|
Newsletter - Spring 2005 The Long Road to Boston, by Rock Kennedy Running
with the Wild Things
by Rick Kennedy It all felt so surreal. As the plane took off from the O'Hare runway heading toward Boston, it was still hard to believe. I was going to run the Boston Marathon. It really wasn't that long ago that the simple notion of qualifying for Boston seemed beyond my capabilities as a runner. I reminded myself just to relax, soak it all in, and enjoy the experience. Thus I began to reflect upon what it took me to get to this point. I started running in 1998, after my friend Keith ran Grandma's Marathon. I remember thinking to myself; if he could do it I might be able to run a marathon someday. So I signed up for Chicago, and 16 weeks later ran my first in a time of 4:15. This was to be my one and only marathon, but instead I caught a case of running OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). Years of CARA training, Pacers fun runs, and 13 marathons later I finally made it to Boston. I recall one particular speed bump on my road to Boston. Just six months earlier I had awoken in a hospital bed, wondering where I was. Apparently, I had been "door'ed" while riding my bike. Heading down Halstead, someone suddenly opened the door of their parked car into the path of my speeding bike. It was a scary incident, but coming back from injury and being able to run well now feels like a victory in itself. Arriving in Boston, you can sense excitement in the air. Boston is a small enough city that the marathon is a really big deal. Signs hang from shops welcoming and wishing luck to the runners. On the streets, it is fun to pick out people who are there for the marathon. Some are wearing prior year marathon jackets. Some carry bags from the expo or large water bottles for a bit of last day hydration. Some just have that runner's look. Life is good on Boston Marathon Eve. I am fortunate to be joined by Carol Tebbe. The weather is beautiful, and rest and relaxation is top priority for the day. Carol and I take lunch in an outdoor café on Boylston Street called the "Boston Globe Café". Practically everyone at the café is here for Marathon, and you can't help but feel a sense of community being surrounded so many fellow runners. Finally it is marathon Day. Ready or not, the 109th running of the Boston Marathon is going to happen. I run through my morning checklist. I have been warned by Joanne and Janet that the marathon doesn't start till noon and you spend a few hours just waiting around the runner’s village. Today my check bag includes a few out of the ordinary items. One is a book to read, and a second is a couple of hotel towels I sneak out to lay on at the runner’s village. Carol and I plan our rendezvous spots on the course, and I head out to meet some fellow CARA runners for the bus out to Hopkinton. We arrive in the runners village despite our bus driver having to stop and ask for directions. We find a shady spot and camp out. So far it feels a lot like I imagine Woodstock might have been. Music is playing on stage, people are having the bodies and shirts painted with their names, and people are taking in Gatorade as if it were an addictive drug. One highlight of the runners village is the pep talk from Uta Pippig, 3 time Boston winner. In her very cute German accent, she promises that if we conserve our energy for the hills and stay focused "This will be a piece of pancake". Kevin Brock, fellow CARA runner, remarked post race that perhaps she was referring to a "piece of pancake from hell". Either way, Uta really takes the pancake for being a great Boston Marathon ambassador. The marathon is about to start. We line up in the corrals anxiously anticipating the challenge before us. Before long, the race starts and we are off and running down the perilously steep downhill at the start. As thick as the pack of runners is at the beginning of the race, the crowds are even denser. Typically, most marathons thin out quickly if you are running fast, not so here. By mile 8 the pack of runners seems as tight as when we started. It is an hour past high noon and the temperatures are hovering around 70°. The realization comes quickly that I wasn't going to keep a PR pace as I previously fanaticized. So I remind myself that the original plan was to just enjoy the moment. My renewed focus to enjoy the moment is well rewarded in Wellesley. This is where thousands of screaming young women from the all female college come out to cheer. The sound is absolutely deafening. I contemplate that this is what it might be like to be a rock star as I pass through the gauntlet high-fiving as many people as I can. As the race progresses, the amount of crowd participation is impressive. This is what really separates the Boston Marathon from any other. As we run through the small towns leading to Boston, the atmosphere from the sidelines more resembles a block party than a sporting event. Missing a water stop is no problem at all. The streets are lined with young children eager for the chance to provide water and ice to a passing runner. By now in the race I know I am approaching what is called "Heartbreak Hill" leading up to mile 20. My legs feel like lead, and I know that once I reach this hill the course is largely downhill. Not being familiar with the course, I keep hoping each hill I see is the final "Heartbreak Hill". After a couple of false positives identifying "Heartbreak Hill", I finally make it up to be greeting by a very enthusiastic crowd at Boston College. The remaining six miles of the course are down hill. Speed picks up even though we are tired, because we all know it will soon be over. The density of the crowd grows thicker and louder as we approach Boston. The excitement level heightens. At mile 25, I finally see Carol Tebbe and Marquita Sweeney cheering from the sidelines. Exhausted, I make my way to the finish, but not too exhausted to appreciate the accomplishment. Following the obligatory post marathon shower and nap, Carol and I make our way to Legal Seafood where we have a reservation to meet many of the Chicago runners. We are joined by fellow CARA or Pacer runners Ed Ledesma, Phil Greiner, Kevin Brock, Brian Sweney, Arieh Shalhav, and many of their significant others. It is a great time. We all tell stories, plan next marathons, and simply enjoy each others company and the experience. On the trip home, it feels as surreal as the plane ride out. I had now run the Boston Marathon. I recalled how I looked up to all the runners I knew who had run Boston such as Joanne, Janet, Cary, Jim, and Monica. It felt honored now to be in their company. I was left thinking about how no one does the marathon alone. I thought about all the Pacers who supported and cheered me on helping me accomplish one of my life goals. Most of all, I thought about the need to thank Carol for being my biggest cheerleader.
