Still, I rose at 5:54 Monday morning in my cousin’s apartment inside the South End to the sound of birds chirping. My hopes rose, too.
Then I walked to Boston Common to take the bus to the start in Hopkinton in slanted rain. My shoes were soaked along with my toes nearly numb as I took a seat on the bus. I was bundled up like a third grader ready for a walk to school. In Minnesota. In January. inside the next seat was a woman through Utah wearing a racing singlet along with running sleeves she planned to discard. the item rained here three years ago, she reminded me.
I knew of which. I ran of which year, too, yet the rain didn’t start in 2015 until much of the field, including me, was nearly half-done. along with the item felt about 15 degrees warmer than the 37 degrees the item was as we journeyed to Hopkinton. Yet there was little question of which steely woman through the West was way less terrified of the next few hours than I was.
Any hopes of pre-race comfort inside the tents behind the school disappeared when we arrived at the start village behind Hopkinton High School, which had turned into a mud bowl. Smart runners brought a second pair of shoes to change into on the start line. I brought extra socks, yet putting a dry sock into a mud-soaked sneaker doesn’t work so well.
For the first all 5 miles my feet felt as if they were in ski boots. I couldn’t feel my toes as the rain shifted between steady downpour along with Noah’s Ark-style soaking. I desperately wanted to finish, yet I didn’t want to lose extremities inside the process. I commenced jogging my memory to recall the hospitals along the route. There are several, thankfully.
along with then, after about an hour, the item all became sort of normal for a bit. You settle into a rhythm. Splish, splosh. Splish, splosh. There were moments when the rain slowed, though the item never stopped, along with the wind quieted, along with you thought, O.K., no big deal. Then, just as quickly, Mother Nature unleashed a storm cell after storm cell for a few minutes just to keep us on our toes. Our wet, miserable toes.
So why not quit? Because long-distance runners live for the story. We love you thinking we are just crazy enough to run 26.2 miles in driving rain along with freezing temperatures. the item’s rebellious, almost countercultural, or at least the item was inside the pre-running boom days, along with of which spirit still lies at the center of what will be today a truly mainstream endeavor.
Also, while plenty of Bostonians were smart enough to stay inside — of which will be supposedly the area with the largest concentration of graduate degrees, after all — tens of thousands of others turned out to cheer us on, along with did they ever bring the item.
Bruce Springsteen’s “No Surrender” was blasting on the speakers as I passed through Natick. You could hear the Wellesley women screaming in Mile 13 a Great quarter-mile before we got to them. An old college friend appeared to cheer me on Heartbreak Hill. Hadn’t seen her in 25 years. Thank you!
along with then, eventually, the six most beautiful words in distance running happened. “Right on Hereford, left on Boylston.” of which’s your last half-mile in of which magical race, along with I was streaking toward the finish line in Copley Square, airplaning my arms along with weaving across the road in delirium. Sure, there was some hypothermia, after the item was done. Another deluge, more gusty winds. Bring the item on.
Best. Boston. Ever. At least inside the telling.
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