Monday Moanin'
By David Smith
April 26, 2004
Greetings from beneath the victor's wreath,
Four children gather around a piece of bright yellow poster board. It is a hastily arranged sign, but with an important message. "MY.."
Standing pressed between the other runners, the noon sun is beating down; we are all sweating as we jostle for last minute position. People are trying to stretch, retie their shoes; the nervous energy is as palpable as the heat. The gun goes off and the crowd cheers. Then we wait for six minutes, sweating in the sun before we can take our first step into the Boston Marathon.
Soon I am running crossing the first miles of the down hill course. Everything is fluid and easy, I am pacing myself conservatively, not sure about the course and this heat. After six miles I decide to slow down because I am already feeling a little wrung out, my legs are too tired for this early in the race.
There is a little flutter of fear in my chest. My quadriceps are suffering from the hills, but more important, I can feel the heat from the pavement, feel it in the tailwind, feel it on my skin. By 12 miles I am already counting miles, which is not a good sign.
I have my name written in large letters on both arms and everywhere people are calling out to me, "Go David, you look great, you can do it, almost there." This is peppered with people shouting the score of the Red Sox/Yankees game to one another. I can't get enough water to quench my thirst. I am dousing my head with water trying to get cool.
With bright felt pens, they fill in the block letters: "MY DAD.."
Around fourteen miles, I run by a medical tent. The cots are filled with runners who have given up, but one young woman catches my eye. Her face is red, she is crying, the look is utter defeat, grief. I want to stop and say something to her that might comfort her. And I want to stop and lie down on one of those cots.
Somewhere miles ahead my running partner Matt is threading through the pack, making his way toward the finish. Ten miles ago I had a fleeting thought I might keep up with him, but he is running on a different level than I am today.
Up ahead I can hear the women of Wellesley College cheering. It is like some siren song from a Greek myth. When I see them on the sidelines, I try jogging toward them, wanting to put on my best behavior. They scream as I run past, slapping hands with every runner. Some have signs saying, "Kiss Me!" but I am not that athletic.
"MY DAD RAN.."
By now I am running downhill and walking uphill. I am shaken, my confidence is gone. My friends Scott and Leigh are at 19, and I am determined to get that far, and then decide about finishing.
I stop in front of a woman who looks friendly and ask if she has a cell phone I could use to call Michigan. She does not hesitate, hands me her phone. I call Suzanne and tell her I am in trouble. I am fighting back tears, trying to tell her to call Scott and Leigh to let them know I will not be there for a while. In my head I am wondering if I will be there at all. Allison, the woman who loaned me the phone, offers me something to drink. I run on, but before long I am walking again, walking further and further between spates of running.
I am passed by a guy wearing a bunny head. Three guys dressed as the Blues Brothers. Older runners, men and women, soldiers with backpacks, all pass me as I run and walk through each mile. In my head I am trying to rationalize what is happening, trying to figure out how these runners can be more prepared, more conditioned, more willing to run through the pain.
One sound that haunts me is the sound of the cups as they pass me. The water cups, strewn over the entire course, blown by the wind, make a hollow clopping sound, and hundreds of them swirl past me as I walk. Every so often it angers me to the point where I actually run a short distance to get ahead of the cups, only to stop, winded and a little lightheaded.
"MY DAD RAN THE.."
I run past 19 without seeing my friends and then I stop running. I am baked, my legs are rubber, I can taste the fillings in my teeth. I am positive I won't be running much anymore, the vision of running across the finish line has dimmed. I jog for a hundred yards and I am out of breath, my head feels funny, not quite dizzy but disoriented. My shorts are stiff with sweat, and my skin is rough with salt.
Somewhere past mile 20 I hear a familiar voice shouting my name, and there is Scott and Leigh. For a moment, I think I must be back at mile 19. I shake my head to clear the fuzziness. Even as miserable as I feel, I can't help but smile to see them. I put my arm on Scott's shoulder and together we walk up Heartbreak hill. Scott hands me his cell phone, and I talk to Suzanne. She tells me to keep walking, just one foot in front of the other. It sounds simple enough.
I say good-bye to Scott and wobble on. Within a mile I am staggering to the curb, to my knees, violently ill. Someone is next to me asking me if I need help but I cannot stop retching to say anything. A policeman comes to me and asks me if I need help. I am crumpled on the ground now, and I agree to let him call an ambulance. He tells me perhaps it's better if I sit this one out, and I know he is right.
