(And what | learned from it)

OSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, April 20, 2009—1 like a book to surprise me.

The best movies are when I know little going in. I detest reviews and other

people’s opinions before the fact. The odd part is that once I’m through an experience, all I want to do is read about it and relive it with someone who experienced the same thing.

I was talked into becoming a runner when I was in my 30s. I was persuaded to start entering races a year later. I ran my first marathon when I was 43 and qualified for the Boston Marathon at the age of 45. I had convinced myself from the start that the goal of just qualifying for Boston was the important achievement, that it didn’t necessitate heading north. Once I qualified, friends pressed me to go. You have to experience the Boston Marathon. (heard them. They were overselling. I already knew too much about the event, and if I chose to go, this knowledge would tarnish the reality. Runners who ran Boston were too religious when they talked about it. No race is that good. I finally decided to go because I qualified. That’s it.

I went to run and come home a cynic. Turns out I was wrong.

Sunday, April 19: 1:30 p.m.

My friend Greg and I are near Boston. The ride from Haddonfield, New Jersey, near Philadelphia, is surprisingly smooth. Four and a half hours of talking about our kids, our lives, and Boston makes the ride go quickly. Greg is coming to help. We’ ve been friends for over a decade, since our daughters met at the swim club. They became friends in the baby pool and, in turn, Greg and I became friends in the baby pool. He is the one who persuaded me to run. It’s his fault I took up running, and it’s his fault we’re on our way to Boston.

Greg made the trip to Boston last year to run with some other friends, so he knows the ropes. He has recently become an ultramarathoner. He can’t get his per-mile time down enough to qualify for Boston, but he can run 50 miles in a day and live to talk about it. He has completed over a dozen marathons and a half-dozen events that exceed 26.2 miles, all within the last five years. In my opinion he is nuts. To him, Boston represents a type of runner whom he respects and identifies with. The plan is for Greg to keep me company, get me to the expo and the race, and then meet me at mile 20 and run as a bandit the rest of the way in. Most important, after the race, Greg will drive me home.

Among the many things we have been discussing about Boston is the apparel. He explains to me, again, how I’m going to purchase an official Boston Marathon jacket. I laugh him off, again, saying I own plenty of jackets. The free T-shirt that comes with my $100 entry fee is enough for me.

“You don’t get it,” he says, “everyone buys the jacket.”

“You don’t have the jacket,” I say.

“Because I can’t buy it, I didn’t qualify.”

“They won’t let you?”

“No, it’s just not right. You qualified, so you need to buy the jacket.”

“You run ultramarathons and care about this way more than I do. If anyone is entitled to pay for a jacket, it’s you, not me”

“You’ll see,” he says, and we listen as the GPS directs us to the prerace expo at the Hynes Convention Center in downtown Boston.

Sunday, April 19: 2:00 p.m.

We round the corner about a mile from the Hynes Convention Center, and it begins to click. Crossing streets in all directions, on sidewalks, passing storefronts, I see them: my compatriots, my fellow runners, the qualifiers. What strikes me first is not what I had expected. Yes, I anticipated the fittest of the fit. I visualized the slender bodies of extreme distance runners, that near-gaunt look that sometimes gets mistaken for malnutrition. I foresaw the energetic paces, the sun-tinged skin. What I didn’t expect was a sea of royal blue.

Greg was right. They all buy the damn jacket. And they all wear it, teamed with the yellow prerace bag filled with bib number, sneaker computer tracking chip, maps, and free samples. The registered runners for the 113th Boston Marathon look like hypnotized teammates all wearing the same uniform. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m not a uniform guy. I hate teams that show up with matching sweats and bags and gear. But this year’s colors are royal blue and yellow and the mascot is a unicorn, and there is something about the way they mingle that makes even me want to be one of the team.

We park the car, ascend a few escalators, flash my confirmation card, and we’re in. At first look the Boston Marathon expo is not unique. I recognize the vendors: adidas, Crocs, PowerBar, North Face. The hawkish demeanor of the ubiquitous booth attendant is a mainstay at these venues. What is different is the feeling inside the place. All of these people are modest overachievers. There is an underlying humility in the room. It’s a quiet mutual-admiration society of runners. Walking into this room, you no longer have to prove anything to anyone. By association and qualifying time, you are one of the flock. I quickly get in line and shell out 80 bucks for the jacket.

Sunday, April 19: 2:45 p.m.

We’ ve lapped and dissected the expo a few times, and I’m starting to feel a bit restless. I’m undertrained for the race tomorrow, so undertrained that I’ve decided, uncharacteristically, to run soft. My qualifying time of 3:24 was earned at the Philadelphia Marathon. For that race I trained with a few fellow teachers and prepared by running Philadelphia’s Broad Street Run, the Philly Distance Run, the Ben Franklin Bridge run, a few 5Ks, a consistent schedule of four-mile Cooper River runs, and long weekend runs along the Wissahickon, three of which were over 20 miles. In short, for Philadelphia, I was prepared.

Last November, after the Philly Marathon, I finally let myself get talked into registering for Boston. Since then, my training has included no races, a few short runs a week, one good eight-mile run two weeks ago, and a 10-mile (1:45) run one week ago. In short, for Boston, I was dead in the water.

