Boston Marathon: 4.16.12

How do you start to tell a story when you’re not really sure when it actually began? You could say it started on Monday, April 16^th at 10:20 a.m., but maybe it was at the finish line of the San Francisco Marathon in July of 2011 that even gave me the chance to show up in Hopkinton at all. Or maybe it was at the Austin Marathon, the first, the hook, the inspiration. Maybe it was years of running, years of injuries, good races, bad races, pessimistic doctors, encouraging coaches, or cheer leading parents and friends. Maybe it was time and time again of being in the crowd behind police ropes on “Marathon Monday” from the time I was waist-high at my parents side, to the BU years with a beer in my hand. Whatever it was, whenever it was, something, some driving force and the right series of events at the right time, somehow brought me to the most talked about marathon and so much sooner in my life than I had ever expected.

I boarded the plane in Austin just four short days before the big one and thought, is this the real life? Did I just pack my running shoes and a booklet from the Boston Athletic Association with the words “Welcome” on it? 

I arrived in Boston to the smiling faces of my wonderful parents. On the chilly, rainy drive along Storrow drive I stared out at the Charles’ perfectly flat basin water (rowing has forever ruined me from ever looking at a body of water without making note of its conditions), and felt immediately at home. On Saturday morning, a gorgeous 70-degree April day in Boston, the parents and I made a trip to the World Trade Center to get the first taste of Marathon Fever at the Expo. 

"Well I love that dirty water, ohhh, Boston you're my home, doot doot, doo doo doo"

As soon as we walked in, I was overwhelmed in the best way possible. I looked around and admired the orange-jacketed volunteers, the overwhelmingly huge posters of last years’ defending champions from Kenya, smiling faces absolutely everywhere, and the most athletic group of people all in one place with their fans at their sides.

To make things even more unreal, I was treated like a queen each step of the way. I proudly handed in my bib pick up form with my signature and license to a cheerfully smiling volunteer who congratulated me as she handed me a package with my number inside. I shimmied my way down the sea of orange jackets to claim my free goodies – a supercool long sleeve shirt and lots of snacks to last for weeks. Again, a cheerful volunteer delivered my gear with a smile on his face and words of congratulations for making it here.

We made our way around the expo where every brand that is any brand in running seemed to be present – Asics, Mizuno, Brooks, New Balance, Newton, Vibram (for our minimalist friends)… you name it, they had a booth. But the best booth of all, no doubt, was the City Sports booth. No only did it throw me back to the years of picking up phones with a (sometimes cheery, sometimes flustered, sometimes angered): “City Sports Comm. Ave., this is Mari, how can I help you?” Memories of clothing checks, dressing room keys, endless hours of folding, and the best co-workers, rushed through my thoughts. After some daydreaming and poking around I spotted one of the happiest, friendliest, sweetest employees City Sports has known – Miss Roz Baldwin! What a treat! We had a chance to catch up while eager shoppers waited in line to try on City Sports gear (a step which I bypassed, being that I have owned more CS t-shirts than I dare disclose).

As I continued to walk around, a lady with a camera popped up in front of me and with the peppiest of voices said “HEY THERE! Can I take your picture for the Boston Globe?” I looked behind me, wondering who she was talking to. Wait, me? What? Sure. She took a moderately awkward picture of me and then asked, "where are you from? Ha, WHAT a question. I figured now was not the time to delve into the ongoing question of my life, and gave her the simplest response. I figured the Boston Globe would not publish my picture if I went on the “well I was born in Argentina but then I moved to Boston and then I moved to Argentina and then I moved back to Boston and then I lived in Chile and Argentina and then I came back to Boston and then I moved to Austin but my parents still live here so I guess this is still sort what I call home” rant. Word vomit. SO instead I smiled and said “Boston.” She asked me my age, how I felt about the race, if I was doing anything special to train, and just one day later, I was a STAR.

After several hours of meandering around the Expo,  I figured I had nerded out enough with running stuff to hold me over for quite some time. Biggest expo of all time. No doubt.

That very same day, I put thoughts of running aside, threw on a tight black cocktail dress, strapped on my heels, and went to the beautiful wedding celebration of Miss Nora Buckbee Mannion. There is so much I can share about that night -- so many friends, so many memories, so many changes, so much emotion – but for now, cheers to the happy couple!

