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By Heather Mayer Irvine
A victory lap. That’s what the 2016 Boston Marathon was always supposed to be for me. I had run myself into the ground (quite literally) qualifying in the 2014 Chicago Marathon. I posted a painful 3:31:42 and was immediately rushed to the emergency room for IV fluids. Getting into Boston was the goal, and the 26.2 miles from Hopkinton to Boylston Street was the cherry on top.
But then I ran the Athens Greece Marathon (yes, the one that starts in the town of Marathon) in a comfortable 3:39, on a course very similar to Boston. I didn’t hurt until mile 24, and my last six miles were less than eight minutes a piece. I felt great. There was no pressure. No pressure for that race, anyway. But my time showed me that a 3:25 was possible for the April race in Boston. And accepting that, was my mistake.
So I no longer looked at this week’s race as a victory lap. It was about hitting that 3:25. I trained all winter, hitting every workout almost perfectly. Every time trial race I ran (a 10-miler, a half marathon and a 10K) showed me not only was 3:25 possible, it was a given. Theoretically, I was fit enough for a sub-3:20.
My training partners pushed me; we pushed each other. And less than a week before race day, my partner-in-crime told me she was going to bank time (run as fast as she could for as long she could and then just hang on), targeting a 3:20. Painfully, I told her she’d have to go on without me. My plan was to go out slowly, 8-minute miles at first, then 7:50s until mile 10, where I’d drop to marathon pace until mile 20, at which point, I’d push as hard as I could for the last 10K through the finish line.
My six teammates and I, my partner-in-crime included, parted ways when the gun went off, having already stripped down to our sports bras—it was low 60s, cloudless, and temps were rising.
I followed my plan to a T. I passed one partner, who tried banking time, at mile 10; it was too hot for her to continue at that pace.
“Boston was supposed to be the culmination of hard work, reinforcement of the strength I had to earn a qualifying time,” said Christina Caira, of North Brooklyn Runners (with whom I run). “What started off as dreams of a [personal record] PR, turned into the reality of ‘Not Today.’ And so I persevered, soaked in the experience, and accomplished finishing a marathon that so many people dream about. Even if I didn’t run the way I wanted, I still know that my training allowed me to not give up. I am so lucky and grateful to have even made it to the starting line.”
I cruised through the halfway point, after blowing kisses to the girls at Wellesley, in 1:43. And then at mile 14, the wheels came off.
The sponges under my hat, the mist stations, the ice cubes down my top weren’t helping. With 12 miles to go, I knew my 3:25 was gone. So I turned to Plan B, which should have been Plan A all along: avoid the medical tent and savor the race. Run a victory lap.
I stopped along the course: at mile 17 where my parents, husband, in-laws, a teammate and my partner-in-crime’s son were cheering. (He yelled at me for stopping. He’s seven).
“Some days you just don’t have it,” I said. “And that’s OK.”
My mom told me to slow down and not get sick. (She tells me that every time I lace up, but on Monday I knew I had to listen.)
“It’s OK. Some days you just don’t have it,” I said. “And that’s OK.”
I kept going and made the right at the Newton Fire Station—time for some hills.
I stopped again just before mile 20 where my North Brooklyn teammates set up camp. They didn’t know why I was stopping.
“Some days you just don’t have it. And that’s OK.”
I stopped again at mile 20, just before Heartbreak Hill, to see family friends. He handed me a Gatorade and a banana.
“I’ll walk with you,” he said.
“No, I’ll stop. It’s OK. Some days you just don’t have it. And that’s OK.”
I sipped the cold, ice blue Gatorade, took half a banana and turned to keep going. I trudged up Heartbreak Hill, not stopping, but certainly not flying up as I’d done before. I stopped at the mile 22 water station where my high school friend was volunteering.
“Some days you just don’t have it. And that’s OK.”
He offered me a rose someone left behind, and I started running again. Just past mile 22 another high school friend started screaming for me. I stopped, gave her a hug, collected myself.
“Some days you just don’t have it. And that’s OK.”
Five paces later, another high school friend. Another hug.
“Some days you just don’t have it. And that’s OK.”
And then I ran into another training partner, who had banked time (on an injured Achilles’ heel). We started running together. I tried to encourage her to smile and be proud of how far we had come.
“I went to high school down the street from the finish line, so when I started running, the Boston Marathon became a goal race,” said Masha Portiansky. “I was lucky to qualify with several teammates who became my training partners and close friends. We lined up on a sunny Patriots’ Day to tackle the historic course. What makes this race so special is the people. The enthusiasm of the spectators really carries the runners to the finish line. I didn’t run the race I had hoped to run, but I couldn’t stop smiling. [Monday] gave me a memory that will last a lifetime.”
After about half a mile, she told me to run my race—she had to pull back. The heat had gotten to her, too. I kept at it, quads searing in pain (people really don’t seem to understand that it’s the downhills in Boston that crush you. Going up is almost a relief for your legs). I looked at my watch, did some quick math, and realized if I pushed a little harder I could qualify for another Boston. And then I laughed. No. This was the culmination. This was always going to be my last marathon. I slowed down.
“Some days you just don’t have it. And that’s OK.”
I took a picture of the iconic Citgo sign. Mile 25 at Kenmore Square where the Sox game had just let out was a painful blur. I tried smiling, savoring. I was miserable.
And then it appeared. “One mile to go.”
I didn’t even try lifting my legs much more. I didn’t have it in me. Not mentally, not physically. But I turned right on Hereford. I saw my parents, husband, in-laws. I waved, I smiled. I was ready to put this race behind me.
I turned left on Boylston. I didn’t get emotional like in 2013 or 2014. I was relieved. I ran slowly up to the Boston Pubic Library, pulled over, and took out my phone. I snapped a photo of the finish line—something I had done when I entered the Olympic Stadium in Athens last fall. And then I charged ahead. Threw my arms out and forced a smile.
I crossed the finish line and hit my watch: 3:38:42.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t go to the med tent. I just walked to get my medal and space blanket in a trance. And then I started shivering. Funny, how that works—you suffer in the heat for 25 miles, and then the Boston breeze cools you off, but it’s too late to make up for that slowed time.
I left Boston on Monday in a funk. My Plan A I had set when I qualified went almost as planned, except for one key factor: I didn’t enjoy the race. I didn’t have fun. I let that secondary 3:25 goal get to me. And while I backed off at mile 14 and tried to salvage the day, the damage was done. I was fit enough to run the race of my life but didn’t. And it hung over me. I failed. But not only did I fail hitting my time, I failed at something far more important. I failed at savoring my victory lap.
And now, it’s over. And as I write this, it’s 51 degrees with overcast outside of Boston. Perfect weather for a marathon. And yet, I keep saying to myself, “Some days you just don’t have it. And that’s OK.”
Yes, that’s OK.
Heather Mayer Irvine, a Needham High School graduate from Medfield, is the food and nutrition editor at Runner’s World magazine. She has run seven marathons and three Bostons. She’s hanging up her marathoning shoes and focusing on shorter distances.
