Time: 3:39:37. 90th woman out of 2,610. A Boston Qualifier—by just 23 seconds.
It almost didn’t happen. Back in January, the chance to run the San Diego Marathon as a charity runner—fully sponsored, with flight and hotel included—landed on my desk. The perks were undeniable: a free trip to a city I’d never visited and a 26.2-mile tour of its streets. But the drawbacks were just as weighty: a road marathon in June, complete with hills and potential heat, didn’t align with my training for a 100-miler. Plus, massive, crowded road marathons drain me, both physically and mentally. San Diego seemed like a risky place to chase a Boston Qualifier.
Still, the perks won out. After a near-miss BQ at Hyannis earlier this year, the fire was lit. I’d been logging slow trail miles with hill repeats (see below) since March, but some vestiges of road speed remained. Maybe, just maybe, San Diego would give me a shot at redemption.
The journey began with a grueling five-hour flight in a middle seat on United economy—the flying equivalent of purgatory. Fortunately, my seatmates were considerate with armrest diplomacy. I distracted myself with release notes for work and Matt Fitzgerald’s How Bad Do You Want It, a captivating dive into the psychological aspects of endurance sports. (Spoiler: “Mind is everything. Muscle—pieces of rubber.” Thanks, Paavo Nurmi.)
San Diego itself felt like a hybrid of San Francisco and Phoenix. I grabbed a shuttle to my (all expenses paid) hotel, which was smack in the downtown.
From there I walked roughly a mile to the Convention Center to pick up my bib. Let me say, I’ve been to Race Expos before… but this was by far the best. Sure, it was crowded and exhausting, but pretty much every exhibitor offered free samples. I mean, that’s what an Expo is about– free samples! (Special kudos to Honey Stinger for their buffet of broken up pieces of Honey Stingers.)
I walked through the Gaslamp District back to the hotel. It seemed like a lot of upper-class chain stores mixed in with restaurants and breweries. The sun was hot.
I stopped at a tourist shop and bought tchotchkes for Little Boy and Mr. P. Back at the hotel, I watched this crazy Animal Planet show called “My Cat From Hell.” I rolled out my calfs with a lacrosse ball and bidded my time until the charity run’s pasta dinner. I didn’t eat much pasta.
Jet-lagged, I fell asleep at 8pm and woke up at 3:30am. Walked about 1.5 miles to the start line.
What a scene! Over 20,000 runners. Madness. There were about 30 corrals and I was starting in corral 5 (based on my estimated finishing time of 3:40 — which is the qualifying time for the Boston Marathon for women my age). I noticed I was in the same coral as the 3:40 pace group, which was led by a very small young man who looked like he could easily do 2:40. I was tempted to run with the pace group but I decided I wanted to run my own race and see where that would take me.
The first 18 miles were a dream. I clicked off 8-minute miles effortlessly, my breathing steady and strong, as Fitzgerald’s advice echoed in my head: stay in the flow, focus on the present, don’t overthink the finish. My legs were rubber; my mind, steel.
Then came mile 18. The sun grew hotter. My clothes were soaked with sweat. A side stitch gnawed at my ribs from all the water I’d consumed at the aid stations. Dizzy spells loomed, and my pace slowed to 8:20s. Still, I clung to the hope that my earlier cushion could keep me on track for a BQ.
The true test arrived at mile 22—a grueling two-mile hill that reduced me to a miserable 10-minute pace. I was spent. But at the crest, I summoned whatever scraps of energy I had left and pushed on.
Just before mile 26, the 3:40 pacer streaked past me, flanked by a few runners. Panic set in. I surged forward, matching their 7:30 pace. “What kind of pacer finishes a 3:40 marathon with a 7:30 split?” I grumbled internally, but I stayed with the group. The finish line loomed.
I crossed it. Relief.
Not knowing my exact finishing time, I passed through the gauntlet of medals, food, beverages. I grabbed my cell phone and checked my texts. I knew Mr. P was getting texts about my progress, and would send me my results…
“Nice BQ. See you in Boston.”
I had BQ-ed by 23 seconds! It might not be enough to actually qualify me for the Boston Marathon, but that is secondary.
Not knowing my exact time, I grabbed my phone and checked the texts from Mr. P, who had been tracking me: “Nice BQ. See you in Boston.”
I’d done it—3:39:37. A BQ by 23 seconds. Maybe not enough to actually get into Boston, but enough to prove that I could.
For nearly a decade, I’d told myself Boston wasn’t for me. I wasn’t fast. I wasn’t that kind of runner. And yet, here I was—90th woman out of 2,610, in the top 10% overall.
To the San Diego Marathon, the charity that sponsored me, Mr. P and Little Boy for their unwavering inspiration, and Matt Fitzgerald for awakening my mind to what’s possible: Thank you.
Mind is everything. Muscle—pieces of rubber.
