Long Road to Boston. Mr Mark Sutcliffe
FOREWORD
By Bart Yasso
The course of the Boston Marathon hasn’t changed very much over the past one hundred and twenty years. Hundreds of thousands of runners have left Hopkinton and have moved in almost a straight line, with only a handful of turns, to Boylston Street in Copley Square. When the gun goes off, we all travel the same path to the finish line.
But each one of those runners takes a different route to get to the start line. What prompts all of us first to do a marathon, then to strive for and achieve a qualifying time, then actually to run the Boston Marathon? I’ve talked to thousands of Boston runners over the past thirty-five years, and every story is different.
I first ran Boston in 1982, the year of the famous “duel in the sun” between Alberto Salazar and Dick Beardsley. On my first visit, I spent a lot of time before the race walking around the city, and discovered first-hand what so many people had told me about the atmosphere on marathon weekend. As soon as people find out you’re a runner, they want to know where you’re from and every detail about your story. Wherever you go that weekend, people are talking about the marathon.
Since then, I’ve been to Boston every single Patriots’ Day, a few times as a runner but mostly in my capacity as Chief Running Officer of Runner’s World. I’ve seen the race transform from a fairly small event populated by very fast athletes into an enormous spectacle that has become the ultimate goal for the everyday runner.
What makes the Boston Marathon special is its unparalleled history. It’s not the most picturesque marathon course in the world. It’s not run at the best time of year; the weather can be very unpredictable. But what no other event can match is the one-hundred and twenty years of tradition. There are runners who have been back every year for decades. There are families who have shown up to the same location as spectators every year for generations. Because the race is run on a holiday, it’s like a party on the streets.
The race has changed, but the tradition hasn’t. Thirty years ago, a small group of runners gathered every April in tiny Hopkinton. Now it’s a field in the tens of thousands. The first few years I ran Boston, there were spectators edging onto the course; by the time you got to Commonwealth Avenue, it was so narrow in some places that runners were traveling almost in single file. If you wanted to pass someone, you had to tap him or her on the shoulder and ask him or her to move over. Now it’s a highly organized, professionally run event run by an extraordinary team. Once upon a time, when you got to the finish line, you got the time that was on the clock when you crossed. Now there’s a sophisticated chip timing system, one of many technological improvements to racing.
What also hasn’t changed over the decades is the passion of the runners who seek an invitation to run Boston. Every year, I’m amazed by the stories of people who have made the Boston Marathon the most important item on their bucket list, the pinnacle of their running career. Some people train for years just to get in. The qualifying standards are a big part of the appeal: runners know that it’s not a free ticket. You have to earn the right to a bib number in Boston.
Mark’s story is a perfect example. He’s been running marathons for more than a decade and started getting closer to qualifying in his sixteenth marathon. Like so many other runners, he didn’t give up. I admire the commitment, persistence and determination of all the runners who have made Boston a significant goal in their lives. I never get tired of meeting the runners who are doing Boston for the first time and seeing how much it means to them. In my experience, the most amazing stories are in Boston, because runners have gone through so much sacrifice just to get there.
The Boston Marathon continues to be a magical event I look forward to every year. This book captures exactly why it’s the most prestigious and most cherished race on the planet.
“Running is a big question mark that’s there each
and every day. It asks you: Are you going to be a wimp
or are you going to be strong today?”
PETER MAHER
PROLOGUE
May 18, 2014
It’s the final mile of the Poconos Run for the Red Marathon in Stroudsberg, Pennsylvania, and I am still on pace to achieve the goal I’ve been working toward for years: to run the fastest marathon of my life and qualify for the world’s most coveted race, the Boston Marathon.
But there’s a problem, sneaking up on me like footsteps from behind: my calf muscles are gradually starting to seize up. It is, lamentably, a familiar development: this has happened to me in at least five other marathons and it rarely ends well. It starts with an occasional twinge every few minutes, harmless but ominous. Once in a while, if I’m lucky, it doesn’t escalate from there. More often, though, it steadily intensifies until there is a painful, debilitating and soul-crushing spasm every time my foot strikes the pavement. In one race, even after I stopped running and started walking, the contractions were so intense and incapacitating that I almost fell over.
I dread this possibility in every marathon. No matter how smoothly the race is being run, the backs of my legs are always in the back of my mind. Will it happen? How soon? And how bad will it get?
Here in Pennsylvania, it’s still manageable, but my stride is changing from a solid, controlled pace to a quick, desperate shuffle. I feel like Lightning McQueen in the opening scene of my son’s favorite movie, Cars, hopping frantically toward the checkered flag with two flat tires and a pair of challengers bearing down on him. How long will it be before I am walking or stumbling, watching the minutes pass me by like faster runners, until my goal is lost one more time?
As I’ve learned from experience, no matter how well you are doing halfway or even farther into a marathon, you can never be optimistic until you see the finish line. You can run a great race for 20 miles, then blow it all if your legs or your energy give out. It’s like mounting an incredible comeback in a championship basketball game, standing at the free-throw line with a chance to sink the go-ahead points, and watching your shots clunk off the rim like bricks. A marathon can create such fulfilment and validation, but when it falls apart, it can shatter the spirit. You slow down or stop while the rest of the field slips past you, vanishing into the distance along with your dreams.
I haven’t completely given up hope. But then I’m struck by what seems to be the decisive blow. The pace bunny for my Boston- qualifying time of three hours and twenty-five minutes zooms past me on my right. Traveling at a prescribed pace, he is the personification of my target; success or failure comes down to whether I finish ahead of or behind him. For twenty-five miles I have stayed a safe distance in front of him, but now he is disappearing down the road ahead. Like time, the pace bunny waits for no one. He has chased me down and left me in his wake.
It’s over, I think to myself. Yet another failed attempt. Once again I’ve trained for months, running six times a week, doing speed work and long runs, eating (mostly) the right foods and managing my weight. Once again I’ve left my family behind to travel to a race that is supposed to have favorable conditions for a fast result. Once again I will return empty-handed.