(And what | learned from it.) BY GIDEON OSWITCH

“T would rather be at the starting line of Boston than the finish line of any other marathon.”—Anonymous

Monday, April 19, 2010—

Today is Patriots’ Day, the third Monday in April, and the Massachusetts skies are being very cooperative. The sun is out and shining brightly, but the temps are cool and a little breeze is present. I am wearing gloves (due more to nerves than the cold), but this is absolutely perfect weather for both runners and spectators.

Can this really be happening? Seriously, am I finally only minutes away from running the Boston Marathon? \ thought this day would eventually arrive, but after six years of trying and 12 marathons, discouragement

B OSTON, MASSACHUSETTS,

b> The author and his wife, Bee, at the Boston Marathon finish line a day before the race.

tends to overcome acceptance. But after we loaded onto the bus at 7:00 A.M. in the Boston Commons and the marshals waved us off, the school buses rolled in staggered unison through red lights and blocked-off intersections toward mecca: Hopkinton, Massachusetts, a small, rural town best known as the start of the Boston Marathon.

lam sitting in the front seat next to a chatty gal from Chicago—she is a high school English teacher and, like me, qualified for Boston in Chicago. She is as friendly as everyone else on the bus is; after all, to quote my good running pal, John Hnat, “We are all in the foxhole together,” and we will be for the next few hours. It is all starting to sink in—the dreaming is morphing very quickly into reality; yes, this is really happening. No more thinking about, wishing for, or fantasizing. I am on the bus with about 50 others heading to run the 114th Boston Marathon with about 25,000 people from all corners of the world. As the bus whizzes down the expressway with little traffic, I am noticing the road signs of the locales that will soon be my backdrop: Boston College, Newton, Wellesley, Natick, Framingham, and of course Hopkinton. I also notice the New Balance building and think back to passing this building about 15 years ago with Joan Pollock from Norton Company as we drove from Logan Airport to Worcester for a meeting. That caught my eye then, and it sure caught my eye now as chatter and laughter continue to fill the bus. The mood on the bus is as cheerful and upbeat as the sunny skies we are driving under. It is a great time to be a runner—make that a racer.

The grace of Hopkinton

Before long, the bus exits the expressway and hits gridlock as we get backed up trying to make it to Athletes’ Village (which is really Hopkinton High School’s athletic field). I notice the homes along the road and think about what stories they would tell if they could talk. They would tell us about the thousands of nervous and itchy runners who pass by each spring. The homes are attractive and the lawns are well maintained. This looks like a typical, quaint U.S. Eastern town.

Once the bus gets to the school, the impeccable organization picks up right where we left it at Boston Commons: a marshal instructs us where to go, though most of us just follow the crowds or run over to the porta-potty lines. I wander through the village, and it appears that many people know each other, but I think it is just the casual nature runners have when they meet. Even though the big race is a couple of hours away, it does not feel like a prerace atmosphere. In fact, it feels different from just about anything else I have been involved with.

I see a group of about five runners sitting on a blanket, and I approach them and ask if I can join them. Two of the gals don’t seem to want to agree, but they do, and I tell them this is my first Boston and that it took me seven years and 15

marathons to get here. (I had to wait 18 months and had completed three more marathons after I qualified in Chicago before I finally received this exclusive invitation.) Once I explain that, they become friendlier and welcome me to the party. One gal was from Michigan and one from Canada. They had run Boston a few times and were marveling at the weather and saying how lucky we were compared with prior years. I don’t remember much other talk, and I nervously tried to eat a peanut-butter-flavored PowerBar and have some water since I knew I would need the food as lunchtime approached.

The time goes by faster than you might think, considering that all I am doing is waiting. Before I know it, the loudspeakers instruct us to begin heading to the starting line. Again, I just follow the crowd, not really knowing where I’m going but walking on a two-lane road like North Willow Road back in my hometown of Kent, Ohio. Hopkinton neighbors are out staring and giving encouragement, volunteers are holding garbage bags, and I am walking with both confidence and nervousness. I have been racing for 19 years and have nearly 450 races on my resume, but this feels totally alien. Exciting? Definitely. Scary? Yup, but in a good way. On this day, I belong here. I missed coming here in 2007 by three minutes and change when the Akron Marathon was just too tough in the last few miles, and I have stewed over that every day since. But that is history. Now I have a bib number pinned to my shirt, and I am ready to launch.

