I Am The Storm

On Monday, April 16, 2018, amidst torrential rain, freezing temperatures, and a 30 mile per hour headwind… I was the storm. 3:39:46.

My third marathon. Those feel like strange words… it feels like just yesterday I was riding on that BQ high from my first ever marathon in Providence, RI. Two Boston Marathons later, and here I am.

Last year was not my year. The combination of oppressive temperatures and overtraining got to me, and I crumbled on the course. It was incredibly disappointing for my first Boston experience, but it lit a fire in me to come back stronger next time. Heartbreak hill broke my heart, and I wanted redemption. More than redemption, I wanted something more. Last year was about my own goals, and when I couldn’t reach them… I felt empty. I needed something else to grab onto. I was so moved by the crowds, but I still felt like I had failed. Realistically, I ran a sub-four hour marathon in 2017 and I still wasn’t happy, because I knew I could do better. I did do better in 2016. Yes, I realize how absolutely insane I sound. We are all our own worst enemy, this is nothing new. I had let myself down. I felt like there was nothing left at that point. I finished the greatest marathon in the world, and had finally accomplished my true dream of running it. I smiled through the disappointment, but it hurt. It really, truly hurt. There was a void. I needed to fill it.

This year was different. 2018 was bigger than my own personal goals. It was about giving back, about spreading love, and about running for a purpose. I was lucky enough to run for Team MR8 this year, on behalf of The Martin Richard Foundation. Martin Richard was the 8-year-old boy killed at the finish line during the Marathon bombings in 2013. I will never forget how I felt that day, as the news broke of the senseless attack on our beloved city; of the lives lost and forever changed. April 15, 2013, along with the last few years, have shown us just how scary this world can be. Martin was an innocent boy, celebrating the greatest sport in the world in the greatest city in the world, just trying to watch a marathon. In the days after his death, a photo was shared of Martin holding a poster that read “No more hurting people. Peace.” Martin’s view of peace went well beyond simply wanting to prevent violence. To Martin, peace meant togetherness, teamwork, fairness, sportsmanship, inclusion, and kindness. During Martin’s short life, he was diligent in sharing his own view of how the world should be. And I agree with him.

Over the course of the last few months, I surpassed my fundraising goal of $7,600 and raised over $8,300 for The Martin Richard Foundation. There were times when fundraising was incredibly hard; where I cried, yelled, and thought, “how am I ever going to meet this goal”. It was in those moments that I found my purpose – and got some subtle reminders as to exactly why I was chosen to represent Martin. These were the moments where I got cards in the mail, handwritten by Martin’s older brother, Henry, with a picture drawn by his little sister, Jane. These were the moments where Denise and Bill shared little moments of Martin’s life with us. These were the moments where complete strangers asked if they could support this cause. I was constantly being reminded of the kindness that exists in this world, the exact type of kindness Martin tried to spread to every life he touched.

I have spent the last 16 weeks giving up my Friday nights and Saturday mornings to drive to the city and force my feet to become familiar with the Boston Marathon course. Balancing fundraising, Marathon training, a full time job, grad school, and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life has been the biggest challenge that I have faced in my entire life (and I thought that running a marathon was hard!). There were many days where my workload seemed so overwhelming that I had no idea how I was going to get everything done. Life has been work, run, homework, sleep (sort of), repeat. Times like these bring out both the best and worst in us. The stress got to me – it made me want to throw my hands in the air and just give up. But in those fleeting moments where I was alone with the pavement hitting a 6:30 pace, saw the donations pouring in, or aced an exam…my mind always went back to Martin. I can do this. I will do this. For him.

My number one goal for this year’s training cycle, aside from never losing sight of that little boy, was to not over-train. Last year, I was so focused on mileage. I NEED to run 50 miles this week. Even if I run them at one in the morning, at a 10:00 pace, or am injured… I NEED to run these miles to be prepared come race day. Boy, did I have it all wrong. When I got to marathon day last year, I hated running. I could not wait for the race to be over so that I could never run again (obviously this feeling was temporary, but it’s true). I worked my body way too hard last year. Rest days? What are those? I didn’t let myself have any. Miles, miles, miles. The last few weeks of training, after falling on my face (literally), seeing my paces and the quality of my runs suffer, and feeling downright exhausted… I was dreading the marathon. I did not want to go into 2018 with these same thoughts.

