May 26, 2024
Start Location: Water Front Park
The charm of Vermont is in its quiet solitude— its countryside of green rolling hills, forests, and gentle babbling streams. It is hard to place the feeling one gets when venturing into the rural stretches of this far-northern state. Vermont seems content to go on being a verdantly forested outpost of the busier settlements that surround it— cities like Boston, Albany, and Montreal. It is a state that doesn’t seem to want anything— just quiet living and a connection with the land.
But if one had to point to some exception to this quiet small-town embrace, it would be the city of Burlington. With a population of 44,000, Burlington is Vermont’s most populous city. Located on the border of upstate New York and divided by Lake Champlain, it would be easy for a passing traveler to overlook this far-north outpost. That’s because it lies outside the commonly traversed conduits between more populous areas of Boston and NYC.
But Burlington is well known among those who live in the Green Mountain State. It’s a university town, home to Champlain College and the University of Vermont. The city hosts Vermont’s largest airport (BTV) and its largest hospital, UV Medical Center. Burlington also serves as a popular tourist destination with its brick-laid commons for shopping and fine dining, hillside hotels overlooking the lake, and its robust camping options outside of town.
It is also the home of Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream.
My trip to Burlington began mid-morning. I left my house thankful to once again be traveling to a marathon that would be held in a neighboring state. After my sixteen-hour round-trip excursion to Maryland two months earlier, I found myself relieved to be making a shorter trip this time around. It makes for a more relaxing weekend.
Ninety minutes into the drive, I found myself crossing over the Connecticut River into Vermont. I said my goodbyes to my home state of New Hampshire, excited for the weekend to come.
Picking the Vermont City Marathon as next on my list to fulfill my 50-state journey was a somewhat difficult choice compared to past decisions. It was based primarily on my desire to visit Burlington and to run near Lake Champlain. The issue was that this particular race had significantly lower reviews than I would normally entertain. Not that there were a lot of other options. Vermont is a small state after all, and my choices were limited.
However, there were a couple other races that stood out as viable options and had favorable reviews— the Green River and the Mad Marathon. But after careful consideration, I realized that these races possessed certain quirks that just didn’t interest me.
The Mad River Marathon, for instance, is not constrained to Vermont. It actually spans two states, from Vermont to Massachusetts, and though the course appeared to be incredibly beautiful, I just felt strongly that I didn’t want to muddy the waters of how to account for a marathon that could technically count as either state. I know it’s a benign issue. But I like to keep everything nice and organized in my brain, and having to decide which state this race would count for made it a non-starter on my list. It was also in August, and I was looking for something a little earlier in the year.
The Mad Marathon, on the other hand, was another raceraves favorite. But this was in July. Another summer race. And when reviewing pictures on their website, I was very turned off by what I saw. The location of the race was in the middle of nowhere, in an area that looked, simply put— hot and landlocked. Dull green mountains hung in the distance past green pastures cut through the center by dusty dirt roads. I pictured myself out there in the stifling heat of July. The humid hung grass and dirt-baked fields. No thanks.
Burlington, on the other hand, boasted Lake Champlain and a small little city to visit and walk around in. Having many fond memories of visiting Burlington as a teenager, I was keen to return. I was also compelled by the size of the event. Most of my marathons had been small-time races thus far. Burlington, with 7500 runners across multiple races, would provide a reasonable entry into larger events. A stepping stone to those colossal giants like Boston, NYC, and Berlin.
And so it was that I decided I would ignore the low ratings and go for it. Following my instincts would prove to be a great decision. The Vermont City Marathon would become one of my most memorable experiences to date.
Burlington:
When I arrived in town, I made my way over to the DoubleTree, which was the official hotel of the race and was where the expo would be held. But with a price tag of $400 a night, I had declined to book a room.
Instead I planned to camp out in the back of my truck, possibly using the hotel as a place to park overnight. Those who are familiar with my previous posts know that I like to travel on a budget. Since lodging is typically the costliest expenditure involved with these trips, I save a lot of money this way.
It’s been working out so well that I find myself looking forward to camping out beneath my truck’s hard-cover cap. With a futon mattress and a rolled-out sleeping bag, I spend my pre-race evenings breathing in the local air and dreaming of the race to come.
But in doing this, finding a place to roost for the night is always a concern. So far all my previous races had provided special parking, and that wasn’t the case in Burlington. Parking would be designated solely to the city streets, and I knew I wouldn’t want to be sleeping in my truck in such a populated area. Given the DoubleTree’s affiliation with the race, and since I was here for the expo anyway, I figured it made sense to make them my unofficial parking area for the night. The fact that the hotel had a convention center would make it easier for a random vehicle to fall under the radar. Especially on the eve of the race, and with the expo going on.
Pulling into the DoubleTree, I found myself a nice spot in the back of the hotel, close to the convention center doors. The parking space was at the edge of the lot, overlooking a patch of undeveloped land— a green gully of tall grass and far-off trees.
Not a bad view for a hotel parking lot.
I felt a sigh of relief. With the uncertainty of where I’d be sleeping tonight behind me, I hopped down out of my truck and headed inside.
The Expo:
The convention center at the DoubleTree was a higher-end affair than I was used to. In fact, with 7,500 participants altogether and over 1,300 marathoners, this would be by far my largest marathon yet. Even so, the expo was smaller than expected, and the conference room rented out for the event was even smaller.
There were a good number of vendors, though. Their booths were lined up in two rows at the center of the room. The tables for packet pickup stretched along the entire left wall, and there was another row of tables in the back.
I got into line, which was in cluttered disarray and bent away from the tables for lack of space. After waiting a while, I realized there were actually 2 lines, and I started to question if I was in the right place. Eventually, I figured out that I was in the t-shirt pickup line, which was separate from the packet pickup for some reason.
After getting where I needed to go, I got my bib and was then directed back to the t-shirt line, which had since grown longer.
As I waited, I got a look at the expo booths. There were various vendors with whom I was unfamiliar: Darntough, Clif, Melcast, to name a few. There was a woman making her way around, handing out promotional material for her husband’s book. A fictional story about a marathoner. It’s a shame; to this day I can’t remember what the name of the book was. I still want to read it.
