By mile six I made friends with Jo from Boston. Her third of four sons, Timmy, succumbed to leukemia when he was 8 years old. We held hands and cried together. I told her about my mentor, Team In Training buddy, and fellow Oahuan, Kit Smith. Thirty-three years ago, Kit and his wife, Margie lost their middle daughter, Patty, to leukemia. She was only 19. Kit was the reason I started running for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, and he’s the person who encouraged me to run Boston. Kit has run more than 50 marathons and he was somewhere miles ahead of me, most certainly on pace and smiling at the unending ribbon of cheering faces. And by the way, Kit is 80 years old. Jo is deeply thankful that TNT is helping in the fight against leukemia. As we said good-bye, she emotionally implored, “Hold your boys close.” The faces, sounds, smells, and activities of my two children, Diego and Santi, coalesced into a vision-feeling, and I felt empowered by their presence in my life.

As you may know, the Boston Marathon is run on Patriots’ Day. Having participated in many road races around the world, I remain astounded at the number of people, friends, and families lining the length of the course, every inch of the 26.2 miles. They were cheering, playing, grilling, smiling, and taking in the day—the event—as a confirmation of the city’s determination and dedication to one another.

This day demonstrated our natural endeavor to help make life better for others, whether they were friends, families, causes, or charities. Runners and spectators stood as one, together, to show the world that we have a lasting bond that can never be broken. We call that bond “community.”

My next friend, John from DC, was running his seventh marathon, and he was halfway through his quest to finish the six World Majors. He has completed Chicago and New York City and was now on mile 10 of Boston. “Time to go international,” he grinned and then recited his itinerary to run London, Berlin, and then Tokyo. His wife dreamed of traveling the world via the majors, but when breast cancer interrupted her plan, John promised to complete her dream for her.

4 Left to right: Karen Peesker, Joy Gayter, Vicki Vossler, the author, and Michele Tritt enjoying Boston Marathon weekend.

No upper end to the decibels

You could hear the yells, howls, and shrieks more than a mile away. I knew what was coming up: Wellesley, the two-mile scream tunnel. At this location last year, I literally ran into my friend Chris, who had paused to hug his daughter, a senior at Wellesley, and take some family photos to capture the precious occasion. This year, I too paused, and continued the long tradition of acting upon the girls’ “kiss

me” signs: Kiss me .. . I’m from Kansas City .. . I’m from Minnesota… I’m from Korea. Kiss me . . . because I’m getting married… I’m a vegan… I’m in the math department. Kiss me… I’m Irish… ’’m waiting for you… 1m

available … I’m 21. Kiss me . . . because I want to make her jealous . . . | want the record for the most kisses . . . | want you to finish . . . I want to be a princess. Kiss me…I won’t tell your wife . . . I majored in kissing . . . | want to get kissed by sweaty strangers. A hundred-thousand kisses concentrated in space-time.

My legs felt the miles, but my cheeks were on fire! The constant puckering and smiling and laughing provided an incredible maxillofacial workout. I highly recommend it! I recovered with first-time marathoner Pat, a bleached-blond 60-something Southie (a resident of South Boston), running like a rhinoceros, with purpose and power. When I asked her why she was running, her accent, forged from the proud heritage of South Boston, gave her free-flowing expletives an undeniable gravity: “Because I’m wicked strong and no one f—s with me. No one’s going to f— with us, with Bwaston. Who the f— they think theyuh messin’ with?” She raised three boys and three girls. They, along with her 17 grandchildren, came out to cheer her on. “What’s the key to raising kids?” I asked. “Luv *em, teach ’em to give more than they get, and let ’em f— up, but be there when they fall, no mattuh f—in what!”

There’s a particular sound the Boston Marathon crowd makes when the beloved duo known as Team Hoyt runs by. I know this because I experienced the sensation last year while running Heartbreak Hill. This year I heard that special sound at the beginning of the Newton Hills. Team Hoyt is more than just 73-yearold Dick supplying the forward momentum for the custom-racing wheelchair occupied by his 52-year-old son, Rick, who was born with celebral palsy. Team Hoyt is courage, pain, tenderness, sweat, devotion, achievement, collaboration, community, awareness, and inspiration. Team Hoyt is the manifestation of love. Together, they’ve finished more than 70 marathons and 1,000 endurance events, and created their own category in sports. Running next to Team Hoyt, enveloped by the positive vibrations from the adoring crowd, is an unequalled experience in my life.

