I am proud to post American Elite Marathoner Crosby Freeman’s amazing personal recap of his 2:25.36/30th Overall Finish at the 2009 Boston Marathon.  This is a fascinating recap of the ups and downs of truly competing at Boston by a guy who runs at another level.  Great job Crosby.  Best of luck to you in your future races, we will be cheering for you. – Brett Rivers

This Is Just The Beginning – My 2009 Boston Marathon, By Crosby Freeman

The Quick Bite Race Summary:

I started hurting early, around mile 8, but managed to stay on pace through 15 miles, after which I blew up badly and clawed my way to the finish.

Splits:
10k — 31:51 (5:07/mile avg.)
1/2 — 1:07:41 (5:09/mile avg.)
30k — 1:38:07 (5:15/mile avg.)
Finish 2:25:36 (5:33/mile avg.)
30th finisher overall

It was a tough day but I learned a lot. If there is a next time for me at Boston, I will be more prepared and I will respect the course.

The Full Meal Race Summary:

THE WEEKEND

I arrived in Boston on Saturday evening and met up with my fellow Asics Aggie teammates, Carlos and Reed. We cabbed it to our hotel in Cambridge where the three of us were sharing a room, and after checking in and dumping our stuff we made our way to Harvard Square for dinner.  After scoping out the Harvard scene for a bit (surprisingly lame for a Saturday night) we headed back to the hotel and tried to get our bodies on Eastern time in anticipation of the early morning on race day. There was some negotiating over the “bed situation” — two double beds for three dudes — but Reed managed to sort it out by strategically placing a pillow between he and Carlos. I’m told there was hardly any “funny business” during the night but I remain skeptical.

Sunday arrived and we took our time waking up and getting the day started. We opted for a relaxed out-and-back 5-mile run along the Charles River. The headwinds on the way out were extremely unpleasant, cruel foreshadowing of the weather to come the following day. We capped off the run with 4 strides and some stretching. Spectators were able to catch a glimpse of Reed doing high-knees.

After an overpriced and mediocre breakfast buffet at the hotel we headed to the race expo to get our bib numbers and check out some of the booths. I made my way to the Saturn and New Balance booths where Frank Shorter (Gold medal in the marathon at Munich ’72 and silver at Montreal ’76) and Dick Beardsley (third-fastest American born marathoner and two-time Olympian) were respectively stationed. It was really cool to see them in the flesh. It also got me thinking about how incredibly bad ass the runners of yore were.

(Here comes a brief rant)

Many professional runners today are pampered to no end — altitude tents, zero-gravity treadmills, personal masseuses, plentiful free gear, etc. — but take guys like Shorter and Beardsley who, more or less, went without the pampering and they still managed to run insanely fast at Boston and elsewhere.

In reflecting on this I got to thinking about training philosophies. I’ve long been of the opinion that many of today’s runners and coaches over-engineer their training. Of course, certain advances in training and equipment should be taken advantage of and fully utilized, but this can absolutely be taken too far and I find that many runners are guilty of this more often than not. I believe we should follow a movement back to the basics: just run, be consistent, and the rest will fall into place.

(End rant. I could go on and on but I’ll stop there.)

After the expo we swung by Trader Joe’s on the way back to the hotel to grab some breakfast stuff for the next morning — whole wheat bagels, almond butter, bananas, and yogurt. We lazily hung out in the hotel room until dinner time when we were treated to a fine Italian meal by our club president, Kevin Searls, and were joined by the other Asics club members who made the trip out to Boston. The rest of the night we packed our things for the next morning, set our alarms and requested wake up calls, and retired to our respective beds. Reed and Carlos held each other closely that night (I have photo evidence to prove it).

THE PRE-RACE

The morning came all too quickly. We departed from the hotel at 6:20am to head to the finish area near Copley Square in Boston where the buses were stationed to take the runners to the starting line in Hopkinton. Since I managed to finagle an elite bib from the race directors, I had to find my way to a separate loading area than the rest of the crowd, so I bid farewell to Reed and Carlos, wished them luck, and came to the horrible realization that the cab had dropped us about 3/4 of a mile from where I was supposed to get on my bus. I had time to spare so I tried to make the walk leisurely, but my nerves were starting to set in and I hustled a little more than was necessary.

I boarded one of the three elite buses at the Fairmont Hotel and settled in for the ride to the starting line. As the buses started to roll, a fleet of motorcycle cops sped by and proceeded to give us a police escort out of the city and all the way to Hopkinton. It was smooth sailing the entire way. I couldn’t help but feel that this was all out of my league.

Upon arriving in Hopkinton we disembarked from the buses and walked a short distance to the local church where the race organizers had set up accommodations for the elite runners. The space was decked out with chairs and gym mats, food, water, Gatorade, and private bathrooms. I settled down on one of the mats against a wall and the crew of elite Kenyan guys happened to sit right next to me. I could have reached out and touched Robert Cheruiyot (2:07:14 marathoner, Boston course record holder, four-time Boston winner). I was a bit starstruck to say the least. Oh, but that was just the beginning.

