I vividly remember standing on Boylston Street on April 20, 2009, watching the final meters of the women’s professional race. I was new to following the elite side of the sport, but I knew enough to look for one woman expected to race up front. Her name and image were everywhere. Kara Goucher was going to contend for the win at the Boston Marathon—it was all anybody was talking about.
By the time Salina Kosgei, Dire Tune, and Goucher ran by, it was clear that Goucher was going to finish in third place, maybe 10 seconds back, but she was still charging toward the tape like she had a chance. The roar from the crowd was thunderous—so much adulation for the U.S. athlete who had given a thrilling performance. It was the best that an American woman had finished in Boston in 16 years. But looking up at the jumbotron, we could see how upset she was, visibly sobbing at the result. I could understand her disappointment, but the despair seemed excessive at the time. What did I (or anybody else) know? As it turns out, we didn’t know the half of it. We knew less.
In Goucher’s new memoir, The Longest Race, which she wrote…
