It’s 4:45AM.

A similar spot. Boston morning. A dark hotel room.

The weekend had gone exactly how I wanted it to go.

Unlike the last two trips, I came into this weekend without any hiccups. Following a disappointing Boston outing in October, I was determined to give it my best shot for this third outing.

I left Boston last time, in short, disappointed. For over two and a half years Boston had been my sole motivation. The race that broke me. The race that made me walk for the first time since my first year of running back in 2006. The race that reignited my love for running through an event I swore I had no interest in ever running. I came back to Boston in October in the best shape of my life. Everything had gone to plan, until a snag in the final stretch of that block. Despite what I figured was just a minor setback, I came confident that I could still crack 2:30. I was two years stronger. But as it does for so many, Boston made me eat my words. I lost it over the last five miles. Every lingering issue that I’d been nursing came back to haunt me as the wheels came off. My hamstrings tightened up. I winced in pain with each stride as my thigh muscles stung. Then my hip started to go with two miles to go. It was almost cartoonish how everything started to go so quickly. A sub 2:30 and a hope to make it first to the Track House was gone as I hobbled home. 2:32. That stung. But I’d be back.

After taking some time to reflect on the race and what went wrong, I started planning for April. My focus would be on working out the issues that led to me faltering in those final miles. Since my muscles quickly backfired when it was time for the real racing to start, I incorporated some strength training to my routine. I was confident enough in my hill running ability already from my early years in Southern California. I reached out to my friend Ben Wach for a strength training routine and started adding it twice a week to my training schedule. I found huge success in a block that was as unorthodox as any marathon build that I’ve ever done. I ran three track races and a half marathon during this training block. No twenty mile long run. Heck, the longest run of this block was just a little over sixteen. Making up for that was consistency. No major setbacks. I ran personal bests in every distance and knocked out post race workouts that made me feel like I could take on the world.

This year, I made the decision to travel alone. I would make my usual trip to Portland Maine, enjoy visiting some of my favorite breweries and of course, eat all the lobster I could get my hands on. But unlike the last two trips, I made running a priority. I ran both days, made sure to get to bed at a reasonable time, and for once, didn’t enjoy too many Portland brews. Again, a little bit unorthodox but I’ve always found that an escape from the hustle and bustle of race weekend helps. I love Boston weekend, but for once I wanted to come in with the race is full focus. I can celebrate later. I’m only going to think about the race when I need to. I’ve spent all training block focusing on it. Now was not the time to overwhelm myself just days away from the thing.

I arrived in Boston early Saturday afternoon lugging around five bags with me filled with various cans and bottles of beers I picked up across Portland. Some things don’t change I guess. I definitely underestimated the amount of beer I had acquired over the previous day’s shenanigans and found myself moving all of my bags in trips. Walk a couple feet. Drop my bags. Walk back to the bags I left. Walk them a couple feet. Repeat. After what seemed like a full days work, I tossed my bags in my room, and set off for convention center to grab my bib before the expo closed.

Enough beer?

In my experience, the atmosphere of race day doesn’t really hit until you go to the expo. Thousands of people walk the streets in race gear. Runners everywhere you see, some snagging in afternoon miles, others proudly showing their Boston Jackets of years past excitedly waiting to add yet another jacket to their collection and a marathon to their streak. For some it’s the culmination of years of training. This is their weekend. This is the weekend they’ve dreamt about. There’s a beauty in that. Regardless of what time we’re hitting the start line we will all be making our journey to Boylston in less than 48 hours.

Packet pickup goes off without an issue as it tends to. Grab my bib, buy the jacket and patch, take the picture with my bib for the Instagram. The usual. I tour through the expo booths looking for familiar faces and brands, greeting some friends and getting some swag from my ambassadorship. Today, I told myself, would be the day where I’d do all of my walking, visit the places I really wanted to check out, and take in the craziness that is Boston weekend. I make my way through some of the shops I wanted to see and caught up with my fellow Ope teammate Blake for some Pizza and brews for dinner. An early night in for Saturday, the most important night of sleep before the race.

