A Different View by Paul McGovern
Recently I was asked to write about my Boston Marathon experience this year as one of the so-called “elite” athletes by virtue of my assigned #151. I never really liked the term elite because it seems to take on an air of arrogance. With that said, let me say that I’m writing this from the perspective of a Merrimack Valley Strider who, based on previous performance, was fortunate to be assigned a low number.
I was finally going to get my number. Most everyone knew what number was assigned to them via the internet, but because for low numbers, the BAA waits until the last possible minute to make them known. This, I found out, is because of final confirmations as to late “elite” entries or scratches.
A few weeks previous, Coach Fernando called to tell me “I have some good news and some bad news.” “The good news is that Jack Mulligan found your number on the internet, and the bad news is that you were assigned number 34571.” It was true that Paul McGovern from Massachusetts was assigned that number, but we later found out that that Paul McGovern was 40 years old and from Hingham. So many people had been asking what my number was weeks in advance and I could only say “I don’t know.” I was beginning to think that maybe there was a mixup and that I was not entered at all. A call was made to Jack Fultz at the BAA office, and he assured me that I was entered and that my number was based on my 2:19:35 at the 1992 Olympic Trials and not on the 2:33 I qualified with in November at the Harrisburg Marathon in sub-freezing temperatures, below zero wind chills, and snow squalls.
It was Friday, April 12th, and my fiancée, Bev, and I were taking the train into Boston to pick up my number. As we were waiting at the Haverhill station, a couple carloads of foreign runners got out of their rentals and proceeded to carry on in their native tongue. I told Bev that it looked like the Chinese delegation but they sounded like Coach Fernando at times when he speaks Portuguese. When Bev realized they spoke English, she piped out, “Are you here to run the marathon?” They all in unison answered a big Yes. One of them asked Bev if she was, and she quickly said a big “No!” and pointed my way and said “he is.” One gentleman asked if I had ever run Boston, and I replied yes, and told them all that it was only once and that was ten years ago. They asked my place and time, and when I said it was 22nd place in a time of 2:22:18 they all stood up, male and female alike, and gave me a standing ovation. Then for the rest of the way into Boston I answered their questions about the course and training. You could hear a pin drop as they hung on my every word.
Living around this area we sometimes take things for granted, and at this point a lightbulb went off in my head as to the significance of the Boston Marathon and the impact it makes on runners from all corners of the earth. It turned out that these runners were from Macau, which is a Portuguese colony in southern China, not far from Hong Kong.
The excitement built as we all approached North Station. We now got on the Green Line, which was packed with gaunt looking human beings from all over going to pick up their numbers at the Hynes Expo Center. I saw Frank Picariello from MVS and gave him a confirmation card to pick up my number. He escorted me to another area where I finally got my #151. A man from Michigan who happened to overhear what my number was asked me to autograph his club’s banner that he was carrying with him. Bev could not get over the request and told me no to let it get to my head! We enjoyed our day at the Expo and then headed back on the train to the land of the MVSers.
Throughout the weekend I was anxious for that gun to go off. I kept busy and tried not to do much different than normal. The Strider pasta load on Saturday night was just what the doctor ordered. There was a great sense of excitement and camaraderie amongst those club members who have run many Bostons and those who have never toed the line for any marathon, let alone “the big one.” Both Fernando and I felt like fathers getting ready to watch one of their children graduate from school. Here we were getting together with all of our students before the big exam. Having survived a tough 20 weeks of trial and tribulation, our students were ready for their doctorates. We were confident in all of our athletes and gave our final instructions and blessings. I know this get-together worked well for me, as did the 20 weeks of winter workouts. I had the opportunity to focus a lot on the first-time marathoners, which helped alleviate many of my own marathon worries. I left my own concerns in Fernando’s hands. As I listened to many club members talk of their fear and anxieties, I realized that whether your number is 151 or number 38151, we all pretty much have many of the same feelings to a greater or lesser extent. I just could not show it as much, being the brave and fearless assistant coach.