by
Gordon N. McIntosh If you’re like me, the first articles in your suitcase on the eve of a trip are your running shoes. Preparing for my three months in Australia last winter was no different. My wife Meridyth and I were about to trade Chicago’s winter for the southern hemisphere’s summer and I anticipated long runs along sandy beaches. Rather than gloves, jacket and face mask, I’d be in shorts, singlet and sunglasses. But scrambling over rugged trails through dense bush was not in the plan. There’s a reason for that. If you believe the guide books, Australia has more things that can kill or seriously injure you than anyplace else in the world. It claims eleven of the world’s most venomous snakes and enough deadly spiders for a B horror movie. In my mind “bush running,” (the Aussie term for trail runs in the woods) could be considered trespassing by one of these creatures (isn’t that where they live?). Maybe you’re more fatalistic than I, but it took a dose of Aussie attitude before I could dismiss that notion. During the first week in Australia I met up with a running club in Manly, a seaside suburb of Sydney. The area is known for its magnificent shoreline and I had already enjoyed several long runs, taking in the panorama of sea, surfers and sunbathers along the way. So when I signed on to a Saturday-morning run, I imagined an easy jaunt, cooled by the fresh ocean breeze. Surrounded by new mates, I jogged along the esplanade for a few miles before being surprised by the first of the steep hills, leaving me a little behind and a lot breathless. (New to the area, I hadn’t realized that besides beaches, Sydney’s northern suburbs held diabolical hills, forest preserves and dense brush). So when I watched the last of the pack disappear into the jungle, climbing what looked like a goat trail, I fondly recalled the horizontal perfection and pristine concrete of Chicago’s lakefront. Fortunately, as I struggled to keep up, any concern over poisonous critters was trumped by fatigue. That was my first peek into the Aussie psyche: obstacles are there to be conquered and one doesn’t let perils circumscribe your fun. (the attitude carries over to the water – deadly jellyfish and sharks hardly daunt the Aussies). It probably takes a lifetime to totally adopt this philosophy, but after a few more runs with the group I overcame my citified upbringing and could run through the bush alone (discovering how anxiety-induced adrenaline can enhance one’s pace). Did I encounter any critters? There were kookaburras, cockatoos, parrots, ravens, and bird varieties I couldn’t name. Not a mile from our place, I was startled by a bandicoot (an endangered and harmless mammal the size of a cat) darting across the trail. Koalas grazed lazily in the trees near a rented cabin in Nelson Bay. In the mountains of the island state of Tasmania, wallabies, wombats and bush-tailed possums were everywhere and a platypus popped up and skittered across a stream by the trail. I was even fortunate to see the elusive Tasmanian devil as I returned to the lodge one evening. I’m reconciled with knowing I’ll never have the brave (or is it foolhardy?) heart of an Australian, but my experience down under will go down as one of the best. Running off the beaten path, where the wild things live, helped make it so. Back in Lincoln Park, I have to be satisfied with the squirrels.
But
what was a little discomfort compared to the positives? For every climb,
there was an exhilarating (though sometimes terrifying) descent. We were
rewarded with spectacular views as we climbed over mountain ranges,
wound through valleys and across plains, fields and farmland, crossed
stream-beds and Roman bridges, and passed through eucalyptus forests and
cobblestoned villages. Every few miles another historical site awaited,
like the bridge where a knight vanquished all comers for the love of a
lady or the Cruz de Ferro where we followed tradition by leaving our own
stone. One cold night we stayed in O Cebreiro, a fogged-in mountaintop
town whose straw-roofed dwellings reminded us of Hobbitville and which
was the site of a 14th century miracle. And with every turn we were
watchful for the next yellow arrow or scallop shell that would point us
to Santiago. For
the most part our Spanish
hosts were very friendly and accommodating (except the ubiquitous
storks, huge birds who seemed determined to douse passersby from their
church-tower nests.) In larger cities like Burgos, León and Santiago
itself, we stopped in tapas bars, listened to bagpipes and visited
monasteries, museums and cathedrals. In the villages, we stopped in
wayside cafes or tavernas for coffee, beer or an empanada snack. Between
towns the only traffic was other pilgrims, sheep or cows. Most
pilgrims we met were European, and though language differences provided
some incomprehensible and a few comical exchanges, camaraderie was the
norm. But though our destination was the same, the motives were
different. The religious or spiritual saw the Camino as a true
pilgrimage. Others were on a quest for self or wanted time to meditate.
Finally there were those doing it for the adventure and challenge.
Whatever the reason, millions have followed the trail, hoping to embrace
the statue of St. James in the cathedral, just as we did when we
arrived. Many
have made this difficult trip repeatedly, and after experiencing the
Camino ourselves, we understand why. We also recognize as true what we
often heard along the way: that as much as our sights were on Santiago,
the journey didn't end there. Buen
camino. |