Bib Secured.

With Saturday being the day of adventure, Sunday was calm in comparison. I made my way just in time to catch the shakeout at Heartbreak Running Co with Keira D’Amato. It was the first time I’d been to these shakeout events at Boston. Excitement and nervousness was very apparent in the atmosphere of the group as we did our shakeout. To me, this run served one purpose, a slow jog to just shake the muscles out. Nothing fast, nothing crazy, just movement. I caught up with Keira and her husband for a quick second and tossed them some beers from back home. Another Ope teammate Gabby joined me as we stopped by Tracksmith to pick up some gear and then to catch the Bakline team for the end of their shakeout. Countless shakeout groups filled the area as it seemed like every brand had created their own event for it. It was truly a sight to see. After catching up with the Bakline team I was dropped off at my hotel. I caught a nice lunch with my buddy Scotty then and ventured off to have a beer and try to finally snag a Boston Marathon glass at Sam Adams. No dice. Can’t win them all I guess.

I made my way back to the hotel before four and relaxed in my room until dinner time. This being Boston Marathon weekend I figured the options for a great pasta dinner would either be booked for the evening or have a multiple hour wait. I decided to try my luck and thankfully, after striking out a couple times, I found an open seat at the bar at a nice Italian restaurant. No wait. The perks of traveling alone I guess.

I finalized my race plan for the following morning while I enjoyed spaghetti and a local lager. My original race plan was to go out in 5:40 for the first 10 miles and shift gears from there. Coach had other plans for me. 5:45-5:50 for the first 10 miles and then find a comfortable 5:40-5:45 pace over the next 10 before ripping the last 10K. I had already reached out to someone from Letsrun, Chris, who was running Boston for his first time about my original plan earlier that weekend. After some back and forth with coach we decided on sticking to his plan for the first 10 miles and dipping under 5:40 from there if things were going well.

I think A+ day tomorrow is 2:28:xx.
Boston eats alive the people who have bad race plans.

Point taken.

I relayed the plan to Chris and decided to make a last minute attempt to arrange a group. I had been beat up by this course enough and unlike the last sub 2:30 group I went out with last year, I wanted to lead this one. I was confident enough in my ability to stay calm in the early stages and figured a pack tearing it up over the final 10K would be a sight to see. Taking notes from the That’s Fine Track Club guys my first year here, I’ve learned there’s strength in numbers. So I posted my intentions on Instagram, Strava, and various Facebook groups. If they wanted to join, meet us at 6:15 outside the bag drop for the early 1000 bus.

As I walked out of the restaurant I came across a group of three merry gentlemen in Boston Marathon expo gear. I wished them luck and asked where they were coming from and if they had travelled together. To my surprise, these men were complete strangers to each other before this weekend. Each had come from different countries, one from the UK, the other from India, and the final one from a country I cannot remember off the top of my head. They had just met at the hotel and decided to grab dinner together. It gave me fond memories of traveling with friend Sig from Mexico on my first journey here. The kindness of strangers during Boston Marathon weekend is truly understated. It’s a weekend where friends are made through the common journey that is this event. It’s a community that crosses all borders, all walks of life, and brings people together.

I made my way back to the hotel, packed my gear for the following day and while I struggled to get some shuteye at first, finally went to bed just after 10.

The journey to Boston Common by subway was thankfully made much easier due to the runners packing the trains so early in the morning. I figured we couldn’t all be going the wrong way and trusted that we’d all end up at the right place. Thankfully, that proved to be a good plan. I made my way to the first couple of buses for bag drop, then over to the early 1000 bus where I found Chris and my buddy Jamey from Columbus who had also agreed to join our group. Since the buses tended to be a bit of a crapshoot I figured it was best to find each other first then take the same busses to athletes village to prevent us getting split up.