It is an unsettling feeling to be confronted with failure before you even start. But walking through this expo, I begin to realize that Boston isn’t about set times, specific paces, or personal bests. Greg keeps saying, “You’re here, you made it already,” and as I listen to him and to the pieces of conversations of the thousands of runners we pass discussing shorts, tights, gels, gloves, and hills, I convince myself that running a nine-minute-mile pace is within my ability and somewhere in my muscle memory. My game plan will be to make it to mile 20, find Greg, and hope to hell he can gut me through the rest. I’ve accepted that I’m undertrained, which in any other event would anger me. But this is a happy place, and instead of shooting for 3:30, I’m giddy about setting my sights on four hours even.

We turn to exit, and just getting into chairs behind a long table with four piles of posters are four world-class runners. It’s an adidas-sponsored autograph signing. For a moment I imagine I’m one of them. I grew up wanting to be a professional ice hockey player. Now I coach a high school hockey team. When I played in high school and college, running always seemed a punishment, never an activity. What kind of crazy would make athletes choose the punishment as their sport? These were those people: professional runners. Tomorrow won’t be an off day for

lan Dobson and National Champion
Carrie Tollefson sign posters at the expo.

them. For these runners the Boston Marathon is the World Series, the Super Bowl, and the Stanley Cup. It clicks again. I will never play in any of those events, but tomorrow I will be running with the pros, starting and, I hope, finishing the same course, the same day. I quickly seize the moment, get in line for each runner’s autographed poster, and ask them to sign them for my daughter. Troll them up, secure each one with a rubber band, and delicately push them into my official yellow bag.

We left the expo amid endless crowds of runners. I was warming up to being in Boston but trying to hold on to that part of me that still distrusted the hype. Leaving the Convention Center, I started coming down from my runner’s high. Tomorrow’s reality would soon kick in and, stride for stride, the 26 miles in Boston would be pretty much the same abysmal, unnecessary assault on my body as the other marathons I’ve run. I suggested to Greg that we find a sports bar to watch the Flyers playoff game.

Sunday, April 19: almost 4:00 p.m.

T hate trying to figure out what to eat and drink the day before a marathon. I’ve attempted to read the tips in Runner’s World magazine (old issues that Greg insists on dropping off at my house), but after I read them I either can’t recall what they said or realize they basically say things I can’t do. Who buys figs? I scan the Champs menu and imagine that other runners in Boston right now are noshing on homemade protein bars laced with GNC supplements while I mull over the prerace effects of chili versus a buffalo chicken sandwich. What I’m really dying for is a beer, and even though I’m 100 percent convinced that one beer at 4:00 p.m. the day before the marathon will have zero impact on maintaining a nine-minute-mile pace, I panic when the waiter arrives and order cheeseburger sliders with no toppings and a tall glass of water.

My 17-year-old son texts me from home. He is watching the NHL playoff game with a large spread of wonderfully spicy food. All I can think about is the

12-pack of Bud Lime in my refrigerator five hours south. I squint across the bar at the lone TV showing the hockey game. The rest of the seemingly thousands of larger flat screens are showing an inconsequential April baseball game between the BoSox and Orioles—another reminder that we’re really in Boston. I say to Greg, “Everyone at home is watching the game in HD on my big screen.”

“Shh, I think someone just scored,” he says, half listening to me. “It’s hard to tell who it was from here.”

Sunday, April 19: 5:30 p.m.

We leave Champs as the second period of the hockey game comes to a close. I’m feeling a bit depressed now about the scene and the circumstances. I have seen the pinnacle of runner’s heaven and, I admit, it was nice. I bought the jacket. But I’m just not that passionate about the marathon thing, and without real passion, even the anticipation of something as otherworldly and mythical as the Boston Marathon experience can’t shake my senses of fear and gloom. All in all, I think I would rather be home. I look at Greg and wonder what I am missing. He did this last year, and he is not even officially running. He is a bright guy, particularly if you ignore the whole ultramarathon thing. There must be a substantial element that I’m not seeing.

We have time to kill. The last-minute arrangements I made are for Greg and me to sleep at my wife’s cousin’s house in Cambridge, but we’re not due there until 8:00 p.m. I suggest we find a different place and catch the end of the game.

“You sure you want to walk around so much?” he asks.

“Sure, it’s only a few blocks.” My mind spins to the protein-bar-eating SOB my age who is running tomorrow and is soaking in a hot tub in the luxury hotel behind us.

We end up at a darker version of the same place we were at before but, surprisingly, the hockey game is being shown on one of the larger screens. Luckier still, a set of bar stools opens up and we have a clear view of the game. Sufficiently removed from marathon pomp, I’m thinking more clearly and order a Blue Moon draft and a bowl of New England clam chowder. I’m not sure whether Greg is dubious or relieved about my order. All I know is he orders a Yuengling, and we settle down to watch the Flyers win.

Sunday, April 19: 8:00 p.m.

It’s human to endure emotional swings, which might explain my roller coaster of emotions prior to this marathon. As Greg and I visit with my wife’s cousin Jeff and his wife Nicky and learn how not to wake the baby and where to find the bath towels, I’m once again enchanted with the singularity of the Boston race.

Moments ago Greg and I were walking through Harvard Square. I had the idea of possibly replacing my worn Harvard Hockey baseball cap that I plan on wearing for the run and wanted to go to the Coop. Once inside the store I saw the new, unbroken-in cap on the shelf, and I realized there was no way I was not going to wear the original—too many sentimental attachments; it definitely would not be a good sign. However, even in Harvard Square, a good 15 miles from Race Central, there was still a vibe. It was hard to look in any direction and not see a runner, a blue jacket, a teammate.