Brookline ladies, ready for wedding festivities

The newlywed Mannions

Sunday came, and the nerves grew. Now these weren’t just your regular pre-race jitters. These were the kind of jitters that came from B.A.A. (Boston Athletic Association) emails, weather advisories, news channel warnings, basically every available form of media telling me that Marathon Monday was predicted to have record-breaking heat, a “scorchah” as Bostonians might say, urging people to defer their entry for next year, not run the race if they were inexperienced, or run minutes per mile slower than planned.

Well the weather people are wrong, I thought. They have to be. But as the day went by, no matter how many times I checked weather dot com, the forecast did not predict anything lower than 87 degrees for the peak temperature of the day. Super. I started to think about my training, about my qualifying time, about my goal time, and everything I had planned to reach that goal. But now? With 87 degrees, would I be able to do all of that?

On Sunday night, I found myself reading one line from a B.A.A. email over and over again: "For the overwhelming majority of those who have entered to participate in the 2012 Boston Marathon, you should adopt the attitude that THIS IS NOT A RACE. It is an experience." No matter how hard I fought it, I had to let myself come to terms with this. They were right. It would be slower. Lame. 

*BEEP BEEP BEEP* 5:30 a.m. My eyes shot open, and I was immediately more awake than I have ever been just 2 seconds after the sounds of the alarm. I lay absolutely still in bed, staring at the ceiling for a few moments, awake, alert, but in a moderate state of shock. Much like the day I boarded the plane in Austin, I thought, is this the real life? I rolled over to my side and glanced across the room at my pile of sneakers, running clothes, watch, headphones, and at the top, bib number 14391. I smiled. This is the real life. Holy crap.

As I stepped outside to get in the car with my parents, I could already breathe the warmth in the air. Yeah, they weren’t lying, it’s going to be toasty, no doubt about that. Next thing I knew, we were weaving through the one way streets of downtown crossing until we dead-ended at the Boston Common. 

I looked up and saw lines and lines and lines of people holding orange bags, weaving through the paths of the common. Alongside the crowds, parked behind ropes and cones, were probably absolutely all of the yellow school buses in the Boston area. I hugged my two number-one fans goodbye and with a huge smile on my face, darted across the street to get in line for the yellow school bus.

After the first long row of buses loaded, they all took off in single file, and another single file filled in right behind them. I hopped on and began the hour-long ride out to Hopkinton. As we pulled farther and farther away from Boston, I let myself space out, get outside of my thoughts for a while, and just be. It was a calm ride, some people chatted, the woman next to me napped, finally, we pulled off the highway and onto windy roads. 

It was sunny, serene, and suddenly... WHACK! What the!? I jumped in my seat and looked around as commotion and confusion overcame the busriders. Did we hit another bus? A side rail? A tree? And then a couple of small feathers floated past the window while the bus driver screamed: “OH MY GOD, I am SO sorry, I didn’t see it! It just ran across the street! Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod is everyone ok!? Ohmygod!” After an endeless string of “ohmygods” we arrived at the conclusion that we had hit a wild turkey! Terrible, and sad, and yet, sometimes when something as random as that happens, you just can’t help but let out a little smirk at the same time…

 Well, I guess it’s a good thing that that turkey shook everyone awake, because minutes later, we were there! We got off the bus and walked into Athlete’s Village…. Also known as a field lined with porta-potties. I walked around until I found a suitable patch of grass and plopped down. It was only 8:00, and the race didn’t start until 10:20, oof. And so the wait began. I dedicated my time to people-watching, and noticed some people who were very clearly veterans of the event – like the guy who had brought a blow up mattress, genius.

Thinking ahead

By 9:30 my starting wave group had been called, and we began the mass exodus out of Athlete’s Village and onto the ¾ mile walk down to the starting line. 

Somehow, this whole process took way longer than I would have imagined, because when I finally reached the starting area, it was 10:19 and I was being ushered into my starting corral, ready to go in one minute. I was welcomed into corral #6 by an overexcited man who greeted everyone with a fierce high five and a loud: “YEAH, Corral Six, welcome aboard!”

I stood there, smiling, looking up, down, around, stretching, kicking my heels back, staying loose, having completely lost the ability to focus on one thing. A loud voice came on a speaker, reminding all the runners of how hot it was going to be, to race smartly, and then she said something that really stuck with me. The real race happened when we qualified to even be here. The real challenge was all the training we did to get here. We were already standing with the select number of people in and out of the country who ran fast enough to get here. Today is the day to celebrate that hard work. So go out there, have fun, and stay safe. And she was so right.

