the appointed evening came, I was prepared. I had even tapered from lunch. The meal was as euphoric as finishing my first marathon. I framed the menu. As for the marathon, I was off my PR by nine minutes—one minute for each course. It doesn’t take a numerologist to see the connection.

What do you remember about the 2004 New York City Marathon? Is it Meb Keflezighi’s second-place 2:09? Is it Paula Radcliffe’s redeeming first-place finish? I was on the course that year, but I can’t even remember my time. But I remember every course at Nobu, the Japanese-Peruvian restaurant where I ate my postrace meal: Ceviche, Yellow Tail Jalapeno, Toro Tartar With Caviar, Cold Steamed Abalone, Tiradito, Broiled Black Cod With Miso, Rock Shrimp Tempura. Then came the sushi menu and, throughout, enough glistening nigiri to sate a sumo squad.

My marathon tapers have become exercises in culinary day-dreaming. As I log fewer and fewer minutes on the road, I log more and more minutes on the Internet. Instead of going through mental race preparation, I’m poring over online menus and Chowhound reviews. Instead of honing race strategy, I’m outlining a gastronomic tour of the host city with military precision. The prerace meal always causes me the most consternation. I want it to be good but, knowing my nature and weak will, not too good.

Consider last year’s Chicago Marathon. I have run Chicago twice, and I will be the first to admit it is a world-class event. But it invariably disappoints because it takes place on a Sunday, when so many fine restaurants are closed. Why, I humbly ask, do the race organizers foreclose so many postrace dinner options? That aside, I cannot tell you where the half-marathon split is in Chicago, but I can tell you exactly how many blocks it was from my hotel to an array of cafes, bistros, hot dog vendors, delis, and chocolatiers. My Boston-qualifying time, 3:15, is the number that should have been foremost on my mind. But all I could think about was 24, the astounding number of courses served with the “Tour de Force” menu at Alinea, the American temple of molecular gastronomy and site of my postrace meal.

So I face this conundrum: is it possible to make it to that fabled starting line in Hopkinton so long as I also aspire to have Michelin award my kitchen a single star? For the bistro fare I need at home—créme fraiche, lardons, macaroons—and the haute cuisine I seek out on the road aren’t going to make anyone’s list of “power foods” anytime soon. Nutrition is a fundamental part of training, I know this, and yet I must make my pie crust lighter and flakier (Hint: very cold butter).

At least once, I should adopt a more Spartan, training-friendly diet. I should sacrifice for such a worthy goal. I could try it once—train right and eat right. It would be for only 18 weeks, and it wouldn’t have to be during the holidays. Yes, I think I could do this. I think I could make a run at qualifying for Boston. I I think, I think . . . I think something’s burning in the kitchen.

Neither Snow, Nor Rain, Nor Heat…

aybe it was a late October night

When cold shadows crisply outlined Beneath the full, white moon Set his steps ever quickening in flight One more closely on the next — Quickly, quickly — On the toes Past the harvest fields Where big pumpkins waited in uneasy rows Past the woods deserted But only for his goblin thoughts Rushed — Up the final hill around the bend and down To the first lamppost And the smell of town.

Or perhaps the still, silent vision Blown coldly across his eyes Of black, bare branches Framing white against gray skies That afternoon the snow first fell As he steamed slowly up the long, park hill Seeing and hearing The force of his own breathing On the inside, In his being, And the subtle sounds of snow settling on dry leaves On the outside, In his ears.

Or quite back further yet To long white stretches Tracing a stolid sapphire sea Its surface complacent in the heat — To basking sand shimmering before his vision A simmering vision pressed into Farther, farther till he ached From the effort and the pace And the sweat and salt Crusted on his face Pressed on further… THE PLUNGE! He shook his hair and ran back in Over his own footsteps Running out at him.

Time for one more vision to float, to drift back waiting — The time is getting closer — Endless laps, how his steps would spring — Arms almost wings — Each burst fiercer than the rest Spikes biting deeply in the track Each lap a test Another wall of pain pushed through Each time around; Imagined rivals brushed aside, Run down like rabbits by a hound Then stopping . . . and the deep heaving of the chest Blood pounding in the ears . . . anoxia Anoxia knifing across the forehead. What price glory? Where’s the beer?

A sharp report! And the thing began to flow along the street Pouring like water down a sluice But shining in so many colors Rinsing loose his reveries Bringing him back to his hot feet On hard, unyielding pavement

And waves upon waves of shimmering heat Piled up to Boston.

Then he found an open patch and struggled free Sailing now, running clear Enjoying bazaar flavors of the pilgrimage In its early stages For a moment just… Then turning inward to the complex nexus Of dials and gauges in his senses Running alone amid a sea of lone runners All pushing over the winding roads And through the hoses, cups of water Girls in halters Wellesley Yelling Down to Boston.

Time is ductile, And a little can be stretched in agony To a long, fine thread. But then in retrospection The whole midsection gets compressed — A mat of recollections — And suddenly somehow You’re gliding down the last hills 43/4 Warming to the crowd 21/8 Tired, blistered feet Getting a bit nimble now 0.6 A final burst you got from nowhere brings you in… And sitting vacantly aboard the plane Looking out the window at the wing, at nothing Detached from aching limbs You realize it’s done, it’s through The cheers, the pain, the stew Satisfactions, memories Fading into nostalgia. Others sit around you