"See you after Boston! Here's hoping it's warm(er)." - Me, last month's column. Oh, if only I had known what havoc I would let slip with such a simple close.

Last year, I had the privilege of running the Boston Marathon as an invited guest. It was my first time covering the historic 26.2 from Hopkinton to Copley Square, and I was overwhelmed by the spectacle of it all. Many of you may also remember, I was also overwhelmed by the sudden warm weather, the endless pounding of the repeated descents in the early miles, and the fact that fellow Xtri columnist "Family Man" Ray Britt could run a marathon, grab a shower, and catch his plane for home before I was even on Boylston Street.

I had the good fortune to be invited back this year, but I didn't consider it 'for revenge.' Last year the course had chewed me up and spat me out so decisively, I was just happy to be back with some sense of knowing what was coming. I January I printed out a calendar, and wrote down a plan of long runs, tempo runs, and Yasso 800's that would have me ready for April 19th.

Of course, the usual shambles of work and things in life other then training conspired in their usual way to reduce my Boston training to the following: From January 1 to April 18, I ran 292 miles. Total. That's like a Kenyan easy week.

The plan looked great on paper - I backed off on swimming (read - stopped cold in February), and eased off on cycling (rode the trainer once per week, maybe, if there was a good movie on TV) to allow time to run hard, recover, and run more. All things considered, the plan worked out perfectly, really, aside from the complete lack of running.

On the train up to Boston, I looked over my nearly empty training diary and came to grips with the fact that I probably had enough fitness to run 14 miles strongly, the next 5 somewhat less spry, and then take what I had left to stroll the last 7 with a good sense of humor and a beer or two along the way.

I would be there with my usual cast of suspects: Dave Decker, the man who produced the miracle invitation once again; Dave and Lisa Jones, my hosts from last month's "Around the Bay" 30KM freezeathalon; Mike and April Peerless, two more fast Canadians; and Eric Weiss - my longtime arch nemesis who's recent introduction to parenthood had rendered his training program even leaner than my own.

We all arrived in Boston by Saturday and hit the expo. As I learned last year, the Boston Marathon expo is a scene that must rival Kona's "Dig-Me" Beach as the most intense gathering of uber-fit people on the planet. As I walked in the front door, I immediately had to shoo away 3 anorexics who'd accidentally drifted too closely an ended up orbiting me.

The fact that I was there on an invitation may have made it worse; it seemed that the traditional question for everyone at Boston is, "Where'd you qualify?" I settled on the stock answer, "I was invited." Which seemed to halt the inquiry to my presence directly 9 times out of 10 (with that 10th guy asking, "How does someone get invited?" Yeah, right - that's a secret, pal!) I might not be fast, but at least I could pretend to be important.

Important or not I had a mission this year for the expo - get in, buy the official jacket, get a poster from the Adidas people, and run for the door before getting psyched out by all the wide-eyed beanpoles ready to launch.

Unlike last year, this time I refused to touch the jacket. I pointed, nodded, asked the clerk to put it in the bag directly: You would have thought I was carrying wet dynamite. Last year I'd tried the jacket on, modeled it for all friends to see, and promptly provoked the ire of the Marathon Gods, who forced me to limp home on Monday in punishment for my marathon hubris. The bag would be carried home and stashed in the hotel closet until Monday night.

There was one other concern - finish or not, there was a strong chance it would be too warm to even consider wearing a jacket post-race. After another cold, long, wet, and endless winter in the Northeast U.S., things were starting to change very rapidly. The weather-games started with Dave Jones on April 5th; "I know it's two weeks away, but I wanted to be first to panic everyone..."

As is usually the case with tapering athletes we all reported it as the forecast changed no fewer then 38 times between that first post, and the 392 follow-up posts complete with cross-check from 17 different weather sites, the Farmer's Almanac, and anyone in the state of Massachusetts with a trick knee. First the high temps would be around 55, then 60. Each time someone else checked, up they went; 65, 67, up to 75, then 80...

