Running on Faith: How Do You Tell a Story of Hope and Faith?

As much as I was looking forward to sharing with you the story of how I crushed the 2021 Boston Marathon this past Monday in this week’s “Running on Faith,” the following will be a story of my worst race ever, the hard lessons learned and the graces along the way.

As ready and as prepared as I could have been…

By the time I got to the starting line in Hopkinton on Monday morning – I was as ready as I could have been. Even though, as one of our 3^rd year law students reminded me last Sunday, at 40 years old I had “officially entered middle age,” I was probably in the best shape I’ve been in in years. I put in the training, had some good 20+ mile runs under my belt, some strong 8-9 mile tempos with negative mile splits, the fastest ones dipping just under 6 minutes. As I shared with you my long run pump up mix over the summer, you know I had a great soundtrack playing through my mind during the drive up on Sunday afternoon and into that morning. Our UGC co-leaders sent me off with 26.2 individual cards with prayers, inspirational sayings from Scripture, from running heroes, the saints and film characters. I took these with me, and wrote them with a Sharpie on my left arm so that I could glance at them each mile. The weather was decent and the vibe in Boston the evening before and on Boston Common that morning was super positive. Bostonians, visitors, spectators, volunteers, first responders and runners from all over the world brimmed with gratitude and excitement as they welcomed the return to an in-person Boston Marathon experience.

I found myself in a prayerful state on the bus-ride from Boston Common to Hopkinton. I prayed the first of several rosaries and was going over the pace I wanted to run, visualizing and strategizing key sections of the race. I was also reviewing the intentions for which I would dedicate each mile.

Since the rescheduling of the 2021 Boston Marathon occurred on the first official celebration of Indigenous Peoples’ Day, inspired by the words of runner Deb Haaland in the Boston Globe early Monday morning, I reflected on the fact that: My feet will pound the ancestral homelands of the Massachusett, the Mashpee Wampanoag and the Pawtucket people and will follow in the footsteps of Indigenous runners who have participated in this race over its 125-year history.

The limits of technology…and the first of many things to go wrong… 

Regardless of the distance, knowing and keeping a pace, is key. For a long-distance race, a few seconds slower or faster than your pace over the course of many miles, where there is a lot of room for adjusting, reassessing or screwing up, can have a major impact on the final outcome. In order to break three hours, I was shooting for a 6:40 to 6:50 mile pace.

Since I was a freshman in High School, I have used a TIMEX running watch to keep track of my splits. But when I ran the 2020 virtual Boston Marathon, I switched over to using a Garmin GPS watch for workouts and key long runs. There’s one issue with the Garmin watch, however, and that is that it relies on a satellite signal in order to give an accurate read. Apparently, when you’ve got 20,000 runners all trying to sync their watches at the exact same time, there’s potential for system overload. Who’d have thought? So during those vital final moments when I’m usually doing some last minute stretching, shaking out, loosening up, visualizing and praying – I was in panic mode, freaking out. Then, the starter’s pistol fired, and the race was underway.

Running in panic mode…

I was only a few strides in, and along with the pre-race ritual, prayer intentions and good habits I’d built up over twenty-five years of running – I tossed it all to the side of the road like an empty water cup. The first mile is always fast because you’re working out the adrenalin and all the pre-race jitters, and in Boston, you’re basically running downhill for the first several miles. It’s a normal thing for me to go out a little fast, but I was a little surprised when I read 6:01 on the large clock at the end of the first mile.

I tried to heed the words Saint Francis of Assisi, which were now transcribed on my left forearm: First, do what is necessary. Then do what is possible. Before you know it, you are doing the impossible.

At the beginning of the second mile, although I couldn’t connect to a satellite, I decided to start my watch anyway. Although it didn’t split exactly at the next mile – the watch reported 6:41 for the pace. Over the course of the next several miles, it consistently reported splits in the 6:40s to 6:50.