Even those not running were in some form of preparation for the race. Scores of volunteers would be performing thankless tasks. Bus drivers, lots of them, would need to head out by 4:00 A.M. to form the line of yellow school buses that would transport 30,000 runners to the starting line. Scores of college students— BUers, the BC crews, Babson kids, Tuftsers, Northeasterners, the MIT folks, and the Wellesley girls—were already celebrating, hosting parties, and making signs. The well-oiled machinery that enables 500,000 spectators to view an event with 30,000 participants and 5,000 volunteers is mind-boggling both on the surface and on the spreadsheets. More than an annual pride fest, the Boston Marathon is surely part of the city’s economic vitality and urban commerce. It is a piece of what makes Boston Bahston. It’s Mardi Gras on the Charles, this 113-year-old

event. We made some more small talk with Jeff and Nicky, and I began thinking about laying out my race clothes.

Monday, April 20: 1:00 a.m.

We got to bed early, but now I’m awake, and my cell phone is telling me that I was legitimately asleep for about two hours. Greg is sound asleep across the dark room in a sleeping bag on top of the hard wood floor. I’m awake in a comfortable queen-size bed. I have no intention of offering to switch with him. It is not lost on me that while my friend is impressive in his ability to run endlessly, hearing him snore and knowing the only thing between him and the hard pine floor is a half-inch of down feathers, I’m now more impressed with his sleeping achievement. I am also aware that he is here to help me, yet I’m in the bed and he’s on the floor, and he’s still more comfortable than I am. I shake off my concern for him and begin a full-out, internal, mental prerace breakdown. My middle-of-thenight anxiety list goes something like this:

¢ I didn’t train for this.

¢ I’m not going to finish.

¢ Too many people are checking my time on the Internet.

¢ T’manass.

¢ Thate to run.

¢ I didn’t train for this.

¢ Why the hell am I here?

¢ Why did I eat sliders?

¢ Ihave to go to the bathroom but don’t want to wake up the baby.

¢ I didn’t train for this.

¢ How could I drink that beer?

¢ Ireally have to go to the bathroom.

Most rational adults know that any middle-of-the-night thought is embellished 1,000 percent. The overwhelming problems that keep us from sleeping at night usually seem absurd in the morning. But right now I’m nowhere near a rational adult. I’m an immature child who needs a hug and reassurance and a bathroom. My only choice is to text my wife.

I’ma fraud, I don’t want to be here.

I don’t expect her to text back. I know my wife, and I’m certain that she has been happily sleeping for hours. The text I send is for when she wakes up. It’s a mind game I play where I transfer all of my anxiety to her. I imagine her reading the text when she gets up and feeling really bad for me and wishing she had not slept through my moment of need. She has already talked me through many experiences like this, and I have her motivational speeches memorized. If she had been awake she would have said, Relax—you always get uptight and come through and are glad in the end you took on the challenge. She would be right, of course, at least based on past practice. So I sort of feel better and sort of feel hugged. But the truth is I still really have to go to the bathroom, but I don’t want to wake the baby. The choice is pretty simple. There is no way I’m getting back to sleep without hitting the john, and even if it means an entire household having to endure the terrorizing wails of a startled infant, ultimately I calculate that the kid and everyone else will eventually settle back down. It’s the goddamned Boston Marathon and if it means waking up Greg, my wife’s cousin, his wife, and baby Georgia, it’s a chance I have to take. I tiptoe out of the guest room.

Monday, April 20: 1:10 a.m.

There must be a god. Sneaking my way out the door, into the unfamiliar hallway, past the baby’s door, and into the bathroom was a lesson in ballet. The entire experience gave me newfound confidence. The last thing I remember thinking before drifting off was that maybe I was being too conservative. I’ve done this before; I could navigate this course. Surely settling for nine-minute miles doesn’t make sense. The new plan would be eight.

Monday, April 20: 4:30 a.m.

Ihave two children—a 17-year-old son and a 13-year-old daughter. I had forgotten what it’s like to awaken to a baby crying. I’m pretty sure most of Cambridge knows. Greg and I contemplated waiting things out, but our alarm was set for 5:00 A.M. anyway. Now seemed like as good a time as any to get up and get out.

I can’t speak for all runners, but for me, the routine prior to a marathon is based on simplicity. I’ll have enough to worry about once the race starts, so I try to stay away from too many superstitions. This race, for example, has no required uniform for me other than the Harvard Hockey hat. I have a pair of new running shorts, an old long-sleeve running shirt that happened to be at the top of the laundry pile, a new pair of socks, a pair of $2 white-cotton gloves, and of course, my running shoes. The great thing about running compared with ice hockey is that you don’t need a whole lot to play. Back in college I distinctly recall staring at my equipment as it stood rancorously in my locker and thinking that there is something a bit sadistic about a sport that requires this much protection. Getting ready for a race, even this race, is no big deal to me. More important is the outer layer of yard-sale clothes that I will wear over my race clothes and later throw

away. When I registered for the race back in December, I was concerned about the Massachusetts weather. I like hot rather than cold when running. My hands tend to go numb when it’s cold. In Philly, when the race ended, despite two pairs of gloves, all I could feel was needles.