Then things got really stupid. Through some confluence of events that only the Jet Stream, God, and that butterfly that flapped its wings in Taipei last month can understand, there was going to be a heat wave in Boston. For one day. April 19th. Race Day. "The hottest day since August!" screamed the papers. "Marathon Meltdown!" piped the local weather-babe on TV. At dinner the night before we all ate, drank, tried not to worry, and poured extra salt on EVERYTHING, just to be safe.

Strangely, I wasn't worried too much. I mean, I was going in knowing I was going to be slow. Now, a great many people would be going slowly with me, even though they hadn't planned on it. I was just thankful that it wasn't going to be snowing, raining, sleeting, or doing anything else cold and wet.

Race Day - Patriot's Day. I woke up at 6:00am and did something I've never done before a race - I took a shower, shaved, and got all cleaned up. Even if I was going to be near the back of the field all day long, I was going to look good doing it (at least for the first mile or so).

Like last year, I was able to enjoy the VIP coach bus to the start, complete with police escort. As our caravan blasted past the endless line of yellow school buses making the same journey (why is it driving 26 miles takes so very long?), I wondered what some folks had to be thinking. Surely there were some who might have finally qualified after years of effort, waiting now for their first crack at the course; there'd also be some who might be there for their last Boston after a few years of doing the best that they could, knowing that they'd had the perfect race to qualify, and that it probably wouldn't happen ever again; and then there were the folks like me: At the back, running through an invitation or charity, simply happy to be there on the same road as the great ones up ahead.

Dave Jones and April Peerless had earned their numbers the hard way, and would be starting up ahead. Dave's wife Lisa came within 1 minute last year at Philadelphia, after missing by 12 the year before. For her it's not a question of if, but when. The deal is the same with Eric - he's run a 3:24 in the midst of Ironman training. I know that when he puts his mind to it, drops everything else and works on nothing but running, he's going to be there. Peerless seems to get faster every year, so it's probably a matter of time with him, too.

Lastly, I had a friend from the fitness center at work somewhere up there - Shauna. She'd be running her first Boston, and in a way it was my fault. After her first marathon in January of 2003, I noticed that she'd run a 3:34. I had a feeling that the women's qualifying time was 3:40, and when I was able to show her the BAA website to make it all true, watching her jaw drop was something I'll always remember; I might never qualify, but being able to deliver the news to someone who has? That was pretty neat.

We were just a few of the 20,000 stories waiting to go.

I had a mixture of respect, sympathy, awe, appreciation, humbleness, and sadness all at once for everyone counting down the hours. Boston is the race for a marathoner, yet I could never hope in my wildest dreams to run the 3:10 to earn a number on my own merit. Still, there I was, hoping I'd make it through the sudden arrival of summer like everyone else.

As we arrived in Hopkinton, the scene just took my breath away: An endless field of runners splayed out in the sun, thousands of colors, thousands of people, thousands of plans. The sign on the Hopkinton Middle School front lawn said it all: "Welcome to Hopkinton - 26 Miles, 385 Yards to Boston. It all starts here."

Once in the gym, time seemed to accelerate. We had two hours of waiting before we'd need to walk to our corrals, but even so I never felt settled. I ate Pringles and drank Gatorade (for the salt), I checked my gels (pinned and ready), I applied sunscreen (SPF45), I put on the Body Glide (made the thighs happy), checked my timing chip (attached), re-checked my timing chip (still attached), re-re-re-checked my timing chip (attached and now annoyed with all the attention), and then did it all over again.

Soon the volunteers were bellowing for us all to pack up, get our bags on the baggage buses, and get out to the starting corrals - whether we were all ready or not, the 108th Boston Marathon was waiting for us, but wouldn't wait for long.

The only problem with being in the back of the field is one of jet lag. You hear the National Anthem over the PA system; you see the F-18's fly overhead, starting on their trace of the course (which takes them all of 4 minutes, but costs way more then the usual entry fee), and then you hear someone say, "The race is on!" You cheer. You look around. You don't move. You wait.

