Boston 2005

When I closed my eyes, that was all I could see. As I sat on the bus to Hopkinton for the third time in three years, it was all I could think about. "I BELIEVE." It was April 18, 2005. A Monday. Patriots Day in Boston, known as 'Marathon Monday' to all of the locals. The day where 20,000 runners join together to form a long chain of human stories from Hopkinton to Boston, covering 26 miles, 385 yards of pure running history.

It would be my third try, and most likely, my last try at Boston. It was a race where I'd never deserved to be there once, let alone three times - knowing how some people spend their whole careers trying to qualify and earn a slot...it was with a mixture of awe and humility I prepared for one more dance with the grand dame of marathons.

In 2003, the race had tried to kill me. 75 degree temperatures, hot winds, and a lack of training had me crawling from the 12-mile mark all the way home. I'd run a 4:33. How bad was it? My close friend and Xtri columnist Ray Britt had finished in 3:06, had a shower, some lunch, caught a cab, and boarded his plane for home before I'd even turned onto Boylston Street.

In 2004, the race had tried to kill me. 86 degree temperatures, hot winds, and a lack of training had me crawling from the 9-mile mark all the way home. How bad was it? I walked up Heartbreak Hill backwards to keep my calves from wrapping themselves around my neck. I'd shuffled to a 4:55 finish - my slowest marathon in 7 years, and once again Ray had time for a shower, a nap, and still made his plane before I'd left Brookline.

This time it would be different. I knew enough to respect the race; this time I wanted to be ready for it. I also wanted to make sure I was running with a greater purpose; for the first time in my 8 years of racing, I signed up to run for a charity. In December I joined the Dana-Farber Marathon Challenge, a group of runners with a long history of running the Boston Marathon in the name of finding a cure for cancer. If I was to run one last time up there, I was going to make it count, one way or another.

On New Year's Day I stepped out my front door and ran 10 laps of my neighborhood loop, a tricky run with a gentle downhill for a half mile, and then three up/down rolls back to the start - endlessly taxing, just like the Boston course. My first longish-run since the Philadelphia Marathon 6 weeks prior; I struggled to finish in 1:35:17, my heart rate right around 141.

For the next 16 weeks, I had a plan - I followed the plan. Five runs per week. One tempo run. One long run. Hills. Speedwork. Weights. Yoga. Pilates. I didn't just hope for the best each week - I made the time in my day, and I got the miles in. When it snowed, I did my tempo work on the treadmill. I learned to fuel. I learned to be patient. I learned to work through the bad patches, and to take advantage of the good days. One workout at a time, one brick at a time, the house that was my fitness slowly came together.

As the taper drew near I was as ready for Boston (or any other marathon) as I could possibly be. I knew it. I had a confidence within me that I hadn't tasted since 2001 during my buildup to Ironman Canada - when I'd felt a part of something bigger than myself, something that I knew was going to be special.

As I listened to the music from my iPod, closed off in my own little space on the bus, I thought over everything I'd been told by those faster than myself. Steve Noone had told me, "You're ready for this. Focus on your race, one step at a time, use the cheering spectators and your fellow runners for energy. When things get difficult remember all the consistency and hard work you've put in to get to this point. A marathon PR at Boston. How great would that be?"

Dave Jones had told me at dinner the night before, "You're time is going to have a 3, and then a 4, and then something. It'll be great!" Art Hutchinson and Ray Britt told me the same - they just looked at me and knew I was ready, they could just tell.

As I stepped off the bus into the sunsplashed scene that is the Athlete's Village in Hopkinton, I felt like I wasn't even touching the ground. It was going to be the best running day I'd ever had, and I couldn't wait to get started. Sure there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and sure the temperatures were already in the 60's, but that wouldn't matter. I wasn't scared. I wasn't losing my focus for one second.

