Keeping up> A running commentary

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Editor’s note: Beret Skorpen of Bucksport ran her third Boston Marathon this year and kept a diary for the week leading up to the race and for the race itself. Her account relates some of her mental and physical preparation as well as outside events which interjected themselves into that preparation.

Monday, April 10

One week to go and it’s simply a waiting game now. The hard work is done, the hours of long runs in the wind, snow, sub-zero temperatures.

Training for the Boston Marathon in Maine takes an extra amount of motivation, or an extra amount of craziness, it depends on how you look at it. I’ve become an expert at reading the glances of drivers passing in a snowstorm – there are many scowls, mixed in with a few nods of blessings or shame, I’m unsure which.

Since the start of January, each weekend has been mapped out with a run ranging from 10 miles to 22, alternating hard and easy. By the end, the runs have become relative, meaning a 15-mile run is a walk in the park, and that’s the idea, building endurance and strength while at the same time resting muscle. It’s a fine line at times and everyone has different theories about how the long run should be.

I rarely go over the three-hour mark, which translates into 20 miles or so, while others dig deep into the four-hour run – heading up into 24 or 26 miles. There are no right or wrong answers when it comes to marathon training, it all comes down to the individual, the same individual who will be alone (on a course of 18,000 runners) in him or herself those last few miles battling it, the marathon, mentally and physically.

I have an issue with the Boston course: I want to be wildly, crazily in love with it, but it doesn’t even like me back. I’ve had two difficult runs there, so I have only one goal this year: I want to finish feeling as good as I can for as long as I can. Last year, in the Boston heat, I walked and ran (mostly hobbled) the last six or so miles. I was hugely disappointed in myself, but it was the only way I knew to finish the course and receive my Boston medal. Imagine starting a 26.2-mile run and within the first five miles realizing you are in huge trouble – sour legs, breathing too hard, no energy – and knowing you had yet another 21 miles to go. It’s not a feeling I ever want to relive. All I want for this run is to feel good until mile 20 and then suck up whatever comes next.

Tuesday, April 11

I don’t run today for lack of time more than anything else, but a forced day off is just what I need. I go out to dinner with non-running friends and we talk about spring bulbs and summer plans. I don’t think about Monday until someone mentions it, inquiring about my Patriot’s Day plans.

Wednesday, April 12

I run an easy five miles in the morning drizzle, slow but sound. All thoughts are focused on each and every muscle and tendon and bone in the body. We call it PMS: Pre-Marathon Syndrome. A sneeze instantly becomes bubonic plague. A cough is certainly the onset of the flu. A twinge in the calf muscle spells disaster. What’s most unfair about the marathon distance is that after three or four months of training, it all comes down to how you happen to be feeling that one day – there are no second chances – so you have to do everything in your power to control what you can control and put everything else into a place called faith.

What I can control: what I eat and how much I rest. I eat fruit and bread like it’s going out of style. I give up candy for six weeks, just to get a grip on what I’m fueling myself with. I drink more than 100 ounces of water every day. I nap when I can and stay away from any big projects, such as cleaning the garage.

What I can’t control: two things – how I’ll feel on that particular day (some days you have it and some days you don’t and there’s absolutely no telling until you start) and the weather.

Last year we had sun and warm temperatures and it nearly brought me to my knees. I train in the Maine winter, so my body is used to cooler temps. Those who train in Florida have an advantage on us, yet they also don’t have the hills we have, making every run a strengthening workout.

Two weeks ago I ran a race called Eastern States. It starts in Kittery, crosses through New Hampshire along route 1A and ends just over the border in Massachusetts. It’s flat, scenic, and many people use it as their last long run, combining the company of other runners with the convenience of water stops. It was hot this year, perhaps in the 60s, which was good as it became an acclimation run, giving the body a chance to get used to the heat. I wore shorts for the first time in months and teamed up with Joan, one of my training partners, for the first 13 miles. We help each other keep a safe pace for the danger in a race like this is that you get caught up in the energy and atmosphere of the run and leave your best marathon there instead of saving it for Boston. So not only does this run become a good acclimater, it becomes a lesson in discipline.