The tables at the back of the room were lined with boxes that held the race-day shirts. When I reached the front of the line, I approached a table where a volunteer stood waiting. He was an older gentleman, tall with tanned skin. I noticed he looked uncomfortable, and I sensed that he had some bad news to impart.
The man told me there had been some confusion with the orders, and they did not have my medium-sized shirt. Instead, I was asked to place my name on a list so they could make it right. Confusing the matter further, I was then informed that they did have a bunch of V-necks I could try on.
Unclear on why these shirts were any different, I said, “Sure.” Trying it on, I saw that it fit fine, so I shrugged and said, “Ok.”
It was a V-neck, so I— like everyone else on the planet— would never actually wear this shirt. Instead, it would be destined to rest, neatly folded in my closet, next to all my other marathon shirts that are ugly and/or fit poorly.
I walked out of the expo with my t-shirt in hand. This was the only swag this marathon offered apart from the finishers medal.
Scope out:
It was mid-afternoon, and with plenty of daylight ahead of me, I hopped in my truck and headed down to Waterfront Park to scope out the starting line. I needed to determine exactly where I was going in the morning, and I also wanted to figure out where I would park.
When I arrived at the waterfront, what I found was a parking lot that looked small and cramped. I instantly knew that I wouldn’t want to park here tomorrow. There was only a single exit point to the main road, and I couldn’t be confident that I could get out of the area on race day, when certain sections would be blocked off. Even now, the day before the race, the area was difficult for driving. This was one of Burlington’s premiere waterfronts, after all. It was a place prone to heavy foot traffic and within walking distance of downtown. Pedestrians were everywhere.
Leaving the waterfront, I proceeded to drive up and down the streets of Burlington. I wanted to check out the street parking situation and decide if this would be a suitable option for me. As I perused the city streets, I was surprised to see that Burlington looked a bit rough compared to how I remembered it. There were buildings that were boarded up, graffiti was everywhere, and the sidewalks looked excessively dirty in certain places. I found myself wondering if it had always been this way or if the area had declined since I visited 20 years ago.
Eventually, I found a parking garage back near the main road (Battery St.) and just up the hill from Waterfront Park. After pulling in, I proceeded on foot, down the hill toward the waterfront. The hill was lined with various options for lodging: Hotel Champlain, Courtyard Burlington, and Hotel Vermont. All would make great options for someone seeking the ability to walk from their hotel to the starting line.
Those staying at the DoubleTree further outside of town would have to take the shuttle. Either that or they could drive themselves and deal with parking in the morning, like me.
Turning off the main road, I made my way down the small street that led me to the entrance of Waterfront Park.
Waterfront Park:
Serving as the epicenter for tomorrow’s race, which both begins and ends in the quiet grassy area, Waterfront Park is nestled between Lake Champlain and the city above. At the edge of downtown and with the lake breeze rushing over its grass and through its trees, the park would serve as the perfect quintessentialism of what Burlington has to offer.
A hub of activity, the southern portion of the park hosts the Leahy Center for Lake Champlain (ECHO)—a science museum that features the area’s unique lake ecology. The Island Line trail, paved for bikers and runners alike, follows an old railway up the coast of the lake and crosses through the park. This trail would serve as a significant portion of tomorrow’s course. The railway that runs alongside the trail, which once was used for transporting timber south to Albany, is still in operation. Just a few blocks south of the park can be found Burlington Union Station— a passenger terminal facilitating Amtrak’s Ethan Allen Express.
There were a number of restaurants near the park. The Burlington Market and Café, a busy little place with outdoor seating and a deck. The Skinny Pancake was right across the road. Both restaurants were perched on the hillside overlooking the lake. Further north into the park was the Foam Brewers restaurant. Found tucked away in an old brick building with a charming patio and featuring live music, Foam Brewers is a favorite of locals and visitors alike.
The park itself is narrow and stretches south to north, with a boardwalk that runs adjacent to the water. There are several grassy areas where people can be found playing frisbee and walking their dogs. On the north side of the park live the town boat ramp, a marina, and the harbor authority. Across the grass on the inland side, the park ends at a steep hill, the top of which runs Battery Street. The road serves as an unofficial end to downtown’s grid-like streets before the land descends down to the waterfront below.
Further north up the hill, Battery Street runs by Battery Park, named for the artillery stationed there by American forces during the War of 1812. Here the true beauty of Burlington lives in its hillside embrace. Glancing out upon the vast gray waters of Lake Champlain. With sun glinting off its blue, churning waves. And when the sun goes down in this far-north corner of this US of A, Burlington stands out as a starlit giant that can be seen for miles across the lake, like a beacon of humanity in the dark and empty countryside.
After I got a lay of the land, I found a park bench and took a seat. The weather was fairly warm, but the sky was gray, and this made the water look a bit dismal. Peering down at my phone to study the course map, I struggled to line up the starting line with the various landmarks of my surroundings.
In the end, I wasn’t entirely satisfied with my assessment of the area. Though I knew I would find my way easily enough in the morning, just by arriving at the park and following the crowds, my uncertainty of where exactly to find the starting line felt like a bit of a loose end.
Eventually, I exited the park and turned left onto Battery Street, which— having looked at the course map— I knew would be a formidable leg of tomorrow’s journey. It wasn’t the steepest hill I’ve ever encountered, but it was quite long and drawn out. In the days leading up to the race, I had noted that many reviewers of this marathon from past years had commented on this hill. It was brought up again and again as a notable section of the course that the racer must contend with. And since this was a double-loop course, it meant I would be climbing it twice.
I eventually made a right turn off Battery Street and headed into the town of Burlington. Eventually, I found myself at Church Street Marketplace, which is among the handful of places in Burlington that I remember visiting in my youth. The street was lined with shops and restaurants. Music filled my ears as streams of tourists and locals walked casually along the red-brick passageway closed off to cars.
Before long, I began to notice a significant homeless presence, and I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t putting a bit of a damper on the overall mood. One man, who was wearing sweatpants and a wrinkled white shirt, was sitting on a park bench all alone and completely ignored by everyone around him.
