The Boston Marathon Continuum

My grandparents lived in Wellesley (actually, my grandmother still lives there, in the same house). Wellesley is just about the halfway mark in the Boston marathon – which just took place a couple of days ago. It’s always in April, and watching the Boston marathon was part of my childhood experience. A yearly thing, like Thanksgiving, or going to camp.

When we were kids, we made a whole day of the marathon. It was hugely exciting. Some of my “Boston marathon memories” go way back and become fuzzy and dream-like – so I must have been very small. These qualify as “first memories”, because they all reside in the senses – not the intellect. Going to my Uncle Jimmy’s apartment before heading out to the marathon. I think it was Uncle Jimmy, my godfather. I remember a really thick rug. Cool air-conditioned air. A beanbag chair. Cold ginger ale.

Later memories though: we would convene at my grandparents house. My cousins would also be there, because the Boston Marathon is a big deal. And we LOVED that we got to see all the runners at the halfway point.

My cousins and I would mix Kool-aid in big pictchers, or we would get Gatorade, or we would mix sugar-free Crystal Light-y stuff, and then take a couple packages of Dixie cups from out of my grandmother’s cupboards, and traipse down the hill to join the crowds lining the street. Everyone waited for the first runners to appear. You could sense it – the streets stretched back, empty, waiting to be pounded over by the runners.

Feeling suffused with seriousness and purpose, we would pour out Dixie cups of liquid, line them up behind us, and wait, peering up the street, tense, thrilled.

Then – one by one – they would come.

The first runners who pounded by never stopped for a drink. They were about to finish a Marathon in less than 3 hours, and were usually from Ethiopia. These people are barely human, in terms of their endurance. They do not need Gatorade. They are definitely in the lonely realm of the long-distance runner.

We watched them pound by, in awe. It looked like they were on the first mile of the race, as opposed to the 13th. No sign of strain, and intense speed. Amazing.

Then – we could feel it. We just could feel the crowds approaching. The throngs of other runners, the ones way behind the leaders, the pack. We knew that they were going to NEED us. We trembled with the responsibility, which felt awesome to us, as 8 and 9 year old kids.

I remember holding out cups with my wee 9 year old arm, and a thundering sweaty giant would swoop by, snatch it out of my hand, and pour it over his head, his mouth open and gaping, without even stopping.

There was a skill to this hand-off. Definitely. I made a couple of mistakes at first, but I learned quickly. I never made the same mistake twice.

You had to keep a very gentle touch on your Dixie cup. No gripping. You didn’t want the runner to have to struggle to take the cup away.

You had to be ready to let go.

Hold it very lightly with your fingertips. Keep your body out of the road, only let your arm go into the road. They are looking for you. As they pound down the pavement, they are looking for you. They need you. Make your arm stick out, stand out.

Your job, should you choose to accept it, is to make this drink-exchange as easy as possible for the runner.

You must be invisible. You must merge with the Dixie cup. And then the second they grasp it, you must let go of it. That way, nothing will be spilled.

Oh, my cousins and I spent rapturous hours getting all of this down to a science. We loved this job. We loved being all important, like little Boston Marathon Florence Nightingales. We felt essential to the effort, we knew we were a part of the big day, not just spectators.

I remember the first time we went to the finish line. We had watched the first big batch of runners go by, holding out Dixie cups to them, and then one of our aunts – or maybe it was Uncle Jimmy – piled us all into the car to go watch the finish of the Marathon. Obviously, we would beat the runners there. Being at the finish line (I was about 9 or 10) was a whole other story, and not at all fun. The runners were past the need of liquids. We could not help them. A Dixie cup became meaningless. We saw grown adults (men and women) weeping, being held up by their parents or spouse, we saw people throwing up, we saw people leaned over spitting onto the ground – draped with these silver Mylar jackets – I think that’s the name of the body-heat material – So the runners at the finish line, lying on the ground, covered in silver, falling against their friends, being unable to speak, all wearing silver tin-foil cloaks, was a surreal sight. We saw people lying on the ground surrounded by doctors, while others staggered around in a dazed way looking like disoriented refugees.

By that point, after 26 miles, people’s personalities have broken down. I remember reading some quote somewhere, from someone who has run a ton of marathons: “A marathon is actually 2 races. The first 20 miles, and then the last 6.” Having watched marathons at all stages of the race (mile 13, mile 18, mile 10, and then mile 26) I can say, without a doubt, that that is the case. People are still themselves at mile 13. People are no longer themselves at mile 26. (Except for the speed-of-light Ethiopians who didn’t need our Dixie cups.)

I saw this phenomenon again when I watched my friend Liz cross the finish line at the New York marathon a couple years ago. I saw her at the halfway mark, and then we went to Central Park to see her cross the finish line. The transformation of human beings, runners we had just seen an hour or so before, was startling. Unbelievable. I’m not just talking physically, although you can see people obviously struggling with pain. It’s the other transformation – the psychological transformation – that really struck me. The look in the eyes.

When I was a little kid at the finish line, I thought all of that vomiting and falling-over stuff was terrible. I felt so BAD for everyone. I much preferred standing at the halfway mark with my cousins, watching the giants thundering down towards us, holding out their arms for our Dixie cups of Gatorade.