Take 10 and Reach the Boston Marathon

By Norman Marcotte

All it took was those simple words: "You should go watch." These started a 10-year journey of running and triathlon that ultimately ends with the most famous marathon, the Boston Marathon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781312894358

Book preview

Take 10 and Reach the Boston Marathon

Take 10 and Reach the Boston Marathon

Copyright © 2014 by Norman Marcotte.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

ISBN  978-1-312-89435-8

www.runraces.ca

Cover photo: Jennifer MacDonell

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the people who were impacted

by the bombings during the 2013 Boston Marathon.

Acknowledgement

Completing any endeavor, being in sports or writing a book, is never accomplished alone.  I would like to acknowledge the support of my wonderful wife Jennifer MacDonell in the production of this book, but mostly through years of training as she provided encouragement, guidance and wonderful company on those long cold winter runs.  Before Jennifer, my sister Sonia Marcotte had always been there to support my whims and extravagancies, and she still does by, for example, spending time reviewing this book.  My parents, Yvette Marcotte and Gaston Marcotte, have always made me believe that anything was possible and through their teachings and support, I feel satisfied with my achievements in the athletic realm and other aspects of life.  My children, Catherine, Nicholas and Carolina, have provided a perspective on life that cannot come any other way than by being a parent.  I hope that what I have learned, they can learn quicker through our interactions.  Lastly, I would like to thank everyone in the running and triathlon community that have interacted with me since the beginning.  Runners and triathletes are simply wonderful genuine people that make participating in those sports so damn enjoyable.

Preface

After more than 20 years of producing sweat by training and competing in road races and triathlons, I figured it was time to pour out my life on paper and capture my story.  Not that my story is particularly exciting, but simply because it is mine.  The reasons for capturing my journey in a book format are two-fold.  One reason is that I have always wanted to be a published author. In Grade 12, my English class teacher was a great source of motivation for me as she encouraged me to explore my creativity through writing.  A couple of times in her class, we were instructed to write short stories.  One day, I wrote the ephemeral tale of an unfortunate butterfly merrily flittering from flower to flower until it gets chased by a young boy.  The butterfly meets its maker under the gigantic and unforgiving shoe of the thoughtless lad.  Another story concerned a daring snowflake surfing an avalanche. 

During another one of her classes, she assigned us the thought provoking and futuristic homework of writing our obituary.  Although the full content of my so-called life escapes me, I do remember stating that I would write two books.  I have already written one training book called Plan on Running Your Best, self-published in 1997 and 2012.  This soft-cover manual captured training principles that I still use for myself and for the people I coach.  The first production run was for 25 copies of which I sold four, making me the third best selling author in my family after my father Gaston and my sister Roxanne who have both published real non-fiction books through real publishers.  The remainder of the initial run of copies is still in a box at home; if anyone is interested, the price is still $15 per manual.  I do have the manual available online.  I hope that the hundreds of hits the website received indicate that more people were inspired and informed through the electronic version than through the paper copy. 

This athletic journey through words forms the second book predicted by my obituary thus preventing people from calling me a dreamer.  I can now die in peace knowing that I accomplished what I set out to do.  This book is different than my first one and more like a story.  I have many times considered writing the great Canadian horror novel, as I was a great fan of Stephen King.  However, the one time I was serious about putting words down on paper, the cast of characters I wanted to include in my novel started to create great confusion in my mind.  I was losing track of who the characters were, what they had done and how they were suppose to behave.  I quickly realized that a 300 word short story is nothing like writing a 60,000 word novel.  I figured it might be easier to concentrate on something and someone that I have intimate knowledge of and that I can remember.

The second reason for completing this book is that I enjoyed my journey as an athlete and I have so many fond memories of the experiences I have gathered along the way that I do not want to forget them.  Capturing the anecdotes, thoughts and feelings on my way to running the Boston Marathon would create a record that I could enjoy in the future.  I also hope that through my experiences, lessons I have learned over the course of my first decade of intense physical activity will emerge and provide guidance to others who have not yet encountered the situations described here. 

A person’s life has many facets.  While true biographies attempt to cover most aspects of a person’s life, this is not a biography but a journey into the athletic side of my life.  Components of life such as work, family, love, or education are only peripheral to the book’s main theme of athletic pursuit.  What is presented here is how I recalled events, although reality might not always have proceeded exactly the same way.  Having covered so many kilometers and run so many races, individual experiences sometimes get blurred.  Moreover, to mitigate the impact of the possible unintentional errors in facts some of the names have been modified to protect the innocent.

I did not start out my athletic life aiming for the Boston Marathon.  Like any journey with many twists and turns, the goal of competing in the Boston Marathon weaved into my life at various moments.  Throughout this book, the Boston Marathon is rarely the main focus, but every experience in some way led to the final outcome in Boston.