I glanced around the marketplace. There were people with strollers and small children. There were folks eating at patio tables outside bustling restaurants, with plates filled with steak and glasses filled with foamy beers. I shuddered a bit in that moment. I have always found it uncomfortable when seeing these two sides of life in direct contrast to each other.
It is a little difficult to enjoy a steak and a warm sunny day with friends and family when the intense suffering of others is literally staring you in the face.
Fortunately, I was broke as shit, so I just kept on walking; I couldn’t eat a steak in front of a homeless person even if I wanted to.
But the situation was worse than I thought. When I reached the end of the commons and turned onto the next street, the severity of the homelessness took center stage, and I could see many of them were truly in a bad way. One woman was severely mentally ill, as evidenced by a conversation she was having with herself. Another one was shooting up— right on the street in broad daylight. Making matters worse, they were not the docile sort. A number of them appeared angry and aggressive, and as I came to the end of the street, I encountered one man in particular: He looked me up and down, his eyes went narrow, and his shoulders grew wide. I could see in his eyes that he was looking for trouble from anyone willing to offer it up.
I felt a mild twinge of anger at the blatant display of hostility. I had actually considered bringing my family on this trip, and now I was glad I hadn’t. I imagined how upset I would have been if I had inadvertently stumbled down this street with my two young daughters in tow.
To be clear, I don’t mean to demean these poor folks. You can’t judge a person without having walked in their shoes. And you certainly can’t blame someone for being mentally ill. Still, that doesn’t mean I would want my family around them.
Leaving the area swiftly, I went on to explore more of this small city. What I found was that many more areas were looking rough, with decrepit buildings and graffiti lining the walls. Many of the buildings were stamped with signs that said “For Rent.” Were these signs of a depressed economy? Was Burlington on the Decline?
After having seen enough of downtown, I headed back in the direction of my vehicle. Though I had a rough time finding it. Apparently, when I had left the parking garage, I forgot to note the name of the street I was on. After looking around a bit and visiting a number of identical-looking parking garages, I found myself in the right place. There, in a dark corner of the last place I looked, I spotted the dark maroon outline of my Chevy Silverado. The lifeboat that had carried me and provided shelter for going on 4 marathons.
The Night Before:
I found myself driving away from downtown Burlington, satisfied that I had a good plan for the mornin. I decided that I would utilize the street parking, across the road from Water Front Park. Though the parking garage would have been a fine option too, the street parking would be free on Sunday, and as long as I arrived early enough to park close to the event, I was not worried about leaving my vehicle in an ubscure area. There would be lots of official around, and crime would not be substantial concern.
With that figured out, I made my back to the hotel that I was not staying at.
It was around 6 p.m. when I pulled in and found my parking space in the back of the DoubleTree. With some time to spare before bed, I grabbed a book went inside. The expo had long since cleared out, and the convention center was now just an empty maze of carpeted halls.
The hotel had one of those large atrium style lobbys with Zen waterfalls, large plants, and multiple tiers of flooring, that give the sense that outdoors has been brought inside. There were lots of places to sit and enjoy the ambiance, so I found myself a nice comfortable chair sat down and relaxed.
After hanging out for a while and reading a couple chapters of the book I was reading: The Vampire Lestat, by Anne Rice, I decided it was time to call it a night.
I went back to my truck, opened the tailgate, and climbed inside preparing to catch a solid night’s rest. I was feeling good. Excited for what tomorrow would bring. This weekend so far had been more relaxed than my previous marathon just 2 months earlier, and I was really happy with my level of preperation. Despite this, I did have some concerns related to muscle soreness.
Why were my legs so soar?
It was May 25th, and a few weeks earlier I had wrapped up my spring semester at the University of New Hampshire, where I was working toward a bachelor's degree in Neuroscience. Now I was beginning a stretch of summer classes that would last for two months, followed by a month off in August. The summer classes were online, which meant that for 3 blessed months I would not have to make the 45 minute drive to campus each day.
This created a situation that would put me at home for a significant stretch of time, much of which would be spent indoors and tied to a computer. I don’t like being stuck inside all summer, but still, it’s a nice change of pace from having to go to campus every day.
Making use of the extra time at home, and with the university’s fitness center not an option for the summer, I deciced I would commit to the P90X3 workout routine— one of my favorite fitness plans. I’ve been doing p90x3 for years, though frustratingly, I’ve never made it through the whole 90 days. It’s never been due to lack of motivation, and has always been an issue of scheduling. Its hard to commite to a work out every day, when you have other things going on in your life. Since I would be home for 3 months, and glued to a computer, with no need to leave the house, I thought it would be a perfect time to make it through the whole 90 days.
I had calculated that if I started right away, then I would be finished with the routine just before the start of our family vacation at the end of August.
The chink in the armor of this half-baked plan was that I would have to start my program before running my marathon. So, on top of my marathon training these past couple of weeks, I had been doing the P90X3 workout routine. The first 3 weeks of the program were pretty rough on the legs, and the past two workouts, leading up to race day, had been particularly demanding at a time when I was supposed to be letting my body rest and build up strength. Inevitably my legs were going to be very sore tomorrow.
I pondered this now as I lay on top of my sleeping bag. Oh, how lax I have become. I never would have done this to myself in those early races: willingly set myself up for race day with sore legs. But my desire to commit to fitting P90X3 into my summer outweighed my desire to PR in this race. It was a trade-off I had decided to make.
I felt confident I would finish without any problems, though probably I would have a rough time in the later miles. There was a silver lining, though; despite the sore muscles I would be running with, these past few weeks of P90X had done much to improve my core strength. This had led to more efficient running mechanics, and I could expect that this would further translate to increased stamina.
Now as I lay on my back, listening to the growing drizzle of rain and wind, I felt a tinge of excitement for tomorrow’s race. Outside, the air was warm and humid. The impending arrival of summer was carried in by a west wind. The congealing smell of rain and pavement. The slow, hypnotic ping of raindrops. And before long, I was fast asleep.
Race Day:
It was still dark out when I awoke ahead of my alarm. It was 5 a.m. I didn’t linger long. A sense of alertness came swiftly. I had slept well.
Good start.