I worked so hard this training cycle. I hit paces I have never seen in my life, I grew stronger and faster, and I learned some very important lessons about myself. A few days before the race, once the forecast was starting to look particularly dreadful, I panicked. Last year I learned a hard lesson that sometimes there are things that are out of your control; that you could be the best/strongest runner in the world… but if it’s eighty degrees, it’s eighty degrees. You can’t change the weather. This was important for me to learn, but also worked against me this year. I freaked out and started to sell myself short, “All this hard work down the drain because of 30 mile per hour winds and rain.” I took a step back. Why Amanda? Why does it all have to be down the drain? You did the hard work. You spent the last 16 weeks training. You know that you can do this. So what does a little rain matter? I have had some of the best races of my life in the rain. With a few days to go, I realized that in order to conquer the day, I needed to change my attitude. I needed to make the best of what I was given. Unfortunately, I was given rain and wind, but I wasn’t going to change the forecast. The meteorologists weren’t going to change the forecast. As badly as I had hoped that they were wrong, I knew Mother Nature (that b*t#!) wasn’t planning on changing her dang forecast.

On the Bus - 6am!

As the days rolled by, the weather seemed more and more daunting. I tried to tune out the media and commentary from everyone around me, and to just focus on what I was going to do out there. I had to make some last minute purchases for some pricey waterproof gear (thanks, Lulu Lemon), but my priority was to get through the race safely – aka without hypothermia. I duct taped my shoes (hoping to keep the water out – pro-tip… it didn’t). All of my electronics were in plastic bags, and I gave my family extra shoes, socks, and clothes for me in case I was miserable by the time they saw me at mile 17. I had my normal pre-race jitters. The excitement, anticipation, and nerves always get to me. I was going to make the best of it, though.

I was dropped off to my team’s bus on Clarendon Street at 6am. I boarded the bus with other members of my team, who quickly became my friends in the 4 hours that we spent waiting for our turn to toe the line. We drove to Hopkinton, where we were luckily able to stay warm and dry on the bus until it was time to walk to the start (and we had our own bathroom!!!!!). We laughed, we talked about Martin, and we made connections. I am so happy that I got to spend those four hours (the hardest part of marathon day, in my opinion) together. I began putting on my layers, filling up my pockets with my fuel, and waterproofing everything that was coming with me. We looked outside, and it was barely raining. HA! Suck it Mother Nature! It was going to hold out for us! 

This was passed around on the Team MR8 bus first thing in the morning.

These sticks were passed around at the beginning. I carried this and Martin's photo with me the whole race. I pinned Martin's picture to my singlet right over my heart.

At 10:30am, it was time to head to the starting line. What they don’t tell you as a first time marathoner is that the starting line is about a 0.7 mile walk from the bus parking lot. Given that I ran last year, I knew this… so I bought a $9 head to toe painter’s suit from Home Depot that I wore over my clothes to walk to the start. I put two plastic grocery bags over my feet, secured with two elastic bands. I looked like a complete moron, but I was going to stay dry as long as possible! Naturally, as soon as we stepped off the bus, it turned into a monsoon. Pouring buckets, wind sloshing the rain in every direction. I began my trek to the starting line in hopes of catching Kara (my cousin) and Hannah (training partner) and starting with them. Needless to say, by the time I got close enough, the B.A.A. had made the decision to ditch the waves and corrals. They said that due to weather, they were not waiting until the 11:15 start time for Wave 4, and that runners should just go. I was scrambling to turn on my tracking app and my Garmin and get out of my painter man outfit, and was basically shoved across the starting line. I felt a little frazzled to say the least. It was raining SO hard when I started. Within seconds of stepping over the starting line, my shoes were filled with water sloshing around everywhere from the massive puddles that had developed all over the road. There was no way around them, so I toughed it out. I wasn’t even 0.1 mile in. It would have been a long 26.2 miles trying to step around puddles. Embrace it, I must.

