One week, or six days, eleven hours, thirty-six minutes, and twenty-nine seconds to be more precise – this is how much time we have until we line up in Hopkinton for the start of the 118th Boston Marathon.
This will be my second time “running” the race, in quotes since the last time I traveled by foot from Hopkinton to Boston, I walked more than I ran. I hope to do things a little differently this time around. Fortunately, I have two running prodigies, Matt and Jay, to help keep me reeled in early which should translate into running all, or at least the vast majority of, the race.
So hopefully no Bataan Death March this go round. As of post time, the weather forecast is pretty damned close to perfect – a wee bit better than that fateful day in 2012, aka the hottest Patriot’s Day on record – which should help as well.
Granted, I feel a bit like a House of Cards, and not the Kevin Spacey kind, but rather the literal kind, like the slightest wrong move, the softest of breezes, will cause all my best laid plans to get strewn everywhere. My right leg feels like it’s been Tonya Harding’d (my friend Bob gives me much grief for using a woman as my example here – he thinks I should go with a male example, perhaps Willis McGahee, but my leg feels more like it’s been whacked with a pipe as opposed to being exploded by a devastating tackle). I’m not sure what is going on but it hurts in multiple places. And recently, Laura’s youngest has been diagnosed with strep, not once, but twice. Every time I turned around, he was trying to sneak into our bed. “Quick, wash the sheets!” I screamed at his mom. I feel like I should do this for the rest of the week:
Almost a year ago, I told some sons of bitches that 27,000 (I didn’t know about the extra 9,000 yet) of my closest friends and I would not be deterred, that we would run this thing no matter what, and I meant it. Those of you following my journey know that it took a hell of a lot of work, not just from me, but from Laura, along with an assist from so many of our friends and family, to make it back to Boston. So as long as I’m ambulatory and something remotely approaching healthy and at least fever-free enough to be partially lucid, I will run the 26.2 miles into Boston as fast as this decrepit old body will let me. The plan is to honor the bombing victims, and the eternal spirit of the Boston Marathon, by swinging for the fences and trying to break 3:20 (my PR is 3:19 and change).
Feel free to text 13600 (my bib #) to 345678 to join me for the final leg of this journey as we jog this thing out.