Thursday, April 13

Four miles in the morning, just to keep the muscles loose. I spend part of the day figuring out how and when I’ll get to Boston. I have a bridal shower to attend on Saturday, so I won’t leave until Sunday.

I’ve been sleeping relatively well and have had no dreams about missing the start or my usual: I’m running the marathon through a series of office buildings, hurdling desks and negotiating hallways. Dinner tonight is rice, spinach, and bread. I opt out of attending a barbecue, thinking of rest now. I pull my duffel bag out of the closet and start looking at a list I made last week when I knew my thoughts would be less muddled. I now have to trust that list will be comprehensive as my thoughts start to scatter.

Friday, April 14

Easy and ever-so-slow three miles. Still eating regularly. I start to check the Boston weather forecast and a storm could be on the horizon. My ear is tuned, though, for the temperature. I’ll take anything but another hot run.

Saturday, April 15

For a long time now I’ve known that my running is inside the core of who I am – without it, I wouldn’t be balanced. But it is not my entire life. If my life were a glass I held in my palms, it would be full of family, friends, work, running, dogs, and Rick, the man who on this day reminds me of how lucky I am to have a full glass.

I arrive home from the bridal shower and he is waiting on my porch. He tells me he has a surprise and blindfolds me. I’m thinking he’s picked up a pizza so I won’t have to cook, but he leads me to the back deck, sits me down, and tells me I can take off the blindfold. I notice the amazing yellow and red roses first, then the candles and champagne and strawberries. Rick is down on one knee and I lose my breath. Later on the phone I remember saying to my sister, “Marathon? What marathon?”

Sunday, April 16

I do manage to stop looking at my ring long enough to finish packing. Then I go to pick up Rene Collins, a veteran marathoner, and we head down to Boston to run this famous ol’ marathon. We get into the city easily at 4 p.m. and have time to walk around the Running Expo after picking up our numbers. The T-shirt this year is white because it’s the year 2000.

Normally the Boston Athletic Association alternates between blue and gold, using white for special years. We check out the booths, the crowds dwindling now as runners head back to their hotel rooms for food and rest. I go to a booth for my annual pair of running tights, but this late in the Expo they are sold out. Rene buys a pair of shoes while I watch a reporter approach a young man and request an interview. His parents and younger brother stand behind him beaming with pride.

We run into another Maine runner. He stands talking with Rene for a while before he turns to me and tells me I’m looking good. I hold out my left hand which he studies for a minute. “The ring,” I say, by way of explanation. “Oh,” he replies. “I was going to say nice watch,” referring to my honking Timex designed to record mile splits.

Monday, April 17

I sleep fitfully, but I’m not worried. I wake ready for the day and everything it will bring. My running clothes are laid out already so all I have to do is put my bags into the car and then search for coffee. I need at least two cups, but three is better today. I’ll wait an hour or so before eating. Rene and I get dropped off at the buses and, finding friends, we head out to Hopinkton. The ride is about half an hour and we spend time catching up on runs and runners, making plans for relay teams and discussing goals for the day. It’s a quiet bus this year, but maybe not. Maybe I’m just relaxed.

We unload at the athletes’ village, but instead of going into the field, we head over to the “Maine House” – expatriates from Maine who welcome us each year, offering a warm place to rest and plenty of food and beverages. I eat a bagel, a Pop-Tart, and a banana. It’s a three-hour wait now, but friends arrive and the time seems to go by quickly. I have a moment or two of nervousness, but mostly I just want to start running. Before I leave the house, I pin a note from Rick to the underside of my number.

Five minutes before the start, I am still trying to get to my carrel – the way is blocked by all the runners, so I have to follow a small group around the block to arrive minutes before the gun goes off. I make time for one more Porti-John? break, figuring the chip starts timing me when I go over the start, not at 12:00. I make it back with only a minute to spare. I hear the gun, spend the next four minutes making it to the actual start, and still I am walking. Many people run in place or try and dodge the crowd, but that only wastes energy. Finally we are running. I look around at all the faces and I can’t help but think of the difference between the start and finish and what extraordinary things take place during all those miles.