The rain didn’t stop the crowds. Sure, there were less people… but they were diehards. They were so happy to be standing in the pouring rain, cheering us on. I loved it. Last year, I was so focused on running (and then once the race turned bad for me around mile 3, finishing) that I did not take enough time to enjoy the crowds. I wanted to have a blast this year, so that’s exactly what I did. I was running so strong – slightly faster than my race plan but I felt incredible. It was almost like the wind and rain fueled me. Running with a bright yellow MR8 Martin Richard singlet was unreal. Everyone was so, SO excited to see me run by. I was screaming, smiling, yelling, and waving my hands in the air! It was like a giant party! Spectators yelled things like MR8 Looking Good! Team MR8 you are the hero, thank you for running today! Run for Martin! You got this MR8! There was so much love and support from complete strangers. At mile 7 in Framingham, the crowds were so loud that I got SO pumped up. I was screaming, “WHAT STORM? I AM THE STORM!!!” as loud as I possibly could. These incredible people made the first half of the race fly by for me.

At 13, I saw my aunt, uncle, and cousin. A few minutes later, I caught up to Hannah and Kara who had started before me as they pushed people across the start before 11:15. I was happy to see them. While I was with them, I caught my family just before the Newton fire station at mile 17. I was on cloud 9, still having the time of my life. I was so happy to see them, and continued to scream “I AM THE STORM!!!” (see video below). I still felt so strong, and my paces were right on. First win of the race right there. I knew I had the hardest part ahead of me, but I had prepared for this by running the course every week. I tackled heartbreak this year feeling strong. I slowed down a bit, but I ran through them. Last year I walked every hill. I was at mile 20 and still running, running strong. Second win of the race.

Mile 21 got to me. My legs were starting to feel the hills, and I was about to go downhill for four miles. I remembered that last year, my quads were screaming at this point. I had to bargain with myself a little bit to finish the race – I did this by allowing 10 seconds of walking every few minutes to try to recover. The crowds were still so supportive, carrying me all the way to Hereford screaming for both me and Martin. I saw my orange shirts (I should clarify that given the weather conditions, they couldn’t wear their orange shirts this year… but that is what they are to me) again on the corner of Hereford and Boylston. I rounded the corner and could see the end. That last .4 miles to the finish was so painful. But the crowds, oh, the crowds. If you want to be inspired, go freaking run down Boylston Street. I could see the finish line and I needed to get there. That’s it, Amanda. Get to the finish line. You can see it. People everywhere screaming MR8 and MARTIN RICHARD and GO GO GO! I heard my name within steps of the finish line, and I turned to find my kick-ass, 26.2 weeks (!!!) pregnant coach screaming for me, with the biggest smile on her face. I did it. We did it. I crossed the finish line with PURE joy, grasping for the picture of Martin that I had pinned to my heart for the entire race. We did it, Martin. You and me. My guiding light.

I was shooting and training for a 3:30:00 marathon. Although I missed it, I know that I have it in me. I know that I am trained to run it and that someday, I will. I missed qualifying by 4 minutes and 46 seconds. Last year, I would have walked away in tears and feeling like a failure. This year, I know that I am a winner. Running a marathon is hard enough, but running a marathon in a category 1 hurricane (LOL) is that much harder. I toughed it out, braved those conditions, and had the time of my life. I walked away from 26.2 miles of pure partying with an even bigger love for running, and with Martin’s name on my chest. I carried him across the finish line. This year was bigger than a BQ for me. It was about Martin and honoring his life. If that is not a win, I don’t know what is.

The first picture of me after I crossed the finish line.

Rachel, you brought my love for running back. I lost it for a while there, and I was afraid that I would never find it again or love running the way I have for so long. You made that your number one priority and you made sure that I never lost sight of why I run. I run because I love it. I run because it makes me happy, it makes me feel strong, and it is where I find my peace. Day after day, run after run, you made sure that I still felt this way. Even three days before the marathon, you asked me how I felt about running and the race, and you would not have settled if my answer was anything but great. Thank you for teaching me a very important lesson in quality over quantity; it’s not about the number of miles, but the quality of those miles. You told me that every run should have a purpose. This training season, every mile did. Thank you for allowing me to understand the importance of rest and recovery. You showed me that I can both crush workouts and long runs AND have days off. This was a critical lesson for me. More importantly, thank you for being a great friend. To call you a coach would be an understatement. You have been a sounding board, a cheerleader, a confidant, and a friend. You are a truly wonderful soul and I am so lucky to know you. A wise coach of mine (ahem, Rachel) once said, “take the time, be patient and find a support team that knows their sh*t and believes in you.” There were days when a crappy run made me feel inadequate and weak... but you never once gave up on me. You always reminded me to never forget my greatness “because of one bad workout or a tough training cycle”. And you constantly told me “remember - have the same faith in yourself that I have in you.” After yesterday, I can say that I do. I ran a marathon in a borderline freakin’ hurricane and I cut 15 minutes off of my 2017 Boston time. You’ve made me into a stronger runner than I could have ever imagined and I couldn’t have done this without you. 