The weather report looked perfect for race time: high 40s and cloudy, pretty much a marathoner’s dream. I had an old pair of ripped Philadelphia Eagles greencheckered flannel pants and a barely worn, bright-red ski jacket that was an extra from an old hockey team. Fashionwise I wasn’t going to intimidate any of my competitors, but I would certainly be warm. The best part about the ski jacket was the pockets. I was able to store my petroleum jelly in one pocket, three gel food packs that I would switch to my shorts pocket right before the race, a PowerBar, my Harvard hat, a Ziploc bag of eight Advil, and a bottle of water to drink on the bus. I topped the outfit with a black ski hat that had a hole chewed in the side courtesy of Bella, our bichon poodle. In all, this red, green, and black eye-catching outfit had a certain Christmas-clearance look, and I just hoped it would not be the worst-looking outfit I would see over the next few hours. I looked at Greg, expecting him to smile at my lack of “runner’s gear,” but instead he said, “It’s a bit colder than I thought. I should have brought a throwaway top.”

“No problem,” I said. “I have an old bright-orange Old Navy fleece in the trunk.”

“Perfect,” he said, and we head to the car.

Monday, April 20: 5:45 a.m.

The GPS is on its game and directs us to a parking garage near Boston Common. We are early, which is fine with me. I’m a morning person and like the air just before sunrise. The race start time is 10:00 a.M., but runners are required to board one of the army of yellow school buses that will deposit us at the starting point at suburban Hopkinton High School. The buses will begin the trek to Hopkinton at 6:00 a.m. I’m in the first wave of runners in the line of buses ready for departure. Even though we’re early, there are still four full buses ahead of us. The dark city storefronts seem unaware of the onslaught to come. Metal barriers that will separate spectators from runners stand in place, evidence that this city knows exactly how to handle this event.

As a last-minute precaution I write Greg’s cell phone number on my racing bib. The idea is that if I crash and have to pull out, I will borrow someone’s cell phone and call.

I’m getting on the bus soon, and Greg will take his time getting downtown and then head to mile 20. If all goes as planned, around 1:00 p.m. I will move to the right and as I pass mile 19, Greg will find me and take me up Heartbreak Hill. He is sure this will go fairly smoothly. I hope so. The only way back is on foot.

Monday, April 20: 6:00 a.m.

I look for a seat near the front of the bus. As a schoolteacher and coach I’m a veteran of this type of hell. I loathe the yellow school bus. I recognize its utilitarian use, but I have yet to have a ride in one longer than 10 minutes that is comfortable. Could they at least have the seats tilt back a little? I seek the front because in my thinking that is a few less seconds at the end of the trip that I’Il be on the torturous thing. Not surprisingly, the organizers efficiently guide and direct the buses to capacity, and we are quickly on the road. There is a gabble of at least 40 different conversations as runners unwrap energy bars and uncap waters. I’m not feeling friendly yet, and I’m pleased the stranger I’m sitting next to must be of the same mind-set because it seems to me we’re the only pair not talking. Don’t get me wrong; usually I’m outgoing and, I would like to think, a fairly likeable guy. No one has ever told me I make an underwhelming first impression. It’s just that this day and this race at this time has me a bit freaked. Should I unwrap my PowerBar now or wait until I get to Hopkinton? How much water should I drink on the bus? With a bit less than four hours until start time, how many times should I plan to go to the bathroom, and will I be able to go? Frankly I’m surprised that any of these people are talking with so many critical prerace decisions to make. I stare straight ahead and look as serious as a 5-foot-6-inch, 160-pound, 45-year-old semi- (OK, more than semi-) balding man in hobo clothes can look. I try to work out my urinating plan, but my thought stream is interrupted by the conversation behind me.

Runner 1: “Well, I’m not quite prepared, but I’m looking to go a bit under and maybe PR at 2:30.”

Runner 2: “There is supposed to be a little head wind, so PRs will be tough today. I’m just hoping to break 2:45.”

Who the hell are these people, and why are they on my bus? Two hours, 30 minutes? Personal records? Don’t these type of runners arrive by limo? Is there a sickness bag anywhere?

We pull onto the interstate and I adjust my ski cap, hoping I can stuff the cloth far enough into my ears that no more sound can enter.

“You feel OK?” the guy next to me asks 20 minutes into the drive, and I realize I’m about to have a conversation whether I want to or not.

“Anxious,” I say, “this ride seems long.”

“Yeah, at least 26.2 miles,” he laughs.

For the rest of the bus trip, we chat. It turns out that he is from Alberta, Canada, and, like me, a fairly novice marathoner. This will be his third marathon; he qualified on his first. He and the family have been in Boston a few days, turning the long weekend into a minivacation with his wife and kids that will end with his crossing the finish line. The best part for me was to hear that his qualifying time

was a few minutes slower than mine. Thank God, I thought, I’m not the slowest kid on the bus.

I feel close to my new friend now. I confess my lack of training and explain my plan (the first one, that is) to simply attempt to enjoy the race and to run a nine-minute pace. I can see from his expression that he is relieved. He falls short of saying something like, “Me, too. Let’s run together,” but I’m sure that at around the time we see the exit sign for Hopkinton, he was grateful that not everyone here is Frank Shorter.

