The first time I ran Falmouth, I assumed it was a once in a lifetime experience because, it is a long way to run and I was a novice runner. I was experienced at faster-than-a-crawl 5k events (3.1 miles for those who are metric standard challenged). The organization I was with had received non-profit bibs/slots in the Falmouth race for years, but it never occurred to me to run it. Then I started running, but it was way too far, and way too hard, to run, until it wasn't.
Here's the chronology of my first Falmouth:
2 ½ Hours before the Start: “Look at all those busses.” That’s what I was thinking as I entered the lead bus that shuffled runners to the start from the Junior High School. (I was also thinking, do you spell 'bussing/busing with one 's' or two? Answer below.) Anyway, the yellow school buses from every town within 75 miles of Falmouth were there, lined up as far as the eye could see. How can school buses still not have seatbelts? I mean, seriously?
2 Hours before the Start: “Look at all the Porta Potties” It took 30 minutes to get here by bus and thousands and thousands of people were milling about and forming the classic pre-race porta-potty lines. You can tell it is a big race by the number of porta-potties and the length of the lines. People who don't have to go are in line, just in case, just like me.
1 Hour before the Start: Sitting on the Dock of the Bay: Otis Redding had nothing on me. My brother and I took the obligatory photo to share with our mom, our charity team took the obligatory photo to share with the non-runners and other staff and volunteers, and the obligatory boredom set in, supplemented by people watching took over.
30 Minutes before the Start: “Are you ready?” I'm starting to realize just how big this thing is, almost like a Gang Green or Rolling Stones concert. It is a famous race, and there are people everywhere, there is a helicopter above and police boats patrolling the harborside. Races with thousands of people, as I now know, have participants line up based on their anticipated pace, 6 minutes per mile, 7 minutes per mile, and so forth. Just my luck that I am standing at the 12 minute pace sign, right across from the porta-potties. “No, I’m not in line.” “No, I’m not in line.”
The Start? Well not for me. The Elite Runners are off on time at 9 am, photo above, and I am so far behind the start line that I can’t see it, so I will be waiting a while. I don't care. I am on the participant side of the orange barrier railings, and only seven miles from Falmouth Heights. I don’t have a bucket list, but if I did, this would be on it. I feel like a runner. I might even look cute. Maybe not.
15 Minutes after Others Started: “We’re moving, we’re moving.” I am all alone now with my thoughts. The pulse start is sending 1,500 people on their way every 90 seconds. I gradually move up 25 yards at a time. I am getting close to my dream.
34 minutes after Others Started. “Here we go.” We’re moving and it is our turn to cross the start line. “Today is Your Day” by Shania Twain is my start song in my playlist and I can say without embarrassing myself, my eyes were moist as I crossed the electronic timer pad on the street, (probably after the elite runners had finished?) I just couldn’t believe that I was in the road, not on the sidewalk. I wasn’t thinking about the 7 miles ahead of me, but the years behind me that led me to this place and time. I earned the right to cross that line with hard work, mental toughness, and the will to improve myself. My eyes are moist again as I write this paragraph five years later.
Mile 1.0 “These people are incredible.” As we ran through the early neighborhoods, the neighbors were out in full force, clapping, holding signs and shouting encouragement. For the first time I heard “way to go Eddie” (our names were on the bibs). This was such a ‘human to human’ connection: these people came out of their homes to cheer total strangers who were trying to do something ‘special.’ Especially the charity runners, the people that I was running with-we are not setting the world on fire or breaking records. We are the ones that have no business doing what we are doing, but are doing it anyway. They knew it, we knew it, and yet they cheered us as if we were Olympians. For one day, I felt like one.
Mile 2.0 “Another hill?” The first 3+ miles seemed to be all uphill. Some of it very pretty, what I could see of the scenery through sweat-caked glasses, some of it boring. No breeze, nice lighthouse, look at the harbor, no breeze. Another hill. Live music is a nice touch at each checkpoint. Cool event.
Mile 3.0 “You’re out of water? You’re kidding me?” The 3 mile checkpoint ran out of water! How can that happen? Those of us in the back needed it the most. We’ve run three miles, mostly uphill and can’t have water? No matter, I feel like a kid, and still can’t believe where I am and what I am doing.
Mile 4.0 “Hose me down.” I am definitely heating up and there is a nice man with a nice green hose he is spraying into the street. Splash. I’m wet, slightly cooler and still going. Little did I know when I signed up that during the race, at least a dozen homeowners would be misting and hosing down the runners. I don’t think I missed too hoses, based on how squishy my running shoes became.
Mile 5.0: “Look at all these people!” We are in the heart of Falmouth on one side of the harbor, running through a residential street and people are out in force. They are cheering us at the back end of this thing like we are setting records. Actually, we are. Not world records, not course records, but personal records.
Mile 6.0: “The last number I’ll see painted in the street.” Each mile marker is painted on the street in about 3,500 point font size. At least 10 feet by 5 feet. If I can make it six miles I can finish. At least that’s what the cop said to me as I moved past. I am taking two cups of water each chance I get: one to drink, and one to pour on my head. I’m soaking wet, a precise recipe of sweat and water, but I am still moving, and that’s what counts.
Mile 6.5: “Jeffrey, get me up this damn hill.” That’s what I was thinking as I approached the final hill in Falmouth Heights. Taking a left turn at the water, looking up at the last obstacle: a steep hill. I was running in memory of my cousin Jeffrey, who succumbed to Hunter’s disease when he was only 19 after fighting the good fight for many years. Funny, when I was training at home, as I ran up the last hill to my house, I just repeated the words “Falmouth, Falmouth” getting ready for this specific moment in my life. Now, I was there and repeating the words “Jeffrey, Jeffrey.” Physically I was ready for the hill. Emotionally? Well I left that to Jeffrey.
Mile 6.9: “I can see the finish line.” There will be no burst of energy, I have none left. There will be no raising of the arms in triumph as I cross, I am wiped out. But wow! I just ran from Woods Hole to Falmouth Heights in the 43rd running of the Falmouth Road Race. I ran in the same race with Olympic champions and the 2014 winner of the Boston Marathon. I ran with my brother, a co-worker, some volunteers and 12,000 strangers. There are some things that can never be taken away from you, and this was going to be one thing I would always remember.
Mile 7.0: “Champion.” As I get closer, my arms are suddenly moving up on their own and are raised like a champion as I cross the finish line in one hour and 29 minutes. My eyes are wet again. I simply cannot believe I ran 7 miles as fast as I could. I trained hard, I earned it. I thought back to all the runs before the neighborhood was awake. I thought about all the folks behind me, younger than me, and I thought about my late cousin Jeffrey who was my inspiration for this effort. I also thought of the people close to me who might wish they could run in an event like this, but cannot. As I head to the frozen yogurt bar tent about 500 yards away, I heard a couple of people talking and one said to the other, why do you run in events like this? Silently to myself, I answered the question: I run because I can.