Hopping out of my truck, I assessed my legs by squatting up and down on them like a spring. Stiff. And indeed they were quite sore. I made a mental note that I would need to get some extra stretching in before the race.
Plenty of time for this.
I climbed into my truck, twisted the keys, and the engine roared to life. Things were moving right along. As I navigated my way out of the parking lot, I saw the buses were lining up outside the hotel to shuttle runners to the starting line. I watched as the crowd of runners waited to board.
I would be ahead of these folks at least.
Once I’d crossed town, I found a proper parking space on the edge of downtown and across the street from Waterfront Park. It was getting light out now. Many other cars were showing up and parking all around me. I had changed into my running clothes the previous night, so there was little preparation to do except put on my running shoes. I ate a quick breakfast of oatmeal with raisins.
My mid-race meal would be a slice of whole wheat bread that I made myself. It is a special formulation I’ve been working on that is made entirely from whole foods and provides a proportional daily requirement of all the nutrients that a person requires in a day. It has a full range of essential amino acids, omega-6 & 3s, starchy carbs, simple carbs, and every vitamin and mineral under the sun. You could go hiking in the mountains for a month and only bring this bread. It has everything you need.
I make a modified version of it for marathons. Extra honey, for rapid sugar absorption, and no yeast. This makes the bread denser so I can fit more calories into less space. I cut the bread into a thick slab and carry it in my running belt on top of my phone.
But when I went to pack up the bread in my running belt— it wasn’t there. Frantically I tore my truck apart looking for it. In the bed of the truck, where I had slept, in the cab, and in the backseat. Finally it was sinking in. I had left my running belt at home.
I thought again how lax I had become. I recalled my first 2 marathons. The intensity of my planning. How careful I was about every detail. For the most part, I was enjoying the newfound balance of poise I had developed in regard to these races, but now mistakes were starting to creep in. Never was this more on display than at my last marathon in Maryland, in which I made countless errors as a result of precarious planning.
I made a mental note that I would need to do better next time. As for my running belt—well, this sucked. I wouldn’t be able to carry the bread, so I’d be reliant on water stations for my nutrition: Gatorade and energy gels. This wasn’t a big deal, though. What bothered me was now I couldn’t carry my phone, which is the device I use to record my runs on Strava. I shook my head in disappointment. I really like to be able to look at that data.
I thought briefly about carrying my phone in my hand during the race but quickly dismissed the idea. That didn’t sound fun. Screw the data. I really wanted to enjoy this race. No, it looked like I was just going to have to leave my phone behind.
I lingered a while longer. Drank some more water. Ate some more food. But no coffee. I’d learned that lesson well enough in past races.
The crowds were growing thicker now. More and more runners were showing up and parking further up the streets of Burlington. Waves of them were moving down the sidewalk on both sides of the street, in the direction of Waterfront Park.
Finally, I took one last look at my phone. 6 a.m. It was time to go.
I exited my vehicle and began to walk down the hill toward the waterfront. After walking no more than 50 meters, I realized I had forgotten to go to the bathroom. This was important.
I had planned on using an empty water bottle in my truck before heading down there. Gross, I know, but not any grosser than using a porta-potty. Think about it. Porta-potties are disgusting.
My mind went back and forth. I was torn. It wouldn’t take long to walk back to the truck. I was so close that I was literally staring right at it. But something in me doesn’t like backtracking. Everything had been humming right along this morning. I had forward momentum, and intuitively I just wanted to keep it going.
Plus, I was still anxious about locating the starting line. I really just wanted to get down there. So I pressed on. I would make use of the porta-potties down at the staging area.
This would be a significant mistake.
The Park:
The crowds were huge as I made my way into the park, recalling again that this will be the largest event I’ve done thus far. I made my way down the boardwalk until I reached the field of grass I had scoped out the previous day. This grassy area was now packed with tents and crowds of runners. I quickly found the porta-potties, which were lined up on the right side of the walkway where the boardwalk turned to a paved path. Fortunately, there were no lines.
Or so I thought.
I waited for a moment at the row of porta-potties, waiting for someone to exit. But every time someone came out there was always some person who’d scurry across the path and beat me to it. That’s when I realized that the crowd of people in the grass was not a crowd at all. It was a tightly bound bundle of people who were lined up waiting to use these portable bathrooms. Crap.
My eyes anxiously followed the asphalt path and peered forward into the distance. I still could not see the starting line. But obviously it was up there somewhere. Not having my phone with me, I only had a very loose sense of what time it was. I figured I had around 40 minutes.
Traveling across the grass, I looked for the back of the line and was discouraged to discover that it was very, very long. Eventually, I found my place in the back of the line.
Then I waited. Seasons changed; came passing by. Spring turned to summer. Winter to Spring.
I tried to pass the time by doing some stretches on the ground. But this proved difficult. The line was moving often enough that I couldn’t stay on the ground for long before having to hop up to maintain my place. Eventually, I had to settle for simple standing stretches.
More time went by, and though the line was moving, it was becoming obvious that I would not see these porta-potties anytime soon. My bladder was burning now. But there was nothing else to do. I briefly thought about walking back to my truck and using the bottle. But by now some time had passed, and I was worried about how long it would take. I knew we were getting close to the start of the race. For better or for worse, I was staying in this line.
Eventually, I could hear the announcer far off in the distance. He was making his announcements. The race would be starting soon. I looked past the field of grass, where we all stood waiting. This section of the park had cleared out. Like the retreating of the ocean before a tsunami. The few people I did see were scurrying quickly along the asphalt path with the same sense of urgency that I myself was feeling. I had a formidable sense that I was missing the show. Like I’d been left behind.
The minutes felt like hours as I neared the front of the line. So close but so far away. There was a woman one line over from me who had finally reached the front. When a porta-potty became available and her turn had come, she shot a worried look at her friend. “I don’t think people are going to make it,” she said, then quickly rushed off.
I turned around and looked behind me. The crowd of people stretched all the way to the back of the grass. The line was just as long as it had been when I first joined. No, these people were definitely not going to make it. I looked forward. Was I going to make it?
The two gentlemen ahead of me had finally reached the front of the line and were waiting for the next opening. I asked one of them for the time. “7:55,” one of them said.
