The Storm

No alarm was needed. I had been waiting to wake up for Marathon Monday for two weeks.  As I threw back the weighty white duvet, joy, fear and dread pumped through my veins with equal force.  This was a new sensation – Christmas morning-type feels while wanting to hurl.

My hotel was hosting a Runner’s Breakfast starting at 5am.  How kind! I had thought when they told me at check in…until I discovered said breakfast cost $55 bones.  But it was convenient, and I needed to start guzzling calories ASAP.  I toasted a bagel, grabbed some peanut butter and a banana, snagged a blue Gatorade and trucked back to my room. 

The local news blared in the background as I started stuffing my face. Boston. Was. Excited.  These (shivering) newscasters gushed about the fact that due to the pandemic, it had been three long years since the Marathon had taken place on Patriot’s Day.  Mother Nature was in on the celebration, blessing us with mint conditions.  It was cold (especially for a Cali girl), but they were saying by go-time, the conditions – low 50s with sunshine – would be a runner’s dream. 

Good, I thought.  A bone has been thrown.

I needed outside factors on my side, because my training journey had been a bit of an amateur hour.  First rookie mistake? Thinking I could start a 16-week program without a proper running base.  I had just figured I was “a runner” – I knew the game, I had done this once before, it’s fine that I hadn’t run in the months leading up to training.

What a dumbass. 

In addition to lacking a solid foundation, I also skipped most of the program’s strength training suggestions.  All this dumb-assery led to excruciating calf pain, tendinitis in both feet, and a broken spirit right as I was set to tackle the longer training runs – the 17, 18, 20 milers. 

I had to flip gears, first by finding a physical therapist who basically gave me a deep foot and calf massage two times a week, while showing me daily exercises to alleviate the pain.  We raced to build some semblance of calf strength in a short amount of time.  I also headed to the community pool four mornings a week to “aqua jog” – running without impact. I trekked up and down the lane, pumping my little arms and legs next to the senior citizens performing their water aerobics.  I ended up relishing in the ritual – the waft of chlorine, the steam coming up off the water before sunrise, the Marines doing drills in the lanes across the way.  (I’m pretty sure I wasn’t pool candy for these gents, though – the bathing suit I had ordered made me look like a high-school wrestler, and I was sporting a monster floatation tube around my mid-section.  Safe to say this was a one-sided gaze-fest.)

I bought expensive planter fasciitis socks. I procured pricey CBD oils and recovery supplements packed with turmeric and pine bark.  I wore thigh-high compression socks and stood on a slant board daily to stretch my claves.  I let my physical therapist perform the torture that is cupping on my legs. By marathon morning, I had done everything in my power (and emptied my bank account in the process) to give myself a shot of finishing.

But I just didn’t know what the day would hold, which led to my brain sometimes floating into worst-case-scenario mode. I consistently Googled “longest Boston Marathon finish times” in the weeks leading up to the race.  Or pictured cops on motorcycles, slowly chugging behind me on their loud speakers saying, “Ma’am, we need to begin opening up the streets…you need to haul ass or get off the road.” 

While I knew this disaster planning was creating bad mojo, I just didn’t know if my feet would hold up, or for how many miles.  I had thankfully pumped out a 15 and 9 mile training run in the final weeks before the race – but anyone who runs long distance knows that when you hit 18 and beyond, you’re in new waters.

After choking down my expensive-ass bagel and housing the Gatorade, I loaded up my fuel belt and pinned my bib number to my Dana-Farber jersey.  Upon discovering I was running the Boston Marathon, people would raise their eyebrows with admiration.  These silly fools thought I had qualified for Boston, the most prestigious marathon in all of running.  I had to disappoint them by clarifying I entered via a charity bib, raising money for cancer research as my entry.  (For the record, most people were still impressed, but one dude on a date did have the balls to say “Aw really?” with clear disappointment. I bet this asshat can’t run a 10k let alone a marathon…but okay bro)

To run the race I had to raise at least $7,500. We did that in 24 hours. By marathon morning I was teetering on the $41,000 mark.  Like the tendinitis, I didn’t see this coming, but it was a welcome surprise.

Many had found out about my Mom’s ovarian cancer diagnosis through my race, and I think donating was an easy but meaningful way to support our family.  The money was also a testament to people’s immense admiration and respect for my Mom, and I loved that she got to watch that ticker go up each day, buck by buck.  It didn’t make the cancer go away, but we were willing to take bright spots when the sun allowed for it, and I was happy to have her bask in forty one thousand rays of light.

