I ran the Boston Marathon on Monday, finishing in a time of 3:41.17, which was good enough to win the Women's Para 35-38 division at Boston.
My original plan for the spring was the Salisbury Marathon in Maryland the week before Boston. Salisbury would have been the perfect set up for me to run a fast marathon - it's well managed, small, and flat. However, in December I learned that Boston was offering a new para-athlete division in 2024 with substantial prize money to the winner. And my Parkinsons disease meant that I was eligible.
So, I wrote the BAA to see if there was a way I could get in. I had missed the September deadline to apply for Boston in the open field, and though I was eligible to be a para-athlete, I was not currently classified as a para-athlete. Since I wasn't currently classified, I couldn't enter the para-athlete division.
However, "adaptive athletes" (those with certain health conditions, including Parkinsons) were allowed to enter the marathon late, as long as they had run a marathon in under 6 hours in the past year. The BAA invited me to enter as an adaptive athlete, with the understanding that they would hold a slot open for me in the para-athlete field if I could get classified as a para-athlete before race day.
Wonderfully, the BAA then coordinated a classification opportunity for myself and about 10 other aspirational para-athletes. In early April my classification appointment was confirmed and we were on. Now I just had to get classified.
***
My classification appointment was at 1 pm on Saturday in the Hynes Convention Center (where the Expo was).
When I arrived at the convention center, the line to enter the expo extended down the sidewalk further than I could see. I showed my confirmation email to a guard to see if I could skip the line, since I wasn't going to the expo. Nope - everybody had to wait in line. I was concerned, but fortunately the line moved quickly and soon I was navigating my way to Room 109, where a big sign confirmed I was in the right place.
There was a table with two chairs behind it, and another chair sitting separately against a wall. The separate chair looked like the waiting chair, so I sat there with Fugazi's "Waiting Room" stuck in my head.
I read my phone for about 20 minutes, and then a woman in a BAA jacket arrived. We chatted briefly to establish that I was the first classification appointment of the afternoon, not the scheduled volunteer. Then she shifted to stacking and shuffling forms. After they were stacked and shuffled to satisfaction, she invited me over to fill one form out and review another.
I declined her offer to help me rise from my chair (wondering if I had just failed a pop quiz) and walked over. The first form was stuff about sharing my medical information and agreeing to be honest and try my best at anything I was asked to do. The second listed questions that I would be asked during the examination - what sport I competed in, what were my best performances, medications...
I signed where asked and returned to the chair of Fugazi, debating whether this felt more like waiting for a doctor's appointment or waiting for a job interview. The classification evaluation team rolled in a few minutes later, there was some more shuffling of papers and some opening and closing of doors, and then I was invited into a large hotel conference room with several chairs and a medical examining table off to one side. The doors clanged shut behind me.
***
At this point, it's probably helpful to outline how para-athlete classification works. It's much more than a doctor's note.
As background, para-athletes compete in different sport-specific classifications, each designated by a letter followed by two numbers. The letter designates the sport - all track athletes (which includes marathoning) have the T prefix on their classification (it's F for field athletes - shot put, etc).
The numbers designate the physical ability (or lack thereof), with the first number defining the nature of the impairment - for example, T1# athletes are visually impaired, T6# athletes use a lower limb prosthesis. As a wannabe coordination impaired athlete, I was going for a T3# classification.
The second number describes the severity of the impairment: more impairment means a lower #.
In order for an athlete to be classified, there are three questions that are considered in order:
1) does the athlete have an eligible impairment? If so, then...
2) does the athlete meet the minimum impairment criteria (MIC)? If so, then...
3) into which class should the athlete be placed?
Taking each in turn:
Eligible Impairment
Not every limitation is an eligible impairment - some health conditions can be significant obstacles to performance but are NOT eligible impairments (asthma, chronic fatigue, or chronic pain are good examples). There are ten eligible impairments for para-athletic sport (listed here), eight of which are physical. Of the ten eligible impairments, I actually have three (hypertonia, ataxia, and athetosis) - all of which fall under the umbrella of coordination impairment.
If you have a coordination impairment, it must be caused by an underlying health condition in order to be an eligible impairment. For example, you don't get to be a para-athlete simply because you have "hypertonia" (i.e., you are very stiff) because you blew up in a hot downhill marathon two days ago. You have to have an underlying health condition that causes the hypertonia.
