“This air is blessed.”

That is the only way I know how to describe the aura, the thrill, and the suffering that is the Boston Marathon.

What is most ironic about this event is that you never learn enough of it. Marathons happen across the world nearly every week in the calendar year.http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.photo.gif

Thousands of ardent and steadfast runners tread the toils of twenty-six miles and 385 yards on a frequent basis.

And if it is your first, you will always remember it. But Boston invokes a different memory. Boston is different.




For when you arrive at Logan, or Manchester, or Providence, and you journey forward to the city of Boston, you realize the city stands perfectly still. Waiting for you; She waits for her friends and family to run steadily across the southwest, through America’s finest institutions of higher learning, and amidst the din of the Green Line. A half million spectators coupled with legions of National Guardsmen wait for you.

For there is not one person whom is out on that course; Not the children holding oranges in their soiled palms; Nor the inebriated occupants of White House in Newton; Nor the gritty and angular fire-fighters at the most infamous 90-degree right hand turn in American distance running – Not one of these persons is challenging you. They are encouraging you.

This year at Boston I accomplished a feat I once thought was impossible. It was a chance of fate. But somewhere between the expo and hearing the Blue Angels scream overhead the physical zenith of a nation, I knew this event is unlike any other.

I witnessed agony and apathy, pain and perseverance, crying and conviction. But most of all I witnessed a mass of humanity all move towards one end point. Robert Cheriyout, The Distance Project, and some-former cyclist, all ran on the very streets I did. And yet we all concluded at the very same point on this great planet. Breathe this in.



The crowds are wild. The history is intangible. But the glory is indescribable.

And now it’s over.

It has come once again. And it has been conquered. But there will be a time a little less than a year from now, when I will return to my native soil, and be thinking of the 113th running of this inexplicable manifestation of the human will.




And when I awake from this quiet ambition, the memory of this city’s devotion to our sport will prove once again;

Boston is different.

I’ve been here every year for the last 3 years.

And every year I look over myself, wondering if I’m truly ready. If all the pain, the dead skin, the lost concentration on Sunday afternoons, and the times alone in the woods have clad me in an armor thick enough to survive another 26 miles, 385 yards.

I’ve had the propensity to regress to those whom I once trained with, whom I did train with, and whom I train with now. And I also have begun realize how far they are from me. But when I sit now and wait, I realize that those people share with me the very same anticipation, and the very same fear.

Today I will run for the last time, before a 10-minute jaunt the day before the race. I am in a physical state tantamount to what I was in one year ago this day.

One year ago today I was injured. I refused to admit it to myself, but those close enough knew it. No matter how much biofreeze, icyhot, or ibuprofen - It wouldn’t leave. Hell hath no fury like compartment syndrome. Except perhaps an injured runner at an XC meet.

I took 10 consecutive days off leading to Boston in 2007. Resulting in 3 straight minutes of pain-free running in Hopkinton. Then it returned.

I ignored the discomfort as I had done for the previous 8+ weeks. And I got through it.

The purpose of this statement is not to aggrandize one’s tolerance for discomfort, nor is it to bolster my own confidence. But it is to tell those who fear they won’t do it, they can’t do it, or they can’t imagine themselves doing it – That they can.

The human condition has something deeply buried within it that only arises in the most trying of circumstances. I don’t know what it is. Because adrenaline doesn’t last over 3 hours.

But it’s there. It doesn’t burn out. It guides us through the darkest of times, and evades us during the brightest.

Everytime I approach this event, I become highly skeptical of my own ability. For I remember my first marathon was done on this course. Present, was a degree of self-doubt that transcends the English language.

But I did it. And I came back. And went to other lands to conquer the same task, always taking me with me the humility and respect that such an endeavor asks of the human body.

After many days and nights of mixed emotions surrounding my 4th running, my vigor is still white hot.

And this many years to later, I continue to attempt to find the placidity to guide me through these trying times.

I continue to question my own readiness.

And I continue to search for a love, that words can no longer define.

This was the first of several rest days between now and then.

When I combat my mind, and yield to my body, I regress back to a time when I had no idea if I would make it. to

There is a distinct part in that course that evokes a flashbulb memory of the single happiest day of my life. April 18, 2005.

Heaven knew no boundaries on that day. And hope and dream and promise will know no boundaries two weeks from this morning.

It’s ironic, because the apex of this great foot race is really a human break down; Physical and emotional. It breaks you down to the most vulnerable of conditions. And then it is over.




I’ve heard much talk of this race. And that is why I speak so directly of it now.

It is because the static only appears once a year. For it is only when the event looms so close as it does now, do the masses realize what it is, what it was, and speculate as to what it will be in two weeks time. But they don’t know its’ fire.

What the Boston Marathon is, and what it stands for, is more than its cumulative distance, or the collection of its participants. For all who have crossed under Boylston Street’s blue and yellow banners, have become the cement of over 110 years of athletic achievement.

I would respectfully submit that the ethos of this event is not Wellesley. Nor is it the Firehouse. Nor even the students of Boston College on Patriots Day in Suffolk County. But it is the aspirations of tens of thousands of individuals daring to conquer something they had unforeseen just one year ago.

And it is for this reason that I tip my hat to those whom I know, some longer than others, who share with me, this grand endeavor.

It was once reclaimed that one ought not do another one of these damned events until you’ve forgotten the last. I can assure you there is hubris in this statement. But there is also truth.

I know that at some point two weeks from now, I will be in the greatest amount of pain I have been since I did this same thing 365 days earlier.

This distance can destroy you – literally.

…If you don’t heed the respect it commands. Witness Boston 2004. Chicago 2007. It can be an inferno of rubber and crushed paper and adenosine triphosphate. A truly ignominious end to an otherwise illustrious day. This dragon that stretches eight cities is a hardened and an ardent foe.

But if you learn of its habits, its flaws, and its weaknesses, you can slay it. Some seek to try something less, something less adversarial. Others choose to stay at home and enjoy a quiet day away from the classroom or office, watching this event on their couches.

I yearn to breathe its fire.