And you wait.

And you wait.

And you wait some more.

You sit down. DING! An alarm goes off in your brain - You realize you have to go to the bathroom.

You jump out of your corral, and run ¼ mile back up the road to the now abandoned port-a-loos. You take care of business without breaking any local laws. You run ¼ mile back down the road, passing the 1,200 Bandits waiting outside the final corral that none of the police, BAA officials, or anyone else can see (one of Boston's oldest traditions), jump back in your corral, and keep waiting.

There's no need to hurry - nobody back here has moved yet. This is life at the back of the race, Boston-style.

At 12:15, I started walking downhill.

At 12:25, I finally saw the starting line, crossed it, and could actually begin to RUN. I patted Eric on the shoulder and said, "If I don't see you again, enjoy it!"

The starting line at Boston is a full-frontal sensory assault. You drop steeply downhill in front of the Village Green, and every square inch of hillside as far as you can see is covered in spectators, creating a natural amphitheatre of sound that picks you up and throws you headlong into the day. There are high-fives on both sides of the road, and before you know it, the combination of adrenaline, noise, and sheer physical release has you hauling the mail downhill faster then you've moved all year.

You feel great! Your legs are flying! The crowd loves you! You forget that after this one mile of rock-star living, you've got 25 more miles to go. It's easy to forget - that's what caught me out in 2003. Rookie mistake. Dave Decker casually rolled off my right hip, reminding me, "Slow and steady - slow and steady."

Indeed. This year I was simply going to survive the heat and take whatever my body could offer. My only goal was to avoid a trip to the medical tent at all costs (I'd promised Lynda there'd be no I.V.'s in my future), and if possible, get to Boylston before Ray Britt boarded his plane. That would be about 4:30pm...

In the image above (taken by local photographer Jim Rhodes, I'm in white on the left).

Determined not to repeat 2003's insane plummet through the early downhills of Hopkinton, this time I laid back and let everyone willing go bombing out of sight, and it seemed that everyone was certainly willing. There were only about 2000 people behind me, but I swear the entire population of New Hampshire roared past me in those early miles.

I ran a 9:27, 9:44, 9:44, 9:55, 9:57 and 9:51 through first 10KM. I was running so slowly, my knees actually ached from holding back (a mighty unusual first). Even though I was taking it easy waiting for that first hour to pass, I could already tell this was going to be a very rough day. People were walking, dumping water over their heads, and looking very much used up in no time at all. I kept reminding myself, "Patience, patience. A little waiting now saves a lot of walking later on."

At mile 6 I saw my first fast qualifier - a low 4000 number (compared to my 19776), curled up at the side of the road, sick. The medics were there - I heard them ask him, "Are you feeling better now?" He replied, "Not even close." Hard to believe that his race would be over so soon, but nobody was ready for this.

Summer usually takes 3 months to arrive in these parts - not 3 hours.

I kept on keeping on, slowly, steadily, making sure to take on Gatorade and water at every aid station. As I passed the Framingham Train Depot, I recalled how I'd felt the wheels starting to come off here in 2003; in 2004 the wheels weren't coming off, but I wasn't sure how long they'd stay where they were, either. In this heat, the feeling of being on and endless tightrope was hard to get away from. I imagined myself as a Ferrari F1 car, complete with pit crew on the wall watching my progress. "Piano Roberto - Mezzo Piano."

Mile 7 passed in 9:50, and mile 8 brought the first long uphill of the day as we headed past Lake Cochituate. As we passed the tempting water off to the right, I watched a 'Team in Training' runner slow before me, wobble a bit, and half-sit, half-fall onto the curb. The medics must have been dropped from a plane or hovercraft; they came running PAST me and got to her in seconds.

