Dreaming Big and Running Strong: My Boston Marathon Journey

This story is republished from April 17th, 2018

It started over a year ago, but you could say it started back in my 20s when I lived in Boston and used to spectate at the Boston Marathon with my friends Jess and Andrea. At that time, I would have never thought one day I’d be crossing the finish line with the same bewildered, exacerbated, and ecstatic expression I’d seen on so many faces.

It wasn’t until moving to California 5 years ago that I really caught the running bug, joining a group in Temecula called ‘Moms Run this Town’ where I met a group of ‘Early Birds’ who liked running at zero-dark-thirty before it got too hot and before we could see the hills we were climbing. Many conversations with Tanya, Theresa, Jen, Vicki and others pushed me to complete my first half marathon and their peer pressure thankfully got me signed up for my first marathon.

I had naively said that I wanted to only run two marathons in my life: my qualifier for Boston and the Boston Marathon. Boy, was I humbled! The big lesson: a goal without a plan is just a dream. First, I had to conquer nagging knee pain and then I had to learn to run fast, putting aside the excuses I think a lot of us come up with – I’m too overweight, too busy, too focused on my kids, too focused on my work… and just make it happen.

While I committed to the plan a year ago, it would not have happened without the knowledge, planning and tracking, and encouragement of our friend Josh Cagwin whose coaching allowed me to drop nearly 25 minutes off my marathon time to qualify for Boston with a 3:35:42 at the Revel Big Cottonwood in September of last year. That was certainly the highlight of my ‘running career’… until yesterday.

Yesterday morning I woke up after about 3 hours of light sleep in a hotel in Boston, took a hot shower and went to the Starbucks in the lobby for my daily very large iced coffee. I looked out the windows to pouring rain and blustery winds. The runners were already catching the shuttles to begin the trip to Hopkinton… I went back up to the hotel room and took my time – no need to stay out in bone-chilling temperatures any more than necessary. Dave helped put KT tape on my knee and I applied body glide everywhere – including the bottoms of my feet.

I had trained in southern California in the same tank, shorts and compression socks for weeks, so it was quite a change of plans having to layer up for frigid conditions. I was glad we made this a long trip so I had already acclimated to the cold northeast temps and even done a long run in Rhode Island all bundled up. Usually our rule is to never run in something you’ve never run in – but yesterday I had to break that rule and run in a waterproof Outdoor Research jacket we bought at REI over the weekend. The nice thing about having a husband who also runs and is the exact same size – we splurge when we know it will work for both of us! The jacket was a lifesaver and kept me warm and dry the entire race. And super glad I had packed my Fish101 trucker hat and Dave had his SD100 bandanna. I felt like I was a bride, thinking of wearing something borrowed, something blue, something new… and I kept picturing those insane elite runners who would only be wearing shorts and a tank. My sister-in-law Chrissy gave me a long comfy sweater and a winter coat to wear prior to the race and donate – so thankful to have those otherwise I really would have turned into a Popsicle before the race even started.

From the hotel I took a shuttle over to the Boston Common where hundreds of yellow school buses were being loaded with thousands of runners wrapped in plastic. I had brought a couple Target bags and so I wrapped my feet in them while sitting on the bus. Upon arriving in Hopkinton I found that ‘Athlete’s Village’ was another term for ‘Great Swamp enroute to Porta-Potties’ and while I was thankful for my plastic bag feet, they quickly became flooded with cold water and mud.

It was at that moment that I took in one of Dave’s pieces of advice (aside from being a great husband and dad, I’m lucky that he’s a tremendously experienced, knowledgeable coach) to rise above the rain and just remember that there will always be things out of your control that will come your way. It’s a great metaphor in endurance sports we apply to our lives as well. I thought back to watching him complete Ironman Arizona where we pictured warm weather and got freezing rain. For 112 miles he pushed himself on the bike in a tank top and shorts, luckily to find a garbage bag to keep warm for the grueling hours… to have to sit in a tent and stop shaking before going on to complete a marathon. I used that image for inspiration and also the words ‘Boston Strong.’ I thought of those who’d come before me, who overcame much greater obstacles to go on to do great things. And I thought of those less fortunate, who lost their lives on the same day at the same event five years ago.

And so I chugged down my Generation U-Can and joined the crowd as we lurched forward towards the starting line, stripping off layer upon layer of clothing and turning on our Garmin watches. As I got closer, I realized that I needed to tighten up the hood of my jacket but was struggling to do so with my gloves on. And that was my first encounter with one of the thousands of amazing volunteers. This young woman came to my side and followed my instructions to ensure I would be comfortable through the race. I thanked her and hugged her and crossed the start line.