Thank you to my family and my boyfriend for putting up with my crazy schedule these last few months; between full time work and grad school, training and fundraising... there have been a lot of “I can’t, I have to run/do homework”’s and a lot of sacrifices made... each of them with never ending support from all of you. You dried my tears when I felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders, you celebrated with me when I reached major milestones, and you constantly reminded me that all of my hard work would be worth it. It was worth it. It absolutely freaking was. Thank you for standing outside in the pouring rain and wind just to see me for .3 seconds as I ran by you – you guys are my biggest fans and I would be lost without your love. As always, thanks for being my bright orange shirts just when I need a little bit of light. 

Thank you to my running soulmates – Hannah and Kara for letting me lay on the ground after a bad workout and celebrating with me after a good one; and to Kate & Steve for constantly pushing me to find greatness, dragging my ass up Deerhaven, and for the in-run swears, pet names, and entertainment. 

One final thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who donated and helped me raise over $8,300 for The Martin Richard Foundation. I could not have gotten to this point without each and every one of you! This has been an incredible experience that I will always cherish.

And last, but not least... thank you to Martin Richard. As many of you know, for the last few years I have poured my heart and soul into running. I’ve had highs and lows, but this year was different. This year, I ran for Martin. I ran for the innocent little boy who’s life was cut short because of hate. I ran for everyone who could not. Thank you, Martin, for teaching me a lesson about hope and peace over the last 3 months. Although I never got to meet you, you have changed my life in so many ways. You are a light in this dark world, and you are loved and cherished by so many. I’m honored to have worn your name across my chest and carried you with me for those 26.2 miles, and I hope that I made you proud today.

\

The Day My Dreams Came True

Monday, April 17^th, 2017 – The 121^st Boston Marathon

It’s 3:37 am. My mind is racing and the nerves have kicked in big-time. I know I need to sleep, but my body is fighting it. My alarm is set to go off in just one hour and 23 minutes… the start to the day that I’ve been waiting for for so long. Today, I will run the Boston Marathon.

After a relatively restless night, I was up before the sun getting ready for the race. Outfit: check. Shoes: check. Energy chews: check. Water bottles: check. Glide: DOUBLE check. Bib: check. I must have checked all of these items at least a hundred times. I was terrified I was going to forget something. I loaded up my allotted gallon-size start bag (again, checked it at least a hundred times) – banana/oatmeal, peanut butter sandwich, picky bar, water, nuun, sunscreen. My start time was 10:50am, still SO FAR away. At 5:30am we were out the door on our way to Hopkinton.

I arrived in Athlete’s Village in Hopkinton at 6:04 am. I was the first and only runner there. The vendors were all set up and ready to hand out water, Gatorade, bagels, bananas, clif bars and chews to the 27,000 people that would soon fill the field. There were hundreds of port-o-potties, but at that hour, just one runner. Me. I spread out the trash bag I had brought to sit on, ate my oatmeal, and tried to catch a few deep breaths and a few moments of peace before the crazy set in.

the first runner at Athlete's Village

The meteorologists were calling for sunny/partly sunny skies, around 70 degrees, with a tailwind. Many of you reading this probably have the same thoughts floating through your head that I did at first. 70 degrees? Perfect! Sunny/partly sunny? Perfect! The closer we got to Monday, the more concerned that those meteorologists and the Boston Athletic Association were getting about the dangerously high temps and runners staying hydrated. That’s when I began to worry, big time. I’ve been lucky enough to train this season down in Charlotte, NC. I figured I had these conditions in the bag, because Charlotte tends to be warmer… what I failed to consider was the difference in the mileage I put in on 70 degree days in Charlotte than on say, 40 degree days. A five mile run in 70 degrees and sunshine in Charlotte is much, much different than a 26.2 mile run in 70 degrees in Boston.