I met this hurdle by providing documents from my medical files documenting my rigidity and dystonia as assessed by my neurologist (that's the impairment) and showing my diagnosis of Parkinsons (the underlying health condition). I had to provide these documents to the United States Olympic and Paralympic Committee in late March before I was scheduled for my classification evaluation.
Minimum Impairment Criteria (MIC)
Basically, is the athlete impaired to the point that it affects their athletic performance? It's worth noting that this is a relative question, not an absolute question. You can be an extremely fast runner and still meet the MIC (you would just be a lot faster without the impairment), or a very slow runner and NOT meet the MIC - the question is whether you are impaired, not how fast you are.
This was what was being assessed during my classification evaluation.
Placement in a Class
If I was found to both a) have an eligible impairment and b) meet the MIC, then I'd be assigned to a class. Since I was going for a coordination impairment classification, I'd be assigned a classification of T31-38. Of those, T31-34 are for athletes who compete in wheelchairs; T35-38 are for ambulatory athletes. (If I didn't meet the MIC, I'd be classified as NE - noneligible).
***
Back to the conference room and the ominous just-closed doors.
I was invited over to sit in a chair by two gently smiling women. They offered assistance and I declined (bombed another quiz). They then explained how the hour would go - they'd ask me some questions, then examine me on the table. Depending on how that went, they might ask me to do some stuff while they watched.
The questions mapped to the sheet I had been provided a few minutes earlier - what sports did I compete in, what were my best performances, how was I impaired, what made stuff worse (running downhill is a big one), what medications was I on. I explained to them that I had pre- and post-Parkinsons marathon PRs (2:57:42 in 2018 versus 3:20:29 in 2023) and they seemed to find that very interesting. Then I removed my shoes and hopped on the examination table.
My job was to lay on my back and stay as relaxed as possible (like during a sports massage), so I closed my eyes and tried to zen. One of the women grasped my right arm and raised it and began moving my wrist around. She flexed it a couple of times at different speeds/directions, and then stated a number, which the other woman wrote down. Then onto the elbow and shoulder (each assessed a number), before shifting to my left side to do the same thing. Then she moved onto my legs to do the same thing (more numbers).
After we were done with the joint stuff, they stroked my feet a few times to see what happened (I know this one - this is the Babinski test) and tapped me in various places with a rubber hammer. More numbers.
Then they asked me to take the heel of one foot, touch it to my shin right below my knee, and run my heel down my shin to the ankle. I did this several times on each side and to my great annoyance could not seem to keep my heel touching my shin. It was just like curling your tongue - seems simple if you can do it, but I just couldn't. More numbers. Apparently, I had passed this section of the examination (which I guess means I failed in one sense), because they asked me to get up and walk around the conference room.
This next phase felt like an intense physical therapy session. They had me walk barefooted (sure). Then they had me jog barefooted (didn't they know I had a marathon in 48 hours?). Then they asked me to run as fast as I could (still barefoot) from one wall of the conference room to the other and back twice.
Um.....this was exactly the sort of thing I would normally refuse to do in my last week or two of taper. But I needed my classification to run in the para-athlete division, which was the whole reason I was running Boston. And doing barefoot sprints was apparently part of classification. So I sucked it up and sprinted as best I could.
I did the barefoot shuttle-run sprints a few times (they gave me a chance to catch my breath between rounds), and then some running drills (cariokes and side steps), some heel and toe walks and some single leg balance stuff (I'm very good at all of those), and some single leg hops. Then they let me put my shoes back on and I repeated the shuttle-run sprint a final time.
Then I left the room for a few minutes so they could compare notes. The conference doors opened, and I returned to the waiting chair which was occupied by the next appointment. Someone offered me another chair so I didn't have to stand and I declined (that was three failed pop quizzes in just over an hour).
After about 5 minutes I was invited back in for the verdict.
***
As I noted above, there are four ambulatory T3# classifications. The classifiers explained that T38 was a catch-all classification for those who met the MIC but didn't really have anything beyond that. T37 was for those who were affected on one limb or one side of their body. If your right leg is great and your left leg is neurologic, you are a T37.