The bus pulls up to a typical-looking American high school, and we exit one by one. I’m slightly bus-stiff but know that it will shake off in a few seconds. I contemplate staying near my Canadian friend and maybe checking out the Hopkinton setup of prerace tables together but decide to go it alone. I’ve got more than three hours still, and I want to keep my options open. The crowd will thicken, and I want to carefully select a spot to make camp.

Monday, April 20: 7:00 a.m.

Tables outline one side of the perimeter of an immense tent that is set up for the congregated entrants. Hundreds of porta-potties surround the fields of Hopkinton High. Thirty thousand people with a shared interest can’t help but feel electric. I’m glad I’m in the early wave. I lay out a plastic tarp to sit on under the tent, eat my energy bar and a complimentary banana, and chase both with a full bottle of water and a 12-ounce cup of Gatorade. Buses continue to drop off people. Speakers on top of poles play contemporary familiar rock tunes that are interrupted periodically by energetic upbeat announcements concerning the current time and where to go when the time comes for the race. I go to the bathroom for the first time and appreciate that there are enough of them and that they are clean and usable.

Plenty of time to kill, and now that I’ve taken in the place and have my bearings it occurs to me that I should try to rest. I return to my plastic tarp, sit down, and look around. Two feet in front of me on her tarp is a petite young woman. She is in profile to me and is wearing a thin, old-looking sweat suit—I immediately know it’s her throwaway. It was a bad call on her part, not nearly thick enough to break down the early chill. So here she sits two feet away shivering, and I’m wearing a damn ski jacket.

At work and at home, when I’m thinking about it, I’m fairly gender blind. I hold doors open for both men and women. I try never to make insensitive remarks and strongly support equal rights. The fact that she is shivering gets to me, not because she is a small girl who is probably way closer in age to my daughter than to me, but because I know that being cold sucks. I grew up around hockey rinks; I know cold. The entire scene provides a dilemma, and I realize I’m way overthinking. She doesn’t expect nor want anyone’s help. I suspect there are

plenty of extra clothes all over this place that she could ask for if she wanted them. There is no need to ask whether she wants my ski jacket. But as she tightly grips her cup of coffee and I see that the side of her sweat pants says Arkansas, Ican’t help opening my mouth.

“Pretty cold?” I say, while knowing I’m pretty cozy myself.

In retrospect this salutation could have gone a few ways. One that was certainly a possibility, if I were her, might have been “Duh.” Another, which I didn’t suspect but came to learn was her route, was now happening.

“Southern hospitality” is now a phrase I completely understand. My two-word question started a 20-minute conversation to which I’m pretty sure I added only a tenth the number of words that she did. In a thick Arkansas drawl, she moved easily from talking about the current climate to talking about her husband, her life, and, most important, the Boston Marathon. She was now 25 years old, and this day was a day she had been thinking about since she was 15 and took up cross-country. She and her husband trained together and had set their sights on qualifying for Boston. She made it in Dallas, and he missed by a minute. “I felt so bad for him,” she said, “but you know it’s so hard for guys in their 20s to qualify compared to girls.”

“Tt gets easier when you get older and they give you the extra minutes,” I say, trying to justify my qualifying while empathizing with her for her husband’s falling short. The truth is I don’t buy that concept at all. Staying in shape into my 40s and qualifying, to me, is way harder than being a man beast in my 20s. But ’m thinking that saying that now would kill the conversation and (one) when she’s talking she’s not shivering, and (two) she sure does like to talk.

Time moves a bit faster when you have someone to talk to, and soon our group of two has become six. We endure and even appreciate each other’s qualifying stories and plans for the race. I decide it’s time to go to the bathroom again, and as I step in and around the crowd I realize that everyone is pretty much doing the same thing. Groups of runners are talking, meeting people from different places, wearing comical throwaway clothes, and about to embark on deeply personal quests.

Something else occurs to me as well. Everyone, I sense, like me, is somewhat nervous. Since you can’t qualify for Boston without having run at least one decent marathon already, everyone here knows what to expect. No one is naive. They kneel and retie shoes that they have already tied three times; they take small sips of water—never gulps; they look carefully at the safety pins on their shirts and flatten their bib numbers. The most obvious cue that everyone is mentally engaged is that now the porta-potty lines are all an hour’s wait.

Monday, April 20: 9:50 a.m.

The 113th running of the Boston Marathon will start in 10 minutes on a beautiful, crisp morning with a slight breeze. Corrals are arranged, and runners are sent by

bib number to the assigned corral based on their qualifying times. I’m wearing bib number 9684, which means I move to corral number nine with 1,000 other runners. We are behind the 8,000 that qualified ahead of us and ahead of the 21,000 that qualified behind us. Volunteers stand with open plastic bags to gather the throwaway clothes to give to charity. It’s time for me to get rid of the ski jacket and Eagles pants, time to transfer my gel packs and retie my sneakers again, tug on my gloves and swallow two of my eight Advils. I carefully move the other six pills to my inside shorts pocket with my gels. I hand over my black ski hat and put on my Harvard Hockey cap. I’m ready to run.