Mile 8 and 9 weren't too great - 10:29 and 10:20. I was walking the water stops now, making sure I drank, drank, and drank. By now people were setting up hoses in their front yards and spraying water out into the roads. I avoided them the best that I could in the early miles (wet shoes + wet socks = blister city), but since the wind was starting to really whip up from behind, I'd cut back in front of one whenever I could, and just let the droplets of mist dance all over my back and legs...just a moment of heaven, before heading right back into hell.

I fought back a bit at mile 10 (9:59), but mile 11 returned me to reality with another 10:12. My imagined flight plan had me running controlled, steady 10-minute-miles all day long for a decent 4:22 finish, but I knew that I'd probably add 5-10 minutes to my second half as the heat of the day really started to cook. In my own mind, I got ready to tear the cover off the flight plan. The pit crew on the wall looked at their laptops and shook their heads; "He's-a cooking like a chicken. Passa' de' Olive Oil...he's-a gonna' be donna' soon!"

However, I was coming up to mile 12-13, the most Holy miles of the Boston Marathon: Wellesley College. Adidas had banners set up as you entered each town along the way, as they had last year. The one for Wellesley was straightforward: "Deafening and Roar don't do it justice. Life at 120 decibels. Welcome to Wellesley."

I had learned from Dave Jones last year - approaching Wellesley, you say nothing. Rookies are shushed into silence, and then you hear it. It sounds like a siren at first - a high-pitched wail that draws closer, closer, and closer. Before you know it, you're leaning forward, driving your knees, and willing your body to get to the sound. Passing through Natick you might have started to drag a bit, but now you're almost halfway - and for this mile, your legs are new again.

You see the barricades - you finally hear the roar, and then you're in it. The women of Wellesley are 4-deep on the right side of the road, and the entire field moves to within 6 inches of them. It doesn't matter if you're first or last - the Wellesley wall of sound gives the love to everyone who passes by. Everyone smiles, everyone high-fives, and the energy that you couldn't find 2 minutes earlier is suddenly everywhere. If marathon running is your drug, Wellesley will make you an addict.

I'd been given permission by Lynda to stop and kiss three along the way (Dave also told me that not kissing a Wellesley girl would invoke the fury of the marathon gods), but I have to admit - I passed up every "Kiss ME!" sign that I saw. I knew that (1) If I stopped, my legs might not start again, and (2) I knew that soaked in sweat, spilled Gatorade, Vaseline, sunblock, and water, I was probably not the most desirable thing out there.

All that combined with my proven track record of poor depth perception when running (recall my attempt at kissing Lynda near the end of the Baltimore Marathon in 2002 that had me nearly plunging ass over teakettle on a barricade), I played it safe, high-fived and thanked every woman I could, and strode away from Wellesley a new man...

...With a 10:44 mile 13. Perhaps not THAT new. I crossed the halfway mat for 13.1 miles at 2:12, and knew that my hopes of running a 4:22 were pretty quickly disappearing. "You're halfway now - just 2:20 to go..." I tried to reason with myself, but I knew that I was near the end of my rope. My legs were starting to ache, just as they had in 2003. The slow start hadn't been enough to save me - the heat was doing more damage then I could possibly control.

Not too far away, Lisa Jones was in the same boat. At the 15km mark (9.3 miles), she was 5 minutes ahead of me; at 20km, somehow I had passed her. I didn't have the energy to look around and see her...just as Dave Decker and I missed one another last year. It might have made everything different if we'd been able to hang together...but that's the way it goes.

Dave (Jones), Dave (Decker, Eric, Mike, and April were all hanging tough up the road somewhere, and so was Shauna. I really felt bad for her - this was NOT how one's first Boston should be going, but at least she'd have a good story to tell her kids someday. "Did I ever tell you about the day I spent running on the surface of the sun...?"

I truged on, "3 miles to Newton - just get to Newton." I had learned enough in 2003 to know that following the ecstasy of Wellesley are the 3 grinding miles approaching Route 128, and the climb towards Newton. To me these were the 'real' miles: The initial ease (if there was any) of the early miles was just a memory. I knew that Heartbreak Hill was coming, but I also knew that it would take a long time to get there.