I zipped up a throwaway sweatshirt that you could drop at the start line, and headed over to the buses across the street waiting to take thousands of runners to Hopkinton.  After leaving my hotel, I frantically decided I wanted to switch my sunnies, so I jetted back up to my room.  After lightly jogging down the hall to my door, I stopped and immediately started to spin like a drunk dreidel.

What in the Sam hell is this? I thought in a quick rage of panic.  But somehow – even though I was the same broad previously researching and envisioning disaster plans – I let it go.  I chalked it up to a fluke. Dizzy with nerves or excitement.

It’ll pass, I thought. 

I grabbed my sunglasses and hustled back down to the buses, easily passing through multiple security checks.  The organization was both wildly impressive and a stark reminder of the tragedy of 2013. I found a short line away from the packed crowds and spotted a big yellow school bus chugging down the lane to pick us up.

Sliding into a seat near the front, I clutched my plastic bag filled with two water bottles and extra energy chews.  The bus clamored with boisterous chatter, the fervor pinching through the cold spring air.  Quietly looking around, I started to feel like that lone schoolgirl at lunch.  The one sadly gripping her PB and J, willing the bell to ring while every other table is buzzing with hearty laughs and gossip. 

Nearing the end of the ride, I texted my cousin Lisa who was headed into Boston with my family to see me along the course.

I feel like a loner, everyone knows someone.

I should have known better, because now she was worried.  So I assured her I was fine and we were almost to the start line.  It had taken a surprising fifty minutes to get there, and the entire ride all I could think while looking out the window was, Jesus…we have to RUN THE WHOLE WAY BACK.

I climbed off the bus, hit up the porta potties, and headed to the school gym where the charity runners were stationed.  I plopped down on the linoleum floor, stretching as I watched the various charity groups take photos and feverishly chat.  I pulled my belongings close to my side so they wouldn’t get trampled by the hordes of runners walking through. Standing up, I tapped a woman on the shoulder, asking if she’d take a picture of the back of my jersey which read “BOS for MB” – our fundraising motto for Mom throughout the last four months.  I thought maybe she’d asked me what it meant, or perhaps where I’m from. But she merely said yes, hastily snapped the photo and moved along.  I wondered if the school bell was ever going to ring.

I headed out to the porta potties (uh-gain, the Gato was flowin’) and like an angel dropped out of the sky, I spotted Alex, a former co-worker who was also on the Dana-Farber charity team.  I knew Alex was racing Boston, but I didn’t expect to see her amongst the thousands of runners that morning.  But there she was, my friend on the playground! 

We hugged and chatted about the perfect weather, our training experiences, and how our jobs were going. Before we knew it, a booming voice announced that it was time for our Wave to head to the start line, which was a 0.7 mile trek from Athlete’s Village.  We shed our sweatshirts at the donation drop and started getting more bounce in our step as we made the journey down.  Officials stopped us at various checkpoints, checking our bibs like the gestapo, but thanks to being in the same wave and corral we didn’t have to separate. 

“Wait…are we already here?” I asked, spotting the START sign. 

“This is it!” she said.  I didn’t expect to arrive so quickly.  I snapped a quick selfie of us and posted it to Instagram, thinking Lisa would be relieved I found a friend.  And without warning, the gun popped off for our corral.  Alex and I both jumped at the sound, but quickly started to shuffle along with the massive crowd.  Spectators crowded each side of the street, clapping and ringing bells to send us off. 

A couple of minutes in I realized I had already deviated from my game-plan, which was to run for two and a half minutes, walk for a minute, repeat.  The crowd was so congested that stopping to walk felt like a death trap, so I ran for a solid 7 minutes before I heard my physical therapist’s voice shouting, “PERSERVE YOUR FEET.  SLOW AND STEADY PACE.”

So I squeezed Alex’s shoulder and wished her luck.  “You got this, girl!” she screamed, and as I watched her trot off, her blonde ponytail swinging in the Boston sun, I felt – just like the weather – the universe had delivered a glorious gift.  A quick but mighty dose of friendship to send me across the start line.

Those first miles were eaten up by looking at the neighborhood parties – families and friends gathered on lawns, drinking from solo cups and blasting Eye of the Tiger from their speakers.  I drank in the other runners around me, wondering who was also a Boston first-timer.  I kept my eye on the old couple in front of me, also doing a run walk method, and thought I should probably attempt to keep up with them considering their age. 