As for me, I was a "classic T-36." What they had noticed was that my muscles tended to respond jerkily and unevenly. I was very "wiggly." What made me "classic" was that I was great at doing one thing steadily (balancing on one foot, walking on my toes). But when required to do sudden changes - things like accelerating, then hitting the brakes and pivoting to run the other way, everything got messy.
This was consistent with my training and racing experiences - I can run well on flat smooth surfaces in uncrowded situations at a steady hard pace with a long warm-up. But if you add uneven surfaces, or crowds, or sharp turns, or speeding/up slowing down (track interval workouts) everything gets much harder.
They explained that difficulty running downhill was also very normal for a T36 athlete. Downhill running involves eccentric contractions to maintain your balance. It's neurologically challenging - it requires instant and exact response from your muscles. Uphill running has a lot more room for neurological error - you don't need as much control, just power.
So there we were - I was a T36. Well, tentatively. The final requirement was that they would be observing all the newly classified athletes during the marathon. If what they saw during the race didn't match what they had seen in the conference room, they could revoke my classification (which would also DQ me from the para competition). It was extremely rare for this to happen, but it did occasionally.
Thus, I had to describe what I planned to wear on Monday so they could pick me out from the crowds. I did, and then I was free to pick up my number. Now I just had to run a marathon. A downhill, crowded marathon with plenty of uneven surfaces.
***
Relieved and on a bit of a high, I made my way over to room 201 (separate from normal bib pick-up) to grab my bib. Getting there involved displaying emails on my phone to several very serious looking people so that I could duck under various ropes and around various lines.
Upon arriving in room 201, I was asked if I was a support runner and responded that I was a para-athlete (this would be a common theme for the rest of the weekend). I showed my confirmation email and explained that I had just been classified. I waited a few minutes while my purple wave 1 bib was swapped out for a yellow bib - P156 - and then I was good to go.
I flashed my phone+emails a few more times to duck under a few more ropes so I could buy a stuffed unicorn at the expo (black shirt this year - a good sign?) before wending my way back to my hotel in the hinterlands of Lechmere (an area of Cambridge about 30 minutes by green line T from the finish line).
***
That was Saturday. Sunday was a shake out jog and Chipotle and stretching and emails and watching Cevin Key's Sunday live chat until it was hilariously shut down by Youtube for a copyright violation (Cevin was playing one of his band's own videos....).
My instructions were to be in the lobby of a downtown Boston hotel by 5:30 am sharp on Monday to board the buses to the start. This was non-negotiable - if I missed these buses, I'd have to take the later buses used by the open field and would not be allowed to start with the para division.
This was going to be tight, as the first green line train from Lechmere was leaving at 4:56 in the morning and would get me to the hotel at 5:25. Doable, but close. Since I wasn't comfortable with that, I reserved a cab for 4:30 am. Admittedly super-early, but if my cab didn't show, I would still have time to walk to the Lechmere T station and take my chances with the train.
***
Race morning dawned at 3:55 am (the first of three alarms I had set). I did my early morning routine and double checked my plastic race-issued-tote to confirm it had my racing shoes, breakfast, and anything (or everything) else I might possibly want. My cab showed up at 4:40 which was both nerve-wracking and still got me to the hotel lobby early. So overall fine.
I was unsurprisingly the first athlete to show up in the lobby. A nice woman in a BAA jacket approached and asked if I was a support runner. I explained I was a para-athlete and showed my bib and she pointed me towards what would be the para-athlete area.
She also apologized several times for the hotel bathrooms being upstairs and less chairs being available than in previous years. I assured her that everything was great, and it was. The last time I did this race I was trudging through mud past portajohns in Boston Common to get on a school bus - everything about this morning so far (save the absence of my 2018 training partners Chris, Juan, and Larry) was a massive upgrade.
The vast lobby of the hotel was allocated between the elites, the wheelchair racers, the hand cycle racers, the duo racers, and the para/adaptive athletes. This structure made sense, as each group had different tasks to focus on before getting on the buses to the start. Specifically, the wheelchair, hand cycle, and duo racers each had mandatory equipment checks.
As for the para-athletes? We just hung out, stretched, drank free coffee and water, and chatted. Which was great, as it gave me a chance to learn more about some of the other para-athlete divisions.
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| Thanks to Sara Whittingham for the picture! |
I had some imposter syndrome as I chatted with amputees and visually impaired runners - I was the one who looked like she didn't belong. But they rapidly put me at ease and welcomed me.