Jesus. I had 5 minutes.
“Wow, cutting it close,” I said. They nodded with the same apprehension.
When my number came up, I darted into the porta-potty. It was not lost on me, even in that moment, that this would be the most urgent backroom break of my life. It was one for the ages. I estimated I had 3 minutes. 1 minute to drain my bladder, and then 2 minutes to get to the starting line.
I left the porta-potty and took one last glance at everyone still in line. Shook my head. Nobody wants to miss the start of the race.
And so it begins:
Off toward the start line I went into a light trot. So much for stretching. Finally, the corral came into view, and I saw, for the first time, the starting line with its inflatable arch rising high in the morning shade.
But there was no way to get in. The corral was made of orange construction netting. Which was too pliable for me to hop over without tearing the whole thing down. But there was no room in there anyway. The runners were packed in like sardines.
I kept walking, desperately looking for an entry point. I was astounded by the size of the crowd. This is what it looks like to funnel 1500 marathoners through a 10-foot-wide start. Finally, I found my way in. But it was crowded here as well, and I had to sort of force my way in amongst some already uncomfortable racers.
Once I was situated, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had made it. Still, I cursed my error. There had been no time to stretch, and that was something I sorely needed. To make matters worse, I could see ahead of me were the 5-hour pacers. I average 3:45, so this meant I was too far back. This wouldn’t have happened had I not been delayed.
The problem was that these were all people I would have to get past. The beginning of the race is always a bottleneck, so there would be no quick and easy way to do this. It was going to be a slow start.
Still, I was relieved to have made it. Glancing around, I was enthralled by the size of the event, taking notice of the crowd of participants— a multi-colored mass of runners decked out in various hues of flashy race apparel. The skies were clear, and it was shaping up to be a beautiful day. My legs were sore, that was true, but I felt well-rested and energized.
The sun was just beginning to creep over the trees of Battery Hill.
The announcer said, “Please stand for the national anthem.”
A female Burlington police officer began to sing. A twinge of excitement rose up in my spine, culminating in a warmth in my face and a spark in my eyes. I realized in that moment that I was absolutely stoked to run this race today. I was ready to go.
When the national anthem came to an end. The starting gun popped. We were off. Slowly. I actually wasn’t moving yet.
I could see the wave of runners up near the starting line moving away like a swarm of bees leaving the nest. But here in the back it was a different story. I watched as the runners ahead of me slowly began to inch their way forward, funneled through the narrowing corral. A walk to the start.
When I reached the starting line, I stepped nimbly over the row of mats that covered the wires for chip tracking. We still weren’t running. It went on this way for .10 mile. Finally, the crowd loosened, and I was able to work myself into a run. Barely. I was at something like a 12-minute pace for the first .25 miles before finally climbing to a comfortable speed.
The course followed Lake Street south through the park, past the several restaurants on the hillside, past the small parking lot that I didn’t want to use, before hooking around to the left at the train station. We crossed Battery Street and started making our way east up the hill toward downtown. If we had been just one street over, we would have passed right by my truck.
I reflected briefly on my mistake that morning. If I had just walked back to my truck rather than pushing on, then I would have avoided 40 minutes of standing in line feeling stressed. But despite my less-than-ideal start, I decided things had worked out well enough. No harm done.
The truth is, there is always a certain thrill about all these mistakes I make along the way. This was only my 4th marathon. I planned to do at least 46 more. As far as I was concerned, there was so much room for improvement that any mistake provided a catalyst for growth. These errors just end up getting me amped about the next race. Every misstep gives me something to work on. Something to do better next time.
I had already come so far. Thinking back to my 1st race and all the uncertainty around it, I recall having those pre-race jitters. The fear of failure. But that all quickly faded after that first marathon, and especially by the 2nd. Race weekends were no longer a source of stress. Instead, they had become relaxing and fun. Sure, there were still plenty of things to worry about. But the seriousness had faded. I guess it’s probably different for the more competitive runners. But me—I’m just cruising, dude.
Now, as we made our way through downtown Burlington, I didn’t have a care in the world. Eventually, the course took a right, moving south. Downtown began to fade into lighter commercial zones, eventually tapering off further, turning into residential neighborhoods. Spectators had now taken to the sidewalks with their lawn chairs. There were many of them here. The shine in their eyes was filled with genuine enthusiasm, and their faces were as warm as the morning sun.
It was heating up quickly. After just a few miles, I was already starting to break a substantial sweat. It occurred to me then, that I was in for a hot one.
My last two races had been in the cooler seasons of autumn and spring, so extreme heat had not been a concern for some time. I would have to watch myself carefully today, since I tend to sweat pretty heavily. Much more than the average runner. Even on a cold day, I always finish a race with my shirt soaked through. The problem with heavy sweating is it makes me susceptible to runaway dehydration— when my fluid intake cannot keep up with my fluid loss.
Southside:
The scenery was ever-changing in these first few miles, with lots of turns through various neighborhoods and commercial areas. At mile 4 the course was routed through the small lakeside area of Oak Ledge Park. Filled to the brim with spectators, the park was an otherwise quiet little place tucked into the charming lakeside neighborhoods of South Burlington.
At the end of the park, we passed by a pavilion. Here, there was a large crowd waiting. The sun was warm on my face as I passed through the masses, hearing the roar of their cheers. It was a stunning display of support, and I found it uplifting to see how much energy the local community brought to this race.
After exiting the park at mile 5, the course turned onto Island Line Trail, which runs parallel to the lake. We were heading north now and were on a direct bearing back toward the starting line at Waterfront Park. This was the paved path that I had noted the previous day, which ran in tandem with the train tracks, eventually passing through the park.
As I trudged my way along the trail, I was trying to picture the big moves that were coming upon our return to the starting area. The Burlington course is a little confusing as far as marathon courses go. And having studied the map the previous day, I knew there would be a lot of twists and turns.
The main source of my confusion came from the fact that the course was both a double loop and a figure 8, with the starting and finishing line at the center of it all. The 1st quarter of the race entailed the southern portion of the 8, while the 2nd quarter entailed the upper part. Then the whole thing repeats— hence the double loop.