Before I knew it, I was broaching Mile 9.  Leading up to the race, I had dedicated each mile to someone special, as a way to focus my energy on people and memories instead of pain. Mile 9 was dedicated to my Aunt Patsy, my pseudo Mom during my years at Boston University.  Lisa, her daughter, and my family were waiting for me at Mile 10. 

I looked up at the clear blue sky and asked for a quick favor. 

Take me to Lisa, Pats. I took a quick picture of the Mile 9 marker and shot it off to Lisa. 

We’re ready for you! she replied.

As I came into the Natick Town Square which was exploding with spectators and screams, I spotted my tribe right where they said they’d be, across from the old brick church.

I was convinced I would cry when I saw my family, but instead I was smiling so hard I almost broke my face.  I waved to make sure they saw me coming, and we hollered with joy as I barged into their screaming arms.

Seeing Lisa’s scrunched up face I shouted to her, “Don’t cry!”

“I’ve been crying all day!” she said.  My cousin Chris re-filled my water bottle while my baby cousin Mykaela stuffed some extra energy chews and honey waffles in the pocket of my leggings.

“Text my Mom and tell her I look good, okay?!” 

I knew my Mom and Dad would want to hear I was doing well. 

“We’ve been texting all day!” she said.

We took a quick group selfie and I hugged them one last time before jogging off.  Seeing them was like being shot up with an IV full of electrolytes – the most natural booster you could ever guzzle, better than any energy chew.

I kept on, faithful to my run / walk method.  I don’t know how or why, but the miles never dragged.  Mile markers just kept popping up.  And I was doing all of this without my die-hard ritual of music blasting in my ears.  Despite curating a carefully selected playlist filled with cheesy anthems and pop jams, I never needed it. I couldn’t bring myself to put my earphones in and drown out the throngs of spectators cheering for us.

Every kid wanted a high-five.  Older couples stood in front of their homes, their arms extended with plates of orange slices and smiles.  One toddler stood there in his Red Sox cap and puffer vest, clutching a Dixie cup of water with both hands, anxiously waiting for a thirsty runner.  I clutched my heart and screamed, “You are the cutest thing I’ve seen all day!” while taking his cup.  His mother smiled and said, “Go get ‘em, Momo!”

Even more clutch than having your name on your jersey is having your nickname.  Even though everyone was a stranger, it felt personal. Young mothers holding babies on their hips shouted, “Go Momo!”  Stoic dudes didn’t shout, rather calmly said, “Lookin’ solid Momo” as they slow clapped. My heart swelled with each “Momo” cheer.

Besides my name, the other thing people shouted was “Yeah, Dana-Farber!”  People love Dana-Farber – they constantly shouted “thank you!” and I had to wonder who in their life was affected in the same way as my family.  I surged with pride, grateful to be a small part of something that facilitates cures and solutions for patients facing cancer.  Patients like my Mom.

Upon approaching Wellesley, I could hear the roar of the college girls before even seeing them – they are famous for creating the “Wellesley Scream Tunnel”.  They were a life force, blowing up with excitement and demanding hand slaps.  I high fived as many as I could all while wondering if Hillary Clinton stood out here in her college heyday doing the same.

It was like Boston was a plug, and someone had shoved it into the highest voltage outlet possible, shocking every single neighborhood with electric force.  The city was on fire, its residents burning with commitment and investment. 

The miles ticked on and I excitedly realized I had another human electrolyte waiting for me, my college friend Lisa at Mile 17.  I almost didn’t see her because I was marveling at this guy next to me who was hauling ass on his crutches.  Yes, his crutches.  I was gawking at him in disbelief until I heard, “There’s my Momo!” 

Letting out a blood curdling scream, I raced into Lisa’s arms.  I told her my feet felt great and that my ass hurt like a bitch.  She high-fived me, demanded I keep it up and shouted, “I fucking love you!”

“I love you!” I screamed back.  I trotted off with glee, pumped up with good vibes and strong legs. But I couldn’t help but fear my heart was about to be broken.

Miles 16-21 are notorious in Boston – they are filled with four monster hills, culminating with the infamous Heartbreak Hill near Boston College.  Thankfully though, this marathon was not mirroring my dating life, and I can happily report that no hearts were broken in the running of this race.  I mean, I won’t say I enjoyed the hills, but I just kept pumping up them.  I kept to my intervals and only walked when my watch went off.  A spectator held up a sign, “You’re at the top of Heartbreak Hill!” And without thinking I turned around and shouted to the runners behind me, “We did it!”

I looked down at my watch to see texts from friends and family who were tracking me on the app.

Don’t let that hill take you down!

Makin’ good time!

