I chose this title specifically because I want to run it again. I really really really do. It’s a very challenging course in a great town with amazing crowds. I feel so blessed to have been one of 26,632 people this year who finished the 123rd Boston Marathon.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Qualifying for Boston

When I ran the St. George Marathon in 2017, I knew that it was a popular race for getting into the Boston Marathon. As a 48-year-old man, I needed to run a qualifying time of 3:25:00. I didn’t think I had a chance of hitting that target in just my second marathon, so I set a goal of 3:30:00 to see if I could come close.

Instead, I surprised myself by finishing in 3:16:57—well under my a Boston Qualifying (BQ) time. When I realized that I had BQed, Boston seemed like a fun thought, but not really realistic. Then I thought about the thousands of runners who try (and fail) to qualify every year. As an amateur athlete, having the ability to participate in one of the most prestigious athletic competitions in the world is a real gift. So I figured, why shouldn’t I?

When registration opened up last September, I submitted my application and paid my money. The acceptance email arrived almost immediately. I was headed to the Boston Freaking Marathon!

Training for the Big Event

I find it easier to stay in marathon shape than to get into marathon shape, so I train accordingly. Last year, I ran six full marathon distances. I also ran seven half marathons and a few other races. In 2019, I ran (but didn’t race) a marathon in each of the months leading up to Boston: the Arizona Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon (January), the Washington City Double Dare (February), and the Sand Hollow Marathon (March).

I’m usually pretty casual about my training, but my approach got a little more serious as April loomed. I upped my speed work and began doing some modified hill repeats. As I headed into my pre-marathon taper, I was feeling a bit tired but stronger than ever.

Getting There

Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. Back in November when I booked my flight, I picked a Saturday-night red-eye from Las Vegas to Boston. I can usually get some sleep on a plane, but was a little concerned because the flight was the night before the night before the marathon. When we checked in for the flight, I saw a note that my seat was in a “non-reclining” row. Ugh. When we arrived to the gate I went up to the agent and asked about a possible seat reassignment. He told me the system was inaccurate. I could certainly pay extra to get a different seat, but that wouldn’t be necessary because my seat would recline. Scout’s honor.

He lied. We got onto the plane, and sure enough, I was stuck in the row ahead of an exit. I had taken a sleeping pill in Vegas, but I only managed to doze fitfully—sitting straight upright—during the five-hour flight to Massachusetts.

So bleary-eyed and groggy, I stumbled off the plane and made my way to the hotel (though I couldn’t check in yet). We left our bags with the front desk and got some breakfast. After that, we jumped on the T to head downtown and take in the pre-race festivities.

One of my running friends had told me about special Marathon Sunday services held at the Old South Church, the “Church of the Finish Line.” This church (where Benjamin Franklin, Samuel Adams and Phillis Wheatley all worshiped) celebrates the Sunday before the Boston Marathon with a blessing on the runners. We went to the 11:00 service and loved it all—especially the epic musical number involving a highland bagpiper, drums, and organ. It happened to be Palm Sunday, so that was fun, too. Here are a few photos from the event:

After services, we visited the finish line for a quick group photo of Utah runners. When that was done, we headed to the race expo.

Aside from picking up my bib and swag bag, I had one goal at the expo: get a new shirt. During the whole week leading up to the marathon, weather reports had been indicating that Patriots Day in Boston would be cold and rainy. I brought lots of layers as well as a long-sleeved tech shirt to wear. By Sunday, however, the forecast was for much warmer weather. The only black shirt I was able to find said “BOSTON STRONG” on the front. This turned out to be a very good decision. Read on.

Race Morning

I’m always a little worried the night before a race. Often, I’ll toss and turn all night, or I wake up super early and can’t go back to sleep. Thanks to the miserable flight the night before, I had no trouble falling asleep on Sunday night. I slept all the way until my alarm, and got up feeling refreshed and energized.

I took the shuttle bus to the T station, and the T to the Park station. The rain was coming down pretty hard, but the forecast said it would let up by start time. I had worn throwaway shoes and several layers to shed along the way. I got through security and boarded a bus. A very nice man from Copenhagen sat beside me, and we chatted as the bus drove and drove and drove. We’d expected maybe a ride of 40-45 minutes, but we were on the bus at least an hour and a half. Actually, it was pretty upsetting.

By the time we arrived at the Athlete’s Village (Hopkinton Middle School), I had less than half an hour to do all of my pre-race preparation. I burned 15 minutes standing in line for a bagel, then hurriedly changed my shoes and socks, applied all of my various creams and lotions, and queued up my playlist. I was just throwing my sweats into the donation truck when they called the runners for Wave 2.

The Starting Line

It was a long walk to the starting corrals. We walked like cattle in a chute down Grove Street, waving at the friendly locals. After stopping for a quick pee (with my 8,000 new best friends), I found my chute. Imagine seven paddocks of temporary barricades, each filled with 2,000 nervous runners. It was controlled pandemonium.

As I stood there, preparing myself mentally for what I was about to do, a guy came up and put his arm around me. “I saw your kilt,” he told me, “and thought you should get a photo with an honest-to-God Scotsman.” He took a selfie and told me he had once held the world record for running a marathon in full kilt and kit.

Meanwhile, they announced over the loudspeaker that Jimmie Johnson, the NASCAR driver, was starting in the corral just ahead of me. I had a hard time getting excited about him because I was too excited for myself. Finally … finally … they began the countdown, and then quite suddenly, we were off.

The First Half: Riding the Tide

There were just so many people.

Wave 2 started at 10:25, pretty much on the dot. I was in the second corral, so we started a few minutes after the first. It felt like being pressurized inside a fire hydrant and then somebody opens it up. As soon as it was possible, the runners burst across the starting line.

