My build-up for Boston 2019 was exceptional. I worked harder for this race than I ever had. I was healthy, running 70-80 miles/week, and nailing all my workouts. I was training my ass off and it was exhausting. But in an odd way, it was an exhaustion that gave me energy. It gave me purpose and a single-minded focus towards a clear objective. It was an exhaustion that I craved.
After last year’s freezing nightmare, there was intense speculation about this year’s weather. And unsurprisingly, there were wild swings in the forecast. Race day ended up being around 60 degrees at the start and almost 70 at the finish.
After last year’s freezing nightmare, there was intense speculation about this year’s weather. And unsurprisingly, there were wild swings in the forecast. Race day ended up being around 60 degrees at the start and almost 70 at the finish.
On the bus ride to Hopkinton the skies opened and a torrential downpour ensued. I said to Perry, “This feels a lot like last year, except 30 degrees warmer.”
By the time we arrived in Athlete’s Village most of the rain had stopped. Everything was far more calm and orderly compared to last year’s pre-race chaos. As we waited to start, I was acutely aware of the warmer temps, and I knew they would be a factor.
Lining up in the corral was once again surreal. I spent 10 years desperately wanting to be a part of this race. Failing over and over to the point of near hopelessness. I experienced so much sadness in the pursuit. On race morning, the privilege of being at the start line was not lost on me.
The gun went off and despite the congested field, people were storming down the hill, but I did my best to keep things controlled. I tried to stay relaxed and find a comfortable rhythm during the steady downhill of the first 5k. At mile 4 the higher than normal temps were already alarming.
Based on my training, I felt capable of running a marathon at 6:35 pace (2:52). But by mile 5 I knew it wasn’t gonna happen. I forced myself to adjust and tried to set a speed limit at 6:45 pace (2:57). As early as mile 5 I had given up on my original goal. Even though I was feeling great now, I knew the heat would catch up to me if I didn’t back off.
Between miles 5-15 I mostly cruised and steadily held onto 6:45 pace. I was feeling good and appreciating the crowds (which didn't exist last year). However, the impending effects of the heat loomed ahead. I knew that the fight was coming. I hit the half in 1:28:10 and thought maybe I could hang on for 2:55 with a strong finish
I approached the Newton Hills at mile 16 and this is where the wheels started to get wobbly. A cramp was already building in my left calf and the cramping got worse with every step once the hills arrived. The heat was also dialing up. My effort level increased while my pace and energy started to fade. The fight was on, and it was early to start fighting.
I worked my way over the big rolling hills of Newtown, but as I climbed my pace slipped to 7:15. After each climb I wanted to run hard on the downhill, but the cramping was so bad that the downhills were jarring and painful. Each pounding step sent shock waves through my aching legs.
At mile 17 I reminded myself that I only had a couple miles before seeing a huge group of Brooklyn Track Club friends at mile 19. Knowing that they awaited got me through a very difficult stage of the race. When I reached them I got amped up and tried to disguise how much pain I was in.
Photo cred: John Conner
I battled the hills between 16-21 as best I could. But they a took a big toll on me. During the months leading up to Boston I did a lot of visualization. I had dreams of getting to the top of Heartbreak Hill with a ton of energy, and flying through the final 5 miles. But the reality was quite different.
When I crested Heartbreak Hill I was in rough shape. The hills chewed me up and spit me out. But unlike last year, I still had something left in me. I accepted the fact that I wasn’t going to crush the finish the way I had envisioned. But I was ready to fight back with whatever I could muster.
By mile 22 I was reeling in pain and desperate to be done. The clouds disappeared and the sun beat down on me. The cramping seared through my legs as they started to lock up. But this was the point where all the hard work paid off- the 80 mile weeks, the track sessions, the early morning wake ups. The never-ending grind that is needed to fortify the body and mind against everything the marathon will throw at you.
At mile 24 the Citgo sign was a welcomed sight. I also spotted my friend Drew up ahead. I could barely hang onto a 6:50 pace and I didn’t have the strength to quickly catch up to him. But I had enough drive to keep him close. Drew looked back to see me and yelled “C’mon Matan!”. This inspired me to push a little harder and at mile 25 I linked up with him.
We were now working together in the final mile. Drew’s energy kept me going as my legs stiffened and my body rebelled against the demands I was putting on it. Without Drew at my side I surely would have relented to the pain and fallen off the pace.
At mile 25.5 I passed the Dashing Whippets cheer station. I did my best to acknowledge their cheers, but I was barely able to turn my head to look at them. No longer could I mask my discomfort and I gave up on any attempt to suppress a grimace.
As we came out from the underpass the right on Hereford came into sight. This was a huge relief. I somehow found another gear by knowing the finish was around the corner.
I turned onto Boylston and the finish line loomed in the distance. The left onto Boylston felt surreal, like I was experiencing something out of a movie. This is such an iconic scene in the sport of running, how could I be so fortunate to experience it?
I looked at my watch and it read 2:55:xx. I knew that I would be close to my PR from Berlin (2:58:22).
At this point in last year’s race I could do nothing more than shuffle down Boylston. Last year the race broke me at mile 21 and I had nothing left. Last year Boston got the best of me, but this year was different.
2018
2019
This year I took some bad blows, but I never went down. I fought until the end and when I turned onto Boylston it was time to deliver the knockout punch. I sprinted with everything I had left. This was it. This was the moment I had dreamed about. The crowd was probably deafening, but I barely noticed. I was in extreme pain but so elated by having the strength to sprint. I crossed the finish line and stopped my watch to see an 11 second PR. 2:58:11 I’d take it!
I turned around to see Karlo and we shared an emotional moment. We then connected with Drew and I told him how much he helped me. Both of these men had raced their hearts out.
I took off my shoes and shuffled back to my Airbnb at a snail’s pace. Along the way, every stranger that walked by gave their congratulations. No city takes as much pride in their race as Boston.
As the day passed I rejoined more friends and teammates to celebrate. I loved hearing their stories and witnessing their excitement. I feel deeply fortunate to be part of this community.
What I poured into this race went above and beyond anything I’ve ever done. I know I could have ran a faster race under better conditions, but Boston isn’t where you go to run a fast time. Boston is where you go to test your spirit. From freezing rain to boiling temps, Boston is utterly unpredictable. The only guarantee is that it’s going to be a fight. And I can’t wait for round 3 next year.