You’re almost there!

I started cruising downhill, and when I saw that I was at the four hour and ten minute mark, I couldn’t believe I was going to finish the marathon with a five in front of it.  I had been certain I was going to be a six hour finisher, maybe six and a half.  And even crazier? My feet didn’t hurt.  Neither did my calves.

Let’s be clear – everything else fucking hurt.  I could feel the bones in my hips grinding into their sockets with every step, and my glutes stretched and burned with each stride.  I stopped multiple times to stretch my quads and hammies, bending down with a wince, reaching my fingertips to the asphalt.

“What’s she doing, mama?” asked a kid, holding his Mom’s hand at the side of the road. 

“She’s just making her muscles feel better, ‘cause they gotta hurt by now,” she said, smiling right at me.

I smiled back.  She was right, but despite the pain, my actual injuries weren’t flaring, so my mood was pretty stellar.

The Boston College kids helped with that – if my ass was lit up, well so were theirs, fueled by whiskey and beer. Marathon Monday is a day for the college kids to start drinking at 7am.  I have no idea why such a prestigious athletic event equals boozing upon waking, but ’tis the tradition.  I know because I used to religiously partake.  Granted these kids were more impressive – I never even made it out to the course to cheer runners on when I was at BU.  At least these kids were drunk and killer cheerleaders. 

By a landslide, the MVP cheerleader was a gal standing on a ladder with a bullhorn, who spotted me rolling in.

“MOMOOOOOO,” she screamed, as if she knew me.  “Momo is comin in hot!”  I managed to keep running while doing a dance slash playing air guitar for them, and the kids exploded.  By this point I just thought I was the damn mayor of the marathon – smiling, waving, and fist pumping at every soul. 

Despite having a ball, the 20s were really taking their toll.  But I soldiered on, knowing my college roommate was waiting up above at Mile 24.

I checked my phone to make sure I was running on the correct side of the street, and sure enough up on my left, there stood Jamie with her two kids.  I watched as she spotted me and started screaming and jumping with glee, snapping pictures. 

“Mauraaaa, you look so good!” she yelled at me while I was still ten yards away.

And then I finally did the thing I thought I would have done a long time ago – I started to cry.  I fell into her arms and choked back sobs, knowing it was like a dam. If I opened it up, it’d be too hard to glue it back shut.

“Seriously you look so strong, keep going!”  I waved hi to her girls who were sweetly holding a sign but looking at us with bewilderment. 

The nostalgia washed through me.  Twenty-two years ago, a random computer paired us as college roommates.  And now here we were in the very city we met, forty years old and still screaming in the streets of Boston.  It was a full-circle moment I couldn’t have painted for my future, and it will stay locked up in my soul for a long time, if not forever.

Despite the love shot from Jamie, the pain started to shift from “this hurts” to “why the hell does anyone do this to themselves?”  I couldn’t remember what mile was dedicated to who.  With all their faces swirling in my mind, I reminded myself to keep leaning forward and to pick up my feet – shuffling wouldn’t help, and bad form leads to falling on your face. 

Someone shouted, “Walking hurts just as much as running!” and I thought, Well shit, that’s true.

So I ran as much as I could.  At Mile 25-ish I locked eyes with a cop and he said, “Almost there, hun.”  I high-fived him with might, and he held my hand in his for a beat.

God I love Bostonians, was all I could think.

Making the famous right onto Hereford, the crowds and intensity started to pulsate and swell. I knew another batch of family was waiting for me here. My cousin Erin had texted me along the way, making sure I knew exactly where to look.  Thankfully my Mom’s cousin Tommy is so friggin’ tall that they weren’t hard to find.  My face scrunched up into the ugly cry as I ran into their arms – it was getting harder to keep the dam in check.

Tommy’s wife Nora – one of my favorites of all time – was ugly crying with me.  I hugged her for so long she finally had to say, “You have to run home!  Keep going!” 

So I peeled myself off her and kept on.  I made the legendary left onto Boylston.

It wasn’t like anything people had described.  It was better.

The crowd was deafening.  The people were three rows deep on each side, creating one massive roar. It was like traveling through a man-made tunnel that is reverberating with palpable encouragement.  The spectators shook cow bells over their heads, waved their plastic clappers, and looked you dead in the eye to send you home. If love was a moment, this was it.

The dam broke and salty tears streamed out of the sides of my sunglasses. I looked down at the street and my feet.  It was as if it was almost too much to see, too hard to look at, like staring straight into the sun. I felt out of my body, as if I was in the middle of a movie. God might as well have been playing Chariots of Fire from a loudspeaker in the sky.

