2001: A Race Odyssey

a runaway success

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From Karyl’s Cook & Tell Newsletter (May 2001)

The only other runner in our family, besides my daughter Amie, was our dog, Jack, who was famous for running away when somebody left a door ajar. I think about how Jack would have loved to run alongside Amie on the run of her life last month—the Boston Marathon. And then I forget about Jack and just think about Amie.

What a thing, a race of twenty-six and two-tenths miles over what is considered the most challenging course of all the marathons! One must qualify for this one, a singular accomplishment in itself, by clocking a certain time in another, previous marathon.

Naturally, we would have to be there.

I confess that my enthusiasm for the trip to Boston and the role of spectator was not unbounded at first. I don’t really “get” running; but then, I don’t have to get anything. We’d have to be away overnight, and I am a Very Busy Person. But so what? Who isn’t? I wasn’t keen on having to scoop up this woman-child of mine, beyond exhausted, at the finish line, where we would be stationed: I have seen the faces of joggers—just jogging—and they do not look happy. But this was my daughter, the runner. And I was her mother, the mother. Of course. We must go!

By M minus one, all the clichés were clicking in. I was good to go, hot to trot, finally up to speed on enthusiasm. I figured out what I would wear (this is very important). Bought scads of peanut butter Nabs to stuff in our pockets for snacks en route. Lettered a big green “A” for Amie on a piece of matboard, to which I had stapled a five-inch star cut out of crinkled up aluminum foil, to flash in the air so she could find us. We had booked reservations for the overnight stay at a historic inn about twenty-five miles from Boston. Now I couldn’t wait to be at the scene of the hullabaloo, to welcome my daughter to the finish line, and then put my tired feet up at the old inn after “my” race.

On the day of the race, armed with Nabs—and a bottle of Poland Spring water, to get into character—we set off for Boston to perform the spectator role of our lives. The sky, which started off blue over Maine, would stay that way all day over Massachusetts, and sunshine would light the runners’ course. It was cool, perfect for a long run.

A short way past the finish line behind the Boston Public Library in Copley Square, the Family Meeting Area takes up two blocks of St. James Street, which is closed to cars for the occasion. The lampposts display signs designating the letters of the alphabet. We took up position under the W, Amie’s last-name initial. A steady, joyful noise—what must have been to the runners, the sweet sound of Boston at last, growing louder as they approached the city, filled streets and sky. Bob held our place while I patrolled the block. For two hours, runners had been crossing the finish line. Then they would walk off their exhaustion for two blocks down Boylston Street, where they were given thin, silvery mylar “blankets” to wrap themselves in, on their way to the meeting area. Turning onto Berkeley Street, they would pass long tables set up in the middle of the street, laden with bananas piled a foot high, for the runners’ taking.

Back at the sign of the W, I stood with Bob, watching and waiting, jabbing the air with my yellow-and-green “A” poster. Bob held the bouquet of pink roses I’d bought from a sidewalk peddler. Out of the jubilant crowd now filling the sidewalks and pavement, I spotted our runner walking toward us. We traded smiles of triumph and relief until she found her way to my embrace.

Amie had finished the race. A runaway success.

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Amie’s Headnotes

I was Webster then, a scant year away from marrying the guy who turned that “W” into “McG,” the same guy who trained me for my first marathon in San Francisco. “Cool weather and a postcard perfect course,” he’d told me. Never mind the relentless hills or the hottest July on record, I finished, sweat-soaked and wanting more. And in just two years, he, a two-time qualifier for Boston, helped me qualify, too, for this Holy Grail of marathons.

Years later, I still taste the stale Power Bar and the lukewarm bottle of water I washed it down with while nervously waiting at the Athlete’s Village for the race to start. Since its inception in 1897—Boston is the world’s oldest annual marathon—it’s been held on Patriots' Day, the third Monday in April. Next Monday, April 21, will mark the 250th anniversary of Patriots' Day, a state holiday in Massachusetts and Maine commemorating the start of the American Revolutionary War. I have some thoughts (many, actually) on this convergence of events in relation to the current state of national affairs. But for now, I’ll just share the best running advice ever from Rollie, my coach-now-husband of twenty-three years: Put one foot in front of the other and repeat.

It works for everything.

The couple that trains together remains together: between the two of us, we've completed 31 marathons, 10 ultramarathons and 8 triathlons.

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This isn’t quite like my mom’s peanut butter Nabs, but if you love peanut butter as much as my household (quadrupeds included), or are carbo-loading for a race, or just plain going nuts, here’s a super cinchy, lightly sweet snack perfect for breakfast, brunch or afternoon tea.

PEANUT BUTTER BREAD

• nonstick cooking spray

• 1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour

• 1 teaspoon baking soda

• 3/4 teaspoon salt

• 1 cup buttermilk

• 2/3 cup creamy peanut butter

• 1 cup packed brown sugar (I used dark, either works)

• 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

• 2 large eggs

Preheat oven to 350°F. Line an 8x4x2-inch loaf pan with parchment paper, letting paper overhang the long sides by about an inch. Coat with nonstick spray.

In a small bowl whisk together flour, baking powder and salt; set aside.

In a large bowl whisk together buttermilk, peanut butter, brown sugar, melted butter and the egg. Add flour and stir until combined. Transfer to prepared pan.

Bake 50 to 55 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool in pan on a wire rack 10 minutes. Remove from pan and cool completely on the wire rack. For easier slicing, wrap and store cooled loaf overnight before serving. The loaf's texture will be more evenly moist and less crumbly.

recipe credit: bhg.com

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Delicious Bits

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In it for the long run,

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