My imaginary pit crew began to watch all the warning lights come on at once. They each reached for the rosary beads, and a fire extinguisher. "Mama Mia, Madonna - this isn't gonna' be pretty..."

Between miles 14 and 15, "The End, 2004" officially began for me. I ran a 12:09 mile 15, the long uphill finally broke what was left of my ever-shortening stride, and reduced me to my first unplanned walk of the day while I reached back and echoed and my battle cry from last year: "Aww, sh#$!"

If I'd been a Ferrari, there would have been smoke, flames, and parts everywhere. I could hear Formula 1 broadcaster Murray Walker in my mind, "There is nothing wrong with Mr. Mina aside from the fact that he's on fire...and his hopes, which were nil before, are absolutely zero now"

I walked to the next water stop, but my stomach was absolutely full - when I tried to drink, I started violently dry heaving. I'd been a little too good about taking in fluids along the way, and I was at the brink: I could force it and be sick, or do the counter-intuitive thing: skip it, slow down, and allow the body to reset and cycle through. In all my years of racing in the heat, I knew that the body would always win this fight, so I dropped the water and rolled on, promising to start drinking again at Newton.

In my head, Murray Walker droned on, "There he goes, Bob Mina, the man with all the luck, and today, it's all bad."

Around me, I noticed that I wasn't losing ground - the entire race was slowing down and coming apart at the same rate I was. 4-hour marathons were becoming 4:40's. In amongst the mortals at the back, scattered through the 19, 20, and 21000 bib numbers was the occasional low-seeded runners, their blue backed numbers cruelly easy to spot in the midst of a sea of reds. The weather was sparing no one; reputations, qualifying times, they all meant nothing.

Even the downhill towards Newton offered my wasted legs no relief. Heading towards the firehouse that marked the entry to Heartbreak, I could only manage an 11:36 for mile 16, and from here I knew it was only going to get harder. The collection of weary heads before me turned right, looked up the road, and tried hard not to feel small - the beginning of the end was waiting.

I made the same turn, and got ready to hang on with everything I had left.

Heartbreak is not one hill, but a series of 4 climbs from mile 16 through 21. If you were to run them on some Thursday afternoon they'd be tough, but nothing too bad. They're not long, steep, or rough. It's just that they come after you've been pounded by Hopkinton, coddled by Framingham, seduced by Wellesley, then unceremoniously left 10 miles from home with a lot less then you thought you'd have when you got here. Few arrive at Heartbreak with strength to spare; even fewer come out of it that way.

I ran when I could, and walked when I couldn't. One step at a time, for better or worse, I worked through Heartbreak. The wind was whipping in the late afternoon sun; empty cups, gel wrappers, and hats came tumbling up the road from behind; it seemed that for a moment, Mother Nature was trying to give us all a push...but it was too little, too late for me.

Mile 17 - 12:36

Mile 18 - 12:23

Mile 19 - 12:16

Mile 20 - 13:00

At one point I heard a coach say to a runner up ahead of me, "A good attitude will carry you now. Walk backwards if you need to - it'll give your quads a break." It was good advice - I went right for it. I smiled, lightened my body, turned around...and promptly got nailed squarely in the face by a windblown plastic shopping bag (THA-WHACK). I was too tired to reach up and grab it, so I just let it sit there for a few seconds, wondering to myself, "That reminds me...whatever happened to the Unknown Comic, anyway?" When my brain finally got the message that breathing through plastic was, like, impossible, I reached up and pulled it off.

Looking back down the hill, everyone behind me simply looked like hell. Salt-streaked, mouths agape, hair plastered with sweat, looking very much used up. I wasn't alone in my long day, that much was clear.