Waiting for the race to start I managed to connect with Shelley McKee and Lee Crumbaugh out in the Athlete's Village, and then with Ray to find out exactly what time he was planning on boarding his plane. "I'm on the 6:15 flight, but I think I can make the 5:15, so you'd better be done by 4:45, Hurricane!" he warned me with a wide smile. I believed him - even if he'd finished Ironman Arizona in 10:26 a week previously, when Ray mentioned a goal, he usually made it. I did the math: "4:45PM. Assuming I make the start line at 12:30, that's a 4:15. I can do that, easily." I thought to myself.

I checked my chip. I put on the sunscreen. I drank. I listened to the same music I'd been training with during the winter, when the feeling of sun on my shoulders was nothing more than a distant fantasy. I thought of the endless miles with frozen water bottles, praying for a sunny Boston. I thought about all of those bricks, placed together one workout at a time, stacked up around my fears, keeping them in check. I felt free, ready, sure.

At 11:30AM I put my gear bag on the bus back to Boston, and started the long walk to corral #20. When I got there, people were already standing in the sun - baking. It was 11:45AM. We wouldn't even start moving until 12:20 - no need to get in there just yet. I found some shade at the side of the road, laid down, and just rested.

At 11:55AM the F-18 flyby roared overhead, the pair of jets covering the marathon route in about 4 minutes, as usual. Somewhere up the road I was sure the National Anthem was being sung. We were so far back from the starting line, they didn't even run loudspeakers near us in the back - so we all just cheered at Noon on principle; somewhere up there, the 109th Boston Marathon was underway.

At 12:21, corrals 19-20-21 finally started to creep forward. Down, down, down Grove Street...walking at first, and then jogging, and then finally making the right-turn onto West Main Street. At 12:28:22PM, I finally was able to stop thinking about Boston - it was time to run the race I knew I could run.

The start at Boston is the first of a thousand highlights on the day. The road plunges downhill into an amphitheater of humanity on both sides of the road, cheering constantly at all who pass. It's downhill, in the shade, and nothing hurts (yet). It's a moment you dream of when you step outside under a grey sky in January, as you fight through a wind that just bites through all the layers; it's a feeling you wish you could bottle up so that when someone who has never run a marathon before asks you, "Why?" you could just give them a taste of instant and everlasting euphoria - one sip of making the start line in Hopkinton, and they'd understand.

Of course, it's only mile 1. Dreams are everywhere at mile 1. At mile 1 in a marathon, potential, like the road before you, is endless. Veterans know there are 25.2 more to come. Rookies also know this, but usually forget immediately and go tearing downhill from Hopkinton like they're running a 5K. Veterans just let them go, knowing that running a slow first mile is the first step in making sure you run a fast final mile.

However, even though I was taking it easy and warming up slowly, my heart rate monitor started doing something it hadn't done all year; It started beeping. "Nerves, adrenaline. It'll settle." I thought to myself. After waiting all morning, I'm sure my butterflies were now flying in V-Formation in my stomach - just a little while and I was sure they'd calm down.

The first mile passed in 8:50, but at an average of 147 - well above the 130 I'd expected so early. No worries - I was sure everything would settle down soon. But then early in mile 2 my HR poked into the 150's, and then impossibly, into the 160's. What? I wasn't breathing hard. My legs felt fine. My bladder? Well, thankfully there are plenty of trees once you get out of town; mile 2 was a more leisurely 9:28, but even with the pit stop my HR was just wrong. 146? That should be about 130. "No need to worry yet - it'll settle down." I reminded myself...again.

By mile 3 the pack had spread out a bit more - there was more room to breathe and settle into a solid, easy pace. My plan was a simple one: The race was divided into two parts - before Newton, and after Newton. I would spend the first 16 miles running easy, making sure I hydrated and fueled along the way, hopefully controlling the urge to run a little faster...

...and then simply run my 10-mile training run, starting in the Newton Hills. On paper, the plan looked great. If only I could get my HR to just settle down, just a little bit, that would be even better.

