My (Somewhat Pathetic) Marathon Bucket List

Most runners have a bucket list of races they want -- nay, need -- to do in their lifetime. Some even aspire to run a marathon in all 50 states. 

I have no plans to do so. I’m cheap, for one, plus there are many parts of the United States I have little desire to take one step in, let alone 40,000 or so. I also really, really don’t like to travel, as I’ve pointed out. Finally, I’m not a fan of enormous marathons such as New York and Chicago. They overwhelm me. (Though I do have a very unbiased exception, as you’ll see.) I prefer smaller, local marathons within a reasonable drive. 

However, seeing Big Sur 2014 sell out in like an hour got me thinking about my own marathon bucket list. Admittedly, it’s not very long, nor is it terribly specific, but it gives me something to strive for, even if it's decades away.

Boston. It’s the original, for cryin’ out loud. Plus I live less than half a mile from the course. I’ll endure the huge crowds at the start in Hopkinton to run in what’s arguably the greatest marathon of them all. 

Mount Desert Island. This one’s in Acadia National Park in Maine. It’s a beautiful setting for a tough race full of hills. Definitely not one to run if your primary goal is a BQ. 

Bay of Fundy. This one’s in Lubec, Maine. This tiny town, the easternmost in the 50 U.S. states, is across the bay from Campobello Island in New Brunswick. You run in two countries. (Passport required.) It doesn’t get much cooler that that. 

Big Sur. A few folks I know ran this year, and their pictures were so amazing that I was convinced to run it at some point in my life. 

Disney. My wife has no interest in running, and for that reason I let her stay home and sleep when I get up at the crack of dawn to go run a race. But Disney is her favorite place on earth, and if I run this one I know she will be there, waving some sort of sparkly princess accessory, as I cross the finish line. Then she’ll tell me to go shower. 

Somewhere in Canada. I'd love to embrace my Canadian heritage (my dad was born in Kapuskasing, Ontario and my family is sprinkled throughout the Great White North), so any of a number of marathons in eastern Canada -- Ottawa, Quebec City or either Toronto marathon -- sound great to me. (Montreal is now part of the Rock n Roll Marathon conglomerate, so that's less appealing.)

Bonus: Antarctica. I’ll never be able to afford this, and spending so much time on a boat before I run would be drive me bonkers, but running with penguins might actually be cooler than running a marathon in two countries at the same time. 

Since this list is a little pathetic, help me out. What marathons are on your bucket list? If you’ve done them, did they live up to the hype? If you haven’t, how are you going to make sure you get there?

Runners Are Made to Heal, I Am a Runner, and I Will Heal

Much has been written and said in the last few days about how both Boston and the running community will respond to Monday’s bombings. Dennis Lehane couldn’t have expressed the “Boston” part better, while much of the Runner’s World staff, which was either running the race or covering it from the press tent, has captured the confusion, resolve, contemplation, solace and even the happy memories of the “running” part.

The question now, of course, is how we heal. For me, it hasn’t been easy. Monday was a day of distraction, Tuesday of emotion and Wednesday of equal parts helplessness and frustration.

By Thursday, though, I’d improved. Yes, I monitored coverage of the interfaith memorial service in Boston over social media, but I also discussed forthcoming marathons, laundry, cute puppies, coffee and (privately, for the benefit of everyone else) chafing. I guess you could say I’d returned to whatever it is we’re calling normal these days.

Now I’m ready to get back at it. Running, after all, is all about pushing yourself beyond an otherwise-acceptable level of pain, recovering accordingly and then, without second thought, doing it all over again, only a little bit faster, farther or harder that the previous effort. Runners heal quickly because they want to, they have to and, through months, years and decades of training, they’ve been conditioned to.

That hasn’t been entirely easy, either. Tuesday, I joined thousands in honoring Boston by running 4.09 miles, the distance chosen to represent the time on the official clock when the bombs went off. To add insult to injury, much of my run was on the Marathon course itself. Even in the suburbs, 15 miles from Boylston Street, I couldn’t stop myself from tearing up.

Wednesday, after watching CNN, The New York Post and others make my journalism professors weep, I ran an ol’ reliable route around my neighborhood, if for no other reason than it was a rare cloudless spring afternoon in New England and, let’s face it, such days should not be wasted.

Today is an off day. Tomorrow will be a fartlek. And so it goes.

• Next weekend I’m doing a 10K -- the James Joyce Ramble, a quirky race that embodies peace and unity above all -- and set a ridiculously lofty goal of breaking 40 minutes.
• Next month, or perhaps in early June, I’m doing a half marathon -- and, since I can’t remember my PR, I guess I’m just going to have to set a new one.
• In October, I’m doing the Smuttynose Rockfest marathon on the New Hampshire seacoast. (Someone remind me to register.) Running a 3:05 to qualify for Boston in 2014 is no doubt a stretch, as it’s 8 minutes faster than my PR (set six years ago) and 46 minutes faster than my disastrous last marathon, but what the hell do I have to lose in trying?

Frankly, I can think of no other way to respond to the bombing than to lace up my shoes, get back on the road, set a bunch of goals, knock ‘em down and show the world that, for one runner at least, nothing will slow him down.