Next thing I knew, people around me started moving, shifting, walking, shuffling, jogging, and then….running! Only a few steps later, I heard beep beep beep beep beep beep overlapping beep over beep, of all the timing chips starting as each person out of 23,000 ran through the starting line. Holy crap, I am on the course! I choked up a little, felt a tear duct get a little thick for comfort, but quickly focused, looked down at my watch, and firmly pressed start. 

There were people everywhere. Rows and rows on the sidelines, people in front, behind, to the left, to the right. I zig-zagged my way around until I found a comfortable pace, and settled into a groove where I could take it all in, observe the people around me, listen to strangers cheer, and even spot 5 or 6 men stopped at a row of trees with their backs to the course, in proper urinal pose. Classy. 

Perfect orange sign

The first 5 miles were a blur. I don’t know if it was adrenaline, confusion, a rush of emotions I can’t even find a word for, or what, but the next thing I knew, we were in Framingham/Natick and getting close to the first arranged meeting spot with my parents. I began to look around, to the left, to the right, desperately hoping to land my eyes on a neon orange sign. Did I miss it? And then, just as I had given up hope of finding them in the masses, I saw it! It was the brightest shade of orange, with the darker top left corner occupied by an Argentina flag! I darted across in its direction, smiling, waving until they saw me! Bouncy and full of energy I waved and powered on. I wouldn’t see them again until mile 20….oof, best not to think just how far away that was yet. Just focus on the stride, focus on hydration.

Ah yes, hydration, the word of the day. The heat was already palpable, and before I even neared the halfway point, I had already started the game of pouring water on myself. I made a point to hydrate at every water station. One Gatorade. One water to drink. One water for my head. Repeat in a mile. By mile 10, the B.A.A. figured that we would all be miserably hot, and brilliantly set up a small yellow tent with two rows of 5 showers each, designed for runners to run through and get soaked head to toe, five times. When I saw this, I did not even hesitate for one second before I bee-lined directly to the tent and slowed down, trying to make the cold waterfall last as long as possible. Out the other side of the tent, I didn’t even care that water was now splashing inside my socks, or that my toes were rubbing in a way that would develop into a gigantic blister in miles to come. The only thought in my mind was the refreshing feeling that, combined with the warm but ever present breeze, was a true treat.

Entering Wellesley 

When I saw this sign I couldn’t believe it, the half marathon was just around the corner. How was I already here? My chip beeped at I crossed the blue and yellow banners that indicated the half way mark, and cruised into the Screech Tunnel. If you haven’t heard of this before, the Screech Tunnel is how the ladies of Wellesley College are referred to, and I cannot think of two better words to describe the feeling and sounds of passing through this campus. Not only was this during a stretch of much needed shade from a long row of trees, but even before you could see them, you could already hear them. One after the other, rows and rows of women cheering at the top of their lungs, holding signs that said: “Kiss me, I’m _______” (fill in the blank with almost anything you can think of). I felt like I was flying past them as I tried to read some of the signs and even caught myself smiling at some of them. I couldn’t help but enjoy the one guy that was running next to me who probably stopped to kiss a good 7 or 8 of them… wise man I guess. I looked down at my watch and couldn’t believe the pace that I was running all of a sudden, overwhelmed by the excitement, enthusiasm, and emotion What a rush of energy!

Entering Newton

Through the other end of the “tunnel” the energy was not quite as intense, but the streets were still full. Friendly neighbors were out on their lawns with hoses and sprinklers, ready to soak whoever wanted it. Little kids held hoses up and high-fived you as you ran by. One house had even taken the time to mount the sprinkler onto a tree to get the most optimal angle of water to the course. By this point, not one of part of my body or article of clothing was dry anymore. I could feel the blister on my right toe bubbling up, as it's neighbor toe, soaked, rubbed up against it the wrong way. 

I ran past a group of kids who were holding a bucket of ice and slowed down just enough to dig my hand into the bucket, unsure how much I’d be able to hold on to. I pulled out two pieces of ice and held them momentarily in my hand, enjoying the feeling of the ice cold water dripping down my arm as the pieces of ice began to melt almost immediately. I thought about what to do with them, looked around, hoped no one would find me awkward, then realized I didn’t care if they did, and tucked the two pieces into my sports bra – one in the front, one in the back. At first it felt overwhelmingly chilly, a bit uncomfortable, but then, as the water started to trickle down either side of my body, I felt the perfect amount of cold to counteract the heat in the air around me.