The crowd swells, and everywhere you look runners are stretching or hopping or whatever it is they do in the 10 inches of square-foot space they occupy. I stand up on my toes and try to see the front of the race where the pros will be starting, but the crowd is much too thick. I turn around, and because of our assigned spot at the apex of a slight incline, I and all the other bib numbers starting with 9 have an amazing view of everything behind us. It’s a sea of color—a pulsating cacophony of restless athletes, and it immediately sets my adrenaline pumping. A warm, invisible liquid can be felt flowing within me. It’s not a feeling you can locate, but rather, an all-encompassing sensation.

Aslight crackle and the constant music that has been the morning soundtrack gives way. We stand together and listen as an accomplished baritone sings the national anthem. Then the official announcement of the start of the wheelchair race. The elite runners are also off. Seconds later a sizzle pierces the sky, and the traditional flight of the Air Force jets passes over the start. The jets will cover the course in less than three minutes. The start horn sounds, and the beginning of my Boston Marathon won’t be official until I cross over the mat that will record the computer chip on my sneaker and my efforts throughout the day. At work in center-city Philadelphia, my wife will check online and text my children and friends, and they will know where I am on the course as I cross other mats along the way. I’m feeling good but also have a keen sense of reality. I decide I’m going to run a nine-minute pace. A younger me might have been able to fool myself into going faster, but the wise, experienced me says to run the nines and give myself a chance to finish.

Monday, April 20: 10:10 a.m.

The first few kilometers of the Boston Marathon are downhill and fast. I was given the heads-up by Greg and others to not let myself get sucked in. Everything persuades runners when they start this race that they can let it go a bit. The downhill slope, the enthusiastic crowds, and the natural high of finally starting make you want to jump out of your skin. You can’t help but notice all the kids lining the sidewalks. They yell for high-fives, and I figure that I can use their

requests to my advantage. I ease into the down slope and look for the hands of the kids 10 and under.

I think I have an instinct for pace control. I never wear a watch when I train or race, and for years I have been able to know the difference within a few seconds of my mile pace by feel. What I try to do is put my stride into a certain box and hold that box until it becomes my adopted rhythm. I have some friends who run a slower pace than my top-shape pace, and I imagine I’m running with them, and within a kilometer or two I now have my box and I’m running in it. Sure enough, even with all the downhill, the hoopla, and the high-fives, I hit the mile mark only a little fast—somewhere just over 8:30.

The downside to running this slowly this early has to do with the pack I’m starting with. Psychologically, I’m going to have to accept hundreds and even thousands of runners passing me throughout the day while I in turn will not be passing anyone until much later. This is the first race that I have ever forced myself to accept this form of humiliation. My normal strategy is to latch on to anyone who passes me and run with them until I either break them down or can’t hang on. I move through my normal race in that fashion—zeroing in on challenges and pacing myself throughout. It is not uncommon for me to find myself near sprinting in the middle of a long race because I’ve latched on to someone either faster or crazier than me. In fact, it happens a lot on simple trainings runs. Once, on the Ocean City, New Jersey, boardwalk, I ran consecutive sub-six-minute miles because I wouldn’t let a high school runner pass me without a fight. What I don’t like about this is that I won’t allow myself a chance to run up against my envelope. I enjoy running hard and the feeling of gliding. I remind myself that I haven’t run for more than two hours in the last six months and have no idea what demons lie ahead. Chill and high-five the little kids, and let all the number 9 and 10 bibs pass.

Monday, April 20: 11:25 a.m.

I’m somewhere about 10 miles into the race, and I have learned a ton about myself and this day. Without a doubt the mystique that dominates descriptions of the crowds is already justified. From the high-fivers to the volunteers working the water stops to the neighborhoods of folks holding trays of oranges, tissues, and paper towels, they all flat-out care. They search for names on runner’s shirts and shout them out when they pass. If they can’t find a name, they shout out the logo. A man who took some time to pass me was wearing a Texas state logo and for a while, all I heard was “Go Texas!” and “Hook ’em horns!” all expressed in a Boston twang. Even without any distinguishing marks, they simply yell your number or color of your shirt, All day long I heard “Go black” or “Keep at it 96—you’re looking great.” I may have looked OK, and I appreciated their enthusiasm, but by mile

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<@ At mile 10, the author may

have looked okay, but his lack

of training was already causing pain.

10 I was starting to feel the lack of training.

Still slightly below my nine-minute pace, I was continuously calculating the time-versus-body equation. A patch of tiny black plantar warts on the bottom of my left foot, a slight concern in the days prior to the race, was beginning to ask for attention. My hamstrings were starting to resist a bit, and the quad muscles were wondering if a break was anywhere in the plans. A few miles back, I had made a bargain with this trio that I would revisit them at mile 10. The deal was that I would consider all requests at the 10-mile mark and, if the vote was unanimous, consider dropping out and phoning Greg.

This is where Boston knows how to be special. The approach to mile 10 runs you right through one of the loudest sections of the race. Rows of spectators at least five deep begin to roar, and suddenly all of the complaints from my body are stifled and retreat. For me, mile 10 also represents the halfway point. The way I have it mapped out, Greg will be meeting me at mile 20. After that, what happens will be as much up to him as up to me.

Icancel my meeting with my aching body parts and look at the mile-10 clock. It reads 1:31 into the race. If I subtract the time it took me to get to the start mat (around four minutes), my official chip time is right on schedule. There are at least a half-dozen people I know who will also know my pace. Family and friends back home are following by text and online, and when I cross the 10-mile mat I get a half-sense of satisfaction at having gotten this far, but I realize they expect me to finish. The truth is I could wimp out on the 500,000 here in Boston, but it would kill me to have my kids see me quit.

