My last marathon

It took me a long time to get ready to run Boston 2013.  The last race I had was Chicago in 2011.  I was slated for Boston 2012 but had to pull out for an overuse injury that would take months and months to work through.
Having run nine marathons more or less one after another, it was really hard to sit on the sidelines in 2012.  It was even harder when I was told not to run.  I started swimming and biking, but I fell out of sync with my running club and I got a little bit despondent.  By the time I was given the all clear to run Boston I wasn't routinely showing up the clinic, nor was I feeling that motivated.  I skipped out on speed work and hills.  I did have some excellent long runs, but I know I didn't put in the effort that I had put into my prior marathons.  I arrived at Boston with the same goal I have had for all my marathons: to finish.  I thought at worst I would run my routine 3:39 marathon to BQ for 2014 and - best case scenario - I might break 3:30.
I slept great the night before the marathon.  And we got on the buses and out to Hopkington seamlessly and in great time, even meeting up with M again prior to the race, as snipers at on top of the school roof there, and the military with bomb sniffing dogs patrolled past us as in prior years at the athlete's village.
Unfortunately, before we left that morning we discovered the Keurig coffee machine wasn't working and so neither Michael nor I had a coffee.  This may seem insignificant, but it wasn't.
Go to any half marathon or marathon.  Watch the line ups for the porta potties: they're insane.  A lot of it has to do with the whole "nervous pee" scenario where one thinks that one's bladder is becoming full and and so goes pee just to quell the mental gremlins that come with having to run 21 or 42 kilometres whilst thinking you might have to tinkle.
What's worse, though, is... how to put this delicately... arriving at the start line not being devoid of the previous night's meal.  And this is exactly what happened to both of us on this race.
When I ran it in 2009 I had a 16,000 series number, and I jumped up a corral or two to finish about ten minutes faster than my qualifying time.  The gun went off this year, and it was like I couldn't get through the crowd, even though I had a 15,000 series bib this time around.  It seemed more crowded than usual and, while I usually clock my first couple of miles at a rather ridiculous speed, my first two miles of this race were just barely faster than race pace.
Also, the weather was turning out to be warmer than was expected which didn't help matters since I was wearing capris and a long sleeved shirt like I had in 2009, except the temperatures this time was about ten degrees warmer and I don't do well in the heat.
Though not feeling great, I tried to have fun on this race, which was slated to be my last.  I gave lots of kids high fives.  I tried to enjoy the crowds and the different stops along the way.  Wellesely was fun.  Heartbreak Hill took more out of me this time around.  I stopped to go pee which I have only done once before in Las Vegas where I had my worst marathon ever.
Things just started to fall apart on the back half.  I thought about turning my watch off.  I walked.  The hilarious thing about Boston is the avid spectators.  They would see me walking and they would just start screaming and cheering for my bib number and encouraging me and telling me I could do it and that "I had this".  "You got this" was a routine chant along the way.  And it would actually get me moving again, not because I wanted to, but because they wanted me to and I didn't want to let them down, these random people on the sidelines in Newton and Brookline.  And they would smile and cheer when I started running again.  It was nuts, the support and encouragement along that 42.2 kilometre stretch.
As usual I didn't train for downhill and by mile 22 I was pretty wrecked.  My stomach was upset, my quads were wrecked, I was getting a sunburn that I hadn't counted on and I just wanted it to end.  It wasn't the swan song that I had wanted to go out on.  But I thought about "right on Hereford, left on Boylston".
I was on Hereford last year cheering the beleaguered, exhausted and overheated runners on and so I knew they would get me in for that last kilometre, and they did.  There was no pain.  There was elation and smiling faces and a loud roar.  And I wanted to go over to the spectators on that last spectacular stretch with the giant Boston banner on the horizon, with the Boston coloured streamers fluttering out of the church on Boylston, the fans in the grandstands at the end, but they were cordoned off by one or two sets of barricades so they were unreachable.
I wrapped up my run and was so elated to hear the announcer call out my name as I approached the finish line.