We made our way to the busses and we were off to athletes village. As we entered the town I thought to myself that we were going a weird direction that I didn’t remember heading to in 2019. The busses dropped us off and I could hear a bit of commotion happening between the volunteers and the bus drivers. The bus drivers had dropped us off in the area a quarter mile from the start instead of Athletes Village. We were in a spot that could only be accessed after they opened up corrals almost an hour later. This meant easy access to portapottys and water and saved us about a half a mile of walking to the start. We sat on a curb and relaxed until it was time for us to warm up. While we waited, we added another member to the group, Liam, a fellow from Ohio that trained with a buddy of mine.

Here’s the kicker though, two of our four were in corral two. While we would all be starting technically at the same time, corral two would start hundreds of people behind the beginning of corral one. Knowing that corral one ranged between about 2:18 and 2:41 and that sub 2:30 would most likely finish in the top 100 I knew our best shot would be to try and sneak them into corral one with us. I knew these guys were fit enough to run under 2:30 and I would rather run with a group than take it solo. If all else failed I let them know I would make the decision to start at the back of corral one to make sure we didn’t lose each other. We had agreed on a plan and I was not about to leave people behind. As we moved through each corral my confidence in this plan increased. Up through corral 6, 5. *A quick stop to squat and pee a bit.* Corral 4. Corral 3. Corral 2.

Okay we’re basically there.

We jog through the center of two walls of volunteers checking numbers. I make my way into the corral and look back. Jamey’s made it through. But where is Chris and Liam.


Unfortunately they were stopped before they could make it through. The plan had failed. I stood there nervously pacing around in the large space between corral one and the rope that held corral two. Chris and Liam would have to shove their way up through hundreds of people to get to the front of that corral and we had less than five minutes until race time. I felt absolutely terrible. With time ticking down I kept hoping they’d managed to make their way up.

I take another look back and I am greeted with a yell from corral two. Chris and Liam had made their way to the front just as the volunteers holding the rope for corral two were moving our corrals together. Jamey, Chris, Liam, and I quickly agreed on a direction we felt would be easiest to try and pass people and waited for the gun to start.


Quickly the masses surrounding us start to move. One thing that I’ve come to learn about Boston is there really no Goldilocks zone over that first mile, people are either going out like it’s the opening stretch of a 10K or looking like they are trying to stop themselves from falling down a mountain. Knowing this, Jamey and I took the lead of our quartet to kick things off. We were all on high alert. We sought out gaps in the masses, asked for permission for some space and led our pack through. Quick callouts and check-ins were constant to make sure we didn’t lose each other. It brought back memories of running college cross country with the boys, making moves together and moving up, pack by pack. We continued to move forward through the corral one, finding openings, gesturing to people next to us to get room, and yelling for the rest of our group to follow. If that meant jumping out on sidewalks to get around, so be it. Anything that would keep us from stomping our feet in those opening miles.

Unlike past years this lateral movement of snaking through people didn’t hurt. That was a good sign. While snaking through these crowds was done with relative ease, a slow opening mile was expected. With 25.2 to go, a couple seconds slow was negligible. We’d make those antsy in the opening stretch pay eventually. The focus for now was being mindful of my pace. I was passing a ton of people but I should be. Starting just ahead of Corral Two meant I was starting with people that were seeded 10 minutes slower than I was planning to run. The key here was to not get overwhelmed by the masses. Pass, a couple quick steps, settle, pass, repeat.

First mile: 5:51. Eh not bad.

The reaction of a runner following the opening mile is a tell tale sign of their experience. The shock of a slow mile creates almost an instantaneous injection of pace as they attempt to get back on pace by making up the difference in the second mile. The net downhill over these first couple miles make it easy to jump from 5:50 to 5:30 as people try to settle themselves into a rhythm. I’m reminded of the last two outings as this mile goes by. Jamey and I are running side by side with Chris and Liam just ahead within sight.

Settle in, we’ll get there. Nothing happens in these opening miles. Everything is fine.

Everything’s not fine though.

What’s this?! I need to pee again. How?! I just went!

