simply, about doing something I love. This time, it was ALL journey. We saw our friends at mile 20 and they snapped a picture of us. My smile was so enormous that I look like a cartoon. You can't fake that kind of bliss. We finished together 6 miles later, and my love for this ridiculous sport was renewed.

San Diego kissed me smack on the lips.

Both Boston and San Diego were surprising for different reasons. In Boston -- the weather, the course, the humbling desperation. In San Diego -- the friendship made stronger by 26 miles, the fun, the joy. There are times where it's about the journey and times where it's about the destination. It can be your heaven and your hell. It can build you up and tear you down. And to see it from both sides is to truly know it. And only when you know something can you truly love it. To know what it has the potential to do to you and without reservation to return again -- that is explained only by stupidity, ego, or love. To appreciate the journey, to see the importance of the destination, to have sought the understanding of both and to have been blessed with a love for both is to have become a better person with a deeper knowledge of oneself.

The day after the Boston Marathon the Globe printed a full page add that said this:
Today you may feel like you'll never run a marathon again.
See you next year.

Touché.