The time has come

The time is a few minutes before 10:00 a.m., and a giddy, energized aura infuses the runners as we all stand in our starting corrals. I hear laughter and race banter, smell menthol Bodyglide and pain-relief ointments, and understand what another running friend of mine, Doc Belli, told me a few days earlier when he called to wish me well: “You are running with the big boys now, Gid.” He was dead on.

Everyone is checking their gear one last time: hats aligned, fuel belt snugly in place, watches cleared to zeroes, shoes tied properly, and timing chip knotted and reknotted. I notice a slight pang a few inches over from my belly button. What the hell is this? Nerves, I hope, but maybe it is more serious. Too late. Like a roller coaster going up the initial megahill, I ain’t getting off!

Iam a few downhill corrals from the starting line, so when I look up, I see a mass of bouncy runners in colorful baseball caps, but I can’t see the start. The blue skies overhead add a pleasant ceiling as the crowd slowly starts walking up the hill. I think I hear someone say the wheelchair athletes have just gone, and the walking stops for a few seconds before restarting; a few hollers and shouts of “here we go” are uttered. Gloves, hats, T-shirts, cheap jackets, and the like start flying from the runners to the side of the narrow road. I feel sweat pouring out of my armpits and getting absorbed by my wife, Bee’s, tie-dye shirt. It has

a big heart on it, and I have always worn it for major races. I adjust my Akron Marathon baseball cap one last time and am focused 100 percent. My nerves are at full attention, and to quote sports broadcaster Keith Jackson when he called the 2006 USC-Texas Rose Bowl game, “The adrenalin valves are wide open.” The crowds on the side are getting thicker, applause is getting louder, and our slow walk is now picking up the pace. I still can’t see the start as I take more nervous gulps of my bottled water, but the crest of the hill is apparent, the crowd noise is more like yells, cow bells are clanging all around us, and I see the Victorian-style architecture of the buildings to my left and flags all around as well. This is like a perpetual running-history lesson, and I am a first-year pupil. Quick thoughts now pop in my head like July 4 firecrackers igniting all at once:

¢ The summer training runs on the Stow, Ohio, bike path ¢ Running this for Steve Gaylord and John Hnat

¢ Stretching my calves on the sweet-gum tree in the yard of my neighbors, Becky and Marty, after a long run

¢ Missing David, a dear friend who left our world too soon in 2004

¢ Sadie and Celia in school—my two daughters who are my heartbeat

¢ Qualifying in Chicago’s dreadful heat

¢ Finishing all the Akron Marathons and being dreadfully close to qualifying a couple of years ago

¢ All the folks at my employer, Norandex, tracking me

¢ And most important, knowing that Bee is 26 miles away in downtown Boston waiting for me; if you look in the dictionary under “supportive and loving spouse,” you will see Bee’s picture.

The start is nigh

And like on The Price is Right, when the curtain opens and the animated announcer screams out, “How about a new car!” and the lucky contestant jumps up and down in delightful squeals, I see the starting mats and painted yellow-and-blue banner on the road that indicates the starting line, and my heart starts that “Can’t explain it to you unless you have been here” syncopation. Two seconds later, my running shoes hit the mats and the noise level is at near-hysteria levels from announcers and neighbors. The walking is now running. I feel a huge grin and a wave of happiness overtake my whole body as I say, unrehearsed but honestly, “Dreams come true!” loud enough to hear my own words among this wonderful commotion. And it’s now unfolding right beneath my feet—I am running the Boston Marathon. I am running the Boston Marathon! Oh, my God, I am actually running the Boston Marathon!

The finish

“No one gets to their heaven without a fight.”—Neil Peart

It’s now close to 2:00 p.m. I have only a few hundred yards left in the Boston Marathon, and the combination of fatigue, hunger, and muscle exhaustion has caught up with me. The race has been amazing: so many kids high-fiving me; all the boisterous, drunken, and wildly supportive Boston College students; the screaming Wellesley girls who made me feel like a rock star and definitely energized me at the halfway point; passing the CITGO sign by mile 25 near Fenway Park and thinking how I always saw that sign while watching Bosox games on TV as a kid; and taking in all the nuances and eccentricities that have helped make this historic course so memorable. Simply put, the race has exceeded my expectations.