I keep telling myself I can hold it. We’ll hold on until mile eight. Far enough to get out from the masses in this corral, settle into a rhythm, and hopefully not have to go again. If I go now, I run the risk of having to go again and pulling over when the real racing was happening. But sometimes the body makes the decision. I needed to go now. I saw a break, no spectators and some trees for me to jump out to.

Jamey, I need to go to the bathroom bad. I’m going to surge up ahead and go. I’ll catch up to you guys. Go on without me.

No matter how many times this has happened to me in races, it sure doesn’t get any less nerve racking. As I jumped off the course to relieve myself I could feel precious time ticking as people passed me. Oh hate to be that guy, I heard as another group passed me. But we were back. At most this was about fifteen seconds. I jumped back on the course, tossed in a couple quick steps to get back into rhythm and scanned the crowds ahead to see how far they had gone. They were within eyesight but I could not gauge just how far they were ahead. I was moving quickly and my pace was dropping fast but I was not making up any ground. I started moving past people trying to make sure I made up some ground without completely throwing away my race plan. My watch buzzed for my second mile.

5:46. I guess that 5:30 effort did come after all.

It was at this point that I realized that my plan to have a pack to run with was gone. Even with a 5:46, I had not made any ground on my original pack so I made the decision to stick with my race plan and see where it went from there. This was a familiar position for me. I had to make this decision in October. To keep the pack within striking distance, or run my own race, alone. I chose the former last year and memories of those heartbreaking miles helped make my decision. It would be a lonely one but I was not going to deviate from the plan and start running 5:30’s like I did the year prior.

As I settled into my race, the next couple miles were tough without anyone else to key off of. Running felt effortless but I had to consistently pull back and remind myself that it was supposed to feel like this. I wanted to take advantage of the downhill sections which were at odds with my plan of being conservative. I had some close calls in those early miles as I almost crept into the 5:30’s but thankfully I was able to settle down and get closer to the goal of 5:45’s. As I approached mile five, I finally settled into a groove.

Mile 5, take that first Gu. Okay now water. Good.

I’ve had fairly fond memories of the stretch between miles five to ten from past years. Posing for the camera, throwing my hands up to pump the crowd, giving out high fives. This section was always one that I enjoyed the most. As the group started to be more consistent I began to start keying in on those around me. By this point I knew that this would be the group I would be traveling with for the next couple miles before my next move at mile ten. I keyed in immediately on what I assumed was a coach and his athlete. The coach, wearing a Bowerman TC jersey was audibly giving tips to the guy he was running with, and encouraging the group as a whole.

This is the sub 2:30 group he said. I was in the right place.

These miles felt strange to me this time around. I was so used to getting really into the crowd, looking around at everyone and taking in the atmosphere. This felt different. The only two things I was focused on was my pace and the next group ahead of me. Memories of the feeling of racing cross country came as our pack began to move past those already having a tough time. With each passing person I began to get antsy. We were at mile eight and I was so close to the next stage of this race and as I was nearing the end of the downhill section I knew I was in good shape. The test would be over these next two miles.

How patient could I stay with the real race coming quickly? I wasn’t scared about banking time or losing time. I just wanted to start racing. I was comfortable enough after the last couple months of racing that I knew I could make moves and stick with them without too much of an issue. Now was not the time to get greedy. So the next game was to try and hit these next two miles right on the money. Right on 5:45 and then it was time to have some fun.

Mile 9: 5:44. Okay we’re closer. Just one more.

Mile 10: 5:45. Money. Time to take another GU and a drink.

It’s time for the real racing to start, I said aloud.

I pressed on the gas, slowly. I knew the energy of this next stage would make it easy to make the mistake of shifting into a gear that I wasn’t just quite ready for. I would start it at 5:40 and make sure that no miles would be under 5:35 at least until at least mile sixteen.

Mile 11: 5:40

Mile 12: 5:35

Everything was going right to plan as I approached my next challenge, The Wellesley Scream Tunnel.