Mile 3 - 8:56, right on pace, but my HRM alarm was still screaming as my HR stayed nailed at 156. "That's insane. That can't be my heart rate. That should be 135, just like it has been every other run I've had all year at this pace." I mused...not quite worried, but not entirely sure just what was happening.

Sticking to the plan and doing what I could, I took my first hit of Hammer Gel (I was running with a flask of Espresso Hammer Gel - just like I had been all year), chased it with some Gatorade, and moved on. I didn't walk the water stop - I wasn't going to walk any of them today. Pinch the cup, sip it down on the move like a pro, and keep on truckin'.

Of course I knew the act of constantly glancing at the numbers on my wrist was going to drive me batty. I looked down the road, and made a deal NOT to look at the Heart Rate Monitor until the next mile marker. Immediately, internal conversation of body vs. mind that most endurance athletes are oh-so-familiar with started.

"Memo? Yes, yes, I've seen it. But it is VERY warm today, and it is early, and I'm not at all happy. Could you slow down just a bit and maybe I'll be able to adjust..." said the body, almost wistfully.

"No, no, we don't need to slow down. We'll be fine. We'll just keep running these miles like we planned. It'll be fine." My mind was focused and on plan, and there was no reply from the body.

Mile 4 - 8:48, good pace, but had HR numbers - still in the 150's. I hit the water stop at mile 4 and took another shot of Gatorade - sipping and taking my time to get it all in on the move, trying to figure out if I was in trouble, or not. I felt fine. I was running at the right speed. I was getting in plenty of fuel. It was just that my heart was officially out of control; I was seeing numbers that I'd seen during intense tempo runs - when my pace was in the 7:30's. Not at this 'easy' pace in the early miles of a marathon.

My body was starting to seriously send signals up to mission control, but my mind wouldn't hear it. "Should I back off a little? Maybe take a mile at 9:30 and see what happens?" I asked myself.

My mind sang on; "No, no - just keep moving. Sure the sun is approaching its zenith. Sure there's a slight tailwind following us. Sure this is probably about 15 degrees warmer than any run you've had all year - don't worry about those things. You're fit. You're ready. It's BOSTON. No time for worrying. Keep going - it'll all work out!" I thought about all my bricks - my house of fitness holding everything together: I knew I was going to be fine.

I headed down the road, approaching Framingham and the train depot - the first truly insane crowds of the day. All I needed to do was keep running, relax, and surely things would sort themselves out, right?

Mile 5 - 8:53, at 155 beats per minute. At this point, I began to wonder if maybe (just maybe) the warm weather was starting to play a part here. After all, I hadn't had a long run in shorts and short sleeves since...October of 2004. My last long run was done in a 43-degree, steady mist. Now it was almost 70 degrees and sunny...with just enough of a tailwind to make the air around all of us perfectly still.

I tried to be positive. "No worries - I've just covered the first 5 miles of Boston nearly 10 minutes quicker than I came through here last year. I'm ahead of PR pace. It'll all work out. I just wish my stomach felt a little better than it did...but that'll be okay."

My body had given up trying to reason with a mind on a mission, and started doing what bodies always do - whatever the hell it had to do to get me to listen. Like a woman scorned my body thought, "Okay brain. You want to run a PR? You want today to be all about the legs? You've got it!" At such a high heart rate, my stomach was ordered to shut down...just like that.

Passing through Framingham and the old Train Depot is the first reality check of the day. After the long, steep downhill from Hopkinton, the butterflies were all gone - this is where you settle into your own groove, and start looking at what's going on to see if everything is okay. In my case the pace was okay, the legs were okay, but my stomach started to feel...odd.

The sun was starting to warm the pavement; I could feel the temperature drop when passing through an aid station as hundreds of dropped cups dribbled their last contents onto the road, bringing a brief oasis between the miles...a quick blast of cool, humid air as the sun tried to bake the road dry.