I also was able to finally meet some of the other Parkinsons runners who were running Boston in person as para- or adaptive athletes - Craig, Joe, Renee, Rhonda, and Sara. It was great to meet after so much online discussion in the weeks leading up to the race.
Then, at around 6:30, we exited the lobby and boarded the buses to the start.
***
One of my never-achieved running goals was to run Boston as a masters elite. A decade ago, the elite masters standard for women at Boston was sub-3. But by the time I broke three hours for the marathon, the standard had tightened. I chased faster times but was first delayed and then blocked by the triple whammy of getting hit by a truck + the covid pandemic + Parkinsons, while the standard continued to drop (it's now 2:48). So I had moved on.
But now, via weird backdoor, I was living the experience I thought out of reach. Our chartered bus (a Mercedes - no school buses for us) rumbled towards Hopkinton while state police halted traffic for us.
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| Piles of gels! |
Once in Hopkinton, we were treated to a heated tent that featured not just chairs, coffee, and water, but also yoga mats for anyone who wanted to stretch and mounds of free Maurten gels. I've been fortunate enough to be included in the elite or sub-elite programs at several races over the years - I think this may be the best elite treatment I've ever personally experienced.
[it took some restraint, but I managed to NOT shovel a large # of the Maurten gels into my gear bag for later use when nobody was looking.]
[some of this restraint may have stemmed from the fact that there was never a time when nobody was looking.]
Arriving in Hopkinton at 7:30 for a 9:50 start meant plenty of time to kill, so I hung out, chatted with others, stretched, took some pictures, and ate my pre-race breakfast (rice plus Maurten+Ucan gels). Around 9 am I headed out for a 10 minute shakeout jog. Then one final bathroom break, a double-check that I had everything I needed and nothing I didn't, and a watch-buzz reminder to take my Rytary (Parkinsons med that helps my muscles work right - I get about 4-4.5 hours out of it, so I like to take it about 20-30 minutes before the start of a marathon). After all of that I joined the para-athlete group to follow the elite fields to the starting line. It was already a warm and brightly sunny morning, so no need for last-minute throwaways. Just t-shirts, singlets, and sports bras.
The experience felt somewhat like a row of airlines waiting for take-off. First in line were the men's elite field, then the women's elite field, and then us. Each with our own ground crew signaling where and when to go. The men lined up, were introduced, and then took off. The women proceeded to the line for introductions and then the gun. I've seen (and even occasionally participated in) elite race starts before, but there was something about watching the Boston women's elite start from this close that sent a chill down my neck.
Thanks to Joe Drake for the video!
Then it was our turn. Just like the other two groups, we marched to the front. A few luminaries of the para field - past winners and course record holders - were introduced by name to applause. Then we were given the 20 second warning, followed by the gun.
***
I had some pretty specific goals in running Boston as a para-athlete, and they were not time-based. Part of this is that I was fairly certain that I would struggle to run to my fitness on this downhill rolling course even in perfect weather. As a "classic T36" I find it much harder to run fast downhill than on the flat, and obviously I can't make the time up running uphill. It's also challenging for me to run fast from a standstill, especially when I've been standing for a few minutes or longer. So a marathon where the first 6 miles were mostly downhill after standing around for a while was always going to be rough.
I also suspected that the weather would be a real factor today. However, I was confident of my ability to close a marathon hard even in rough weather. Thus, my game plan was go out very slowly the first 6 miles or the race (at easy pace or close to it), then build into a moderate effort (easier than marathon effort) which I would hold through mile 16. The Newton hills began at mile 16 - at that point I'd hopefully be in striking distance of whomever was leading my division, and I'd chase them down and hammer to the finish to snag the win. Hopefully.
Given this strategy, I was expecting not to lead the para field when the gun fired. I was NOT expecting to be dropped by the entire field. But that was exactly what happened, and within about 2 minutes I was dead last. Sara - another T36, an all around great person, and my closest competition for the win in our division - had exploded off the line and was smoothly striding into the distance. (Did I mention that she completed Kona last year and clearly knew something about hot weather racing?)
I'd like to stay that I stuck to my racing plan out of discipline and confidence. The truth is that I was really struggling with the steep downhill of the first mile, and a shuffling pace was the best I could do.