I went to the men’s room to vacate some of the fluids I had been steadily consuming and while waiting in line encountered Deriba Merga (2:06:39 marathoner, 4th in Beijing Olympic Marathon) wearing a towel on his head and goofing around with whomever was occupying the lone stall in the men’s room.

It was in the elite accommodations that I observed an interesting dichotomy between the invited runners. The American runners were scattered throughout the room, mostly keeping to themselves and remaining solemn and stone-faced. Ryan Hall and his wife Sara, for example, parked themselves in one of the corners and prayed.

The Kenyan guys, on the other hand, all sat together and kept up a constant chatter. They were very boisterous and loose, poking fun at each other and laughing loudly and constantly. It made me wonder if the other Americans and I were going about this the wrong way. I was amazed at how the Kenyans could be so relaxed before a mammoth event like a marathon, especially when so much is on the line for them, financially and otherwise. It was only when the warm-ups commenced that they straightened themselves up and got down to business.

I jogged a 10-minute warmup with my teammate Sergio and made my final preparations for battle: off with the sweats, off with the trainers, on with the flats, four Gu packets in the pockets, straw in the watchband, ibuprofen, band-aids over the nipples, on with the race jersey. Go time.

We got the call to head to the starting line. The starting area was swamped with members of the press conducting last-minute interviews and snapping photos. I tried to stay in my own world and go about my routine.

I did a couple of strides and during one in particular I literally came inches from fully taking out Deriba Merga. I envisioned the newspaper headlines: “Mediocre American Distance Runner Destroys World-Class Merga’s Chances at $150,000.” With a sharp cut to the left I managed to just graze his shoulder. Even Reggie Bush would have been impressed with my agility at that moment.

THE RACE

As we were called to the line the reality finally set in: I was actually going to go through with this, actually going to try to “race” this distance.

Oh. Shit.

The gun went off and we were on our way. I could see Ryan Hall dart immediately to the front and lead the way down the first hill. “Right on. Trying to make it an honest race,” I thought to myself. “I’m happy hanging back here, thank you very much.”

I focused on starting slowly and easing into my pace. Prior to the race I settled on the idea of sticking with my teammate Sergio and the Hansons-Brooks guys who were all shooting for around 2:15-16, so I kept them in my sights and slowly worked my way up to their pack.

It wasn’t long before I was settled in to a pack of about ten to twelve guys consisting of Sergio and me, three Hansons guys, and a random smattering of others. We went through the first mile in 5:01 — a bit fast, I thought, but it was entirely downhill and felt easy enough so I sucked it up and kept plowing ahead.

We rolled through next three miles in 5:10, 5:01, and 5:04. Our pack gradually decreased to seven and it would remain this way through 15 miles. In these initial miles I ferociously tried to focus on staying relaxed and making it feel “easy”. So far, so good.

At every 5k the elite runners had personal water bottles placed on labeled tables, most of them containing some version of a sports drink. I was in the group of elites (call us sub-elites, I guess) who were not invited to put out bottles, but my teammate Sergio was, quite deservedly, an official elite and he was gracious enough to share his bottles with me after he’d taken a sufficient pull.

The Kenyan guys, on the other hand, all sat together and kept up a constant chatter. They were very boisterous and loose, poking fun at each other and laughing loudly and constantly. It made me wonder if the other Americans and I were going about this the wrong way. I was amazed at how the Kenyans could be so relaxed before a mammoth event like a marathon, especially when so much is on the line for them, financially and otherwise. It was only when the warm-ups commenced that they straightened themselves up and got down to business.

We ran five, six, and seven in 5:13, 5:09, and 5:12. I popped my first Gu a little after seven and sipped on it for as long as possible. Vanilla Bean is good stuff, but this would be that last positive thing about my day.

Eight went by in 5:12. It was here where the hurt started to set in. My feet were beginning to ache and my legs were already heavy with lactic acid. “Well, that was quick,” I thought to myself. They say that marathon is a race of attrition and it often comes down to whoever can endure discomfort and pain the longest. Clearly this was not going to be my day.

There was little I could do to assuage the pain at this point. All I could do was bear down and hope my body would start to feel better. Wishful thinking, evidently.

My original plan was to run with patience through ten, confidence through twenty, and cojones to the finish. I hung with the pack of seven guys through nine and ten in 5:09 and 5:17 and then reflected back on that plan. As with most races, the plan often changes as soon as the gun goes off and this race was no exception. I’d been mentally patient through ten but my body was hurting badly and the confidence I was hoping for from ten to twenty was going to be difficult to muster. Nevertheless, I tried. Oh, did I try.

As we ran eleven and twelve, still seven of us in a pack, in 5:10 and 5:06, I could hear a distant, high-pitched drone.

“Wellesley!” I thought to myself. My spirits immediately improved.