Now I make the left turn onto Boylston Street for the final push, and the crowds are thicker than at any other part of the race— it looks five deep on both sides and even though thousands have finished in front and are still finishing behind me, I have no concern about anyone flying by me. Placement has been surpassed by finishing “the New England.” It is a paradox: on one hand, you want to enjoy these last couple of minutes of fulfillment, but on the other hand, you just want this damn thing to be completed. During the last minute or so of the race, I feel my eyes well up with tears of joy and instinctively I place both of my hands over my face and wipe my eyes. The finish line is well within sight, and I realize that my 26.2-mile memorable foot journey is near completion. Ten feet or so from the finish, I throw my arms up in the air like a religious zealot and try to savor the feeling of accomplishing this long-awaited dream of mine.

Alas! It is finished, too soon it is finished

It is now official as my feet trample the finish-line mats; I am done, and immediately the adrenalin that has spurred me for so long has been replaced by that nasty stiffness that grips you right at the end of a grueling endurance event. My hands go on my knees, and I stagger and wave off a volunteer who approaches me to check on whether I need aid. A water bottle is handed to me, a Mylar blanket is wrapped around my shoulders, and a few shuffling seconds later, a black Velcro lunch bag is given to me and I devour a bag of Wise potato chips—the salt tastes heavenly.

The cavalcade of calming endorphins starts circulating in me as I keep moving forward, as if Iam on a very slow grocery-store conveyor belt. I notice that all the volunteers around are clapping for us; it is a small touch that accentuates how classy this race is—this is a first for me to witness such generosity, and it means a lot. I then start hearing the metallic sound of finisher’s medals knocking

into each other, and I move forward to a volunteer to receive my “medal of honor.” “Congratulations,” she says as she maneuvers the medal and ribbon over my sweaty Akron Marathon baseball cap. I hug her and thank her over and over and tell her this is my first time running Boston and it took me so long to have this moment. I start crying a little more. The gal is very sweet and says, “You did great; congratulations on running Boston.” I move a couple of feet past her and try to regain my composure as I stare at the medal. The Boston Marathon is under the jurisdiction of the Boston Athletic Association (B.A.A.), and the symbol for the B.A.A. is a unicorn. When you think of a unicorn, you think of words like “beauty,” “mystical,” “magical,” and of course, “freedom.” This mythological animal (which almost everyone likes) is always seen in a state of freedom—floating among stars, wandering in an open dewy field, or in suspended midair flight, but always free. I state this because the focal point of the finisher’s medal is the unicorn’s profile—brightly colored, shiny, and sharply detailed, and I am now holding it. After seven years during which this thought popped in my head at least once a day, I have finally captured the unicorn.

Iclose my eyes for a few more seconds and again, the tears start to flow. Iam now an official finisher of the 114th Boston Marathon, and in my postrace daze, it all starts to click: this can never be taken away from me. All the years of waiting, the failed marathon attempts, the dreaming, and finally the past few hours of effort have all added up to one big thing: my dream has come true!

<4 Rejoicing with Bee minutes after the race.

p> Phoning home to family and friends after the race.

A couple of minutes later, I see Bee’s open arms and a huge smile on her face and I fall into her embrace with, yes, even more tears. To quote Sting, “I’m so happy, I can’t stop crying.” I do not recall anything specific that I said to Bee, but I know that “I love you, I finally did it, I ran Boston” were part of my vocabulary. I tried to recount the past 26.2 miles to her, but the appropriate words were just not coming out. It was too much to digest and recite, so instead I just soak in the glory of being a finisher of the world’s greatest race as downtown Boston’s skyscrapers look down on us. No more excuses or what ifs; my pot of gold at rainbow’s end was found; I have slain the dragon. Sweet victory, in all her sweat, pain, and seductive elusiveness, was finally, finally mine.

“These are the days These are days you’ll remember Never before and never since, I promise Will the whole world be warm as this”

—Natalie Merchant

And what | learned from it

After taking seven years to finally reach Boston in 2010, I was able to return in 2011 and 2012 (thanks to qualifying in the Indianapolis Marathon). Though having two more Boston medals added to my collection was a gratefully marvelous experience, the feeling of my first Boston was amazing and at this point very hard to upstage. For seven years, “I dreamed my painting,” and on April 19, 2010, “I painted my dream.” Mp