Mile 6 passed in 8:52 at 153, as I approached the end of my first hour of racing. Passing through the town I remember running past an Elvis impersonator singing in the back of a pickup truck, and past a car dealership where every year the owner blocks off the sidewalks in front of his store and cheers on the runners with a megaphone. "Take a look at yourselves in my windows! You look great! You all look great! Only 20 miles to Boston!"

Mile 7 - 8:52 at 154 beats per minute. Gulp. At this point my mind began to casually wonder if, perhaps maybe, just possibly, things weren't quite right. "Hey stomach? What's going on down there?" it asked. "Ohh, nothing! I'm just following orders." replied my stomach. "Orders? What orders?" asked the brain, wondering if that completely unreasonable life-support system that NEVER saw things other than its own way was stepping in the way, AGAIN.

"Well, with the heart working this hard, all the blood we'd normally have has been re-directed to the legs, so we're just holding onto everything until we get a chance to digest later on. What's going on today? We don't usually run this far, this hard. Shouldn't we be stopping soon...?" the stomach mused. My mind grumbled to itself, "Oh, no. Not again."

While I was aware of this internal dialogue, I had something else I was trying to sort out; I felt like the chest strap for my heart rate monitor was getting tighter and tighter. I felt like I couldn't get a good, deep breath in - every minute or so I'd reposition it to see if I could loosen it a bit. That had never happened to me before, and it had sure picked a hell of a day to start happening now. Despite that, I kept thinking positively. "This just adds to the drama - it just adds to the story. When I break 3:50 later today, I'll be able to laugh about this!"

Adidas puts up banners as you enter each different town along the way. A few days later only a few of them are clear in my memory, but I do remember the one heading into Natick because of what it said: "REALITY - It's what happens in Natick." While I was aware of too much reality, I kept my focus - committed completely to running the best race of my life, regardless of the way things were going.

Miles 8, 9, 10 - 8:56, 8:58, 9:03. All at 153 beats per minute. At 90 minutes into the race, my heart has been pounding along at this clip for the entire way. My chest strap is clenching around me like a python, and things are not getting better. At this point my mind casually asked, "Hey, stomach - what's up? Where are you going?" The stomach replied, "I'm just expanding a bit to hold all this Gatorade and stuff. Can you ask the lungs and liver to step aside?"

Doubts are starting to creep in on the fringes of my thoughts, but I don't listen to them. I think of my wall. I think of my bricks. I think of all the work - all the hours spent circling my neighborhood on frozen days, knowing it would be worth it. I run on. I'm on pace. This will all work out...even if I can't breathe at the moment.

Mile 11 passes in 9:05, still with the HR at 154. I'm headed towards Wellesley and the "scream tunnel" now - the women of Wellesley College are just up the road, waiting for me. It's a warm day. While the weather might be killing me, as Dave Jones always reminds me, "A hot day for us means sundresses at Wellesley. Be ready to look good!" I focus on keeping it together...although my stomach feels like it's sticking about 2 feet ahead of me. I pass the water stop at mile 11 - the last thing I need to do is get to Wellesley and launch a technicolor yawn in front of the co-eds.

When I close my eyes and try to focus, I can no longer see the phrase my day started with. My imagination has edited things a bit.

Mile 12 - 9:00 at 152. Wellesley is just ahead. I skip the water at mile 12, and skip the Hammer Gel. Right now I wonder if any of the Wellesley women will mistake me for the Michelin Man as I run past. But then again in my Dana-Farber singlet, I'm a 200-pound Orange, Carolina Blue, and Black monolith bloating down the road; I look like a blueberry-peach smoothie gone completely wrong.

I feel like my stomach has somehow expanded into both legs, my entire chest cavity, and my right ear. I can't get a breath in, and I keep pulling my HRM strap loose to try and feel better. At least I know that once I pass through Wellesley, I'm nearly halfway home.