Being dead last and struggling with my balance that first mile was mortifying. I had told my family and friends I might be on TV, and now I was really hoping I wasn't. The one positive was that perhaps the classifiers WERE watching. Oh, and at least I wasn't starting too fast.
***
Those early miles were eerie. Once again I was running the first miles of a marathon major completely solo, sandwiched in between the elites and the waves of open runners about to be released. The one thing that made this a bit better than Chicago 2022 was that I felt a bit more justified in my pace and position.
The Boston course turns and winds a bit through Hopkinton, and so it's actually pretty easy to lose sight of those ahead of you if they aren't within 100m or so. Soon I was alone - shuffling down the hill and reminding myself to stay patient and relaxed until things started working.
I would round a turn at my trying-not-to-trip-downhill pace, and I'd hear an enormous roar from the crowds on each side. I knew it couldn't be the first wave runners (they hadn't been released yet) but there weren't any runners near me or ahead of me. I was honestly confused as to what was going on. Finally, I cranked my head around to look behind me and saw nothing but empty road.
It took another 10 seconds or so for me to realize that everyone on both sides was cheering for me.
It's been nearly a week now, and I'm still not sure how to map those feelings to words.
***
I shuffled and shuffled, and then my gait started to improve a bit and I could pick up speed. After another mile my gait was better and I could start subbing in racing discipline for physical limitation. The next few miles were about sticking to the plan, staying on top of my drinking and nutrition, and staying to the left to let the faster wave 1 runners by (the para-athletes had been instructed to stay left).
For the most part, being passed by the wave 1 runners at Boston was not as rough as it had been at Chicago in 2022. I suspect part of this is because Boston is a far smaller race. The only place where things were tough was the water stations. With cups on both sides of the road, staying to the left meant that wave 1 runners were constantly ducking in front of me to grab water, which disrupted my balance. I suspect that since I didn't look like a para-athlete many of them were treating me like a competitor who had started ahead of her fitness.
***
After mile 6 things leveled off, and I relaxed into moderate effort. I didn't feel great - I was already a bit warm with the sun blazing overhead and my breathing was tight (the pollen was very high), but things were still under control. I took a puff of my asthma inhaler to loosen things up slightly and reminded myself that there was a lot of race ahead of me - stay in control and keep making good decisions.
The mile markers and 5K markers clicked by (a bit slower than I would have liked). As we approached mile 10 I was surprised to see Sara up ahead. I had hoped to catch her at or right before the Newton hills. It became clear to me that the heat and sunshine were already claiming casualties among smart and accomplished runners. At that point I adjusted my plan - I'd stick to moderate effort unless I saw that I needed to do something different to try to win.
So I held steady as we went down and up. The downhills got better but still were never comfortable, and I could tell that I was shredding my quads despite my care - when you have to fight for your stability running downhill, your legs pay a price regardless of pace.
By 19 I was starting to feel rough, and "hammering" was no longer an option. Each mile after that got a bit harder, and by mile 22 I started to notice the warning signs of heat illness - that combination of vision narrowing and heaviness, plus some weaving. The right side of my back was also cramping and my right calf felt like it wanted to ball up.
I really wanted to win this division. And I also knew that passing out from overheating in the final miles was an easy way to lose. So, I put pride aside and shifted to a run/walk strategy to keep my heart rate somewhat under control (when I'm overheating, walking will cool me back down, but very slow running accomplishes nothing).
I was run-walking scared, worried that I was about to be passed behind (or perhaps already had been), so I kept my run phases pretty hard.
Finally, I saw the turns onto Hereford and then Boylston. I committed to running this last section of the race and managed to do so, though it felt awful. As I rounded the turns, I noted several people on stretchers without comprehending (until I had finished) that they were runners who had passed out.
Thanks to Jessenia Delgado for the video!
With about 50 meters to go, I noticed a display scrolling information above the race clocks. It flashed "Congratulations - Cristina Burbach - division winner women's T35-38." And a small part of me finally enjoyed the last 50 meters of the Boston Marathon, while the rest of me remembered that nothing counted until I was across the mats.
