The Boston Blues
I moved to Boston when I was 18 to go to college. I had no idea what Patriots Day was, I had never seen the Boston Marathon and I didn’t truly understand why it was such a big deal. It didn’t take me long to figure it out.
I remember the first time I watched the marathon. I ran but didn’t really think of myself as a runner yet. I took the “T” into the city early, found my spot along the course and waited with anticipation as the crowd grew, the energy began to buzz and finally, we saw a runner approaching. I spent the entire day cheering, jumping, high-fiving, and celebrating the runners as they passed by. That was the day I decided I, too, would run the marathon.
Over the next several years I ran, a lot. I ran through the streets of Boston, over the salt and pepper bridge, up and down the hills in Beacon Hill, along the Charles River, and on the MIT track. I got faster, more confident and fell completely head over heels for running and the dream to run the Boston Marathon.
My first marathon was the San Diego Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon. I ran and trained with Team in Training (they are amazing, my brother is a survivor), it was the year after I graduated from college and entered the adult world. I was obsessed with every aspect of running, my food, my strength training, hydration, shoes…you name it. If it was related to running, I was interested. On race day I went out too fast, overcome by adrenaline, excitement, and fear, and by mile 20 I was paying the price. Watching hundreds of runners pass me by as I gritted my teeth and put one foot in front of the other. I missed the qualifying time by under a minute. The next day I signed up for another marathon.
In 2006, I ran the Philadelphia Marathon. I was on pace to qualify for Boston the whole way. I was pushing myself so hard. I saw the finish line and saw the clock that said I was going to make it under the cut. Then I lost complete control of my bladder, I blackout and dropped to my knees. I have a foggy recollection of two runners coming up beside me and picking me up under my arms. They helped me to my feet, helped me get to the finish line, and then one of them whispers to me, “If you don’t cross the finish line on your own it doesn’t count,” right before they released me. I woke up in a wheelchair then again in the medical tent confused, angry, and hooked up to so many wires. There were doctors all around me with concerned looks on their faces. I had no idea if I finished, no idea where I was, and no idea that this was a glimpse into something much bigger I would face down the road.
When I got back to my college roommates’ apartment, I kept looking up my times to see if I finished — it was all I cared about. A few hours later I saw a picture of myself with my arms raised in the air crossing the finish line — like nothing had ever happened. It was the eeriest experience looking down at all the bruises and cuts on my body, hands, and face and staring at the picture of myself on the screen. I dismissed it. I wrote a letter to the race director asking for my medal and started training again (I did go to a cardiologist, when I got home, and they cleared me to keep running).
I ran several marathons. Every time I missed the cut off it was by a few minutes, or worse a few seconds. In two of them, I had passed out from arrhythmias (I found out later), and in one I hurt my back. Yet every year I kept training and kept pushing. Each marathon took grit, hard work, and commitment yet every time I didn’t make the cut,
I felt like a failure.
The pressure was unbearable.
I spiraled into a black hole of shame and “not enough.”
I told myself that if I wasn’t good enough to qualify, I wasn’t good enough, period. It didn’t matter that I had accomplished what 1% of the world had done. It didn’t matter that I had pushed my body and mind to the limit and finished the race. All I cared about was Boston.
In 2007, I ran the Columbus Marathon. I was nervous as usual, but more so because the last marathon in Philadelphia had scared me. This time I went into the race with a plan. Slow and steady the whole way. At mile 21 my boyfriend, Brian (now husband) jumped into the race with me and helped me calm myself down and stay on pace. This time when I crossed the finish line I qualified for Boston. It felt like I suddenly belonged to a secret and exclusive club. I held my head a little higher, smiled a little bigger, and walked a little taller. I felt like I finally made it. My breath evened out, my heart slowed, and I was euphoric.
The following year I finally did it. I ran the Boston Marathon. I met an old college professor at the starting line, ran with my friend and training partner, and enjoyed everything from the athlete’s village to crossing the finish line. I ran slowly on purpose, high-fiving all my friends along the course, I admired the Citgo sign as I got closer to the city, and I took in every moment of running down Boylston. My parents and boyfriend came to the race, my friends met me for dinner before and after. I was in heaven. I bought my jacket (and shorts, and shirt and…all the gear) and refused to take it off. I wore my medal to dinner, breakfast, and on the plane. I even brought it to my class the next week (I was in PT school).
I ran a total of 13 marathons and three Bostons’. Each one was incredible in its own way. There was struggle, there was emotional toil and triumph. I miss it all. I wish I could still run marathons but am grateful for the experiences I had and that my self-worth and accomplishments are no longer tied to running. It took me losing my sport and lots of therapy, but I did it.
Yet every April, I get the Boston Blues. It is a conflict between the deep love I have for the sport, the city, and the race and the deep loss I feel that I cannot be there.
I know I am not alone. I am sending love and good vibes to all the runners that are injured and won’t make it to the starting line on Monday. I see you in my clinic, cheering on the sidelines and quietly hoping no one asks you why you aren’t running.
Then there are all the runners who, like me, keep putting in the work, day after day, year after year, and don’t qualify. I want them to know that it’s okay. Qualifying won’t make you a better person, it won’t make you happier or more liked. It will allow you to participate in an incredible event, and you will get a cool medal and the right to wear the Boston Marathon Jacket — but it doesn’t make you a better person.
As athletes, our identity can become so caught up in the miles we run, the times we produce, or the place we finish in. There was a time I was so tied to being a runner and being a good runner that I didn’t see all the amazing accomplishments that were piling up around me.
On Monday, I will run 2 miles in the woods, with my friend Erin. We will go slowly. I might cry a little. I will be exactly where I am supposed to be. Then, I will go home, drink my protein shake and turn on my TV. I will remember the little things about the race — the sound of my feet, the feeling of my breath, the beating of my heart. I will cheer for all of you beautiful humans that will be running through the streets of Boston in the middle of every marathon runner's dream.
xo Kate
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