I decide to stay with myself for a while, just to get my bearings. I repeat the words, “Settle, settle,” which was the advice of someone on the bus. I can already tell that this will not be a disastrous run, but I’m still unsure if I will fly. The miles start to pass by, one after the other. I’m trying for an 8:30 pace, but having trouble holding myself back. I’m clocking lots of 8:15s, but I feel comfortable.

A man wearing a unicorn hat runs by followed by the runner dressed in a hula skirt with plastic flowers in his hair. I spot twins with Canadian flags stuck in their ponytails. I get behind a pair of women holding a steady pace and listen to their conversation. They are talking about mother-in-laws and the difficulty of training with small children in the house. I lose them at the next water stop but pick up a couple of men. One says, “Pace good?” and the other replies, “Yup.” And that’s it for several miles. I lose them at a water stop as well.

We pass the first photography point and I try to smile. I’m not a graceful runner, but I can usually get the job done. Still, the photos which show up weeks later in the mail always gives me pause. I stop for my first cup of Gatorade and I laugh when it ends up in my eye. I notice a little girl handing out cups of water from her driveway. “Water,” she shouts. “It’s free and it’s good for you!”

The miles continue to slide by. I’m not having the run of my life, but I am slowly getting the notion that I will be all right on this run. It’s a good sign that at mile 10, 16 more miles doesn’t seem like an eternity. I think back to the Maine training runs and the routes we did and try to put the course into perspective. I get a surge at 13 and actually start looking forward to conquering the hills in Newton. I feel my pace slowing but for some reason I’m OK with that.

I spot someone from Maine holding a sign that says, “Go Beret!” and that gives me energy. By now my legs have started to seize up from the hills. I slow down some more, but I’m still feeling as if I can finish this run. The last six miles I try to go inside myself, looking down at the lines on the road. A man yells, “Relax your shoulders,” and for some reason I do and feel better. I have thrown off my gloves by now but wish I had them as the wind picks up on the last long stretch.

This is the place where I start to sell my soul. I play horrendous mind games, telling myself as I cross mile 22 that it’s three miles to go only because three sounds better than four. At mile 24 I nearly burst into tears as I look over and see a young teenage boy running along side his small father, his hand gingerly placed on his back in support. His father’s eyes tells me the place he’s at – in a place where it’s a pure battle of will.

I look down again, telling myself I can run another 18 minutes, thinking of the easiest two-mile run I know at home. My legs are killing me and I look around wondering if other runners feel what feel. I go inside the pain, thinking I can endure this if this is all there is. I think about those on the course facing larger challenges than mine. At one mile I envision the person who will take off my chip and give me my medal. I think about a hot shower and the bed I will sleep in tonight. I turn onto the last stretch and look at the crowds. I am so very grateful to be here. I put my arms up as I cross the line, savoring the joy of simply stopping.

I wish everyone could experience what the next 20 minutes are like, for that’s how long it takes to walk from the finish to the family meeting place. It’s a procession of gathering water, food, warm clothes, all the while watching runners, some in real physical trouble, some looking as if they could keep on going another 10 miles. One woman is crying in the arms of a volunteer. I know what she’s feeling. The moment I finished my very first marathon I burst into tears and started to hyperventilate. It’s such a release of every emotion.

Today I am happy just to absorb the scene. I am handed a shiny blanket and, after finding my bag, I head for the women’s changing tent. When I open the flap I discover it’s full of men and women all in various degrees of undress. But it doesn’t matter: What matters most is getting off the wet clothes and getting on something dry and warm (we hear later that with the wind chill the temperature is 28 degrees). No one looks at each other as it takes all the concentration one can muster to bend over even to untie your shoes.

I feel so much better exiting the tent, and head slowly over to the Maine meeting place. On my way I decide that you must have a sense of humor about marathons or you should not be doing them in the first place. I’m content with my run, knowing that I did the best I could on this given day.

Skorpen finished in 3 hours, 55 minutes, 28 seconds. She averaged slightly less than 9:00 per mile, and came in 10,328th overall (of 16,127 who started) and 2,738th among women.