Sunday morning arrived and I relaxed most of the day watching television, eating, readin the paper, eating, napping, eating, and so on. Bev fixed one of my favorite meals, and that is chicken and rice (lots of rice). Earlier in the day I bought some blister-free socks at The Athlete’s Corner and felt ready for those downhills that had, 10 years previous, ripped my feet apart. A kiss of good luck and a big hug and I was on my way home to Lynn for what I hoped would be a good night of sleep in my own bed. As I left Bev’s I thought that this could be how a soldier might feel as he leaves a loved one behind to go off to battle. At least I did not have to fear for my life. I packed my clothes and laid my clothes out for the big day. Unfortunately, I could not locate my new socks. I know I put them in the gear bag before I left Bev’s. After looking everywhere, my curiosity was killing me and I called Bev. “It is 10:00pm and you should be in bed” she snapped. “I would be if I could find my socks,” I replied. To my dismay she countered, “I found them on the floor in my living room, and they were wet.” “How did they get there and why are they wet” I asked. “It seems Bart (the black Lab) pulled them out of your bag to chew on,” said Bev. Oh well, at least it was not my racing flats. No sense in crying over chewed, wet socks, and off I went to bed.
Race day arrives for me at 4:00am. So much for spending the night home in Lynn to get a good night of sleep. I get up at 6:00am to shower and have a light breakfast. Bev calls at 6:30am to wish me well and make sure I have another pair of socks. My sisters Ellen and Cheryl drive me into Boston Common (a short drive from home) to take one of the 800 busses to Hopkinton. The traffic is pretty heavy even at this hour, so I have them drop me off at The Fleet Center so I can get on a crowded Green Line trolly car. At this point I question why I did not stay at Bev’s in North Andover (with possibility of tossing and turning all night) and then take the MVS bus. As I board a bus at 8:00am I sit in a single seat way in back of the bus. As we begin our journey, I reach for my jug of Gatorade and realize I left it in my sister’s car. Oh well, don’t panic, I tell myself. As our bus leads a group of about 15 other busses we somehow get on the wrong route to the Mass Pike. Fifteen minutes into the trip, our driver realizes his mistake and turns around in some unknown parking lot, while all the other busses follow suit. Two runners in the back from Los Angeles remark that even the drivers who live in Boston don’t know their way around. Most everyone laughs as we finally get on the Mass Pike. I listen to most of the conversations and the many different accents amaze me. There are runners from all over the United States on this bus.
This short bus trip, or so I thought, took 2 hours and 45 minutes. Most of that time was spent on the road leading into Hopkinton. As we moved at a snails pace, both men and women hopped off to find relief behind many narrow trees and leafless bushes. Runners are primitive souls with all modesty tossed by the roadside. Many hop back onto the bus with only a look of relief. We finally make it to the runners village, and I look at my watch to realize I have 45 minutes to the start. I pass many corrals, sipping water along the way. I stop briefly to chat with many runners I have not seen in years. This is one massive party of Woodstock proportions. A reunion of sorts as I see more runners from college days at Fitchburg State. I see many Merrimack Valley Striders who are volunteering their time and effort to this great spectacle of of life. For runners, their families, volunteers, and spectators it feels great to be a part of history. I finally make it to my area near the start and see Lyn Licciardello and her daughters, Amy and Crissy. Patty Picariello and her daughter Kim Aulson greet me also and wish me well. It feels great to see fellow Striders. A feeling of security and comfort, particularly when I see Fernando, who assists me in getting into my designated athlete area. I get Fernando’s blessing as he tells me “you know what to do.” Fernando has trained me well, and my goal of finishing in the top 100 for the 100th seems well within my reach, even as I gaze at the many Foreign Elites gliding by like gazelles and antelope in the back parking lot of the town church. I see many of the elite women, including Uta Pippig, who is just as pretty up close as she looks on magazine covers.
The Elites, numbers 1-100, are in and out of the church basement. Most of them keep to themselves. Some of the Kenyans warm up together. Race time is fast approaching. Our national anthem is played and the energy level is intense. It is now time to be escorted to the start. Fernando re-appears to guide me with all the other low numbered athletes through a cemetary path right to the start. As I stand in this designated front section I feel a sense of awe but not intimidation. I will run the best race that my mind and body are prepared to do. I get a hug from Barbara Delutis and a handshake from Jack Mulligan, as they are both working the starting area. As I stand in the back of the elite group I realize that I’m right aside of Cosmos Ndetti. He makes me look overweight. I chuckle to myself. I wish him well and he thanks me. The race is about to begin.