Promptly at 7:00am, the busses began to arrive in Hopkinton, bringing with them tens of thousands of anxious runners. It was at that point that I was able to meet up with the rest of the Nashua Orangetheory runners, which was just what I needed. I got my few moments of peace, but I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting by myself for the next 4 hours. We had a few great picture opportunities, some good, solid laughs, and some killer dance moves. Although we were all big balls of nerves, we had a blast and made sure no one got too lost in their own heads.

Athlete's Village - Hopkinton

I ate my peanut butter sandwich, drank a good amount of water and nuun, and took a salt tablet. Around 10:00am, we made our way from the bus parking lot to the start line. The entire walk there (which, was surprisingly long), I was nervous, but I felt a wave of calm come over me. I was so excited, and itching to get out on the course and experience the magic of Boston that I’d heard about for so long. This was my dream. It was coming true with every step. We got to the start line (wave 3, corral 2) with about 8 minutes until start time. I took some deep breaths, and before we knew it, we were off.

walking to the start line

The crowds were incredibly thick until about mile three. The OTF crew all went out together, but gradually broke apart as time went on. I was worried about the heat as soon as I took my first steps. I could already feel the sun beating on me, and I was sweating within seconds. That’s when I realized how tough of a race this would really be for me. I made it a point to take water each time there was a stop – my main goal was to finish the race healthy and as hydrated as I could manage. Though, I did still want to qualify again. Miles 1 and 2 were okay. I didn’t necessarily feel like I was running 8 minute miles, because the crowd was so dense. I was hot already, but pretty comfortable. Right from the start line, there were thousands of people lining the streets. They were going wild; screaming words of encouragement, cheering, blasting music. It was like a giant party! The energy right from the beginning was unreal. I took water at the first two water stops, and it was a little after mile 4 that I knew I was in trouble. I can’t remember the last time I got a cramp on a run. I used to be the cramp queen, holding my side to try to get through it… but it hadn’t happened to me in over a year. I started getting a sharp pain in my side, and that’s when I knew it was time to pull back. Did I go out too fast? I didn’t think so – just 3 weeks before I was able to run a steady 8:05-8:15 pace for twenty miles. That’s the pace I was trained for. Was it the heat? Did I drink too fast or take too big of sips? It could have been a combination. All I knew was that I had to get ahold of it before it got worse. I slowed my pace, where I separated from the other runners I started with. I didn’t want to hold anyone back, but also didn’t want to push myself this soon. I focused on taking deep breaths, and eventually the cramp moved from my left side to my right shoulder blade in the back. After about 3 miles of trying to run through the cramp, it finally subsided.

I started to approach mile 8 – between Framingham and Natick. I kept looking at my watch, thinking, oh my god. I’m only at mile 8. I’ve never been this tired this early in a race before. I was able to pick my pace back up a bit; and I tried to channel my energy into the crowds. The energy from the crowd was more and more present with every mile. I ran back into Kate, one of the runners I started with, and we ran together for a few minutes. I needed a boost at that point and she was it. We shared a little water bottle and I pressed on. I ran through Natick, where the crowds picked up and transferred some of their energy to me. Around the ten mile mark, I was feeling better, with a little more energy. I was still taking water and Gatorade at every stop, but I was trying to drink it slower. I had three really good miles from 10-13. After the discouragement I felt from miles 8-10, I really needed this boost. I reached the halfway point at 1:46:20, with an 8:26 pace and still clinging to a possibility of a re-qualifying time. If I could just keep this pace…

Somewhere in mile 13 in Wellesley, I saw my aunt, uncle, cousin, and cousin’s girlfriend. They threw me a water bottle that I nursed for about another 2 miles. This is where everything started to go downhill. The sun was so hot and wouldn’t let up. I felt like my skin was 1,000 degrees, and I realized that I wasn’t sweating anymore which scared the crap out of me. I found myself grabbing baby wipes, wet paper towels, and ice cubes from anyone who was giving them out. I was dumping water bottles over my head and down my back after taking a few sips, trying anything and everything to bring my body temperature down at least a little bit. I knew my family was trying to see me somewhere in Wellesley, and I started to get discouraged when I didn’t see them. I was panicking that I missed them along the way, and right in that moment I wanted to quit so bad. I was already in pain, with over ten miles to go. I already felt this way, and hadn’t even reached Heartbreak Hill? How on earth was I going to get up those hills? I started to realize at this point that I wasn’t going to re-qualify. My goal shifted from re-qualifying to just simply finishing. Crossing the finish line in one piece, healthy. I promised myself I wouldn’t kill myself to qualify because I wanted to enjoy this ride. I worked so hard for it and I didn’t want to get to the end with regrets… or worse, not make it to the finish line.