As I crested one of the last false-flats, I remembered that there was a medical tent at the top. This year, the bodies were everywhere. The medics had set up cots that spilled down the hill 25 yards from the crest. Bodies wrapped in foil, getting IV's, soaking with ice - all done within 6 miles of Boston. I had made it this far, and wasn't going to quit now. Even when my quads began to tighten up so much that it hurt to walk, I just kept turning around and walking backwards until I could run again.

It wasn't fast, it wasn't pretty, a great deal of it was backwards, but I put Heartbreak behind me.

Mile 21 - 14:44

During one of my lookback-breaks, someone asked me, "What are you doing that for?" I replied, "Just working on evening out the tan so I look good for the wife!"

When I turned myself around to point the right way once more, I could finally see the Prudential Building and the John Hancock Tower off in the distance. For the first time since 8:00am, I was almost back to Boston - just the long, punishing descent past Boston College into Brookline to go.

Last year the descent left me a hobbled, shuffling mess.

This year the descent left me a shuffling, hobbled mess.

However, since I'd shaved back at the hotel, I was sure that this year I looked a little better.

Passing Boston College, I remembered to slow down and smell the beer - there was a lot to smell. The road smelled like one big frat party. By now the party was in full swing - the Red Sox had pulled out a 9th inning win against the Yankees earlier in the day, and whenever the BC fans ran out of things to say someone would just yell out, "YANKEES SUCK!" and the cheers would start all over again, beer cups would be raised, and all the while I kept seeing people in the crowd trying to get us home: "YAW' DOIN' F'IN GREAT! GOOD JAWB! WELCOME TO BAHSTON!" It was hard not to keep moving.

As I made the turn past Cleveland Circle, I knew the end was finally drawing near. The sun was starting to lay down on behind the buildings, and I knew my dreams of sun on Boylston Street for my finish were probably going to have to wait another year. On the right side of the road a Boston Police officer was clapping, making eye contact with each runner, and making sure we were all okay; I'm sure he'd probably had to call one too many ambulances on this long day.

"Take is easy now. No need to rush - just get there in one piece." Each runner got the same boost, the same hope, and the same push for home.

I knew that Lynda had been getting my splits all day long on her cell phone, so hopefully she knew I was taking it easy, making sure I got home. I also knew that everyone back at work was getting my splits, and that I'd really hoped to make it to Boylston Street by 5:00pm. Speaking of splits, Lisa had gotten herself back together quite nicely after Heartbreak and re-passed me. Between 30 and 35km (18.6 and 21.7 miles), she'd gone five minutes up the road...and even when I spent half that time looking back where I'd been, I missed her. Dave Jones was done; Mike and April Peerless were already in the VIP tent waiting for me, Decker was on Boylston Street, and Weiss was barely 5 minutes up the road, right in Lisa's neighborhood. Shauna was right there too, probably coming up with a 2-hour Spin Class to kill me for this stupid Boston idea...

At mile 24 I looked at a clock on the side of a Citizens Bank - it was 4:57. "Damn." I was going to be late once more - I'd be finishing after the workday ended, which meant that even though I was walking, running, and just trying to keep moving, most of my friends watching on-line back home would BE home before I was.

Mile 24 went by in 13:58, but it didn't bother me. I was just waiting for the end - getting ready to run the last mile. By now I knew that all I had to do was make it to mile 25, and let the crowd just carry me home.

This late in a rough race, I've always had a weird mood change. There's a sense of redemption, sentimentality, and a balance between wanting the pain to end as quickly as possible, while fighting to savor those last moments of the day. As the CITGO sign and the Prudenital Building loomed large before me, it hit me: Despite the heat, despite the lack of mileage in my legs, and despite the hills, I was starting to realize that I was going to finish my second Boston Marathon. I could barely shuffle, but I was starting to smile...a lot.

I fought over the final insulting grade over the Mass. Turnpike, passing the famous Citgo sign to the left and Fenway Park to the right ("Yankees SUCK!"), I could finally see the sweetest mile marker of the day - "MILE 25."