Chapter 1 – The Seeds of Growth

As a kid, I was considered as somewhat of a runt.  I was lean and usually the second shortest boy in my class.  Luckily for me, I could count on having at least one boy in my class who was more vertically challenged than I was.  One of the reasons I was smaller than most was that I was slightly younger than my classmates.  I was born in November and you had to have the right age before September 30th to start school.  Normally I would have had to wait 10 months pass my birthday before starting school.  Wanting to get me scholastically going as soon as possible, my mother enrolled me in a private school.  I cannot figure out how she obtained the money for this privilege, as money was a little hard to come by.  My parents had recently separated and I lived with my mother and two sisters.  My mother was a nurse and, in those days, nursing was more of a vocation than a profession so she was not highly remunerated.  I am sure she made many sacrifices to provide me this early start in my education.  I am also very grateful as it allowed me to closely follow my two sisters who were one and two years ahead of me.

Being one of the smallest in the class never really bothered me and I do not believe I have an issue with it.  Just don’t ask me how tall I am!!!  Well, OK, I am 5 feet, 7 and ¾ inches.  Excuse the use of the imperial system as I still cannot internalize my height in centimeters, which is actually 172 cm.  The ¾ inch is important as it makes me a quarter of an inch taller than my sister Sonia, but still three inches shorter than my other sister Roxanne.  My mother was only 5 feet 4 inches and my dad was 5 feet 11 inches.  I never fretted about my height as other attributes compensated, and not where you might think.  For one, I was terribly bright, if I may say so myself.  I was always at the head of my class till the last year of my bachelor’s degree where one person was ahead of me.  I attributed this last year anomaly to the fact that the person was completing his degree over five years while I was finishing mine in four like everyone else.  While growing up, I was often referred to as The Brain, yet I was not maliciously teased about it.  The favorable treatment I received was probably not because of my intellect but most likely because I was such an adorable child.  I was as cute as a button in my younger days which helped in getting the attention of my teachers and girls. 

Another compensation for my height was my swiftness.  I was quick as a rabbit, a bit like the loner in the Bill Murray comedy, Meatballs.  In the movie, Bill Murray takes a young reserved boy under his wings and goes on training runs with him once in a while.  As the boy gets ready to compete in the most important cross-country race of the summer camp, Bill tells him that he can beat the bigger boys if he thinks like a wabbit and runs swiftly like a wabbit.

In grade school, my speed was of the sprint kind and my swiftness was a personal source of pride.  This was useful when I was growing up in Kapuskasing playing my favorite game, Tag.  I felt slightly superior when I could outrun or out-maneuver someone who was chasing me.  Kapuskasing, or Kap as we used to call it, was a small largely francophone town of about 10,000 people situated in Northern Ontario.  My mother had moved there from Montreal in 1971 with me and my sisters to get away from my father and to get closer to her brother.  My parents had separated two years earlier when I was six.  As my mom was a nurse, her brother was able to get her a job in a clinic.  There were few distractions in Kap, with no big malls where kids could hang out and only two movie screens.  We played outside all the time no matter the weather, from 30°C in the summer to minus 20 in winter.  Even though I was only seven years old when we moved there, we roamed the streets with impunity, free of the fears that we would be nabbed at every street corner.  We were also not bombarded by today’s constant focus on material wealth and the latest trends in toys and gadgets.

After school, a few of the neighborhood kids would gather around our house in the gravel parking lot.  Our house was the corner unit of three town-homes that we were renting from the owner of the restaurant located beside our unit.  Our yard was made up of the parking lot of the restaurant.  The back of the house had a lane with properties on the other side of the lane. We played the TV game, which was a variation on the game of Tag.  All you needed was dirt on the ground and a stick of wood; no need for an app on your mobile phone.  After a few rounds of eeny, meeny, miny, moe, the last remaining fist was selected as the tagged TV Producer.  In the dirt, the Producer formed the shape of a television, with buttons and antennas.  That was way back when you actually used the buttons to change the channels and when you had to adjust the antenna to get the proper reception for the two television stations that were available.  Both stations were Canadian Broadcasting Corporation or CBC TV stations, one in English, the other in French.

One evening after school, in the sandy TV screen, a friend who was selected to be the Producer, marked with a high-tech wooden stick the initials of a TV show: W.W.O.D.  As no one could figure this out, the Producer mentioned that this was an English show.  No responses.  The show was shown on Sunday at 6 pm.  No need for more details about the plot or the actors for this one, I knew the answer.  "Wonderful World of Disney" I shouted and off I went running as the Producer started to chase me.  I ran around the tree in our front yard, twisted and turned a few times, ran around a parked car and lunged for the TV screen before the Producer could catch me.  I was safe and the Producer had to select another TV show and try to catch someone again.

When we got bored with TV Tag, it was time for Kick the Can.  A small old tin can was found and placed in the middle of the parking lot.  We were lucky that the traffic was very light with cars only coming around supper time for the restaurant.  This time we used the one potato, two potato counting rhyme to select the poor bastard who would hide his or her eyes.  Once, my sister’s friend who lived across the street from us on top of the convenience store, was the chosen one so she started to count to 20 while everyone else scattered to find a hiding spot. There were some great areas to hide in this neighborhood.  Beside our neighbor’s back entrance, there was a small enclosure for large garbage cans.  I squeezed behind the garbage and waited patiently holding my nose because of the smell.  I listened for the Counter as she searched for us.  I saw her approach.  I held my breath hoping that she would continue without exploring my hiding spot.  As she passed, I tried to squeeze back out from behind the garbage cans without getting caught.  Unfortunately my movement moved the garbage; the Counter heard the noise and turned back.  Too late, I was out and started sprinting towards the tin can.  As I reached the can, I let it fly with a swift kick; I was safe.  The Counter would have to find another loser to replace her.

