I ran the Boston Marathon last Monday, finishing in 3:43:54, which was good enough to with my para-athlete division again, though not sufficient to break my course record.
This year's Boston Marathon adventure started with a mixture of good and bad luck. The bad luck was that my flight first boarded and then deplaned, due to a ground stop in Boston.
The good luck was that when I boarded for the second time, my seatmate recognized me, which in turn caused me to recognize her. It was Lisa Levin - a talented local runner that I had formerly competed against for age group awards (the former is on my end, not hers - she is still quite competitive). She's also one half of a great coaching group that has a great podcast.
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| The box. Gels, jogging clothes, throwaway clothes, snacks. |
It was a quick flight once we were off the ground quickly (made even quicker by good company) and I made it to my hotel at 7:02 pm. Unfortunately, the FedEx store embedded in the hotel closed at 7 pm, which meant that I would have to wait until 9 am the next morning to retrieve the box I had shipped to myself. Not a huge issue, but I wouldn't be able to do a shake out jog until I had my box (with my shake out jog clothes, among other things).
I slept in on Saturday, then cheered at the Boston 5K before picking up my box. Then it was time for my para-athlete classification at the Convention Center.
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For those who don't know, classification is the process through which a wannabe para-athlete is a) confirmed to be impaired enough to be eligible to be a para-athlete and b) assigned to a para-athlete class for competition. USATF is now taking a larger role in the governance of American Para-Athletics, and they have a nice webpage that lays out the whole process.
Two years ago, I was classified as a T36 para-athlete. The T stands for “track” (which includes the roads); the 36 means that I am neurologically impaired in a specific way.
Some classifications are permanent, while others must be reviewed on a set interval. Generally, impairments like missing limbs get a permanent classification, while impairments that can fluctuate or progress (e.g., neurodegenerative) are assigned a review year. In 2024 I was assigned a review year of 2026, which meant that I had to redo my classification before I could compete in this year's Boston Marathon - my first para-athlete competition of 2026.
So here I was, once again, in a large conference room on the floor below bib pick-up. Just like two years ago, most of the chairs and tables were stacked along the walls, leaving the vast room empty. There was one table with four chairs, two of which were occupied by the classifiers. Off to the side was a medical examining table identical to that in a doctor’s office.
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The classification began with a brief interview - what were my best performances in the past two years? How much did I train and how did I train? When was I diagnosed? What medications was I currently on? Did I use any braces or other devices when competing?
After that, I removed my shoes and moved to the examination table. They first flexed each of my joints in turn and assigned a number, before tapping some places with a rubber hammer (more numbers). Then came what I call the hokey-pokey/Macarena - touching my finger to my nose, touching my finger to their finger, tapping my feet on the ground quickly, rotating my wrists between palms up/palms down quickly, sliding my heel up and down my shin. Yet more numbers and some muted conversation.
The next step (pun intended) was walking back and forth, followed by running back and forth. Then running in a zig zag pattern, some side steps and cariocas, and an extended period of shuffling from side to side, changing direction randomly as directed. They also included some standing jumps, some heel and toe walking, and some tandem walking. All of this barefoot on the hotel carpet.
By the end I was tired. And relieved that I had once again made it through classification without an injury that would screw up my marathon.
They excused me outside the room for a few minutes and then called me back for the verdict. I had been classified T36 previously, but based on what they saw today, it was a close call between the more impaired T36 and the less impaired T38 (to answer the obvious question - there was never any question of whether I was a T37, because T37s have one good side and one bad side. I have two bad sides - the question was how bad they were).
They were tentatively classifying me as a T36, but they would be watching me closely on Monday. After observing me on Monday they might reclassify me as a T38, or alternately keep me a T36, but require me to repeat classification as early as next year.
(This felt oddly like a colonoscopy - “we’ll take a look and then tell you when you need to go through this again.” Fortunately, though I was tired, I retained sufficient tact to not say this out loud.)
I suspect they thought I would be upset about this decision. While the T36/T38 distinction was meaningless for this race (Boston currently combines T35, T36, T37, and T38 into one division) being reclassified to T38 came with serious competitive implications. T38s are minimally impaired, and so the T38 division is much faster than the T36 division and I would be less competitive. Similar to being moved from the 50+ age group to the 40+ age group.
At the same time, when you have a progressive neurodegenerative disease, and there are no medications that slow or reverse the progression, being told that you might look better than you did two years ago is huge. HUGE. So, I saw this situation as a win/win. Either I'd keep my T36 classification, or I'd have evidence that a condition that is only supposed to worsen had done the opposite, while retaining eligibility for the T35-38 division on Monday. Either outcome was cool.
