In old age one writes, if at all, what one can. – Larry McMurtry, Literary Life.
If you have no idea what happened at the 2023 Boston Marathon, then this will all be new to you. If you are wondering what has taken me so long, all I can say is, I was overwhelmed by the entire event. Three-ring circus doesn’t begin to cover it.
Where to start? Early. From the Moxy, where I never did learn to operate the elevator, I walked up to Boston Commons, hung a left onto Boylston Street, and there they were. Coming straight at me. Surprisingly silent. Thousands of them. Thousands upon thousands of them. Glazed bright eyes, like drugged sacrificial virgins happy to climb on a crowded bus, ride twenty-seven or so miles to Hopkinton and jump off a steep cliff into what.
A new life. An adventure. A fun party on foot at glacial paces. Personal bests. A good time. Prove a point. Fame and glory. Find themselves. Charity. Does it even matter.
I envied them all.
Meanwhile, as a foreign correspondent and international running expert, not to mention older than space travel, it’s all I can do – watch on television. That’s what you’d think. But you’d be wrong.
I am in the lead pack. The back of the pack, because I can better tell what’s going on.
“Virtual Kardonging” (Trademarked).
That’s what I call it. Picture yourself right there. Inside the race. I imagine myself studying these elite athletes as they try to pull away but they never do. As the expert announcer – no matter who’s talking, he always sounds like Toni Reavis – offers his expert advice, I imagine myself not only in the fray, but above the fray. Always taller than my diminutive competitors. Like to think I cast a menacing shadow.
I know, I know, we’re running east into the sun and I’m in the back of the pack.
You can hear the breathing. The whispering rustle of miracle moisture-wicking materials. Hear the super shoes springing.
Back in my day, it was mostly pitter-patter, the occasional clump-clump. Now, it’s all boing-boing.
Here’s how the race went from my perspective. Always looming fray adjacent.
Soggy. Damp. Wet. Dreary. Misty. Overcast. Grey. Raining. Even drizzly. Fifty degrees. About perfect.
Early pace never seems hard. It’s downhill and you’re excited. Initial mile like falling off a cliff. Among the lead lemmings.
Four minutes, thirty-seven seconds. 4:37 per mile. That’s what we averaged starting out.
Kipchoge is the point of the spear as the elite men chase history. Just along for the ride, this is course record pace and the GOAT never lets up.
Decided I’d stay right on Kipchoge’s shoulder until Wellesley. The world record holder has never run Boston before. I defy any man to come upon The Screaming Tunnel Of Estrogen Love for the first time and not lose focus.
And when that happens, which you know it must, that’s when I plan to pounce. Take off. That’s when I’d go. Make my move. Snap!
Lost my focus. I’m just weak that way.
Came to my senses, got $42 worth of chocolate chip cookies, and watched the rest of the race on four different feeds on four different big screens. No commercials. You don’t really have to pay attention because your DVR is fired up and Hodgie says you can have the Boston papers when he’s done with them.
Been seething since the starter’s gun fired – the trigger so ably squeezed by 1973 champ Jon Anderson – Eliud took point and we all drafted behind. That was just normal for him, but it was stupid, too. Meaning no disrespect. He’s The Boss. But he was wrong.
Would never take the lead myself. That’s not Virtual Kardonging. Why do that to yourself? Being in the lead means everybody’s after you. Completely different game. Only fun if nobody ever catches up.
Somebody always catches up.
For a while there, Connor Mantz looked like he was having the time of his life. And I guess he was, for a while there.
Suddenly, the space between the boings grow longer. Then the boings themselves.
The defending champion caught up. And then he went by. Bye bye.
Boing.
The mood in the press room took a turn when Kipchoge dropped off the pace. Stunned silence, followed by a growing buzz. I wanted to cry myself.
He missed his water bottle at 29K, but that wouldn’t explain an instant fade. Somebody suggested his Nike footwear was taking on water and he could hardly lift his feet. Me, I think he cracked under the strain.
Decided to focus on the women’s race. I never Virtually Kardong with the ladies, just doesn’t feel right somehow. There were 27 non-binary entrants in this year’s event but that’s different. That’s real.
I have a new hero and her name is Emma Bates.
In the sports journalism racket, I’m what’s known as a “homer.” I will root for my family first, my friends, my hometown, my alma mater – go Lumberjacks! – my state, my new state, my country. Casual acquaintances. When I see a bevy of African stars being pulled by an young American, all I can do not to stand up and belt out a chorus of “Glory, Glory, Hallelujah.”
And she just stayed in the lead like she belonged there.
“Yeah, that wasn’t the plan at all. My coach really wanted me to focus on that second pack and let the top girls battle it out and then pounce in the end. But I just felt so good the whole time and I got to mile 20 and was still in the lead. I was looking at my coach who was at mile 20 and I was just like ‘I don’t know; I guess I’m in front’ and he was like ‘just go for it, just go for it’ and so my instincts kicked in and that’s where I was. It just felt right today. So, I went with my gut and that’s what it told me to do.’