I reached a hill at mile 16, and I was so completely discouraged… but still looking for orange shirts. Do you know how many people had the same idea as my family? THERE WERE SO MANY ORANGE SHIRTS. Then, after I had myself convinced that I missed them in the Wellesley crowds, I could see someone up ahead, in bright orange, standing on a median high above everyone else with a phone ready for a video. That’s when I realized it was Pat. And that’s when I started crying. I merged over to the right side of the road and threw my hands up in the air to signal that it was me. I was close enough that they could see someone throwing their hands up, but with the number of runners going by, I knew they’d have a hard time determining if it was me. But once I put my hands up, so did every one of them. They were screaming for me, and I owe the push up that hill completely to them. If they weren’t there, I probably would have walked a lot sooner. I was so happy to see them exactly when I needed them. I cried for a few minutes after I passed them, knowing it would be a while before I saw them again. I composed myself and did a mental check. I knew the hardest few miles of this race were just ahead and I had some serious work to do.

mile 16 - when orange shirts spotted me

The hills are kind of a blur. I have never walked in a race, but that changed during this one. I started my first walk shortly after passing my family. I tried so hard to delay it as long as possible, but I was running on fumes. My pace had gone out the window. I lost sight of the 8’s and found myself in the 9’s, even 10’s. I tried to set small goals; if you run for 1 mile, you can walk for one minute. I found myself needing to walk much more frequently, but tried to limit my walking time to 20-40 seconds to just get my heart rate to settle. Between the hills and the heat, I felt like I hadn’t trained at all. Almost 600 miles of training, how was this so difficult? I think what is important to remember – and what I didn’t really accept until after I finished, is that not every race can be a PR. Not every mile can come easy, and not every hill can be climbed without a little help. I worked my ass off during training, and hell, I ran a qualifying time to get here. I don’t think that the fact that I had to walk some parts of the hills has any reflection on my preparation. It just wasn’t my race. It wasn’t my day. And that’s okay – because it was still a GREAT day. It wasn’t about the pace. It was about the experience.

Each time I slowed to walk, strangers were grabbing me and telling me “YOU CAN DO THIS”. They were incredible. “YOU ARE BIGGER THAN THIS HILL”, “YOU GOT THIS, AMANDA”, “YOU’RE ALMOST THERE”. Each person I passed made me more and more determined to just conquer those hills. I always picked up and ran again, fueled by the words of millions of complete strangers. These crowds are literally what pulled me up Heartbreak Hill.

Then there was Boston College. Dead in the middle of the steepest part of the hills. The crowd was absolutely insane. I stopped to walk at one point when I heard a stranger from the opposite site of the road scream, “AMANDA! WHAT DO YOU NEED? GATORADE? WATER?” I managed a muffled “Gatorade” and he reached down and gave me a baby bottle of orange Gatorade that I felt like saved my life (not really, but, you know). Miles 21-24. What goes up, must come down. The downhills were shredding my quads; so much work done on the way up that I felt like my legs were going to give out on the declines. I was desperately trying to stay in control, but I even had to stop and walk a few times going downhill to prevent my legs from straight up collapsing underneath me.

Boston College

Miles 24-26. Magic. At this point, the course started to look like a warzone. There were runners pulled off to the side, throwing up on the curbs at the feet of bystanders, getting their backs rubbed by complete strangers. There were people trying to run through their injuries, hobbling on swollen knees, inflamed muscles, screaming in pain. I was in rough shape and I knew it, but I also knew I could have been worse. Although I felt nauseous, I kept everything down. My entire lower half was on fire, but I didn’t have a specific isolated injury like some of the runners around me. I just wanted to cross that damn finish line. This is where the crowds carried the runners.  The screams were deafening. I heard “I COULD NEVER DO WHAT YOU’RE DOING”, “YOU’RE ALL HEROES”, “YOU ARE A BADASS”. As runners, this is the stuff that we were all clinging to. With empty tanks, we had nothing left but the energy from the crowd. I will never forget what it was like to be brought back to life on Beacon Street - huge shout out to the woman who gave me a bright purple sponge soaked in ice water at mile 25. Then Kenmore. When I reached the Citgo sign, I caught sight of my college roommates screaming for me, which brought me to tears again. I managed a raspy yell back to them, “I’M ALMOST DONE”. I was SO close. For the last 9 miles, I felt like this moment  would never arrive. Through all those miles, I kept picturing the finish line, but still felt so far away. When I crossed over the “one mile to go” sign painted on the road, I cried again. I needed to dig deep and find that last mile. I knew it was in me somewhere.