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After classification I picked up my bib from the para-athlete room. My bib came with a lanyard and badge identifying me as a professional athlete. I would spend the rest of the weekend debating when and where it was appropriate to show this off display this.
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| My preciousss |
I was hungry by this time, so my next stop was Chipotle. In a distressing reprisal of last year, the Boylston Street Chipotle was closed. However, another one about 8 blocks east was open, so I was able to get what I needed, albeit with more walking than I would have liked.
The rest of the day was spent mostly resting, punctuated by repeated trips to the nearby CVS to panic-buy things that just a few days before I had been sure I wouldn't need.
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Sunday began with a shakeout jog - my energy levels were great, though my hips were slightly sore from all the side shuffling yesterday. This was followed by a DoorDash Chipotle order (I decided that I preferred to pay someone else to wander Boston looking for Chipotle.
That afternoon I was scheduled to be part of a “professional para-athlete” panel. About 45 minutes before the panel was scheduled to begin, I wandered through the expo towards the stage, marveling at how the crowds would part anytime I waved my pro athlete badge. I had the chance to meet up with a few friends before, who kindly stayed for the panel.
I thought the panel went well, though I noted that my habit of speaking like a lawyer when presented with a microphone (slow, measured words) was a contrast to the free flowing conversational style of the other panelists. I did manage to demonstrate what life was like as a coordination impaired athlete by spilling water all over myself, so that was win. I think.
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The official schedule for race morning looked like this:
- 5:00-5:30 am - para-athlete check-in (hotel lobby)
- 6:30 am - para-athlete bus departs for start line
- 7:20 am - para-athlete bus arrives at the start
- 9:35 am - para-athletes walked to start line
- 9:50 am - para-athlete start
Since a) I need my Rytary to function, b) I get about 4 hours from each Rytary dose, c) Rytary works best when spaced well apart from meals, and d) one needs to eat breakfast before a marathon, I structured my morning like this:
- 4:00 am - wake up, eat first breakfast
- 5:15 am - check in
- 5:30 am - take Rytary
- 6:30 am - bus to start
- 7:20 am - arrive at start, eat second breakfast, stretch
- 8:50 am - short jog
- 9:30 am - take Rytary
- 9:35 am - head to the start.
In between all of that, of course, were opportunities to reunite with old friends and connect with new ones. And several bathroom breaks.
***
The forecast was fantastic for marathoning - weather in the low 40s, increasing to around 50, with a tailwind. I debated shorts versus light tights and singlet versus long sleeve. I briefly considered long sleeve over shorts, so that I'd have the option of removing the longsleeve if I got too warm. But I had two bibs to wear - front and back - so that didn't seem like a good option. Ultimately I went with singlet and shorts, plus arm-warmers, reasoning that a tailwind would be much warmer than a headwind.
Sooner than I expected (but right on schedule), we were walked to the start. This was my third time standing at the start line and seeing nothing but empty road ahead, and it felt as surreal as the first time. Then the gun fired, and we were off.
The first downhill mile went remarkably smoothly. I've been working a lot on my downhill running this past year, and I felt the results. I knew that the classifiers were also watching me run, and that my chances of retaining my T36 classification were slipping away with each smooth step, but it was what it was. And it felt good to be running downhill mostly unafraid of falling on my face.
Of course, I knew what was coming from behind. It was heralded by a cyclist wearing a Boston jacket, who spoke to us of the arrival of Wave 1, and instructed that we (the para-athletes) were to stay to the right.
I wasn't thrilled about this. As a para-athlete I've run Boston once on the far right and once on the far left. I much prefer the left for all the same reasons someone else might prefer the right - the bigger crowds are on the right, as are the majority of the water stations. Staying on the left means that I'm less likely to be squashed between faster runners on one side and people waving signs or holding water cups on the other.
But, when racing, you do what the race staff tells you to do, so I shifted to the right. Soon after, Wave 1 began as a trickle that turned into a stream, and then a turbulent river, before becoming…washing machine-esque? (The metaphor is admittedly strained).
I heard another para-athlete describe this part of the race as “intense,” and I can’t come up with a better word than that. What was relatively serene becomes loud and almost overwhelming. And while the wave 1 runners try to be careful, there is inevitably some physical contact. I was elbowed a few times, and shoved hard from behind once. The latter forced me to grab onto a water table to save my balance.