The issue stems from the fact that which direction the racers take depends on which leg of the journey they’re at. Normally, finding your turns is as simple as following the crowd. But on a course like this, theoretically the faster runners could be hitting their second loop while I’m still working on the first. This means different runners will be heading to different places yet moving through the park at the same time.
But my apprehension was easily quelled. When we reached Waterfront Park, I saw that the course was clearly marked and that I need only follow the racers in front of me and listen to the well-placed volunteers helping to direct runners where they needed to go.
I did see some other racers coming from the north, but this wasn’t as disorienting as I’d imagined.
The divergence came further up into downtown. When in that 1st mile we had turned right, this time we would be turning left. After this turn, we were briefly routed back in the direction of Battery Street, where we turned onto North Avenue—a road that picked up at Battery Park and would proceed northwest following the curvature of the Lake Champlain shoreline.
Northward:
Now it was time to ascend that formidable hill. The one so often mentioned by contestants from previous years. The hill proceeded in its long upward climb, with downtown Burlington fading away below.
Time passed, and I was still climbing. On and on it went. Looking around, I noticed that some people were showing signs of fatigue. Many had taken to walking. Chests heaving, leaning forward, skin shining from sweat in the radiating sun.
I was fortunate, though. Despite my sore legs, I was able to climb the hill with relative ease. I’m going to chalk that up to the P90X workouts. These legs were strong.
It was around mile 8 when the course flattened out and I could see that the road, wide and open, stretched on for a considerable distance. There were various homes to my left that were of modest size and age. Mostly rentals, I surmised. Residents were sitting out on their porches and on their lawns, watching the marathon like a parade. These folks didn’t cheer as much as they did in the neighborhood’s further south, but their faces were friendly.
Moving past these houses, the course took on the feel of a commercial area. I noticed there was an increased police presence along this stretch of the course, due, in part, to the busy motor traffic in the area that needed to be managed. North Avenue had turned from city street into more of highway.
I gazed into the distance with sun glaring in my eyes. The road was wide and open, and the shoulder of the road was lacking in shade. The heat of the day was rising, and nowhere was this more apparent then on this sun-scorched road.
I was beginning to get hungry now. Again I cursed myself for my lack of running belt, and having nothing to eat.
At mile 9 the course left the main drag and turned into a cozy residential area. It was one of those tight-knit kind of neighborhoods that doesn’t have any through streets. You get out the same way you come in— at Lakewood Pkwy. It was here in the beautiful little suburb that I would witness the single greatest show of crowd support I have ever encountered.
The course made its rounds through the neighborhood, getting funneled through winding little streets before getting looped around. The homes were middle-middle class, with impeccable lawns and tightly trimmed garages. Each lawn appeared to host a crowd of visitors beyond the houses inhabitants, and it was clear that everyone in the neighborhood considered this event as festive as the Super Bowl.
Many of these residents were offering various drinks, like soda, Capri Sun, and juice. You name it. Some handed out popsicles or ice cream. Others gave out fruit roll-ups, cookies, and snacks of all kinds. Each and every one of them with smiles as wide as a slice of melon (which were also being handed out).
It didn’t stop there. Many residents had taken to the streets with their garden hoses, happily spraying down any runner who threw up their hands and wished it. Some had set up sprinklers at the sidewalks, which flapped water into the streets or oscillated like a water-flinging carousel. One middle-aged gentleman with a round belly and a hard-boiled tan had parked his truck on the side of the road and had climbed into the bed, shooting water onto the street like he was putting out a fire.
For 3 glorious minutes, this race was pandemonium. Their cheers were deafening, and with a surge of adrenaline, I picked up my speed. I ran amidst the spray and the screams, and the sun beat down on my back with the smell of late May calling home the summer. Rainbows filled the air in the spray and the sun, and though I was hungry and sweaty, I was no longer tired. I was alive!
That’s when I saw it.
End of the street. Straight ahead. Some residents had set up a 10 x 10 canopy on the edge of their yard. Atop the tent was a big, bright sign that read VERMONT MAPLE SYRUP.
Mother of God.
I zeroed in on the tent like a heat-seeking missile. The operation was manned by three male teens. There, beneath the tent, the syrup was poured into tiny paper cups. Rows and rows of them of syrup to runners in little paper cups. There they stood, handing out shots to passing runners, one by one.
When I got to the tent, I took a cup gratefully, and a few feet up, a second young man handed me another. I slowed to a walk. Too precious was this amber tonic that filled my cup. I dare not risk spilling it across in the heat of a run. Lungs heaving and with sweat burning my eyes, I gulped the first one down. Pupils dilated. Jolts up my spine. It seemed nearly instant that every cell in my body was infused with the influx of indescribable energy. Like the lights turning on. Every circuit in my brain crackled and hard-fried volts. The glucose had passed the blood-brain barrier.
I drank the second one down, crushed the cup in my hand, and tossed it aside. I was alive!
Sparks flying. Off I went like a bolt of lightning. Through the streets— amid the sprinklers and the sun and the cheers.
Fly Away Home:
After looping around, and still jazzed up from the syrup, I exited that friendly neighborhood in high spirits. Who needs to carry their own nutrition when there are places like this along the course? But it was still early in the race, and I knew I would need more fuel as I went along.
Then it occurred to me: this was a double-loop course, and I was only on my first go-around. I would be back in this very location 13 miles from now. I thought about the potential of getting a second round of maple syrup. Awesome.
Continuing north up the main road, we were eventually routed west, toward the lake. After some brief twists and turns, we entered a large, empty parking lot at Bernard J. Laddy Park. Here there were multiple water tables set up and an aid station marked with a bright red cross. The EMTs and fire department personnel clapped and cheered. They shouted to us, “Stay safe out there! Drink plenty of water; it’s going to be hot!”
Passing by the water station, I grabbed a cup and, without stopping, swiftly drank it down.
The race staff had good reason to be thinking about the heat. Back in 2016, the Vermont City Marathon would be forced to shut down mid-race after a number of contestants had collapsed and required medical aid. The incident prompted an assessment of temperature data across multiple sections of the course, and it was determined no longer safe to continue.