It gets very quiet before Wellesley. You listen, you listen, and then you hear it - the high-pitched roar that is the scream tunnel. It's life at 120 decibels - the highlight of the first 13 miles. Everyone hugs the right side of the road, running within one foot of the barricades, and just enjoys the ride. Two thousand women in sundresses, standing shoulder to shoulder, screaming and cheering for you like you're in the lead. Man or woman, everyone feels it at Wellesley.

While I manage to run through and love every second of it, I don't dare stop and kiss a single girl. Not because Lynda told me not to (I was given permission to kiss two in 2003, and only used one, so I have one left), but because I was afraid that if I stopped my stomach just might take advantage of the moment and, well, nevermind.

Descending from Wellesley and leaving the love behind, Mile 13 is both my slowest mile, yet with the highest HR - 9:15 at 156. I manage to cross halfway in 1:58 flat, on-pace for a 4:05 or so if I can hold it together.

Back home John Herr, a fellow runner and co-worker gets my athlete alert on his computer. He sees my halfway split time, and pens the following e-mail to me: "Dear Bob, there's no way you're keeping this pace up. John."

Mile 14 - 9:20 at 156. Running through the town of Wellesley, I tried to remind myself to keep moving. "You knew this could happen - you knew there would be a bad patch during this race. Sure, you didn't expect it to be the first 14 miles...but it's just a really BIG bad patch. Keep moving, you'll get through it." My mind was clear and focused. My stomach, unfortunately, was completely full, and out of room to grow. Even though I hadn't taken a drink in 4 miles, without giving my body a chance to slow and regroup, I was not helping the situation at all.

I fight the urge to panic, and think of my brick wall...as my stomach sends a warning shot to the brain. "Brain, you need to stop. You need to walk. You need to slow down, NOW. Enough of this - can't you feel what's happening here?"

In the space of two strides my mind loses the war: I start violently dry-heaving. I double-over, out of control - a passenger to my own stomach. Some of them are so forceful, I fully expect to see my New Balances come flying out of my mouth at any second. My mind, knowing the plot has suddenly changed, updates the mantra of the day.

As I shuffle and heave along, mile 15 passes in 10:43 at 150. I haven't run a single mile that slowly all year...and I still can't believe it. My race is coming apart before my very eyes, and I just can't understand how I got here. Within seconds, my wall starts to drop bricks; the fears are winning. "This wasn't supposed to happen! I'm supposed to run a PR today! I'm supposed to run the best Boston of my life! I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO FAIL!" I plead to myself, knowing full well that it's probably too late now.

"C'mon Dana-Fahbeh! Hang in there! Good jawb!" The blessing of running for a charity group like Dana-Farber is that everyone at the side of the road cheers for you in good times, and especially in bad times - like now. As I wobble through mile 16 at 9:34, my heart rate has dropped to 148, but I'm barely running now - I'm in a weakening shuffle, trying to keep my stomach inside my body just a little bit longer.

"Good jawb Dana Fahbeh! You're alright! Keep going!" It's the Boston accent that I love - the people are so real, so sincere, and they really love their marathon. I manage to smile weakly as I shuffle towards Newton and the mile that should have marked the end of Part I of my race plan. As I plunge downhill towards the Newton Hills, mile 17 takes 10:33 at 150. I was running as slowly as I could without walking, downhill, in the shade...and still, my heart won't slow down.

I know now that there will be no charge for home in the final 10 miles. Those 10 miles suddenly feel like 100 as the Newton Firehouse looms into view, and I make the right turn towards the Newton Hills. In my mind's eye, three more bricks fall down from my wall...

If run on some idle Tuesday afternoon the climbs of Newton are not that bad. They're short, but not overly steep. When you reach them after nearly three hours of running, however, they are the French Alps. Within 100 yards of the turn, the grade becomes too much for my legs. With my stomach holding everything I've been drinking and eating all race long without digesting it, I've basically run the first 18 miles on no calories and no fluids. Even if I were to start drinking now, the race would be over before my body started to recover.