As we trudged closer and closer into Boston, both the miles and degrees of heat increasing in numbers, the crowd of spectators never faltered, but the energy level of runners seemed to have droppecd. It was around mile 18 when I noticed how many people were walking, cramping up, stopping at the medical tents, probably wondering what had possessed them to do this to themselves. It was only when I took minute to scan my body after checking out the other runners that I really noticed my feet were achey, that one blister on my toe had definitely gotten bigger and by lower back was killing me like I had been shoveling snow for hours. 

Sure, things hurt. But then I thought, I could complain to myself about it, or I could practice what I preach. I thought back to just a few weeks earlier when I had been talking to my rowers before a race, a 1000 meter race, after they had raced down the course many times that day. Overcome by fatigue I told them: “Is it going to hurt? Sure. Will you ask yourself why you even enjoy this sport? Sure. But the pain will go away, your legs will go back to normal, and when you have a medal around your neck, you’ll remember all the reasons you enjoy this sport.” And only 4 short minutes later, they crossed the finish line to earn themselves a silver medal.

So here I was, aching, but I thought, if I could convince an entire team to go hard with one short speech about pain being temporary, shouldn’t I be able to convince myself with the same words? I knew going into this that it would be no walk in the park, this was no surprise, and it was certainly no surprise that all these thoughts rushed into my brain at the time they did: the famous mile 20 "wall." But what was particularly special about this mile 20 that made it stand out in the minds of runners even more than any other mile 20 on any other course, was that at this very mile was the oh so famous Heartbreak Hill that Boston in known for.

Interestingly enough, this hill is the last of a set of hills throughout Newton, and the last real uphill of the course, perfectly situated at mile 20, usually the longest duistance in marathon training, the peak fatigue point of the race. But the incline is not so terrible, so why does it break any hearts? Where does it's get the name?

From what I understand, in the 1936 Boston Marathon, John Kelley, Olympic runner and defending Boston champion, caught the runner who was in the lead on this very stretch of the course, patting him on the shoulder as he cruised past him to take the lead. But his opponent, not willing to give up, mustered up some energy to later re-gain the lead and take the victory, therefore "breaking Kelley’s heart." 

You put all these factors together and it created a perfect storm of catastrophe in the runners mind. 

Thinking ahead to this very moment, to the moment I arrived on this talked about hill, I had situated my parents, my favorite spectators, the faces I knew I would want to see, that I needed to see to keep me going when my legs would just want to walk me off the course and into my bed, on one particular corner of that hill.

Thinking about my very own words to my rowers, thinking about how to apply that to myself, I eagerly scanned the crowds, once again looking, searching, longing for that orange sign, until… THERE! For a few moments, the pain was gone, my blister was not there, the sun was not melting my face off. For a few moments, I felt happy, energetic, proud. As I ran closer to them, all I could think about how perfect it felt to see them, and my only reaction was to smile from ear to ear and blow them a big ‘ol kiss as I galloped passed their smiles, probably bigger than mine.

Besos!

After that, heartbreak hill had nothing on me. I thought back to an old cross country teammate in high school, who once told me during a tough hill workout, that the way she got through hills was to imagine herself climbing up a rope. For some reason, that image always stayed with me, and it came back to me now. Arm over arm over arm, I tugged on the imaginary rope in front of me, leaned into the hill, and before I knew it, it was over. I was at the plateau before the descent. And with the descent, came one of the most amusing stretches of the entire course, Boston College.

You might wonder why this was amusing. And if you are wondering that, then perhaps I need to take a minute to explain or remind you of what ‘Marathon Monday’ means to just about every college student in the Boston Area who is not running in the race. This longed-for Monday, being Patriot’s Day, is a holiday for all college campuses in the area. One might think that poor exhausted college kids would take the day to relax and take a break from their studies, but one would be wrong. Clearly, when you are in your early 20’s, a day off is basically a free excuse for daytime drinking. I’m not saying it’s intelligent, but it’s certainly the way it is – meeting up at friends’ houses at 11 a.m. to begin a day of beer, grilling, cheering, and being in bed by 8 p.m. after a full day of beer, grilling, and cheering.