The cancellation had caused a bit of strife amongst the roughly 1500 contestants who had not yet finished the race. Many of whom were stranded in various locations across Burlington. It was a sad day for many who had trained so hard for so long.
The experience had no doubt left its mark on the organizers and Burlington’s emergency personnel.
I could hear them still shouting as they faded into the distance behind me. “Drink water. Drink water.” The course then left the parking lot at a line of trees, where a little dirt path made a hole into the wall of green foliage. Following the trail, we were led into a dark woods. It felt both pleasant and cool here beneath the canopy— a welcome reprieve from the heat of the sun. But no sooner had we entered than we were spit back out again. Back into the sun.
This was the northernmost point of the course, and we now turned left onto a paved walking path—the Island Line Trail, and the same path we had traversed northbound earlier in the race. Eventually, this trail would return us to our starting point in the waterfront park. From there the course would be a straightforward repeat of everything that had come before.
It was early morning— maybe 9 am— when I approached mile 11, and now the sun was beginning to beat down in force.
The second loop:
As I ran in the sun, my inner voice felt far away. Like I was hearing my own thoughts emanating from a deep chasm of my being. A quiet echo in a faraway darkness.
I was thinking about that long hill up North Ave and was trying to calculate at what point I would meet with it again. The hill hadn’t fazed me on my first go-around, but I knew I’d be tired by the second approach. Math is hard after a certain amount of miles, but eventually I figured out that it would turn up again at mile 20. My mind grimaced, but my soul laughed lightly. This was the worst time it could come.
The 20-mile marker, on average, is a special milestone for any marathoner. Whether you’re an Olympic World Champion or someone who’s doing a marathon for the first time, shit hits the fan at mile 20. It’s that biologically determined breaking point where the body’s cells struggle to keep up with the demands of the run.
The body knows when it's time to quit, a sort of biological inflection point when the risk of permanent injury outweighs the reward of pushing forward. It’s a crucial see-saw mechanism, dialed in by the forces of evolution.
There are no more endorphins at mile 20. Lactate floods the muscles, dragging down pH and zapping strength. The tendons are shocked to hell. Inflammation ensues. The only remedy is rest and time.
And so the body says, Stop. Live to fight another day.
But this is why the marathon distance is so special and why it’s been heralded as the de facto undertaking for mental toughness. A battle of wills. When the runner reaches this crucial breaking point at the 20-mile mark, they must look deep inside themselves and find the strength to carry on.
Now it appeared that this course’s most formidable hill would emerge at precisely the point in the marathon when the going gets tough. An aptly timed position.
But the day had been kind to me, and I was feeling strong.
Southbound groan:
The Island Line trail was a quiet reprieve from the rest of the course. As much as I loved the exuberant energy of the local crowds, I found myself thankful for the peaceful quiet that came in this remote stretch.
The trail proceeded southward, moving through various public spaces: Arms Forest, North Beach Park, and Lakeview Cemetery. The trail was enclosed by trees on both sides. I couldn’t see the lake, but I could feel that it was near.
After a couple of miles, I was beginning to get hungry again. My maple syrup frenzy had subsided, and now I was thinking about those energy gels. I knew they were being given out somewhere along the course; I just didn’t know where. Thinking about this further, I realized I might have already passed them. It was never easy to tell where they’d be. It’s not like they put signs out for them.
At mile 13, the trail returned us to Waterfront Park, where marathoners were funneled through the lap zone—a special route that diverts away from the finish line for those runners beginning their second loop. Over at the finish line, half marathoners could be seen sprinting to a finish to waves of cheers.
Back onto Lake Street, where I’d begun, I passed by all the familiar parts of the park once again: the science museum, the restaurants on the hillside, and finally the train station, where I would once again turn left and head up in the direction of my truck and downtown Burlington.
At the train station was a particularly large setup of water stations. And it was here that I decided it would be wise to stop and drink my fill.
I was getting pretty hot at this point, and I had lost a lot of fluids. Walking from table to table, I started taking in multiple cups of water. Grabbing one, downing it. Grabbing another. Unfortunately, I didn’t see any gels.
Instead, I begrudgingly switched to Gatorade. I peered down at the yellowy fluorescent liquid. Every time I drink this stuff, I get a stomachache, and I actually feel thirstier. But it had sugar, and I needed fuel. So I slowly sipped at the sweet and salty elixir. Too sweet. Too salty.
Throwing away my last cup, I sprang back into a run and began what would be my second and final loop. I ascended the small hill heading west toward downtown Burlington. I was feeling good— despite the heat. Despite the sore legs going in. And I felt confident by this point that I was going to be fine in this marathon. With the halfway mark fading away behind me, I proceeded through the streets of Burlington without a care in the world.
The back nine:
A couple of miles later, as the course returned to residential streets at the south end of Burlington, the crowd support was even livelier than ever. Surprisingly, my energy seemed to be climbing, and I felt a steady increase in adrenaline. As the miles ticked by, I was getting more and more excited about the completion of my 4th marathon.
The course returned to Oak Ledge Park— the southernmost point— at mile 17. Despite the heat, it was a beautiful sunny day, and I felt nothing short of elated to be here in northern Vermont on this day.
There is something special about the month of May— at least for those of us who live up north. It is that annual milestone that marks the point when winter has come and gone. No more take-backsies. No more April fools— those spurts of warm weather that are cruelly followed by a week of fateful snow.
The leaves are green, flowers are blooming, and the smell of cut grass fills the nostrils with every light breeze. The sun rises before you wake in the morning and sticks around long after dinner. Even the nights get warmer.
As for that threat of the coming winter— the impending doom and gloom of dark nights and harsh cold— well, in May, it’s as far away as it can possibly be. The whole summer lies ahead, untapped. Unspoiled.
It is with this incorrigible optimism that I found myself galloping through the verdant green catacombs of Oak Ledge Park. And when we passed by the pavilion, the crowds of onlookers were again waiting, serenading us with what felt like a similar optimism and cheer. Soon the course entered onto the Island Line Trail and, once again, headed north toward Waterfront Park.
