A mile or so later, we pass the spot in Ashland where Kathrine Switzer, a very proper college girl who became an unintentional rabble-rouser, ignited the women’s running movement by having the nerve to interlope with an official number into Jock Semple’s race in 1967. Semple’s overreaction drew a firestorm of attention to what otherwise might have become a trivia question.

A passing glance at the nearby statue of 1946 winner Stylianos Kyriakides reminds us of things far more important than “the Boston,” as everyman running philosopher Dr. George Sheehan called the race. Kyriakides was a man on a mission when he toed the line against defending champ John “The Elder” Kelley in the first post-World War II Boston. His Greek countrymen were literally starving to death in the aftermath of years of brutal Nazi occupation. . J |

“Stanley,” as Old Kelley referred to his friend, sought to use the Boston stage to publicize the plight of Greece. He carried a special note in his hand, to be read only when he finished. Running on inspiration a unicorn would envy, Kyriakides outdueled Kelley in a race for the ages. The note read “With it or on it,” a reference to the code of the ancient Greek warrior of returning from battle either with his shield or dead on his shield.

The Boston papers and national wire services relayed the suffering of the Greek people, and Americans responded with a tsunami of donations. Yes, “the Boston” does bring A Stylianos Kyriakides lays a victory smooch on John out the best in humankind. “The Elder” Kelley after Stylianos’s 1946 triumph.

Framingham, famous for trains

As we pass into Framingham, the throngs of spectators thin out for a few miles until we approach the historic Framingham train station. The first major checkpoint in the early decades of the race, it is always a welcome sight. The crowds get thick and loud again, and I envision a photo from Tom Derderian’s definitive Boston book Boston: The First Century of the World’s Premier Running Event.

The picture stuck in my head shows a well-muscled Paul de Bruyn on his way to winning the 1932 race. The muscles were earned at his job in the basement of

BAA. Photo,

the Wellington Hotel in New York City, where the German shoveled coal into a furnace all night long.

De Bruyn exemplified sportsmanship, evidenced in a photo of Gerard Cote and John Kelley in the Yonkers Marathon. The German champ, who later became an American citizen, is running alongside his rivals in long pants and dress shirt, handing them cups of water to aid their efforts.

“Bricklayer” Bill’s letter conveys the importance of these friendships forged on the field of battle. Kennedy asserts, “The handshakes and then oblivion. All we have are the good friends we make.”

It seems that every year by the time the pack reaches Framingham, I have new friends and unite with old pals not seen since the last Patriots’ Day.

Crossing the train tracks in Framingham, I laugh about the 1907 Boston, won by Tom Longboat, an Onondaga Indian from Canada. Derderian’s book describes Longboat and a lead pack of 10 narrowly beating an oncoming freight train that cut off the rest of the field for a few critical moments. “I heard it behind me and had to chuckle when I thought of the others getting shut off,” Longboat told reporters.

It’s almost guaranteed that the train won’t disrupt the event these days, so we pass into Natick unimpeded. This scenic stretch of the course features Lake

Cochituate on the left and Fiske Pond on the right, where legend has it that Ellison “Tarzan” Brown jumped into it for relief from one of Boston’s hotter days.

ANarragansett Indian from Rhode Island, Brown triumphed in 1936 and 1939. His friendship with John Kelley didn’t prevent “Deerfoot” from breaking Kelley’s heart on Boston’s most famous hill on the way to his first Boston victory.

More than once on Patriots’ Day and at other races, Brown’s running buddies paid the entry fee for the Indian, who Kelley often said was the greatest runner of that era. Brown lived much of his life in dire poverty, illustrated in his first Boston race in 1934. Tarzan’s shoes literally fell apart with nearly six miles to go, leaving him no alternative but to run barefoot to the finish.

Another legendary barefoot runner, Abebe Bikila of Ethiopia, had less success on the course. The two-time Olympic marathon gold-medalist led through Wellesley. His lead shrank to nothing as Boston’s downhills chewed him up and spit him out as he faded to fifth place, six minutes behind winner Aurele Vandendriessche of Belgium.

The siren song of the Boston is personified at our next checkpoint. At mile 12 of my first Boston, I heard a high-pitched noise in the distance and told a friend, “Man, it’s awfully early in the race for an ambulance.” As we rounded the bend, I saw and heard how wrong I was. The girls of Wellesley College were screaming

eel Mel £8) eT a i rf , HATH InILLER

The women of Wellesley College personify the siren song of the Boston Marathon.

©Victah/wwwPhotoRun.net

at full volume that day, as they are every time. The guitarist in the rockumentary This Is Spinal Tap would probably say they “go up to 11” on the volume knob.

Silencing Wellesley … maybe

A.1991 photo shows Ibrahim Hussein of Kenya jokingly putting his fingers in his ears as he passes the coeds with the …um… healthy voices. Truthfully, they are as loud as an AC/DC concert, but it is a joyful noise.

Hussein became the race’s first African champion in 1988 and repeated the feat in 1991 and ’92. Blame it on the girls.

Legend has it that the Wellesley women went absolutely crazy when Roberta Gibb passed through in 1966. After training as much as 40 miles per day, the California girl hid in some forsythia bushes near the start in Hopkinton before joining the Patriots’ Day dash and becoming Boston’s first unofficial female runner.

Gibb, like Switzer, “hadn’t intended to make a feminist statement,” she wrote in Runner’s World in June 1978. “I only wanted to do what I love to do and what challenged me.”

Nearing the halfway point in Wellesley Center, the love fest between runners and spectators continues, a much-needed boost at this point of the race. Amby Burfoot, the 1968 Boston champ, perfectly described this life-force enhancer.