Cresting Heartbreak Hill, I hear my name shouted at the top of someone’s lungs. Then I see my name in bold capital letters on a sign in the crowd. I look closer and I see Buzz! Buzz is one of my best friends; we’ve known each other

© Victah/wwwPhotoRun.net

<4 Team Hoyt continues to inspire.

for more than 25 years. She brought her entourage down from Vermont just to cheer me on. I ran toward her and we collided in a heartfelt embrace. Next I gave sweaty hugs to her sister and her wife, and several other friends. We didn’t need words. After handing me some pretzel bites and a bottle of water, they ushered me back onto the course with an abundance of smiles and love. My emotional tank was totally refilled.

At mile-marker 20, I see a woman raise her hands as far as they could reach into the sky while she shouted, “Allison!” Her multicolored singlet indicated she was with Team Dana-Farber, the Bostonbased cancer institute that had massive numbers of runners and an impressive fund-raising record. Her name was Nancy and she was from New York. She looked tired, as would anyone at this point in the course, but she also showed fierce determination. She told me it had been a particularly harsh winter for her. In addition to the vortexes that disrupted training throughout the Northeast, she lost her running mate, her best friend, her sister, to cancer. They had planned on running Boston together. I joined Nancy as we all yelled out, “Allison!” at mile 21.

Good temps for spectators

Temperatures soared into the 70s, adding another discomforting layer to the burn permeating the back of my arms, legs, and neck. Up ahead, I saw what looked like a small refreshment station, but I knew there was a good chance it was just a mirage. As I got closer, I imagined there were mountains of cold, juicy, succulent oranges. Deciding to test my perception of reality, I lunged for the glistening slices and ran into a very real person, a Frenchman in fact. Of all the wedges spread across the table, Henri and I reached for the same ones, bumped each other, and awoke from our mile-22 stupor. Looking into each other’s eyes, we laughed at the precision of our mutual nutrient needs. Grabbing a different set of oranges, we

stuck them in our mouths, sucked down the tangy liquid, and then grinned, revealing a smile of bright, dimpled peel. The crowd loved it. My French skills are so rusty that I didn’t understand a lot of what Henri was saying, but it didn’t matter. In broken French-Spanish I exclaimed, “Tu eres increible!” (you are incredible!) and “Je suis pamplemousse!\” (I am a gratefruit!) We laughed so hard my sides started to cramp. Henri gave me a double-cheek kiss and then continued to blow kisses at me as he ran ahead. Even now, as I reflect on that magical moment, it seems too good to be true. I wonder, did it really happen?

At Boston College, the topless boys/men chanted my name and pumped out beer from their trusty keg. I chugged it down.

A few miles to go: left foot, right foot. As Ido when I’m racing my boys at the go-kart track, I looked for the apex of every curve and hugged the line in order to tun as efficiently and economically as possible. On a straightaway, I caught the fleeting flash of an almost-smile from a police officer. I had just enough time— and strength—to say, “Thank you,” and hold my hand up to give him a high-five as I had done with almost every police officer, military person, and firefighter I saw along the way. I witnessed many gestures of appreciation for the thousands of police, military, medical, and other personnel, all of them vigilant in their task of keeping us safe. To the multitude of enthusiastically screaming Bostonians on both sides of the course, we shouted, “We love you, Boston!” It was amazing to be part of this energy, this pride, this affirmation of life.

When I saw the Citgo sign, I knew I was close to the finish. This was also the place where I was swept up into the chaos and mayhem of last year’s race, but that’s a separate story. Around me, runners began to falter, sway, and kneel on the asphalt, “hitting the Wall,” with the emotional rigors of running for 25 miles. I know the feeling, and it hurts because your brain doesn’t quite know how to process the unfamiliar, unreasonable signals it’s receiving from your body. I helped a few runners to their feet, sharing their fatigue, offering hushed words of encouragement or emphatic phrases of motivation so that together we could launch into our own rally.

A group of five of us turned the corner onto Boylston Street. The finish line was in sight. We grabbed arms and let our remaining electrolytes seep from our eyes. I was surprised at being overcome; my breathing became labored, painful, and deliberate.

The last quarter mile, 1,320 feet to go, aching, but savoring every step, I blew kisses to the spectators who relentlessly cheered us on. Just in front of the finish line, I stopped, raised both arms, and shaped my hands into shakas, a symbolic Hawaiian gesture of the hand. Then I crossed the finish mat and thanked everyone I could think of in that moment—nmy remarkable husband, Rich, my parents, my family, and my friends, especially the ones who joined me on this journey last year and this year.