Jeff DaRosa has spent nearly two decades making noise for a living. As a multi-instrumentalist for the Dropkick Murphys — Boston’s beloved Celtic punk institution — his world runs on packed venues, late nights, and the controlled chaos of life on tour.
This April, he’s trading the stage for 26.2 miles through the streets of Boston. And if you’d told him that ten years ago, he probably would have laughed.
A Seed Planted in 2013
The idea of running Boston didn’t arrive neatly. It crept in after the 2013 bombings, when the Dropkick Murphys performed at the Boston Strong benefit concert. Somewhere in the emotion of that moment, the marathon lodged itself in the back of DaRosa’s mind — not as a plan, more as a daydream.
“It was this weird fantasy,” he said. “Like, maybe one day.”
For years, “maybe one day” stayed exactly that. The band’s annual St. Patrick’s Day run always collided with marathon training season, making serious prep impossible. The timing never worked.
Then DaRosa turned 40, quit drinking — on Marathon Monday, of all days — and found himself wanting something he’d never really had before: structure.
“I was just a rock musician that kind of didn’t have much discipline in my life,” he said. “All I had to do was be on stage.”
Off stage, he was a father of three watching time move faster than he liked. Running became his answer.
The Pull of the Miles
He didn’t start with grand ambitions. A few 5Ks with his sister, a turkey trot, the occasional half marathon. Nothing serious. But running has a way of doing what DaRosa describes better than anyone.
“It’s kind of like a drug,” he said. “You just need a little more. You find it to be more attainable.”
Since getting sober, he’s trained through five-week tour stretches, logging miles in whatever city the band lands in. His pre-run routine is refreshingly uncomplicated: coffee, shoes, door.
“I just wake up and go,” he said. “If I think, it totally stalls me out.”
Somewhere out there on those solo runs, something unexpected happens. Mid-stride, music in his ears, his mind goes to his kids.
“The whole time, I’ll be thinking about how grateful I am for my kids,” he said. “It’s so weird.”
It isn’t weird, of course. Any runner who’s done enough miles alone knows exactly what he means. Running has a way of clearing the mental clutter that builds up everywhere else.
His First Marathon Was a Disaster. He Loved It.
DaRosa made his marathon debut at the 2024 Mesa Marathon in Arizona. By mile 15 he was limping badly, at which point an 89-year-old running beside him offered the only wisdom that really fit the moment: that’s why they call it a marathon.
He finished. Slowly. Painfully. And somewhere along the way, he figured something out.
“It’s the training that is the true — I don’t know,” he paused. “It’s where you really find out about yourself, I think.”
He also, in the process, narrowly beat Oprah Winfrey’s marathon time of 4:29:15 — a fact his friend was quick to flag.
“My friend wrote to me, ‘You beat Oprah,'” he said. “And I just laughed and laughed and laughed.”
For Boston, he’s keeping expectations sensible. He wants to beat Oprah again. Beyond that, he mostly wants to finish, and to show his kids what it looks like to work at something hard.
“Part of this experience for me is to show my kids that you work at something, and you can do it.”
Boston, Finally
This year the stars aligned. The Dropkick Murphys will be in Boston — their new split album New England Forever dropped March 17 — and for the first time, training and touring aren’t fighting each other. DaRosa is running for the Claddagh Fund, which supports those in need in the Irish-American community.
He’ll toe the start line in Hopkinton as someone who, not long ago, wouldn’t have pictured himself there. Running, he says, handed him back something the road had quietly taken. Research backs this up — regular runners don’t just feel better, they live longer, healthier lives.
“Somewhere along the line, life just started to fly by,” he said. “I just wanted to hold on closer to it.”
Come race day, there will be no soundcheck, no setlist, no crowd singing back the words. Just miles, and whatever comes up when it’s only you and the road.
“To just be present,” he said. “That’s it.”