Running with a legend…

So I’m clicking off 6:40s and praying Hail Mary’s, when I come up on a pack of runners who were running with American long distance runner, Shalane Flanagan. By the time Flanagan graduated college, the same year as me, she was already a legend among runners. I thought that it was kind of strange that the Olympic medalist and New York City Marathon champion was running 6:40s – but then again, she had just run the Chicago Marathon the day before. I decided to try and settle in about ten strides behind her. “Sure, I’ll stick with Shalane,” I thought. That lasted for only a few miles.

Why does this hurt so much?

About nine miles in, my watch reported something like 6:51. “Why does this hurt so much?” I asked myself. “I’m an experienced runner, I’ve put in the training, why do I feel this way? What’s going on with me?” I prayed and tried to shake off these negative thoughts and focused on the next third of the run.

The Wellesley College Scream Tunnel and a crazy first Half Marathon

Passing through Natick and ascending the hill towards the Half Marathon point, you can hear the voices of hundreds of students from the elite, all-women’s college, lining the streets and cheering runners on as they pass by. I did my best to look tough and to run strong, hoping to convey the message that all was well, even though it sure didn’t feel like it inside.

As I passed the Half Marathon point and read the clock, I was surprised to see that I’d come through the first 13.1 in an hour and twenty-three minutes. To put this into perspective, I finished the New Haven Half in 1:25, at a 6:31 mile pace. I was running as if I were in the prime of my life, fresh out of college, coaching and when I ran my best time ever, 2:41, here at Boston, in 2006. I was running seven minutes ahead of pace, and I had no business, whatsoever, to be running this fast, with a whole half marathon to go.

A time to reassess…or not…

Strangely enough, I didn’t panic when I read the clock, although I felt a little confused. Now would have been a good time to disregard my watch, and remind myself that I after all these years I know what a pace feels like – and as my parents (who accompanied me to Boston and were awaiting me at the finish) – would shout when trying to remind me to keep my head together: “JUST RUN.” But I refused. I was afraid of making a change, even when change was needed the most. I stubbornly tried to convince myself that I could hold it together, and eventually get a second wind.

I would learn later that afternoon, well after the race was over, that while my watch reported 6:40s, 50s per mile, it was measuring something like a mile and change. Here are some of the actual splits from the first half:

My sister (an extremely well-accomplished runner in her own right) who was tracking my progress along the way on the BAA marathon app, frantically texted my mother, exclaiming (probably with an expletive or two): “What does he think he’s doing? He’s running like an idiot!” My running buddies shared similar observations later over our group text.

Miles 16-18, when it all started to fall apart…

People talk about Boston’s infamous Heartbreak Hill, but really, what we’re actually dealing with out there is a series of rolling hills over the course of a few miles that begin in the town of Newton. Miles 16 to 18 were brutal. I had developed an awful stitch. I tried to follow my own advice. I breathed deeply – sending breath to the pain in my side. But it seemed as if the stitch just upped and moved from that place and settled into another spot in my abdomen. Cramping in my hips and quads caused me to make the extremely difficult choice to stop, try to stretch, and walk through it for a few strides. This basically set the tone for the rest of the race – as I would transition between walking and jogging a few hundred meters at a time.

I actually started to think about what I’d write to you all. This wasn’t the story I initially wanted to tell. And I found myself asking, “How do you tell a story of hope and faith when everything that could go wrong, does?”

This race was not going to be about hitting a PR or crushing it. I could not spend another second lamenting my condition, my foiled plans, all that wasted training. With 8-10 miles still left to go, there was still a lot of “running” to do.

Now my goal would be to finish. When I stepped on the line in the morning, finishing the race was a given. But the stark reality of marathon running, as with any of life’s endeavors requiring endurance and perseverance for the long run, when/if/how we finish is not a guarantee, and it’s not possible without the help of grace. That’s the honest to God truth, and now that it felt like my body was betraying me, I was dealing with that truth first hand. I was now, quite literally, running on faith.

