It’s Not a Sprint - It’s a Marathon - a Party Attended by a Half-Million
Yesterday morning, we caught the 9:06 AM commuter rail train out of West Concord to get to the city for the baseball game and marathon. We reached the train’s elevated platform just a few minutes before nine. Two fellas on the platform waiting for the train had opened beers in their hands. The breakfast of champions – at least that’s what they were called at the Buffalo Bills tailgate parties, which started as early as 9:00 AM for the 1:00 PM games. The train conductors don’t do much policing of the beverages on board, so this is a common thing in these parts.
30,000 Run the Boston Marathon Every Year
Each major American city has its signature celebration. Here, it’s the Marathon. In Indianapolis, it’s the 500. In New Orleans, Mardi Gras. The Macy’s Parade in NYC, and also the place to be on New Year’s Eve – if you like freezing, with or without Dick Clark. The Taste of Buffalo is fantastic. That’s where restaurants from miles and miles around set up tents, and one can spend days tasting small bites from as many as can be packed into one digestive system. I know it isn’t as popular as the Sundance Film Festival, Coachella, or the Masters – but it’s closer…and better priced.
Yesterday, while the rest of America participated in their regular Monday, we here in Massachusetts celebrated Patriots Day. It’s a holiday – a state thing. Two hundred fifty years ago, the fight to become the United States of America started here. The first square off between our side and King George’s actually took place within walking distance of my house. That’d be the “shot heard round the world” – in the Battles of Lexington and Concord. We have a trail where it all took place, a Federal State Park – I walk, run, and bike it often.
A quarter of a century later, nearly to the day of that first fight – people come here from all over planet Earth. On the third Monday of every April, the Boston Marathon is our annual specialty. It doesn’t start in Boston – but it ends there, on Boylston Street – a shopping and eating Mecca not too far from Fenway Park. That’s where we were yesterday afternoon, with 499,998 of our closest friends. Know that people are lined up watching the runners along the entire 26.2-mile course. I think half a million are in Downtown Boston alone. The runners actually go through seven other towns to get there.
As you get closer and closer to the finish line, it gets louder and louder. Many runners have their names on their shirts, some have wild hairdos, and they represent noteworthy causes, too. And as they run by, people just cheer, clap, and whistle. They yell the names of people they don’t know, they reach out and high-five the athletes, there are signs held up and posted, and bells are rung…lots of them. I like the bell thing, and I wonder if that has anything to do with Paul Revere’s ride, prepping everyone for a rumble.
See what I mean? The Hick from French Lick.
The energy is so happy and positive – I’d bet everyone down there thinks about putting in the year of preparation to do the run themselves next year. I know I was thinking about it. Last year, Luca and I watched Carol Wright cross the finish line. She was 82 years old. In my book, she is living proof of living proof. She’s motivation, dedication, and inspiration, all in one.
After the ball game, we spent a few hours cheering on the runners. Kenmore Square is where it starts to get loud – especially after tens of thousands are released from Fenway to the streets. The runners coming through at that time are those who are finishing the race around the 3-hour mark. These are the sub-7-minute-mile runners. It’s not the pace of the champions who were here from Kenya, I know. But dude. 26 consecutive miles at 7 minutes each? Still, the real deal.
It was loud, but then it got really loud. One of the runners had reached out her hand and snagged a Bud Light from the hand of someone in the crowd. She was running and drinking it. The people who saw this went bonkers. I was laughing out loud – then wondered how much Budweiser paid her to do that. If anyone caught it on their phone, it’s viral tpday.
When I got home and it was quiet – my ears were ringing. Luca was in bed, and I was typing. All that I could hear was the keys of this laptop and this ringing in my ears. It was the first Marathon Monday in which I had taken note of such things. And the thoughts were stirring – just like they’ve been doing for months now.
I had so much more fun in the city than usual. Without the beers, we still had our arms around each other’s shoulders while we swayed back and forth singing Sweet Caroline in the middle of the 8th. We stopped at Beacon Hill Chocolates on Charles Street and had some of those delicate peanut butter and chocolate things. High-priced Reese’s, according to my son.
A Fenway Tradition - Thanks to whoever recorded this one
This wasn’t a finish line moment. It was a checkpoint. One that reminded me that joy still lives in me – fueled by connection, movement, and memory. I don’t need to run 26 miles to know I’m in the middle of something worth finishing. All I have to do is wake up tomorrow and keep going.
Another day. Another page. Another bite. Another not today. A better story. Not just for me – but for the one walking beside me.