***
Splits ended up being:
Miles 1-2: 18:20
Mile 3: 8:07
Mile 4: 8:32
Mile 5: 8:24
Mile 6: 8:16
Mile 7: 8:06
Mile 8: 8:11
Miles 9-10: 15:56
Mile 11: 8:01
Mile 12: 8:02
Mile 13: 8:04
Mile 14: 8:03
Mile 15: 8:22
Mile 16: 8:07
Mile 17: 8:28
Mile 18: 8:38
Mile 19: 8:24
Mile 20: 8:30
Mile 21: 8:52
Mile 22: 8:25
Mile 23: 8:55
Mile 24: 8:48
Mile 25: 9:24
Mile 26: 8:54
last .21 - 1:33
Post race was busy. I saw several of my teammates in the finishing area - we'd all struggled in the heat, with sunburn war wounds to show for it. I regrouped for a bit and then headed back to Lechmere for a shower.
A bit later, I received an email confirming that I'd won my division (there was a period where protests could be lodged, and I suspect the classifiers also had to sign off that I was indeed impaired). So back to downtown Boston where I flashed my winner's email to five different hotel staffers to get admitted to the awards room.
I assumed that once there, I'd just be given my trophy in a box. I was shocked when they offered to make a presentation, complete with a wreath of olive leaves that I was allowed to keep as well. Just one more thing that made a special day even more special.
Other notes:
- As noted above, I did NOT shovel the mounds of free Maurten gels into my bag when given the opportunity. Sadly, later that afternoon, when I packed my box to ship it home, I forgot to ship the Maurten gels I had brought with me (but hadn't used). Since I didn't have room in my carryon, those gels ended up left in my hotel room. The gel gods giveth and the gel gods taketh.
- I wore my Nike Vaporfly 3s for this race. They have always felt great at marathon pace; however, due to both weather and strategy, I never actually hit my marathon pace in this race. And the Vaporfly 3 is NOT a comfortable shoe at slower paces. I think I also would have been more stable downhill in another shoe. Noted for next time.
- One thing I really struggled with was sleep the last two nights before the marathon. While some of this may have been nerves, I think most of it was that I didn't taper back my Parkinsons meds the way I would normally prefer to do. The amount of medication I need depends on how much activity I'm doing - when I'm backing off of the exercise, maintaining the same level of medication gives me insomnia. At the same time, I didn't want to go to my classification appointment and tell them that I had taken less medication than I would on race day - I was afraid it would look like I was trying to game the system. Hopefully I won't have to deal with that again.
- I FedExed the trophy home - taking the padded box the trophy came in and packing that in MORE bubble wrap and an additional box. As for the wreath? I carried that home on the plane in a Chipotle paper bag, nervous the whole time that if I wasn't touching it some well meaning stranger would toss it in the trash.
- In 2018, I heat-trained all winter, and we got the coldest most miserable Boston ever. This year I made a point to do workouts in cold heavy rain and wind, and we got bright sunshine and heat illness. I'm now taking suggestions on what sort of weather to train in next winter.
- It was really great to meet all the other runners with Parkinsons. I like to think that at this point I know a fair bit about running and racing. But I still have a ton to learn about how to do either with Parkinsons. I'm really fortunate to have the runners I met at Boston, plus my friend and teammate Ethan at the Michael J. Fox foundation, as resources and trailblazers from whom I can learn.
- I am struggling to express just how much I appreciate the BAA and Bank of America offering the T35-38 para division. And while the VIP treatment we received was awesome, what I am most grateful for is the opportunity they provided me to compete against my peers.
When you get diagnosed with one of these neurodegenerative conditions, everyone assumes that you should be happy just to be able to run and to finish a race, especially a marathon. The implication is that one is no longer (and should no longer be) a competitive athlete. For me, this was the hardest part of being diagnosed. It was also something I chose to ignore, since high amounts of intense aerobic exercise are the best way to slow Parkinsons, and racing motivates me far more than slowing disease progression does. I might be slower, but I still wanted to compete. I wanted to continue to be me.
By offering this division, the BAA and Bank of America sent a clear message: they saw me as a competitor, not an inspirational story. I never had the sense that anyone felt sorry for me the whole weekend, just that they respected me. It was huge - both for me, and for many other people with Parkinsons who may have abandoned competitive sports out of well-meant but misguided societal peer pressure to live a softer, gentler life. I hope those people will see the respect offered by the Boston Marathon and realize that, though they do face obstacles they didn't before, their competitive life is not a relic of the past.