I sit up, my head between my knees, someone hands me a cloth to wipe my face. It feels so good to be sitting down, it is such a relief. But I am choking on my tears, giving up on months of training, all the preparation and sacrifice, all the good wishes and prayers my friends and family devoted to me. I cannot wear the Boston Marathon jacket. I am giving up the medal that is waiting for me at the finish line.
Then, some of what I wrote to my friends in Monday Moanin' floats back to me. I remember writing with such resolve about how I could be running this race because I first believed I could. I realize that hasn't changed in me since 6:00 a.m. In spite of where I am sitting, I still believe. I believe I'll stand up.
I stand up and tell the policeman that I am moving on, that he should cancel the ambulance. He urges me to stay and let the medics look at me, but I am already walking on.
Now all hopes of running are gone. I cannot redeem myself as a runner, but I am determined to finish. Suzanne's voice is in my head telling me to put one foot in front of the other. I try to drink every cup of water offered me but it makes me gag, so I just hold the water in my mouth. I walk to 24 before I stumble and have to sit down again. My head is buzzing, and now my feet are arguing with me. Sitting feels good, but my legs are cramping so I stand up and continue to walk.
"MY DAD RAN THE BOSTON.."
Being this far back in the race I am seeing new things. The road is littered with orange slices. It is slick with water and Gatorade after the aid stations. Some of the water tables are being closed up as the last few thousand runners make their way past. Family and friends have begun to come on the course to jog the last miles with a runner, to urge them toward the finish.
The Boston course closes after six hours, and the thought crosses my mind that I will not make the finish before then. I fantasize I am on a walk with my children near my home. I know how far two miles is, I can see the houses and the school and the ice cream store. I walk on. People are still calling my name, cheering me like I was racing for the win. Ahead I can see the famous Citgo sign, which is somewhere near the finish. I walk on, and every yard is interminable.
As I am walking the last mile, another runner appears next to me. He says he has been walking since mile 10, and that he doesn't know if he could run any further today. I told him I intended to run across the finish line somehow. As we approached the 26-mile mark, he says, "If you say the word, I'll go with you." We shake hands and at 26 I hit the lap button on my watch and start to run. My legs won't behave, it's awkward and painful, but it feels like what I am meant to do. Somehow we run the last two-tenths across the finish line. 5 hours and thirty-seven minutes. We shake hands again and part ways.
"MY DAD RAN THE BOSTON MARATHON"
I finished the Boston Marathon. Somewhere ahead is my medal. I walk a few more steps, and fall down on my knees, retching on the pavement in dry heaves. Within a minute there are people at my side trying to help. Someone eases me into a wheel chair and tells me we are going to the medical tent. I look at the woman pushing the chair and say, "First, I want my medal." She hesitates for a heartbeat, and then began pushing me past the thinning crowds to get that piece of pewter I have been dreaming about for the last couple of hours.
I lay shaking on the cot of the medical tent, the Mylar blankets rustling loudly. The i.v. in my arm will replace the fluids I lost over the last few hours, and the Boston Marathon medal on my chest will salve what's left of my pride. Someone loans me a phone and I call Suzanne who tells me that my friends are waiting outside the tent. I know that she means Scott and Leigh and Matt, but I sense the presence of a longer list of names.
Walking from the airplane, I can just see past the security station, my family waiting for me, bright balloons marking their spot on the concourse. The kids are holding a bright yellow poster board, and people are pointing and smiling as they walk by. I know what the words are, but somehow my vision is blurred, and now it appears to say:
"WE LOVE YOU."
Hope this finds you believing,
David
P.S. I know this is already longer than usual, but allow me to thank a few people. While this was not the most graceful marathon I've run, it is a milestone moment for me. My heartfelt thanks for:
God giving me the strength in every step.
Suzanne for allowing me the time and energy away from our family to tilt at windmills in this way. And for praying for me, and never telling me to quit.
For Allison who loaned me her phone.
For the policeman who called an ambulance for me and didn't try to stop me when I left.
For the woman who helped me get my medal before taking me to the medical tent and all the kind people who got me on my feet that night.
For Scott who walked me up Heartbreak Hill.
For Leigh who held my hand in the medical tent and won't tell anyone I cried.
For Matt, who finished the Boston in such great style, and then spent hours waiting for me to finish.
For Jeff who put in all those miles with me and cheered me on from home.
For all of those who prayed for our safety.