The Halfway Mark

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 is always in April; watching the Boston marathon was part of my childhood. A yearly thing, like Thanksgiving, or going to camp.

When we were kids, we made a whole day of the marathon. It was inSANEly 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. I have a sensory-flash of going to someone’s apartment before heading out to the marathon. I think it was my Uncle Jimmy’s place, 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. It was better than seeing them at the start, and way better than seeing them at the end … we got to see them AT THE HALFWAY POINT!

My cousins and I would mix Kool-aid in big pitchers, 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. No runners going by yet. Silent tense air. Everyone waited for the first runners to appear. You could sense them coming, even though they were still miles off by this point. The streets stretched back, empty, waiting for them.

Suffused with seriousness and purpose (you know how kids love to be taken seriously? Doing serious things?), we would pour out Dixie cups of liquid, line them up behind us, and wait, peering up the street, tense, serious, quiet.

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 or Kenya. These people are barely human, in terms of their endurance, and they do not need Gatorade. They are definitely in the lonely realm of the long-distance runner. We watched them zip by, in awe. It looked like they were on the first mile of the race, as opposed to the 13th. No sign of strain, intense speed, calm, a blur going by.

After those front-runners? 10 minutes of silence would go by. No more runners.

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 these people were actually going to NEED us. We trembled with the responsibility, which felt awesome to us, as 8 and 9 year old kids.

Here they came. The cheers moving up the crowds like the Doppler effect … we knew the runners were near by the cheers from half a mile away … We got into position, holding our arms out. Ready.

Then came the action. I remember holding out a cup 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. Thrilling! I had “helped” him! We had worked together during the hand-off! I was important!

There was a skill to this hand-off. Definitely. I made a couple of mistakes at first. For example, a giant came barreling towards me, coming for my cup, and I freaked out and pulled it back from him. Not very nice. It scared me, though – I thought he could rip my arm off! But I learned quickly. I never made the same mistake twice.

My goal was to make life as EASY AS POSSIBLE for the runner. 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. Lean your body back out of the road, only let your arm go into the road. The runners are looking for you. As they pound down the pavement, they are looking for you. Or no. Not you. They are looking for liquid. You are there to provide it for them. Even if you are only 4 feet tall. 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 fluid as possible, with no energy exerted by 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. Feather-light touch, let the cup go … It’s a triumph when the hand-off occurs with nary a drop 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 jackets – like foil around their shoulders, so they looked like dazed and confused Martians in running shorts. 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 from another planet.

By that point, after 26 miles, people’s personalities have broken down. I remember reading some quote somewhere: “A marathon is actually 2 races. The first 20 miles, and then the last 6.” 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.)

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 felt helpless.

I much preferred standing at the halfway mark with my cousins, holding our little arms out, watching as the giants thundered down upon us.