(Note: One thing I neglected to mention in my first post was that it would be impossible to avoid gratuitous references to 90s alternative music. The title of this blog post borrows from the Our Lady Peace track “Made to Heal.” Give it a listen and prepare for more lyric-dropping. You’ve been warned.)

Runners, and Bostonians, Bent But Not Broken

Bostonians are a resolute, determined bunch. I often joke that the city’s motto should be “Without Us, You’d Be British” to honor our damn-the-consequences role in starting the Revolutionary War. 

Patriots’ Day, a holiday in Massachusetts (and Maine, since it was part of Massachusetts until 1820, and, strangely, Wisconsin) to commemorate the Battles of Lexington and Concord that essentially started the war, is the lesser-known celebration that occurs on Marathon Monday. Battle reenactments occur in both towns shortly after dawn. (In my community newspaper reporter days, I was glad to cover much less exciting towns.)

I thought of this Monday afternoon, in the aftermath of the Boston Marathon bombing. My gut reaction, as I put it on Twitter, was that bombs in trash cans weren’t going to scare us any more that redcoats with muskets. Like many others, I also expressed the notion that runners -- by their nature a persistent bunch used to facing adversity and overcoming obstacles -- wouldn’t be scared either.

The “scowl and bear it” attitude that most outsiders interpret as Boston’s dour lack of friendliness is, I would argue, actually a sign of our collective determination. No, we’re not the nicest folks on Earth, but we do look out for each other, and the majority of us do so without asking for anything in return. (Not even a smile.) That’s why so many people were willing to open their home to strangers Monday night, or donate blood even though the American Red Cross said its stocks were full.

Runners also possess this selfless determination. We cheer on strangers. We nod at every fellow runner we see on the road, no matter how crappy we feel. We encourage those new to the sport, remembering the same excitement, anticipation and dread we felt as beginners. As we leave water stops, we offer to share half-drunk paper cups of tap water that we’ve probably dripped sweat and backwash into, knowing that other racers will politely pass but also knowing that it’s the nice thing to do.

Right now, both Boston and the running community and shocked. Heck, I was nowhere near the finish line on Monday, and I still couldn’t hold back tears on Tuesday’s lunchtime run through Natick and Wellesley.

But we will recover. We will heed the stoic, steadfast examples set by Munich, New York, London, Madrid, Bali and countless other cities that emerged from tragedy as better, more vibrant places. We will continue to gather for Sunday long runs, for urban 5Ks and trail races and at the Boston Public Library and the JFK LIbrary. We will honor those who died or suffered life-altering injuries by refusing to behave any differently. We will keep on living, and running, forever cognizant of what has happened but refusing to let it change us.

Why Marathon Monday’s Bittersweet for This Bostonian

As a prelude to the Boston Marathon, Fit Girl Happy Girl wrote a post describing the race as “our city’s shining moment.” I don’t disagree; it’s a fantastic, historic and by all accounts awesome race, and I’m proud to live in (OK, near) the city that so warmly embraces the marathon.

Unfortunately, my relationship with the Boston Marathon is a bit more bittersweet. (In social media parlance, it’s complicated.) For me, the race resembles a raging high school party -- you know, the one everyone but you was invited to. On Monday, despite living little more than fartlek’s length from the course, I’ll be ripping apart a dilapidated shed in my backyard instead of watching the race. (To be fair, the next steady wind will know the damn thing over.)

I am 0-for-8 in Boston Marathon qualifying efforts, having come closest in my mid-20s when I missed by a whole 3 minutes. Well, 0-for-8 is inaccurate. After failing to qualify three or four times, I saw the writing on the wall, approaching subsequent marathons not as BQ attempts that were bound to fail but, rather, as races that I ought to enjoy. For the most part, I have. Even my most recent marathon -- a disastrous 3:51 and change at the Manchester Marathon, the result of woefully inadequate training and, I tell myself to make myself feel better, high wind -- was, in hindsight, not terrible, even if I spent several miles wondering which front lawn would be the best spot on which to collapse and spend the final moments of my life.

Still, it’s tough to be around the race. Living so close to the course, I often see dozens, if not hundreds, of yellow-DriFit-clad runners making their way through my neighborhood. I run past them, head down, wishing I were in their shoes, so to speak.

Yes, I could run for charity, but I haven’t found one I embrace wholeheartedly enough to raise a few thousand dollars for. I could finagle my way to a number, or run as a bandit, but I’m much too honest. I want to qualify, even if it’s only going to get harder for me to do so.

I don’t bemoan the Boston Athletic Association for implementing a rigid, difficult qualifying process at all. The Boston Marathon’s a huge race, with a field larger than the population of half the municipalities it runs through, and it’s a prestigious, world-class race. Frankly, there should be a qualifying process, and I’m more than willing to abide by it, even if it means I spend Marathon Monday doing yardwork instead of running 26.2 miles.

Luckily, I’ve been a faster, more determined and more focused runner since my debacle in Manchester. My next marathon probably won’t be a BQ, but I do think I have one in me -- and not solely because I’m creeping closer to a more forgiving qualifying time.

Once I hit the mark, you can bet I’ll be registering as soon as I can, hitting “Refresh” on my browser as many times as it takes, and telling everyone I know (until they make me shut up) that I’m taking part in Boston’s shining moment. I sure as hell wish I were running this year, but I know, deep down, that someday I’ll get my invitation to the party of the year.