Just 2/10ths of a mile later came the giant Adidas banner I'd been waiting for: "With 1 mile to go, it's safe to say that 'Boston Marathon Finisher' is now going to be added to you history. Welcome to Boston." I read it, and the goosebumps washed over me from head to toe. I was 10 minutes away from putting the hardest marathon I'd run in 8 years in the books...and the adrenaline started to take over in short order. My legs started to pick up as the painted yellow letters on the road said it all: "ONE MILE TO GO."

I was doing everything I could to finish the day running. I was passing people, willing my legs to find just a little more with each stride. I kept looking towards the end of Commonwealth Avenue for the long-awaited right turn onto Hereford...

...When I saw her. Female, maybe 30. Red singlet, black shorts...Walking. With a half mile to go, she was walking. To me, I just couldn't stand to see it - you've got to finish running! I put my arm around her shoulder, and talked to her as much as I think I was talking to myself:

"No way. No way, sister. Nobody walks in the last mile at Boston. I don't care what has gone wrong with your race today, what the weather has done to you, or what the clock has to say about it - this is your chance to get the last word. THIS is your last word. You finish this thing running, you got it?"

She turned her head, and thankfully didn't slap me.

She smiled, mouthed the words, "Thank you..."

...And did what people usually do when I give them a boost - she took off and dropped me like I was nailed to a post. If only I could have that effect on myself. I watched her make the right off Commonwealth onto Hereford, and a few steps later I followed right behind.

After 4 hours and 51 minutes, I finally saw the sign I'd been waiting to see all day long - "BOYLSTON STREET." Grinding up the last grade I managed to pump my fist upwards and let out a whoop of sheer relief. The cheer back from the spectators who were still waiting there, 3-deep, welcoming the survivors home was all I could ask for. I made the left towards the finish line, and let my eyes feast on the blue and gold ribbons just 400 yards away.

Some say the finish line of Boston is as close as one will get to entering the Olympic Stadium in their lifetime. Unlike New York (where the finish line is hidden by a hill until you're 100 yards away), your eyes can see the line coming closer, and closer, and closer still for what seems like minutes. You get a chance to really soak in the experience that is Boston - for better or for worse.

I knew that my finishing time would be the slowest marathon I'd run in 8 years, but I really didn't care - I was going to finish the hottest Boston Marathon in 28 years, and I wasn't going to need an ambulance. What more could I ask for? As I entered the last 100 yards, I passed a man walking on the left - a blue number. 1094. I thought I was having a slow day - this was someone who should have finished 2 hours ago, walking.

I pointed at him and yelled out, "Perseverance, brother - per-se-ver-ence." Disappointed in his time, surely, he still managed a wave and a smile as I turned to face the last steps of the day.

The clock read 5:22 - My official time would read 4:55:36. At Philadelphia or Pittsburgh, that time would have me nearly last. On this day, on this course, in this heat, there were still 3,000 runners making their way home behind me...some still hours from the end.

I staggered through the finishing chutes, and this time I remembered where the VIP tent was. As the volunteers walked me towards bag check, Dave Jones came hustling down the sidewalk with his camera; "BOB! You made it! You look great! Ready for Twister?"

Canadians. Funny people.

So it didn't go at all like I'd planned, but it rarely does at this distance. That I've run 19 marathons and had a total of 3 races that I consider 'good', you'd think I'd be sick of them...but I'm not. Quite the contrary - I still love the challenge. I love the fact that I can put my miles in (when I have the time to train, that is), and still line up and be scared...just that little bit.

It could be a good day, it could be a bad day, it will always be a long day, but it will never be a boring day.

However, just to be sure I don't tempt fate too much at this marathon thing, my next race will not be a marathon - it'll be an ultra. 50KM - 31.07 miles. May 15th. I hear they've got really good snacks when you run for 6 hours, and running slowly is encouraged. How could I pass that up?

See you next month!

(I've learned my lesson - you won't read a f@#(@&! word about the weather I hope to have this time).
Hurricane Bob

* It's not the heat, it's the stupidity. *