There wasn’t anything else to do but run. The first few miles are a pretty fast downhill, and everybody went out fast.

I knew my pace was insane, but I was afraid to slow down for fear that I’d be trampled. So I swam in the tide with all the other fish. After the first 3 miles, we settled in and got into the groove. I was amazed by the fact that virtually the entire course was lined with spectators. In some areas, we ran past families in front of their homes. After starting in Hopkinton, we swept through Ashland, Framingham, and Natick. Under cloudy skies, with a pleasant cross-breeze, running seemed so easy. The crowds got even thicker through each city center.

They were a rowdy bunch. They’d latch on to whatever was distinctive about you and call out encouragement. I got a lot of people calling out “Nice kilt!” but even more often, spectators would see my shirt and scream out “Boston Strong!” It was a constant refrain as I went along, and it felt great to be noticed. Kids and adults alike held out their hands and I slapped them as I passed. I must’ve given 1,000 high fives that morning.

Hitting Halfway

We neared Wellesley and sure enough, I could hear the students from about a mile out. It’s a time-honored tradition (for over a century, now) that on Marathon Monday, the students from Wellesley College make signs and cheer along the course, offering both encouragement and kisses to the runners passing by. Sure enough, hundreds of young women had lined up along the left-hand side of the course. They screamed and yelled and waved their signs.

For the record, yes, I kissed a girl. I don’t remember anything about her aside from the fact that she was wearing bright red lipstick. I found myself wondering whether any of it had gotten on my lips as I steeled myself for the second half of the race.

The Second Half: The Struggle Bus

Soon after the halfway mark, the sun came out. The temperature shot up and the humidity became instantly oppressive. My pace slackened and I upped my hydration. I would take a cup of Gatorade, drink it, then grab a cup of water and toss it over my head and back. By the time I entered Newton, I was feeling pretty awful. My head was throbbing, and I felt like my skull was expanding. I would take off my hat, fan myself with it, then put it back on once the sweat had cooled off. That helped a little, but not a lot.

Just about every runner has heard of the (in)famous Newton hills. Coming between miles 16 and 21, there are four of them, and the last one is known as Heartbreak Hill. Heartbreak isn’t huge (only about 90 feet of climb) but you hit it just as your legs are faltering and your strength is flagging. It’s a runner’s worst-case scenario.

Anyway, I miscounted the hills. My head was overheating I thought I’d gone up all four hills. Then I rounded a corner and Heartbreak loomed up in front of me. It looked immense.

I’d been hugging the left side of the course, mostly out of habit. As I approached the hill, a woman on the grassy median handed me a cutout of a letter F. It was bright pink, made of foam core board. She had a whole bin of them, and she was giving them out to any runner who would take them.

And then I saw her sign. It said, “Get the F up the hill.”

I actually laughed out loud. I might have even cried—I’m not sure. Her little bit of irreverent encouragement somehow gave me a burst of energy at the hardest point in my race. I leaned forward and put my head down and chugged up the hill without stopping. Aside from crossing the finish line, Heartbreak Hill was the high point of the race for me.

Here’s a photo of me as I passed the Heartbreak Hill Running Company in Newton. You can see the F in my hand.

The Home Stretch

The hills almost did me in. I wasn’t at my best. I knew I was ahead of my pace, so I took a few short walking breaks. (After all, walking is still forward progress.) My back was soaked and even though I was taking in lots fluids, I knew I was getting dehydrated.

When I drove the course on the Thursday after the marathon, I was surprised by how much of those last few miles I just couldn’t remember. I didn’t see the CITGO sign, and I just barely remembered the rows and rows of townhouses and apartments. The Mass. Pike underpass didn’t even register to me. I just kept repeating: “Right on Hereford, left on Boylston.” The final mile has a little more shade than the previous eight or nine, so that (plus knowing I was almost finished) helped me pick up my pace. I was almost there!

The Finish Line

I turned onto Hereford. The crowds were huge and rowdy. I took out my earbuds. All I was hearing was people screaming “Boston Strong!” and “Go, kilt guy!” Those two blocks on Hereford are a slight uphill, but by that time I felt like I was flying. I rounded the corner onto Boylston and the spectators turned it up to 11.

You can see the finish line as soon as you that corner. There were still lots of runners, but I didn’t notice any of them. With my tunnel vision, I could only see the big blue bridge with the clock ticking up. I was grinning like an idiot as I dodged a couple of finish line volunteers and crossed the timing mat.

I’d just run the Boston Marathon. By almost five minutes, I re-qualified for the Boston Marathon at the Boston Marathon.

The Boston Freaking Marathon.

Afterwards

I accepted my hard-earned medal and let someone wrap an emergency blanket around my shoulders. It flapped in the wind like it was trying to take off, and I felt like a superhero with a cape. Another volunteer pushed a bottle of water into my hands. I downed it in about two gulps. Then I grabbed another one and a Clif bar. I couldn’t get up enough saliva in my mouth to even chew. It took sips of water to get the thing down.

More walking, but it felt so great to walk after running for almost three and a half hours. A volunteer handed me a plastic bag full of snacks. I ate a banana. Eventually I found my way to Boston Common, where runners were reuniting with their families. I was exhausted and spent, but smiling from ear to ear. I had run the Boston Marathon. And I had qualified for Boston in Boston!

Boston Marathon Result

For the record, here’s my time and placing:

Net Time: 3:20:35
Overall: 6701/26632 (25 percentile)
All Males: 5604/14662 (38th percentile)
Males 45-49: 858/2447 (35th percentile)