Right on Hereford. 25.8 – there they were again. The orange shirts. Screaming for me. Almost ten miles from the last point I had seen them. I couldn’t believe I was still upright. I channeled all my energy into making sure that my feet kept moving underneath me. Those orange shirts. Like finding water in a desert. They saved me.

Left Turn onto Boylston

Left on Boylston. I could see it. The blue and yellow banner hanging across the road. It was still a decent clip away, but I could see it. I COULD FINALLY FREAKIN SEE IT. I gave Boylston Street everything I had. The crowds were going wild and I just went. I focused on right, left, right, left. As I got closer, it set in. This was the moment I had been dreaming of. I was running down Boylston street, steps from the finish line. And then I did it. I did the only thing I know how to do when crossing a finish line; throw my hands in the air and cry. It was the hardest run of my life. And it was over. I was a freaking Boston Marathoner.

crossing the finish line



crossing the finish line

after crossing

There is nothing in this world like the 26.2 miles from Hopkinton to Boston. Words do not do it justice. I am still so emotional thinking about those crowds, and those complete strangers whom I could not have crossed that finish line without. They probably don’t even remember me or what they said to me, but I will never forget it. I have one million strangers to thank for getting me to that finish line. From the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU.

On Monday, I accomplished the goal that I have spent the last five years working towards. The countless hours spent training; the good runs and the bad runs, the Friday nights given up to go to bed early to be up at the crack of dawn for Saturday training runs… all worth it. Over the last 3.5 months of training, I’ve put 565 miles on my feet. That’s 94 runs. It’s 80 hours and 49 minutes spent chasing pavement. It’s  6,870 ft of elevation gained (this is higher than Mt. Washington – the highest peak in the Northeastern United States…WHAT?). I fell, I bled, I cried. But I wouldn’t trade one ounce of all of the grit I put in to getting me to Boston for anything in the world. Running 26.2 miles through the streets of Boston with 27,000 other runners and over 1 million spectators was truly a life changing experience. To my friends and family, both along the route and from afar cheering for me, to those who tracked me, and to everyone who reached out to me via text, social media, or phone call, thank you SO MUCH. I have such an amazing support system and couldn’t have gotten through the day without you.  Seeing my family and boyfriend along the course, decked out in bright orange shirts (#teamwalkerbutrunner) made me so emotional. They have all supported me every throughout every single step of my journey. They’ve always been in my corner and always encourage me to reach for the stars and chase my dreams, no matter how crazy they are. And to every complete stranger on the course who encouraged me through the heat and Heartbreak Hill when I absolutely wanted to quit, I sure as hell couldn’t have done it without you. Though this was not the pace I was trained for or my best run, I made a decision to embrace every second and finish smart. Running through those crowds was absolutely amazing and uplifting, and I am honored and proud to say that I am OFFICIALLY a BOSTON MARATHONER.  As I sit here and reflect, I am still on a complete high from crossing that finish line. My wildest dreams finally came true and I am overjoyed. I really can’t put this feeling into words. Monday was hard, one of the hardest days of my life, and by far the hardest race. But I did it. I am BOSTON STRONG. My legs are sore, but my heart is so, so full.

My body is tired, and it’s letting me know. I fully intend on listening to it and giving it a generous little break. Those of you that know me well know that I won’t be able to rest for too long… running is my passion. It’s what I breathe and it’s what I bleed. So, what’s next? I’m not positive yet – but I’m already looking. Heartbreak Hill, I WILL see you again for my redemption round. I’m not done with you yet, Boston.

See you again soon, Boylston.

my roommates from the Citgo sign

The Orange Shirt Crew - #teamwalkerbutrunner

Boylston St. Saturday, 4/15 #onebostonday

bib pickup at the Expo