The Boston Marathon Race Recap

I was so nervous about this race – three months of training, four long-haul flights, and ten hotel nights were on the line. After last year’s DNS at London due to injury, I kept bracing for a repeat. But this time, no drama: I was healthy, the training had gone well, and here we were in Boston.

We hit the expo on Friday morning. Thanks to jet lag, we were up early and arrived just before the doors opened. The bib pickup was quick and painless, I had mine within 10 minutes.

The expo itself, though, was a bit of a let-down. The only running-related vendors were Adidas and Maurten. I had my heart set on one of those iconic Boston jackets with the embroidered logo on the back, but to my dismay, they switched to a screen-printed design in 2024. Not only did it look cheaper, it felt cheaper – yet it came with a price tag of $120. Hard pass. Instead, I picked up a running tank – I will probably end up wearing it a lot more than a jacket anyway.

On Saturday and Sunday we figured out the logistics. We scouted the start line in Hopkinton, tested the commuter train to Boston and toured the finish line on Boylston Street. I also got a glance of Heartbreak Hill, which didn’t look too bad (HAHA!).

We stayed in Milford, which is about 8 minutes by car from the start. The hotel (a Holiday Inn Express) was packed with runners and their entourages, which gave it a great pre-race buzz.

On race day, I woke up at 5am, even though my wave didn’t start until 10.20. No chance of sleeping in! We had breakfast at 6am (I had a bagel with honey) with a breakfast roomful of jittery runners. It was like a nervous beehive!

At 8am, Kai dropped me near Hopkinton, where shuttle buses took us to the Athletes’ Village.

The organisation was flawless. Herding 30’000 nervous runners with unpredictable bladders is no easy task, but you could tell that Boston has been doing this for nearly 130 years: I’ve never seen so many portapotties in my life!

We sat on the grass in the sun and waited. The vibe was one of “quiet excitement”. Some were sitting in groups and chatting nervously, others were sitting quietly and trying to focus on what lay ahead.

Finally, Wave 1 with 8’000 runners was called at 9.15am. Twenty minutes later, Wave 2, my turn. We walked the half-mile to the start and past yet another impressive row of portapotties (Boston really knows runners!!). Of course, EVERYBODY went again for a last nervous wee.

Corral 7 for me – with my bib 15’785, I was smack in the middle of the field. I looked around and was happy to see a good amount of young women around me. Hard to imagine that there was a time when women couldn’t run this race!

And then – finally – we were off! The first 10K was mostly downhill and felt like flying. I was actually running Boston!

The course was packed, though. Overtaking needed real focus. I slowly weaved my way through the runners, hoping that the cluster of runners would disperse at some point.

I’d planned to see Kai at the 10K mark in Framingham, and sure enough, there he was! I stopped for a quick sticky gel kiss and pushed on. Next time I’d see him would be at the finish.

But I was never alone. Boston shows up for its runners. The cheering never stopped—kids handing out orange slices, DJs blasting music, locals offering paper towels and popsicles and beer. It felt like one long street party, and we were the parade.

I hit halfway in 1:37. Not quite on pace for 3:15, and the hills were still ahead. I adjusted my expectations and locked in on sub-3:20.

Then came the famous Wellesley scream tunnel. We heard the high-pitched cheering long before we saw the college girls. Their joy was infectious, their energy electric. How do they keep that up for hours? I wondered who had the harder job – me running a marathon or them screaming through one?

Speaking of hard jobs: mine was starting to feel very hard. By kilometre 25, my glutes were on fire, my quads were screaming. I couldn’t imagine doing another 17km. And then – just in time – we hit the FOUR Newton Hills. Oh no.

Right then, in the middle of my crisis, I passed a spectator holding up a sign that read “One day you will not be able to do this. Today is not that day.” Boom. That was exactly what I needed. Keep going!

Another thing that helped tremendously: the timing mats. Every time I crossed one, I imagined the little ping going out across the globe – to my parents in Zurich, to family and friends in the US, Canada, Europe and South Africa, all watching those splits roll in. Keep going!

Heartbreak Hill was the last of the four hills and it lived up to its name. At the top, the organizers had kindly put up a giant sign declaring victory. Reaching the top felt like a dream. From there, it was fortunately all downhill.

My heart jumped for joy when I saw the iconic Citgo sign in the distance. That beacon of hope! I knew the finish wasn’t far now. The crowds were reaching fever pitch, lining the streets in full celebration mode. It was impossible not to be pulled along by the energy.

I turned onto Hereford, then made the final turn onto Boylston Street. And there it was: the finish line. That legendary blue and yellow banner I’d seen in photos a hundred times before. The crowd noise was deafening, the energy off the charts. I gave whatever I had left and crossed the line, arms up, heart full.

3:18:21. Not a PR, but faster than Berlin, my qualifying race. After the DNS heartbreak of London, it felt like a full-circle moment. This time, my body had shown up. I had made it to the start, and I had made it to the end.

After the finish line, I found Kai and hugged him – sweaty, salty, happy. This dear man deserves his own medal for crewing through it all with patience, good humour, and steady support.

We battled our way to the train station. As we sat in the train with the other runners it struck me again what a privilege it was to be part of this. Boston is more than just a race. It’s a runner’s pilgrimage. A celebration of grit, history, and human stubbornness.

Thank you, Boston! You were worth every step.