The starters gun goes off and I feel a sense of relief. For weeks now I was awaiting this moment of truth. The culmination of all the physical and mental preparation coming together for what I hope to be a top 100 finish for the 100th. The marathon is truly a cruel event at times. For no matter how well one prepares, you just never know how your body will react on the given day. As a few hundred runners pass by me in the first mile I question the sanity of these rambunctious characters. Twenty-six miles is a long way to go and one must not let oneself get so caught up in the moment. The price to be paid later on down the road can be costly. I can attest to this because of the many beaten and battered runners I passed along the way. I keep talking to myself along the way, amazed at the crowd support. This is just another 20-mile weekend run with a 10K race at the end. I’ve done that before but never with so much company. As I move from one pack of runners on to the next I am not worried about mile splits. I am going on how I feel at the moment. As I pass many at about 10 miles I look forward to those Wellesley College girls who we hear so much about. I’m in a big group as we approach hundreds of screaming women. The testosterone levels of many of the guys I was with must have jumped to new levels. Once again caught up in the heat of the moment, many of these experienced runners took off in a blaze of glory. I think to myself, thank you girls for pushing these guys below their anaerobic threshold, for I will pass them all before we get out of Wellesley. Sure enough, one by one I catch them all and find I’m running by myself as I approach the route 128 overpass. At this point, to my right, at the bridge is both staff and nursing home residents from the Winchester Nursing Center, where I work in the Physical Therapy Department. What a boost to see people out on the road to cheer specifically for me. I won’t let them down as I prepare for Heartbreak Hill. I cruise up the hills as I hear people calling out my name and I hear more than one person say, “Hey, it’s a Merrimack Valley Strider.”
As I near the top of Heartbreak a press truck goes by me and the crowd is really yelling at fever pitch. I still have my senses and realize they’re not all crazy for me, but I’ll enjoy this for as long as possible. It is the first woman, Tegla Loroupe, they are all screaming for. As we crest the top of Heartbreak she shows no mercy and flies by me like she was shot from a cannon. I think to myself, I’m not going that slow and maybe I’ll see her further down the road, as I have many of the guys. I pass Cleveland Circle and begin to look for Bev, her family, and my sisters. They have some of that goo for me as well as water to wash it down. I spy them on my right and grab the goo and proceed to try to ingest this gross formula and flush it down with water. The goo seemed more like a glue at this point in the race, and I say to myself I should have had a Gatorade! My hamstring begins to cramp at 24 miles and here comes Uta Pippiq. The crowd goes crazy for her and there goes Uta, leaving a trail of blood, guts, and who knows what else for me to follow. These women are tough, as they are about the only ones who ever pass me along the way that I’m never able to catch up to. Just after Kenmore Square my right hamstring says enough is enough as the inevitable spasm takes hold. I am forced to stop at this point as the crowd coaxes me along with chants of “come on, you can do it.” I know I can as I prayerfully start a shuffle jog gait. The crowd is deafening as I approach the finish. Thank God I have survived the 100th, as I’m escorted to a medical tent to ease the leg cramps and warm my chilled body. I recover after about twenty minutes of massage and sips of hot broth.
The first Merrimack Valley Strider I see is Dave McGillivray. Dave is beaming, as well he should be as he accepts congratulations from the many who recognize this maestro for his orchestration of Boston’s biggest event ever.
Back to North Andover to bask in the glory of having finished in under two hours and thirty minutes. I count my losses as I remove my bloodied racing flats. My left foot is minus three toe nails and my right has suffered only one casualty. I can hardly walk but feel every ache and pain is well worth the glory of this once in a lifetime event. My intentions are to go to the MVS post-marathon party, but I am never able to answer the bell. Down for the count at approximately 8:00pm, I can only dream about what is taking place at Jeff Smith’s home.
My marathon experience is made complete with the news of my top 100 finish. I learn this fact the following day as I scan the newspaper results while sitting in Val’s Diner. Frosting on the cake when Fernando tells me I’m the first finisher from Massachusetts. I scan at a dizzying pace to locate fellow Merrimack Valley Striders. Rumor has it that we have a 100% club completion rate. The rumor proves true, as I learn at our marathon war stories club meeting, held at the Sons of Italy Hall on April 24th. This meeting is always one of the club highlights of the year, as we hear many emotional, humorous, heartwarming, and gastro-intestinal stories. I’m happy to have the opportunity to tell my story on paper. Otherwise, the club meeting might still be going on. I am truly proud to be a part of Boston’s 100th, and just as proud to be a Merrimack Valley Strider.