Mile 18 takes 11:48, as my heart rate finally drops to 145. More bricks are starting to crumble. I focus on the three feet of pavement ahead of me, and just try to keep from walking.

Boston runner Jim Rhodes takes pictures at the start, and at Heartbreak Hill all race long on Marathon Monday. He caught me here at mile 18, doing all I could to keep moving. Images courtesy Jim Rhodes (http://jimrhodes.com).

I'm heading towards Art - my close friend and running mentor who has known since early March of my plans for a PR run at Boston. I've told precious few people, but Art has known since I first believed it could happen. All race long I'd thought of powering over the first Newton Hill to him, taking a fresh gel flask for the stretch drive, and then running to Boylston Street with grace, speed, and strength to spare. I know now that I will shuffle weakly into view and have no words to tell him what has happened.

The grade steepens. Mile 19 is the slowest yet - 12:33, but at 136 my stomach is calming down. My legs, however, have nothing left: The tank is dry. As I shuffle towards the top I'm barely running, and I'm passed by Dave Decker's friend Kate Hyland. I'm shocked, because I had no idea Kate was running today. She'd never mentioned it, but there she was next to me heading for Heartbreak Hill, handing me an earpiece from her iPod.

I put the earpiece in my right ear, and Moby is playing. "MOBY!" She says. "Hang in there! What happened?" We run together for a bit, and I explain the best I can using 4 words. "Heat. Stomach. Tossed. Done." She understands. I ask her, "So how's Dave doing?" I'm referring to Dave Decker, who was running from Boston to Hopkinton for the start, and then running BACK to Boston for a 52.4 mile day. She looks at me quizzically and goes, "Dave? I haven't seen him all day. Was I running with him?"

I find this odd, because I was sure that Dave told me that Kate was going to pace him out to Boston on her bike...so how could she forget that? Regardless, she wished me luck and headed up the road towards Art.

At dinner that night, I would realize what had just happened. That was not Kate Hyland, but Susan McCarthy - a friend of Art's. Susan and Kate look nothing alike. Kate doesn't run marathons. I knew this. I was just so far out of it, my brain had been so severely beat down by my race coming unglued, it wasn't really paying attention to things all that well anymore.

Sure enough, there is Art. Blue and White floral print shirt, arms outstretched wide in the universal gesture for, "Bob, what happened?" he doesn't even need to ask me. He knows. Before I can even explain he goes, "Sue told me you were having a rough day." I asked him if he saw Kate running (since she was just ahead of me after all), and then he handed me my gel flask. "You need salt? Here, here!"

I love Art. He's been running for so long he knows what needs to happen - he knows what I need before I even ask. I grab a handful of pretzels, and Art warns me, "Don't eat them all at once - one at a time, suck on them. Let the salt digest." I thank him, and shuffle off towards Heartbreak Hill - the last of the 4 Newton Hills.

Towards mile 20 I don't so much hit the wall; in my imagination my wall of bricks finally gives way and collapses ON me. My race is over - I know it. I won't break my PR. I won't break 4 hours. At the rate I'm falling apart, I might not even break 4:30. Only now through salt, exhaustion, and the loss of mental strength, does the emotion of the day crash into me.

As I pass mile 20 in 13:40, my eyes water up. I can't stop the tears, and I don't have the energy to fight the sadness. I never thought I would fail - I never expected not to succeed. In a strange twist I've never experienced, the very confidence that let me fly so high in training was the very reason why I hurt like never before on this day; I'd never missed a goal so badly, and there was still so far to go.

Shuffling when I could and walking when I couldn't, Heartbreak Hill passed beneath my feet at 14:50 pace. My heart rate was finally in the 130's, and my stomach was feeling light years better. I still had no energy to run with any sort of speed, but at least this year, I could say that I made it up Heartbreak Hill facing forwards.