The cheers through small Massachusetts towns were amazing – people screaming for us, really cheering each individual runner along. I knew, going into this race, that it wouldn’t be about the time for me. It would be about absorbing the experience and finishing with a smile. And so I looked people in the eye as I ran. I mouthed ‘thank you’ whenever I was able, I ran closely along the side of the road (except when the puddles were lakes!) and slapped hands with the children who extended their arms for a high-five. I smiled wide, letting large raindrops fall into my mouth. I ran alongside a blind runner and her two guides for a few miles, watching one guide raise her arms to the crowd to encourage them to cheer more for the blind woman to hear.

I was shocked at how large the crowds were and remembered: I’m in hardy (hearty?) New England, where a little rain never hurt anyone and the mantra of Boston Strong bears repeating.

As I got closer to Wellesley I heard the screams of the young women and moved to the right side of the road. Even in the pouring rain, the dedication of these fans and humor in the ‘Wellesley kiss’ reigned supreme. While I didn’t give or get any kisses, I certainly appreciated the passion each one of these spectators displayed. This was one of the moments in the race I was truly humbled.

Around the same time, I saw a text from Dave on my watch that said, “we’re on the left.” I knew he was going to try to take the commuter rail out of the city to see me early on but had no idea what mile. So I moved left and just kept scanning the crowd for Dave and the boys. It wasn’t too long before I hit the half marathon mark and saw them. I ran right over and gave them huge wet hugs. They were troopers for making it all the way out to Wellesley, and I couldn’t have been more appreciative of getting to see my boys’ faces. I was able to drink my second bottle of Generation U-Can to give me another two solid hours of fuel and talk to them for a few minutes.

Another great piece of advice Dave had for me prior to this race was to break it into smaller sections, thinking about the next 5K or chunk of the race that made sense. And so I focused on how I would see my Temecula Early Birds at mile 17 and that pushed me through what started to become tiring miles. I continued to use the swelling crowd for energy and was thrilled to spot my friends holding up a pretty sweet laminated poster. Completely drenched, they were still smiling and laughing and cheering and ready to attend to my every need. At that point, I just wanted to wipe my face and blow my nose and give them all big hugs.

I knew the next section, from 18 – 22 would be the toughest of the whole race. Four hills in a row, including Heartbreak Hill. Of course, the rain picked up and my spirits certainly took a beating. The crowd kept me going along with other runners struggling with the same hills who were saying words of encouragement. Something I learned from prior training was that I needed to listen to those positive words and continue to repeat them. In the past, those dark moments were worsened with my grueling inner critic which would tell me I’m not good enough, I shouldn’t be here, etc. But not this time. Instead, I laughed off the circumstances, ringing out my gloves while the crowd laughed along and thinking about how this really is like going through labor (except, in labor, you aren’t being pelted with hail and 30 mph headwinds). This is the moment in every race where you wonder: why the h-e-double-hockey-sticks do I do this to myself? Am I insane? Why did I choose to do this today? I’m never running again. That’s it, I quit running. I’m going to go eat ice cream and beer and pizza and a cheeseburger with bacon and curl up by the fire and just sleep for days.

And then you look up to find the sign that says: “Heartbreak Hill is over” and you smile knowing the end is in sight. Although it really isn’t. Those last four miles feel like 20. Thank goodness for those kids at Boston College… it felt like I was their favorite professional athlete who just won the game of a lifetime. And what humbled me once again was that I was just an ordinary runner in the middle of the pack today. They were standing there for hours and cheering everyone along from the elite who finished two hours before me to those yet to come. I choked up a few times along the course. That moment was definitely one of them, when I heard their heartfelt cheers and knew I was almost there.

Seeing the Citgo sign and passing by Fenway park, I knew I only had a couple miles to go and I could do it, though limping along on tired legs with sore, achy muscles. Just as I came up from under the Mass Ave underpass, I saw the Early Birds once again and gave a wave as a headed to make my Right on Hereford, Left on Boylston. I stepped over hundreds of plastic ponchos littering the ground as I made my way towards the finish. The turn onto Boylston is something I’ll never forget – feeling the enormity of the city and of the race. As I passed the spot of the Boston bombing, I let my emotions take over and cried for those whose lives have never been the same. And I did all I could to savor the moment of the loudest cheers I’ve ever experienced and for the announcer to say Lauren Feehrer of Carlsbad, California has finished the Boston Marathon.

I continued swiftly for a couple blocks and received my beautiful medal which I wore the rest of the day. The second marathon came when getting to Dave and the boys, Ubering to the hotel, changing in the bathroom, taking a taxi to the airport, checking in our bags, getting through security, getting dinner, changing the boys into pajamas, and getting to our gate in an hour and a half, then flying to Philly for a 20 minute layover which involved racing from terminal A to C, to then all sleep on the plane back to San Diego, to then Uber back home by 1 am, to wake up for school the next morning. Back to reality. But reality will never quite be the same.

Thank you to all of you for reading my book of a race report and for being part of my journey. I am tremendously thankful for your support.