My dad, who was a 2:28 marathoner in his day, once told me that his experience running through Wellesley during the Boston Marathon was easily the highlight of his storied running career. In other words, it had been hyped up big time and I had high expectations for this moment.

Coincidentally, my sister Libby is a freshman at Wellesley and she worked long and hard to rally her friends to come out and cheer for me. Words can’t quite describe what that experience was like, so how about a YouTube video to do the work for me (scroll to 1:20 in for my shining moment): Crosby Freeman Running Through the Wellesley Scream Tunnel I still get choked up watching that.

This is also a great photo of Libby and the Wellesley Cheering section

From there it was all downhill (figuratively). Our group of seven ran mile thirteen in 5:13 and hit the half-marathon point in 1:07:41, a 5:09 average per mile and on pace for 2:15:22. I could feel the hurt building and building, and it was only a matter of time before I completely fell off the pace. Mentally I tried to stay with it and will myself forward but my body was failing me.

I hung with the six other guys through fourteen in 5:12, but my fifteenth mile was 5:23 and my legs began to quit. All I could do was hopelessly watch the pack ease their way ahead. Aside from the spectators, I was alone the rest of the way.

Then came the wind.

Vicious headwinds ripped at my already sparse clothing. It was the kind of wind that could stop you dead in your tracks. In other words, it sucked.

In the haze that set in I somehow missed the sixteenth mile marker and had to settle for a split of 11:01 for two miles at the seventeenth. Eighteen, nineteen, and twenty were run in 5:44, 5:43, and 6:02. Physically I was beginning to claw and mentally I was without hope for a rebound. In high school we called this “out the backdoor,” but we’ve adopted more vulgar terms to describe this experience as we’ve grown older. Let your imagination work on that for a while.

The remaining 10k was truly awful. 6:22 for twenty-one and then 6:02 and 6:18 for twenty-two and twenty-three. I was starting to get passed by guys who were more conservative in the early miles and it was a very helpless feeling to see them go by and have no response in my legs. My feet were on fire and all the muscles in both legs were sore and heavy. All I could focus on was getting to the finish line and putting an end to the pain and discomfort.

I waddled 6:11 and 6:35 for twenty-four and twenty-five, and 7:54 for the last 1.2 miles, most of which was run with eyes closed and jaw clenched. Throughout the final miles the crowds were extremely supportive and rowdy, constantly offering encouragement. I was too wrecked to appreciate it at the time, but looking back makes me realize how great the spectators were throughout the race. Boston did not disappoint in that respect.

THE POST-RACE

When I crossed the line and came to a halt, my body ached all over. I stood for a dizzy moment, legs quivering, breath coming in short gasps, eyesight cloudy, and tried to get my bearings among the chaos that is a marathon finish line. A volunteer in a yellow jacket came to my aid and led me to the VIP tent. She fetched my gear bag and kept asking if I was okay. I insisted that I would survive, so she left me there to pull myself together.

I didn’t sit down in the VIP tent for fear that I would not be able to stand again. People around me were all smiles, perhaps a testament to their elation at simply being able to finish. Someone put a finisher’s medal around my neck, which I promptly removed and stuffed in my gear bag.

Standing in the VIP tent was one of the loneliest moments of my life. The disappointment really started to set in as I gingerly worked off my shoes. I broke down, hands on knees, aching all over. I had prepared for this day for months only to see my hopes dashed as early as the eighth mile. The sixteen painful miles after that provided a lot of time to think about how my day was not going according to plan. But that’s how it goes in competitive running — sometimes it’s just not your day.

In looking back on my training, a lot of things didn’t go as I’d hoped. I was plagued with nagging injuries which forced me to sacrifice some quality in my workouts and two weeks prior to the marathon I went on antibiotics for an infected big toe (photo provided upon request). The nail fell off three days after the race.

These sound like a lot of excuses, which, in reality, they are. Bottom line: I wasn’t prepared for Boston and there were a lot of things I wish I’d done differently. It’s easy to say that now but if I’m ever going to be truly prepared for a marathon I need to take note of the warning signs during my training and be smarter about how I deal with setbacks. I don’t regret the experience, I just wish it had played out differently.

This is just the beginning.

-Crosby Freeman

Crosby Freeman is a member of the Asics Aggies Running Club located in the San Francisco Bay Area and is a former 5-time NCAA Division III All-American while at Pomona College. He recently made the transition to the marathon, having debuted at Chicago in October 2008, and qualified for the 2011 US Olympic Trials in the marathon after posting a qualifying time in the Kaiser Permanente San Francisco Half Marathon in February 2009. He currently lives and trains in San Francisco.

Standing in the VIP tent was one of the loneliest moments of my life. The disappointment really started to set in as I gingerly worked off my shoes. I broke down, hands on knees, aching all over. I had prepared for this day for months only to see my hopes dashed as early as the eighth mile. The sixteen painful miles after that provided a lot of time to think about how my day was not going according to plan. But that’s how it goes in competitive running — sometimes it’s just not your day.