Finally, my body felt it – the adrenaline that had warded off so much of the pain was fading, the dam was busting, and my feet started to go.  If the marathon was 27 miles, I was sure I would have had to crawl the rest of the way. 

I could see the finish line glistening up above. And like one final gift, I spotted the sign. Held high in the air was the “Boston for MB” poster my family had made, the same one from Mile 10. My cousin Lisa and team had made it to the finish line, even finding my friend Kath from LA, all there together to watch me cross. Finding them in a sea of people without knowing where to look?  My gosh, the universe just loved me that Monday. 

I smiled and waved at Kath and my family, giving them a fist pump.  My cousin Chris held an iPhone out as far as he could, and I instinctively knew they were face timing my family in California.  So I waved even bigger, thinking of my Mom behind the screen getting a chance to watch me cross the finish line.

I couldn’t even throw my hands up for the quintessential finish line photo – instead there’s a shot of me warily crossing over and making a big “OH” shape with my mouth.  But I had done it, and in 5 hours and 16 minutes.  With the sun still up, no cops behind me shooing me off the course.

I kept walking, knowing sitting or stopping would murder my legs.  A volunteer wrapped one of those foil warming blankets around me.  Gingerly shuffling along, I passed the snack station, wanting to hurl at the idea of food or liquids.  Finally I came to the medals and found an older woman with her arms outstretched, waiting to lay the final prize across my chest.

I tipped my head down so she could rest the medal around my neck.  Saying thank you, my whole face twisted with tears, gratitude and relief.  I looked down and ran my thumb over the shining silver unicorn, the mascot and symbol of the Boston Marathon.

Leading up to the race, so many friends and family had assured me it was okay if I didn’t finish.  That I had raised a phenomenal amount of money, and that “you win when you cross over the start line.”  All of that was true – but I wanted this medal. 

Besides sobriety, I have never climbed a mountain like this one. There was a point in training where I knew I could have said, “Screw it.”  I was hurt, I was behind schedule, and I didn’t know if I had enough time to recoup.  But I kept on – I went to that pool at seven in the morning.  I did calf raises on the ledge of my fireplace when I got home.  I chugged anti-inflammatory concoctions, did everything my physical therapist told me to do.  I didn’t know if I was going to get a medal, but I was determined to give myself a chance. 

In fighting for that chance, I learned that hope is not something you can just look up to the sky and ask for, rather it’s something you have to pull out from the depths of your soul.  Something you have to trudge through mud to find. Sometimes, you have to work your ass off for hope.

Part of finding and working for that hope was letting go of my ego.  I had grand visions of what this marathon would look like – a stellar finish time to boast about, something in the four hour range that would make me a “real marathoner,” not one of those old bitches who takes walk breaks. But in the end, none of that mattered.  What mattered was the fight and the journey.  The money raised.  The little bit of sunshine I brought to my Mom. And the fun I had while out on the course.

This race, it was the time of my life. The second my toe dipped over the start line, the doubt died.  And it’s the souls of Boston who helped annihilate that doubt, neighborhood by neighborhood. Those people out there, holding plates of oranges and shouting your name, holding signs and waving flags? Man, I hope they know what they do for the runners.  I suspect they do, hence why show up year after year.

When I clutched that medal, I thought it was this hardware and the money raised that was my ultimate prize.  What I didn’t know was that the real reward was coming two weeks later, when my Mom called me to tell me she was in remission. 

Originally my Mom and I had a deal.  When training was torturous I joked, “You can never get cancer again, ‘cause my tired ass can’t hang with another marathon.”

But never say never.  I’m certain I can’t re-create the magic of that first time, and honestly, my ass still hurts too much to want to try at this moment.  But the thrill and love from Marathon Monday is so real and visceral, that it makes it difficult to not want to grab onto it one more time. 

One taste of Boylston and all you want is another swig.

Back at the finish line that day, I got to talk to my family on FaceTime.  My cousin Chris handed me the phone and I could see my Mom, smiling in her black and white headscarf accentuated with a giant flower on the side. On my fundraising page, when describing my Mom’s battle with cancer, I included a quote.

“Today the Devil whispered in my ear: you’re not strong enough to withstand the storm.  Today I whispered in the devil’s ear: I am the storm.”

It was so perfect, so very MaryBeth.  Through one surgery and six rounds of chemotherapy, my mom was the storm.  Still today, my Mom is the storm.

And on Marathon Monday, I discovered that in some small way…I am, too.