So here we were, approaching BC, where I could guarantee you that a solid majority of these people were several beers in, making them some of the most energetic, excited, expressive spectators out there. As I began the down hill on the other side of the big up, lines and lines and lines of students stood there, screaming at the top of their lungs, hands out, waiting for high fives. I couldn’t help but smile as I shimmied my way through the crowd of runners towards the right hands side of the course where I extended my own hand, and suddenly: slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap… I couldn’t even count how many high fives I got. My smile grew bigger, and I could feel my legs turning and turning around quicker and quicker down the hill. I looked down at my watch, and I was going significantly faster than my qualifying pace, which was significantly faster than the pace I had been holding along the 90-degree infested course. Up ahead, I saw a woman in the crowd holding out a blow-up, basketball-sized “angry bird” head and noticed her encouraging people to slap it. I kept it in my sight and as I approached it, picked up my hand and whacked it with all my might. Wow was there something satisfying about that release of energy. I heard a guy scream: “YEAH, my money’s on you girl, you’re gonna WIN!” He was of course wrong and most likely a perfect example of the marathon-Monday college kid I was talking about, but for some reason, the total untruth of a total stranger gave me an extra boost into the next few turns of Comm. Ave.

But the unknown faces of Boston College were followed by one very known face just before the corner of Chestnut Hill, just  where she had told me she might be. Before she could even see me, I heard her, that familiar voice that I knew so well in college, that loud voice and that I heard on the banks of the Charles back in October for the Head of the Charles. Before I knew it, I was reaching out to her, grabbing her. SCORPPP!!, I yelled. My dear friend and roommate Lauren Scorpio! She reached out to me, and next thing I knew, yelling my name, she clasped hand, and not even thinking, I kept holding hers as I continued to run for a short moment with her hand in mine. All smiles, after what felt like ages, we let go, and I ran, but her not so faint voice could still be heard as she told a friend: “That’s my roommate, Mari!” My back to her at this point, I smiled, and could just picture her perfectly mouthing those words. As I lost her voice into the distance behind me, I kept smiling as fond memories of The Vern (as we called our college home of four on Verndale Street) rushed into my mind, too many good ones to even list. 

I turned the corner onto Beacon. BEACON. How was I already here? Just 3 miles away, I could already sense the finish line excitement.

Suddenly, familiar colors caught my eyes. Light blue, white, light blue, white….Argentina! I looked over, and just a few steps ahead of me, struggling to stay in stride, was a tall gentleman with Argentina written across his shirt. I kicked myself into second gear and accelerated to catch up. As I cruised past him, I turned back, smiled, and yelled “Vamos Argentina!!” The man, who looked more ready than anyone else around him to be done, perked up, extended his neck out of his shoulders, smiled, and in the most porteño accent with an arm wave that is typically saved for the fútbol stadium, yelled: “Ehhh, vamos che!!!” A rush of energy bounced through my body as yet another stranger found a way to, just for a moment, let me forget about my screaming, aching body.

My feet hurt, but worked together. My back ached, but held me up. My face was melting, but water was in sight. I felt pain and invincibility at the same time.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times"

The next thing I knew, I was approcahcing Coolidge Corner, a spot that I had made my own each year that I came to this course as a spectator, the spot that I had watched by last Boston Marathon with my Vernmantes (aka, Verndale Roommates), the spot where….. “MARIIIIIII!!!!!” The spot where my thoughts were interrupted?

Louder than anyone I had heard all day, I looked up, feeling like a celebrity, wondering who had spotted me now? I scanned the crowd and immediately saw her, perched up on a bench, flailing her arms and reaching for a camera at the same time --Chris Santos, the most energetic, happy, and wonderful mother of my longtime Brookline friend, Calli. Surprised and impressed by her ability to spot me in the crowds, my smile was big enough to reach into the crowds. I waved, yelled back, and without the smile ever washing off my face, pranced on.

Before I even had the chance to think again, right outside another very familiar landmark, my brother’s old apartment on Beacon and St.Paul, I found another very familiar face. Someone from my family of rowers, someone who I knew would have no trouble spotting my red Brookline Rowing hat, someone who didn’t even need to yell before we made eye contact, finding each other in the sea of people, Miss Katy Ruderman, smiling, clapping, sending me into the final 2 miles with an extra boost of energy.