I knew now as I looked towards Boston College that the emotions I'd expected here - the joy, the power, the euphoria of passing through BC on the way to the best race of my life - they were not to be. Throughout my taper when people asked me, "Are you ready?" I'd replied the same way: "Yes, but 26.2 miles is a long, long way. Anything can, and usually does happen."

As I started to descend towards the Prudential Tower in the distance, my strategy had changed to my old Ironman-fallback-plan: Relentless Forward Progress. It doesn't matter how fast you move - just don't stop. Everyone around me was moving at the same speed - there were people walking on both sides of the road. People fighting cramps; people fighting tears. However, as rough as it was for us, the crowds were unwilling to let us suffer for long.

Every time I'd break down and walk, hands would come flying over the barricades - high-fives when I needed them most. "C'mon Dana-Fahbeh! Think of all those kids! Think of the kids you're helping! Don't quit on them! Run! Run!" And I would run, however weakly, and they'd all cheer. I would make it another 300 yards, break down again, and the cycle started all over. "Good jawb Dana-Fahbah! You're almost there! C'mon! C'mon! We're so proud of you!"

It wasn't pride so much as it was not wanting to let the crowd down that kept me moving. When my head would drop, someone would bend over and peer beneath my hat. "Hang in theh! C'mon now - Fenway's right around the connah! See the Citgo sign?" Pointing a hand East with a finger extended, proudly. I would smile, take another high-five, and the energy of the crowd would carry me another 200 yards.

Brookline has always been amazing to me that way. Three times I've arrived there a broken, beaten man, and three times I've been carried by sheer positive energy. As I approached mile 24, I knew the day was going to be over soon. I knew that it wasn't going to end the way I'd hoped, but unless I fell flat on my face, I was going to finish. The way I was moving, I was going to be able to take in the scenes of Boston for about 25 more minutes...and when I looked at it that way, I felt a little better.

I was determined that the last two miles weren't going to be a death march - they were going to be a parade lap. If I was going to be slow, I was going to high-five as many people as I could. I was going to thank people for being there...and as I was reconciling that, the banana passed me.

I blinked. This time, I wasn't seeing things - there was a 6-foot banana running down the road, and the crowd was going berserk for him. Then I saw why: In hot pursuit of the 6-foot banana was a guy in a gorilla suit. They were weaving all over the road, as they probably had been all race long. I made a note to let Ray Britt know that his tale of being passed by a guy dressed as the Old North Church in 1996 (with working lantern in the steeple), couldn't possibly be as good as this.

I turned to a guy on the fence and said, "You know up until now it was a bad day, but now that I've been dropped by both a banana and a gorilla, I think things can only get better from here." He raised his beer to me and said, "You got it Dana-Fahbah! Keep going!"

The Citgo sign grew larger and larger, and soon Fenway Park was on my right. On Friday night Lynda and I sat there, taking in our first Red Sox game. The Sox managed to load the bases. I asked her, "You think it'd be too much to ask to see a Grand Slam at Fenway Park?" No sooner had I said the words than did David Ortiz, "Big Papi" himself, launch one down the rightfield line, just around the Pesky Pole: Grand Slam. The Sox would win the game 10-0; I thought it was a good omen for me, but now that seemed so long ago.

However, I still saw a Grand Slam at Fenway. Just that memory made me smile as I passed the Mile 25 marker and headed for home, high-fiving everyone still standing along the fences on the left side of the road.

The sun was still bright behind us all, just a little lower in the sky than I'd hoped. Running up Commonwealth Avenue for the last time, my emotions really began to short circuit. I desperately wanted to stop running, but I didn't want this race to end. I remembered that starting in Boston College, I was going to use Dave Jones' motivational trick for the last 5 miles - I was going to run a mile for each member of my family, but I'd bailed on that plan. The way things were coming apart, I didn't want anyone going down on the ship with me.