Inside the mind of each runner is a unique story. I don’t believe anyone runs a marathon just for someone or something else. There is too much personal reward in the task that no matter how altruistic an individual is, some of the reward, if not most, is internalized. However, many do have other people close to their hearts and minds as they run. There are runners who pin pictures of those they care about on their shirts or jackets. They wear bracelets or strings, rubber wristbands or charms around their necks. Like me, it might be a certain hat or a piece of clothing that is in memory of, in tribute to, or in support of someone or something. It is a significant part of marathon running and also a shared statement about bonds and journeys.

At the top of my list are my children. When I began running it was not about them—that part simply evolved. My running is something we get to talk about. I’m not positive it will always be this way, but so far it has been a plus for us. It’s an example I get to model about commitment and drive. I never expect them to run a marathon, nor do I care if they ever do; what I like is the fact that they respect what they see me put into it. We are a close group and marathon running makes me feel closer.

Monday, April 20: noon

A few days before the trip to Boston, Greg had made arrangements for me to meet him and the two friends he had run with in Boston the year before for a couple of beers. I was circumspect about this plan. I already knew I was going to Boston, and since I knew my training was subpar, I didn’t see the value in listening to these guys filling in other details. I was in line for the movie and about to read the book, and all this would do was take away my own spontaneous enjoyment of the event.

“When you get to Wellesley College, you have to make a decision to get to the left or the right,” Reg said. “If you stay to the right, be ready for runners to stop in front of you to get kissed by the college girls.”

At the time I didn’t give it much thought. I imagined a bit of silliness along the way, like the Philly Marathon where the Penn frat guys set up a beer station at mile 19. Ha ha, very funny, step to the side, I have a race to finish.

The half-marathon checkpoint as you pass by Wellesley College is a sorority house on steroids. There are hundreds of “Kiss Me” signs and riotous screaming. I can see why a serious runner concerned about time would move to the left; however, if time is less of an issue and soaking in the moment is the goal, then extreme right is the only choice. I had no plan to stop and kiss anyone; it really was not an option, considering how I felt. Stopping could stiffen me up, and restarting might prove too difficult. What I was interested in was watching the show. Among the packs of runners passing the crowd of shouting coeds were

two men just in front of me who performed a spinning dance, moving from sign to sign, kissing the girls and being pushed to the next. Like some mystifying Greek ritual, they each embraced at least a dozen young women, all in fun, and yeah, a bit creepy.

Inow realize that is part of the uniqueness of the Boston experience. Someone can tell you about it, and sure, you can read about it, but unless you have run 13 miles and then been confronted with a college of a thousand screaming ladies, you really don’t know. It’s kind of like going out on your first date. You think you know, but when it comes time to move in for that kiss, all bets are off.

Monday, April 20: 12:45 p.m.

I’m in trouble. I’ve just passed the 16-mile mark, and I’ve lost my pacing sense and my feel for my box. I decide to take my last food gel and three Advil at the next water stop. Until this point everything had been going according to plan. I took the first gel at mile six and the second at mile 13. I had planned to take the last gel when I got over Heartbreak Hill (around mile 21) and had also hoped that I could hold off on the Advil until then. The three areas of concern before mile 10—the patch on the bottom of my foot, my hamstrings, and my quads—were all becoming problems. When my body goes south on a run, it is all lower-body pain. I’ve had to learn the hard way about the right shoes, the right trails to run on, where to use Vaseline, when to take gels, and how to properly hydrate to be a decent distance runner. I’m stubborn when it comes to common sense, but serious pain gets my attention.

The alternating pain is an interesting problem to endure. I try to let the pain travel and actually separate myself from my body for brief moments. I’ve found that as I do this and slightly play with my stride, but not my form, I can sometimes get the pain to move someplace less debilitating—or at least stay in one place instead of three.

In this case I would rather have most of the pain in my foot. That sensation is like a tiny fire, but I also know it’s not going to be as vital when I hit the hills as the other two. Imagine running across the hot sand on a beach on a 100-degree day, only the beach is 10 miles long and you feel the heat only on one foot. I’m on an uphill part of the run and continue to find encouragement from staying near the crowds. I’m trying to present myself as being in control, and the continual shouts of “Looking good, 96!” are helpful.

I start to break up what is left of the race in parts. I figure it’s not much more than a 5K until I’ll see Greg. Once I see him I’m fairly certain that milestone will give me the boost to get through Heartbreak Hill. From there it’s six miles to the end, and from all I have heard (even when I was only half listening), that’s when the crowds get even larger and the course is mostly downhill. I check the time and

Pacing him to the finish, Greg
(yellow cap) had joined the author at
the base of Heartbreak Hill.

realize I can still get to Greg about when he is expecting me. I decide the premature use of the third gel and the Advil may turn out to be a good decision.

Monday, April 20: 1:10 p.m.

