The 27th Mile

The town square was like a carnival. High school brass bands blared. Helicopters hovered above the telephone wires. Children perched on their fathers' shoulders. Photographers and film crews panned the colorful crowd. Hopkinton--a quaint New England village--was the center of a media event.

Runners began lining the street, filling up the final minutes before the race with exercises and nervous conservation. I felt lonely. At a time of personal uncertainty, I knew no one.

For the first couple of miles I hung loose, enjoyed the rural sights, tried to laugh, and admired the spectators that lined the streets, as they would all the way to Boston. I'd heard that the locals really got into the 'Thon but I never really expected it to be so intense. The fans made even us stragglers feel competitive with their clapping and exhortations. The first five miles were like floating down a river. With everyone moving at the same speed, you feel no pain. Soon, however, the exotic aspects of the race began to wear off. The distances between runners grew longer. Less idle chat went on as individuals began concentrating on the ever more formidable task at hand. At the ten-mile mark, my mind was firmly fixed on the next step, the next hill, the next mile.

By the time I reached Newton Center I was oblivious to a lot of things. I just looked right through them. My mind felt good, so it ignored some basic physical demands. Like water. The bright sun reflecting off the road made the course pretty hot. Stupidly, I didn't take any water until it was too late. I even avoided running under garden hoses for fear of getting my shoes wet.

It wasn't until I vaguely heard a spectator say "Look, that guy ain't even sweatin'" that I realized what I'd done. Dehydration. Heat stroke bait. A very unhealthy situation, especially with Heartbreak Hill looming ominously down the road.

Heartbreak Hill starts at the 25-mile mark of the course. With the exception of Wellesley and the finish line, more fans line that intersection than any other part of the course. I could see the crowd about half a mile away, a frightening harbinger of things to come.

Twenty miles is the physical limit of non-destructive running. By that point, a runner has used up all his expendable energy. After that, proteins and muscles start tearing down. That's why Heartbreak Hill is so torturous. If it were during the first ten miles of the race, the insidiously gentle two-mile ascent up to Boston College would raise nary an eyebrow. But instead, it must be dealt with at the runner's true breaking point--when every cell in his body starts screaming surrender.

By not taking any liquids, I'd only made things worse for myself. Not only had I burned up all my carbohydrates by that point, but, by not taking water, I had foolishly allowed a replenishable energy source to run out.

I started grabbing for any kind of fluid I could get. Unfortunately, I ended up with orange juice. One sip and wham! Within a few seconds I had severe stomach cramps, a tremendous stitch from out of nowhere. I haven't had a cramp like that in years.

For the next three miles, I moved at the pace of a brisk walk. And still I was dying. My legs kept wanting to move faster, but my stomach said nay. By the time I got rid of the cramp, my legs were ready for their own work-slowdown. Rhythm is crucial to a marathoner's success. The cramp destroyed mine, and I suffered the rest of the way.

My legs were like stumps the last three miles. Muscles I never knew I had started to hurt. Boston College, Commonwealth Ave, and Beacon St. blurred into abstraction, I sure wasn't admiring the sights or the crowds. I looked only for the proffered drink... the raised garden hose... water sprayed on my face. What Nirvana!

I caught my first sight of the Prudential Tower from the Beacon Circle in Brookline, four miles from the finish. A mile later it didn't seem any closer. But as long as I could see it, I felt all right. When, at times, it disappeared from view, I felt myself noticeably slowing down. Miles that clipped by at the beginning take an eternity at the end. Especially the last one.

The last mile I felt as though the whole world were watching. I wanted to stop so badly, yet I felt as though the fans expected me to kick it in. It was pretty agonizing.

Thousands line that last mile and the noise never seems less than a roar, even after the early finishers are in. The intensity of the situation is startling. Most recreational runners are used to dealing with pain by themselves. No one ever gives a damn how bad you're feeling when you run around the Charles. It's a very private experience.

All those screaming fans were bumming me out bad, making me feel like some gladiator on his last legs in the Coliseum. Then through the fog in my mind came the realization that the cheers were voiced not in blood lust or competitive drive, but in appreciation of personal achievement. Like "Rocky," I had gone the distance, and despite the cheers it was a very private accomplishment, a very private reward.