In winter, Kapuskasing felt like the snow capital of the world and playing tag was much more fun and safe as you could really let yourself go loose without fear of damaging yourself if you tumbled.  The knowledge of a soft impact gave me the confidence to use a technique that was very effective at allowing me to catch people.  While chasing someone, I might not have been able to actually grab them, but with a well timed kick, I could hit the lagging leg of someone while they were running and make the leg rotate behind the other one causing the person to lose balance.  My friends would then twirl and end up with their butt in the snow.  I always got a kick out of that; it made me feel just a bit superior when I could pull this stunt.

****************************************

The first year we were in Kapuskasing, my mother enrolled me and my sisters in figure skating.  That outcome was positive for one of my sisters, Roxanne, who kept it up for many years and became quite skilled even competing provincially.  In my case, after spending the first session repeatedly falling while attempting a sitting duck on the ice which consisted of crouching down and raising one foot off the ice, I figured skating was not for me (pun intended).  One might wonder why I did not take up hockey instead, as the winters were long in Kapuskasing and my dad taught hockey as a Phys. Ed. Professor at Laval University.  He even had his own successful hockey school.  Unfortunately, I had a little problem: I did not know how to skate.  After my parents separated, I never really spent much time with my dad who would have been the obvious person to teach me.  I could not learn from my mother as she did not know how to skate either.  Moreover, I had a great fear of embarrassing myself and falling on my ass repeatedly was just too hard on my ego amongst other things.  I also suspected that my mother could probably not really afford the full hockey gear, although she did try to offer as many opportunities as she could.

The next summer, my mother enrolled me in lacrosse, a popular sport in Kapuskasing.  I was a bit of an intellectual with my eyes in many books and I played many games with my sisters and friends, but lacrosse was the first and only official organized team sport I participated in.  Being exposed to this dynamic team sport, lacrosse became my favorite activity.  I loved the simplicity of the game as it did not involve equilibrium on a thin slice of metal, yet there was an element of adroitness as you had to keep the ball in control in the pouch.  It also involved running, which I loved.  Every week, I would walk the two blocks over to the arena with my army canvas bag over my shoulder and go to the change room.  I would then put my shoulder pads on, my foam waist protector and my green team jersey on top of all that.  I actually looked muscular with all the padding!  My helmet would then go on my head and I would slip my gloves on.  Picking up my wooden stick with the leather mesh pouch oiled to perfection, I would march towards the concrete surface. 

Despite the professional look, my performance in lacrosse showed I was not a particularly gifted athlete.  As a small nine-year old and not terribly aggressive, the coach thought it better to put me on defense.  It did not matter that I rarely had the opportunity to attempt a goal; I still loved the feel of the game and of being able to control the ball, of trying to out-maneuver your opponent, or preventing one from getting to your net.  I would be very diligent during the practices and I would spend hours throwing the ball against the wall of the restaurant beside our place.  Although practice does not really make perfect, it is truly the only way to improve.

My personal proudest moment as a lacrosse player happened during one late season game at the end of the second half.  I was still covering my regular position of defense but I suddenly got hold of the ball by gently tapping the underside of an opponent’s stick.  The ball bounced out of the sack.  I picked it up and ran with my little legs towards the opposing net.  I came from the left and saw the goaltender in full gear.  He was the older brother of the girl in my class that I had a crush on.  As I got close, I flung the hard rubber ball to his right and it slipped in between the post and his hip.  That was my first and ever goal in a game.  I was ecstatic even though deep down I knew that he was goofing off a bit and he probably let the goal go through as the opposing team was winning by a large margin.

One critical reason that first year of lacrosse was so enjoyable was attributed to our wonderful coach.  He cared for his players no matter the talent level.  As I did not have a father close by, I often looked at male figures for support and he was one of them.  He would encourage everyone.  He made sure every player had an equal chance to participate.  The team really bonded under his guidance.  He was a tall and skinning man in his fifties with white hair.  He had a warm smile that inspired trust.  I really knew he valued kids when after the season was over, he invited me, the single-goal lacrosse player, to join a team that would go for a tournament away from home.  My mother felt comfortable sending me, but the timing conflicted with a trip to see my dad and I could not join them.  That was a great disappointment.

My second year of lacrosse was not so pleasant.  Our beloved coach retired from his volunteer duties and was replaced by the father of the best player on the team.  Putting it mildly, the boy was a ball hog and his father, the coach, would encourage him in this selfish practice.  Needless to say I did not get to play as much or even touch the ball much so I lost interest.  In addition, after the season, late in the summer, a friend and I decided to go practice in the arena.  We could gain access to the arena almost anytime as one day while exploring our neighborhood and just testing things out, my sisters and I tried our house key in the lock for the arena.  Lo and behold, the key turned and we were in.  Our exploration was quite interesting that day as we had free roam of