The two hills that precede mile 20 are rough. I don’t know whether they crested at the exact moment I needed them to or whether it’s part of the mystique, but I was over them both and knew that it would be only a few moments until I saw Greg. The good part was that it would be around the time I told him I would be there; the bad part was that once I found him, I would be backing off as much as I could without stopping and hoping just to finish. I had no more desire to make any certain time. Find Greg, finish the run, get in the car, and get home was all fine by me. I had fended off the hamstrings, and they were less a problem than the quads. No knee pain yet, which would be a game ender and would force me to walk. The patch on the foot was a minor, annoying inferno. I hated it because it was dumb and something I might have been able to address with a doctor two weeks ago, but now I was stuck with it. By itself, I would never let it take me down, no matter how much it burned, because it was humongously stupid.

Of the 30,000 runners that I started with, around 20,000 started behind me. By this time nearly half of them had passed me, and that was fine. As I looked around at bib numbers, I saw lots of low teens but no high ones. I originally thought that this might be the time I would spend more time passing than being passed, but here at the base of the last hill, it seemed the ratio was about even. I was in bad shape for sure, but the difference between bad shape and pulling out is enormous in a marathon. Everyone suffers in these things—at least, that has been my experience.

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When I saw Greg running toward me, I was eager to announce the line I had been rehearsing for the past two miles. “It’s about time you showed up,” I said.

“What do you mean? I was starting to think I’d missed you and you passed already.”

Thanks.

There is a misconception that by mile 20, long-distance runners are too exhausted to talk. I’m sure this comes from watching the serious pros on televised races or at the Olympics. Typical marathoners at mile 20 are able to talk. They just may not want to because all their concentration is on the pain.

Greg soon realizes that is where my head is. After he explains that he expected me earlier based on the online time texts he had been getting from my wife, he starts to tell me what to expect the rest of the way. I tell him about my foot problem and say to just stay with me, but I would rather not talk and I would rather not hear him, either.

On the surface that exchange might seem rude and not make sense. Here I had geared my race to get to this point, figuring his coaching would get me the rest of the way, and the first thing I do is basically ask the coach not to talk. He gets it, though. The point is that I’m going to gut through the things I need to gut through, and I’m also going to have clear moments where I can run. His purpose is to stick around for my good and bad, and like a spotter standing near a gymnast, he can give me the close confidence I need to dig deep without fear of a grand collapse. And that may be all I need.

Heartbreak Hill turns out to be the least difficult of the three main hills of the day. I can understand those who are walking as Greg and I run up. They are saving themselves for the last six after the hill. It feels good to finally be passing some runners, but I’m well aware that I’ve still got hurdles to face. Right after the hill comes what turns out to be my favorite part of the race—the section in front of Boston College. The students are out in full force, and they roar. It’s as if 1 am running through the tunnel of a college football game, and I’m seriously energized by the vibration of the road.

Erin is a neighbor from back home and a student at BC, and I move to the right, hoping to see her. Just as Greg asks who I’m looking for, I find her shouting my name and moving toward the road. It is not lost on me that all day this is the first real spectator I know and who knows me. It’s awesome to see her, and I smile and give her a quick hug as I pass.

Monday, April 20: 1:25 p.m.

The last four miles of the race are both painful and gratifying. From mile 22 to 23, I stagger and nearly walk and run my worst split of the day (over 11 minutes). I could have race-walked faster, but had I done that, I would have been forced to walk

the rest. From mile 23 to 24, I bounce back and manage a near 8:30 split, which, given my shape, is more than respectable. I have two miles left, and now I realize that I’ll be 10 minutes over my goal, but I’m going to complete the race.

On the side of the road, a fellow racer is not as lucky. He has what appears to be a complete hamstring blowout or worse. A hundred yards past him, another runner is lying on his back. I can’t discern the injury, but it looks bad. I’m moving, alternating between a semifast run and a very slow run. I try thinking in terms of hockey shifts as a way to get to the finish.

The number of Americans who compete in 5Ks is extremely small, and that number gets smaller the longer the distance. Once they start, the great majority of runners are determined to finish, and when they drop out, it’s because they are fighting through something significant. I’ve been near people when they have had sudden blowouts and also have run past them when they are fighting and failing with each step. That is why, despite the pain, when I make my way through the last two miles of this race, I feel extra sympathy for those getting medical attention so close to the finish. I’m sure they have extra angst because this is Boston, and it has to be overwhelmingly awful to not be able to even walk from this close.

With the finish line in clear view and only football fields away, I’m able to absorb the cheers and think about many things at once. I know it’s an extreme exaggeration to pronounce any one event as life-changing. The birth of my children, my wedding day, my college graduation day, and landing my coaching and teaching positions all rank high on my list of days that stand out. Those days, like this one, share common themes of expectation and accomplishment. What they also share is that they involved thought and preparation. The enjoyment is proportional to the effort that led to them. Maybe the greatest moments aren’t always the ones that surprise you.

What I know is this. There is a singular satisfaction to my Boston Marathon experience for the following reasons: it came at a great time on a picture-perfect day, I shared it with a good friend, and it allowed me to connect with myself and the people I care about even if they weren’t there with me. I was surrounded by exhilarated and exhausted crowds of people. I had learned about humility, balance, and fortitude.

As I crossed the finish line, I extended my arms and received my medal. I congratulated as many runners as I could. A woman who looked about my age and who also crossed in 4 hours and 12 minutes shook my hand. She said, “I think this is my last marathon. I hate these things, and now that I’ve done Boston, what’s left?”

“Yeah, me, too,” I replied.

We took a few more steps, and I said, “You know we’re both lying.”

“Yep, I know,” she responded and smiled as only a marathoner who has run Boston can.