But some of that runner's rush had faded as I trudged my way along the trail. Time began to slow. The sun beat down. There were very few trees here. The oily smell of asphalt steamed up from the ground and filled my nose like tar in the heat.
I pushed on. Getting thirsty.
When I reached Waterfront Park, I was once again funneled up and around past the train station. My third and last pass through this area. I slowed to a walk yet again. I needed to drink as much liquid as I could. In a daze, I walked along the line of tables, filled to the brim with water and Gatorade. Here on the hillside in the sun. People screaming from every direction. Fellow racers zipping past. All of it was happening around me, and yet I saw nothing.
I drank cup after cup. I wobbled a little. Drank some more. Eventually I had made it to the end of the tables. I took one last cup and drank it down. Then hobbled back onto the course, across the street, up toward downtown. It was mile 20. It was time to climb the hill.
Halfway up the long, dragging hill, nearly everyone had slowed to a walk. But I was actually picking up speed. I was flabbergasted. Never before had I felt so strong at this point in my race. And all of this in spite of starting with sore legs.
I wondered to myself, if I’m performing this well with sore legs, how would this have played out if I had been at full strength? I made a mental note. On my next marathon, I was going to find out.
But I was getting hungry. The rich, sweet flavor of that maple syrup had never left my thoughts. It lived on my tongue and in my mind like a ghost, and its memory left in me a desperate longing.
Now as I rounded the hill, I knew that the area would soon be approaching. I balked for a brief moment. What if they run out? It was a very strong possibility. Frankly, I was amazed by the charity of it to begin with. Maple syrup is like liquid gold. I could only imagine the dollar value of all that syrup being given away.
The highway returned to the long, sun-beaten stretch of North Avenue. By now my clothes were soaked through, and I was sure I was losing more water than I was drinking. I would have to be careful from here. But given how well my legs were holding up, I wasn’t too worried.
Still, my hamstrings were getting tight— and I had long since lost the runner's high and easygoing vibes from my previous miles. Time slowed to a crawl. I focused on every step.
I thought more about that friendly little neighborhood where the maple syrup would be. With its sprinklers, its snack, and warm, friendly faces— a city of angels. Now, as my body began to scream and the heat beat down, I started thinking of that place as my salvation.
As I looked ahead, searching for the turnoff, I repeatedly believed that it was just over the hill or around the next bend— a common cognitive error. Each revelation was met with disappointment. Long stretches of road. Sections of the course that I’d forgotten.
The constant disappointments reminded me of a mirage— the popular trope used in films to symbolize false hope. That moment when a thirsty traveler spots a watery oasis on the horizon, only to learn that it's nothing more than convective distortions. The cruel, maniacal play of air and heat.
But this place was real. Not a mirage. No desert palms; just a down-to-earth northeastern community in the outskirts of Burlington. And when at last I found myself turning into the friendly neighborhood’s streets, I was overcome with a feeling that I had made it. This was the hump. That heavenly godsend at mile 22. The point where you know that— despite how much pain has come— it will be over soon enough. And there is nothing left to do but give it everything you’ve got.
Such was the feeling in my mind as I moved through the catacombs of those twisting, mailbox-lined streets. The crowds had turned out in even greater numbers, I quickly found. Either that, or the thrill of the goal line had amplified their cheers.
The heat was now so fierce that it made the sprinklers and the hoses even more revered. I ran through every sprinkler and every garden hose I could find. The cool rush of liquid doused my torso. Water rushed down the back of my legs and into my socks, but I didn’t care.
Going forward with greater speed, now I could see the stretch of street that held the maple syrup tent. It was still there. And so was the syrup. The tables were neatly lined with little cups of golden goodness. I rushed forward with renewed hope.
When I reached the tent, I slowed to a walk. Soon I had two cups in my hands, and I quickly drank them down in all their amber goodness. Turning back toward the tent, I said, “You guys are awesome! Thank you. Thank you.”
Now as I raced away, the crowd continued to roar— a cacophony of sound that surrounded and engulfed me. Sprinklers shot water above like fireworks on the 4th of July, vaporizing in the air with rainbows shimmering in and out of existence beneath the sun.
I laughed as I ran, and ran as I laughed, and it was at that moment that I knew— a lifelong memory had formed. A token in time.
Homeward:
Out of the side street neighborhood, we turned again back toward Bernard Laddy Park, back through the large empty parking lot we’d visited 13 miles earlier. Passed the water tables and the aid station. The heat had reached critical mass, and the medics were shouting, “Stop and pour water over your head! Pour water over your head! Do it. Just do it. Keep yourselves cool!”
The maple syrup coursed through my veins as I turned onto the bike trail at mile 24. With 2 miles to go, this beautiful, serene bike path would be my stomping grounds for the remainder of the race.
But the sun was intense, and the heat was climbing, and I could see many people were beginning to struggle. But unlike my many previous marathons, I was doing fine. In fact, with only 2 miles to go, I found myself speeding up. That has never happened before.
The course was quiet these last couple miles along the secluded bike path. But it wasn’t long before I could hear the roar of spectators in the distance. When the 26-mile sign emerged, and I knew there were only .2 miles to go, I proceeded to pick up the pace, intent to have my strongest-ever marathon finish.
I soared like a condor down the path amidst the onlookers, the sun, and the cheers. The finish line came into focus, and the course turned to grass. The tall banner said “FINISH” above the final line. I burst into a sprint, darting toward it with every ounce of energy remaining to me.
My feet struck at chip sensors strewn across the coral. The finisher's medal was placed into my hand, and I threw it around my neck. I walked off, basking in the glory of the finish and reveling in the sensation that can only come from rest after a long haul.
Then I hobbled off toward the grassy area, where the after-party was being held. The same grassy area where I had spent the better part of my morning waiting in line. I walked around a while, sipping water and checking out all of the vendors at the various tents.
Across the boardwalk I found a glorious stretch of grass with a perfect mix of sun and trees. There in the sun, I nimbly crawled to the ground and laid myself out. Sweat still beading off of my head and down my neck.
Normally at this point I would pull out my phone and check my messages. My family hadn’t yet made it to any of my races, but they always follow along by tracking my phone. This is the part where I usually open up my phone to find their supportive messa
Comments