This is always the hardest part of this race for me - in these early miles I want to spend as little mental and physical energy as possible, but at the same time I'm continually bracing for impact.
Fortunately, the field thinned out early, so only miles 2 to 6 were truly sketchy. And some of this was balanced out by those who would cheer for me as they passed - reminding me of my teammates at home on the track.
Every time a woman passed by (wave 1 was, of course, mostly men) I felt a wistful twinge of jealousy, remembering that one pre-Parkinsons Boston Marathon where I had been in Wave 1. It seemed both fresh and a lifetime ago.
***
My plan was to stay really quiet and careful until the Newton hills, get up those hills without too much effort, and then hammer home the last 10K. There was one problem. I was cold. And keeping my effort controlled wasn't warming me up any.
However, the fact that I was cold also meant that I couldn't really pick up the effort - I was too stiff. So I went with what I had, hoping that things would literally warm up by the time I hit the hills.
Spoiler alert - the weather stayed cool, even chilly, all the way to the end. And so I stayed stiff until the hills, which took their toll. Rather than crushing the last 6 miles I struggled in, with an emergency caffeinated gel making things worse, not better. I also noted the pollen in the last few miles (I'm not sure why I didn't before). Even with a puff from my emergency inhaler, my breathing still felt way off. In retrospect, this might not have been asthma but my chest and neck muscles tightening - something that I am currently working on in PT.
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I finally, painfully crossed the line. Then I checked my watch for the first time - 3:43. Not as bad as I had expected, given how rough I felt at the end. I didn't know how I had placed, but a check of my cell phone a bit later confirmed that I was the first woman in my division to cross the finish line, and I had successfully defended my title. A quick text to my coach confirmed that I had also run a negative split for the first time ever on this course, and I was pretty happy about that.
***
Splits were:
Miles 1-2: 18:26
5K mark: 9:33
Mile 4 (.89 mile): 8:03
Mile 5: 8:56
Mile 6: 8:31
Mile 7: 8:31
Mile 8-9: 16:45
Mile 10: 8:09
Mile 11: 8:17
Mile 12: 8:03
Mile 13: 8:09
Mile 14: 7:59
Mile 15: 8:18
Mile 16: 7:47
Mile 17: 8:24
Mile 18: 8:19
Mile 19: 8:00
Mile 20: 8:32
Mile 21: 9:05
Mile 22: 8:21
Mile 23: 8:57
Mile 24: 8:13
Mile 25: 9:12
Mile 26: 9:32
last bit: 1:51
I'm pretty happy with this, all the way up to the last 10K. Those final miles don't look bad in the context of the rest of the race, but are far slower than I had hoped to close.
On the bright side, I did negative split this course for the first time in four tries. And, though this wasn't my fastest Boston, in some ways I feel like it is my best-executed Boston so far. Though there's still a lot of room for improvement.
Other notes:
- The weather ended up being 43 degrees in Hopkinson, 48 degrees in Boston, with a 13 mph tailwind. Simply fantastic. In retrospect, I really wish that I had dressed a bit more warmly. I've known for a while that I need to dress much more warmly than I used to, and that I'm fine wearing longsleeves and tights into the 40s. I just didn't quite trust that knowledge this time.
- I flew home on Tuesday morning, surrounded by people wearing Boston Marathon medals. I was slightly tempted to don my Boston Marathon Pro Athlete lanyard, but decided that doing so would just flag me as petty and shallow. (I may indeed be petty and shallow, but I try not to broadcast it).
- A few days later, I checked the USATF Para-Athlete Classification Database. And whadya know, I am listed as a T36 with a review year of 2029 - 3 years from now. I guess I didn't look as good as I thought I did.
- I say this every year because I feel it strongly every year - I am so incredibly grateful to the opportunity that the BAA gives to para-athletes to strive and shine. In a culture where they message is so often that those with an impairment should be sheltered and protected from disappointment, the BAA treats us with respect, as athletes. This respect promotes a cultural shift, both within and outside the running community, in how those with impairments are perceived and treated.
- On that same note, several events and conversations over marathon weekend made me realize that I have a responsibility now - I need to do my part to promote athletic opportunities for those with impairments. It's not something I asked to take on, just like Parkinson's isn't something I ever wanted to deal with. But the BAA and other organizations like Move United have provided me with literally life-changing opportunities. And I need to pay it forward. I've spent the past week giving a lot of thought as to how to do that.
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