Heartbreak Hill

From the Prophet Isaiah: Those who hope in the Lord renew their strength. They will mount up with wings, like eagles. They will run, and not grow weary. They will walk, and not grow faint.

There are these mystical moments on the long run when you will be able to pull from stores of energy and strength that you did not know that you had, and which you did not know that you would need. When I reached the base of Heartbreak Hill, lined to its peak with an amazing crowd, punctuated towards the top by scores of Boston College students, I spotted someone in the crowd holding up a poster that said: “When your strength is gone, run with your heart.” Those words, along with the cheering crowd, inspired me to run up that hill and over its crest.

The Angels at Mile 22: Knowing when you need help, and accepting it with gratitude

Near the end of the 22^nd mile, the cramping in my legs intensified, and spread into my shins and calves. I had to walk again, but cramping in my arches even made that difficult. I began to experience sharp spasms shooting through my hamstrings to the soles of my feet. Two medics approached me and asked if I needed some help. At first, I rejected it. Too much time had already been lost. I worried that if I wound up in the medical tent it would be the end of me. That I’d want to quit. That I’d come away from Boston with a Did Not Finish (DNF). But at their insistence, I gave in and followed them into the tent.

Immediately, as if I were a race car driver whose car was being tended to by a pit crew, there was a team going to work on me. One asked me questions about my condition and took notes. Another passed me a bottle of Gatorade. Two others went to work on my legs as I tried to describe the pain. They pressed and massaged as small bursts of pain and relief simultaneously shot through my body. As a runner, it was one of the most excruciatingly painful experiences in my life, but it was the right medicine at the right time. They put the cramping at bay, and they put me back on my feet. When I emerged from the tent, I was greeted with cheers. Just as I stepped off the curb and back onto the course, one of the two state troopers there looked at me and said: “Going back out for more huh? Way to go Brother.”

The final 4.2 miles to the finish…

Although I would love to tell you that I hit the ground running and pulled it together for the last 4.2 miles, that was not to be. It had already become a different kind of race. I swapped between walking, jogging, and even running a bit for the final run through Brookline into Boston.

It was extremely humbling to be cheered for by the crowds that lined the streets, especially the Boston University students at Mile 24. They would call out the number on my bib (3094), the team name on my racing singlet (Manchester), and they urged me that the end was just a few miles down the road. A runner from Mexico who passed by me made a show out of bowing in gratitude before them, as if to say: “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!” which of course, made them go crazy. Even in my pain and my misery, I thought that was pretty awesome.

As is my practice in the final miles of the marathon, when the inevitable pain and suffering set in, I tried to embrace it. Unlike my friend who lives every moment of every day in agonizing chronic pain, I chose this. God gave me a gift in being a runner. And if you’re going to run to the point of pushing passed your limits, you’re going to suffer. It comes with the gift – and I wanted to offer it up.

When I had to walk again, I found the strength to soldier on when a woman in military fatigues, one of many troops who, starting before dawn, march the entire length of the course, told me to keep going and stay strong as I passed her by. When a blade runner glided by, I found it in me to try to run again. A few strides later I was running in the company of a blind runner and their escort, running together, as if effortlessly, towards a triumphant finish.

The last mile…

At long last, I approached the iconic CITGO sign in Kenmore Square, which, like a beacon, tells runners that we’ve just one mile to go. The sun was shining, the erupting crowds lining the road and leaning out of windows were more intense than ever, as if they were cheering for each one of us individually. I was able to pull it together enough to drop a 7:38 mile, making the final turn from Commonwealth Avenue onto Boylston Street, through to the finish. When I crossed the line in 3:33:28, I all but crumbled into the arms of one of the many wonderful volunteers who make up the finish line crew.

I prayed Christ’s last words from the cross: “It is finished.” Then I turned and looked past the finish line, back down the street and considered all that had transpired over the last 26.2 miles. I found myself thinking about the hard lessons learned, the fact I had finished and the many people who, leading up to and throughout the race, helped me get there. Through my tears, not so much of a lament but of gratitude, I prayed: Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, Amen.