But here I was closing in on the final mile of the day. As I crossed over the yellow painted sign on the road, I held up my right hand and extended one finger to the sky. ONE MILE TO GO. People along both sides of the road raised their hands with me, and gave me that surge I was looking for.

I was going to run part this mile for someone after all. It wasn't going to be fast, it wasn't going to be strong. It wasn't going to be towards a PR, but it was going to be for a finish. St. Lynda has been putting up with this madness for so long, it would be easy to think this mile was for her. Someone who paid for my first Ironman; someone who has traveled cross-country for me to race; someone who has understood what it all means to me, and has let me be me...but mile 26 wasn't for her.

Mile 26 wasn't for anyone. As I turned the corner off of Commonwealth onto Hereford Street, I did everything I could to keep my legs moving. People were walking, but I wasn't going to. Nobody walks on Boylston Street. As I made that final left, I was finally running in sunshine on Boylston. Ahead of me was a woman in a black and white singlet - she made the turn, and started to walk. As I passed her I asked, "Can you run? You HAVE to run!" She said, "I'm afraid I might faint...I can't."

I just pointed down the street the same way it seemed that everyone in Brookline had pointed for me. "There! THERE! Look at that banner. Look down there and look at nothing else but Blue and Yellow. Run to it. Don't look anywhere else!" She started to run, and fell in step behind me.

As I closed in on the colors of the finish line - the brilliant hues even more alive in the late afternoon sun, I thought about how hard it had been to get there, and how quickly it was all going to be over. I looked around as much as I could - trying to find Lynda was impossible, but I tried - I was taking in the majesty of the Boston Marathon one last time. Even in missing my goal, even in having my entire race come apart, I had still made it.

As "Mile 26" passed beneath my feet, I thought of what it meant to get there, how hard it had been, but how it was all so worth it. Mile 26 wasn't run for anyone, but the last 2/10ths were. For those 385 yards I thought of what a great lesson that would make for someone someday. "Lesson Number 1: Never Give Up."

When I'd left the hotel that morning I'd leaned over and kissed Lynda goodbye, and patted her belly. "I'm going to make you both proud today!" I may not have measured up by the clock, but I hoped that just by finishing...I'd made them proud enough.

The line came closer, closer, closer, and in those last yards I looked towards the sky. I wanted to laugh, but I started to cry. I was elated, relieved, exhausted, destroyed, reborn, and thankful. I raised my hands - the clock passed above me, and just like in Philadelphia, I brushed it with my fingers as I took my last step. Boston was behind me, at last.

As soon as I stopped, I doubled over. I just wanted to be there for a moment - I needed to figure out what the heck to do next. I wasn't sure what I felt - I was officially a mess. An official quickly came over to me, bent down, and wrapped an arm over me.

I walked past the volunteers, and headed towards the VIP tent. I took my time, and I left my shades on. I figured I could just walk slowly, cry it out, and be done with it. After all, the last thing I want to do is...

...cry in front of my friends. Drat. Dave Jones came running over (after his 3:14 finish), and gave me a hug. "You made it!" Of course, the hug did it - I lost it again. This time, completely. I managed to sob a semi-coherent sentence:

I sounded ridiculous. I sounded like a cross between Nathan Lane in "The Birdcage" and a drunken frat guy at 1:15AM on a Saturday morning. I knew that, but I was too tired to care. Dave walked me to the tent, and a volunteer brought my bag over to me. After a few bags of chips, some water, some more water, and then some more water, soon I was on my way back to the hotel on the "T", and trying to sort out just what had happened out there.

I had never expected to fail; I had never allowed myself to doubt. I was sure I wasn't the only person who missed a time goal that day, but it still hurt like hell. As I walked off the elevator and shuffled down the long hallway to the hotel room, I was still working on making sense of it all when I knocked on the door. Lynda opened it.

There will be other races. There will be other days. I will pick up the pieces from here, and get back to work. I will put the wall back together, and get out there again.