Emma Bates
I was getting messages from a similar location.
If nothing else, the media credential gets you free food and non-alcoholic beverages. Something to do while you are watching and waiting. So, I am eating an excellent sandwich, when a lean handsome African, wearing a crown of golden leaves on his head, passes by.
I can guess exactly what you are wondering – it was chicken breast on a chewy roll with avocado and a piquant white sauce.
Immediately, I am surrounded by feverish press. I keep eating. Took my first phone selfie ever. With the winner of the 2023 Boston marathon.
He might not know it.
Evans Chebet pulled away on Heartbreak Hill and won his second straight Boston Marathon, beating out fellow Kenyan Benson Kipruto and Gabriel Geay of Tanzania over the final stretch of the men’s race.
Eliud Kipchoge took his own sweet time, crossing the finish in sixth place. Still, he was ahead of the first American, Scott Fauble. Two men who might try the other’s tactics next time.
I would have loved to have gone out with that pack, but they were too fast. Most of them blew up, even Eliud Kipchoge. I almost caught him. I had a positive split for the race. I don’t know if I was that patient. I just knew that going out in the 62’s – I think they went out in the 62’s – I think was going to be a bad decision. I still went out the fastest I’ve ever gone out in a marathon and I was slowing down to that…. I would love to not be considered, but I can’t go out in 62 minutes in the marathon.
I have to make good decisions for me on a race day and that was being in the second pack and really trying to hunt that last half marathon and having faith I was going to be able to run people down. It took a lot longer than it usually does. I didn’t start catching people really until the last mile.
I want to be able to go out with the front pack. I really do. I promise you I know that’s the only way to win this race. The only way to be on the podium, you can’t back door it. At the same time, going out in 62 minutes is over my head.
Scott Fauble
Evans Chebet, Benson Kipruto and Gabriel Geay nudge past me to take the stage. I really am in the fray now. Where I am reminded many reporters are scheming jackals, no, rabid hyenas, as the questions come like accusations. How great is it to beat the GOAT? How much do you love Kipchoge losing? Basically, asking gotcha questions in a foreign language. Can we please get one of you Kenyans to shit-talk the Great One? Puhleeeezzze.
Chebet is the kind of competitor who, first of all, thanks God. With his talent, I’d thank Her, too. “God heard our prayers,” the translator interprets. “Thank God, we are the top three.”
The top three finishers are from foreign lands and I don’t hear so good anyway. But the two Kenyans are training partners who run for Adidas and think the world of Kipchoge, a fellow Kenyan but a Nike athlete.
When Gaey made his move, Kipchoge simply couldn’t cover it. “The pace was a bit slow,” Kipruto noted.
I read in the papers, Kipchoge said, “I live for the moments where I get to challenge the limits. It’s never guaranteed. It’s never easy. Today was a tough day for me.”
Also saw somewhere he said, “I pushed myself as hard as I could, but sometimes we must accept that today wasn’t the day to push to a great height.”
His tactics were suspect, for starters. First time on the course. Leading into a cold wet breeze at record pace – remember I was Virtual Kardonging right at the back of the pack – was not smart. I don’t care how much they are paying you for a CR. Win – let the time take care of itself.
Might’ve shouted a question myself. Race day is mostly mental. What the hell were you thinking?
I also read Kipchoge said, “In sports you win and you lose. And there is always tomorrow to set a new challenge.”
Waiting, television feeds still play, as some of the thirty thousand entrants splash to the finish line on Boylston Street. Scene has a certain Woodstock feel. Across the Boston screen WCV8-TV, a crawl reports finishers’ surnames and times.
Jotted down some easy to spell names. McIntosh 2:57:06, Evans 2:56:31, Orta Ortiz 2:57:20, Battista 3:00:14 – you know he could’ve gone sub-three, if the road wasn’t full from curb to curb. Warden 3:06:57, Coffman 3:08:53, Odom 3:07:15. Took me a moment to realize the report is not chronological. Grewal 3:08:30, Rodriguez 3:11:58, Toscano 3:09:28.
I waited an hour for The GOAT.
When I was young, I wouldn’t wait that long for a sure thing. Yeah, right.
But – let’s be fair here – after all that hype and you don’t close the deal, would you show up?
Gotcha.
Eliud Kipchoge is still the greatest.
Maybe he just takes longer to pee than some folks.
Thought this happy man symbolized the entire weekend. That smile and a pile of chocolate chip cookies.
Virtual Kardonging is a trademarked term. As is Virtually Kardong. Only a couple of us allowed to use the phrase except to describe a fun activity you can try yourself at home. Imagine you are tall and fleet and fast and funny and put yourself in the fray.
Despite the suspicious similarity to the legendary Olympian surname, there is no connection whatsoever.
Although the man really does deserve his bronze medal.
Been virtual running for years now with the greats in my daily training. Think I’ll call that Virtual Lindgrening. Cause I am always in the lead and chat away like Malcolm Gladwell on speed.
Not a digression, if you put it at the end.