As I approached Kenmore Square, I wondered if I would be able to find my final set of cheerleaders. I looked and looked until I started to make myself dizzy from focusing on so many faces, hoping to find my most wonderful fish-loving friend, Sam Cheng. She was around here. But where? As I started to climb the hill into Kenmore, I began to accept I had missed her. Dammit. But little did I know, that not only had she seen me, but she had warned the others of my approach into their area! The other two, who shortly after receiving a text message from Sam saying : “blue shirt, red hat,” spotted me just as I spotted them.

There they were, at the tippity top of the hill that no longer felt like a struggle to overcome when I saw them standing together, all smiles, my two favorite Brookline High School boys, my prom date and his best buddy, my friend who believed running was not a sport, still there, supporting me in this “non-sport” quest to Copley Square-- Nathaniel and Fran! Knowing that these would be the final familiar faces, wanting to hug them but knowing that my sweat, water, and Gatorade covered body would not be something they’d want to come in contact with at that moment (or ever?), I flailed both arms in the air and, with a smile that could extend for the whole last mile, yelled “eeeeyyy!" as loud as I could.

They made me forget that I was on a hill. They made me forget that it was ninety degrees. They made me want to be stronger than everyone else around me walking up the hill. They made me want to carry on and make them proud. Later that day, I even received a text message from mister Nathaniel himself saying: “Why were you running? Everyone else was walking and looked like death and you were smiling. Weirdo.” And that is something that you might never be able to answer until you have been running for over three and a half hours in one of the most well known races in the world and you see people who are there for you, the people who are waiting for you, the people who are proud of you, the people who make you want to run instead of walk, smile instead of cry... in the end, the people who are there to make it all worth it.

I flew past them, past the mile 25 sign, past Fenway Park, past the BU Bookstore, past the old Howard Johnson Hotel I used to call come, past the Dunking Donuts that once upon a time knew my regular order, past the Seven Eleven that gave way to endless good laughs on so many late Saturday nights, past the corner where I once met a particular MIT frat boy on my way out of Bertucci’s, past every landmark that I could point out with me eyes closed and that brought years and years of memories rushing back into the present. 

And then, before I could even think about it, I was angling my body to the left as if I were turning the corner of a track, but this time, turning the final corner onto Boylston Street.

There it was.

Mile 26.

Zero point two miles left.

I could see the giant blue “Finish” sign. I choked up. I took a deep breath and started to charge, started to let myself go, started to… “MARIANAAAAAAAA!”

Everything was interrupted when I heard the unmistakable voice, probably louder than I’ve ever heard before. As if I had just been woken up from the deepest of sleeps, I jumped up and looked to the right, just in time to see them. The most wonderful surprise of my life. They had snuck through the crowds with the bright orange sign into the most perfect spot. I had not expected to see any more familiar faces. I had not expected to see these faces until the finish line. I had not expected to ever feel such an extreme level of happiness. I had not expected to experience such an intense level of what can only be classified as a textbook definition of “runner’s high.” There they were, my mom and dad, the two people who I can probably thank the most for their never-ending support, encouragement, and love that got me to that very point – yelling, clapping, taking pictures, waving the orange sign with the Argentina flag, helping me bounce with all of my energy, smile with all of my might, and begin to sprint at a speed that I never would have dreamed possible at this point of a marathon.

High off running

The end!

Faster and faster, the line got closer, my legs turned and turned, the line got closer, my breathing got faster, the line got closer, my sweat dripped faster, the line got closer, the cheering got louder, the line got closer. I could feel the smile on my face, stuck, not wanting to go away, getting bigger, wider…

And then, unable to think anymore, with every ounce of energy, every muscle and every sore spot in my body, I raised my arms, smiled the biggest smile, and leapt across the line. 3:51:38.

Still smiling, I felt my eyes get misty again, emotions rushing through my body, trying to find their way out. For a moment, all of the pain was gone. For a moment, it was in true bliss, pride, ecstasy. Is this the real life?


Finally, like a pinch to see if I was awake or dreaming, somebody placed a medal over my head.

So maybe it was not my fastest time. Maybe I was not able to re-qualify for next year. But I had done it. I had beat the heat. And I had done it with many smiles along the way.

I can say, with no hesitation at all, it was the best-deserved, hardest-fought, most satisfying medal of my life that will always proudly remind me of my very first, and hopefully not last, Boston Marathon :)

Sweet taste of victory

The face of pure joy and pure exhaustion

Mission: Possible