Located just before the half way mark, ladies of Wellesley College’s all female student body line the streets cheering, high fiving, and kissing strangers as they run by. The scream tunnel is truly aptly named as you can hear the cheers from the crowd almost a half mile away. The energy of this stage of the course is contagious. I was guilty of it the last two times around. In both 2019 and 2021 I abandoned my race plan due to the hype from the crowd. The cheers. The high fives. The attention. It’s easy to get lost in it. The 5:33 mile in 2021 heading through this section of the course was the beginning of a very tough finish for me and the reminders of it kept me grounded.

I still made sure to toss out some high fives and despite the temptations once again no kisses. But this time there was no surging or shenanigans. It was not time to try to impress anyone by making a move during the tunnel because obviously the crowd can tell the difference between 5:40 and 5:30 right? My patience rewarded me as I passed the 13th miles. 5:40. A job well done.

Shortly after I arrived to the half marathon mark. 75:11. It was slower than I went out in October but I felt completely fresh. It was like the first 13 miles didn’t happen. In my head the we had just lined up for a new race after warming up for 13.1. Boston was now a half marathon and I had two more challenges to come.

While Boston is known for the first ten miles of gradual downhill, the aggressive drop at mile fifteen is the one that I had been mentally preparing myself for months. As I approached that mile, memories flowed back of years past. This section had sealed my fate on the last two attempts. If the ten miles of gradual downhill had not destroyed you, this little section would seal your fate. That 100+ foot drop destroyed my muscles and turned my dreams into nightmares not once, but twice.

Mile fifteen. Take another GU. Another sip of water.

This would be the crucial point for me. If there were any issues to come they would be exposed in this short section. If I felt any pain now I knew I was in for a rough finish. This mile would be fast just due to the drop and I just needed to maintain a comfortable form, not chop my stride, and we’d make it through this section safe and sound. As I cruised down the drop I was pleasantly surprised. No shocks. No aches. No pains. Nothing. I made it through this section. 10 miles out now and I felt great.

As I crossed sixteen miles I immediately remembered my Burks recounting his story about what Ben yelled at him on the day he ran his 2:16.


Less than an hour until I was done. It would be up to me just how much under that hour I would be. I was overcome with happiness knowing that this was the furthest I’ve already gone through this course without issues. Best of all I was still having a blast racing.

As I left Wellesley I knew over the next couple miles I would find out if this strategy would play in my favor. I bet on being conservative, confident that I was strong enough to run hard over the Newton Hills and eventually Heartbreak. And it was time to finally find out.

The way that people tend to talk about this stretch of the course would make you think we were climbing mountains. The hills on their own aren’t tough. It’s your typical gradual hills, nothing particularly special to them. Heartbreak is tough but it isn’t any harder than anything I had encountered growing up in Southern California. The killer here is the positioning of the hills. They just happen to be exactly where most tend to blow up in a typical marathon. From miles seventeen to twenty one you face multiple climbs on already tired legs. Toss in the culminating effect of ten miles of your legs pounding during those opening miles, it’s not surprising that these tend to be the toughest section for most.

This felt different. What had seemed like mountains in previous years felt like speed bumps on a typical weekend long run. I was comfortable and maintained form on the uphills and pressed slightly to keep moving on any downhills that came immediately after.

Pass with authority, I told myself. This was the moment I was waiting for. All the patience in those opening miles had now begun to pay off. I approached mile nineteen and recognized some singlets. Jamey and Liam were just ahead. I moved up, gave the boys some encouragement and kept moving. Regardless of how the race had turned out we had agreed that we would run our own races in the later miles. My race felt like it was just starting and I was in the zone. People were now coming back much quicker as I started running some of my faster miles in the race. I locked into the singlets I recognized and just kept striking. I didn’t slow. It was on to the next one. And so came my final challenge.

Heartbreak Hill.

Heartbreak Hill comes at the crucial point of the race, right at mile twenty. Just when the sting of the miles have begun to take hold you start your half mile climb to the top. While not the toughest hill, it’s definitely got some sting to it no matter how good you are feeling. As I approached the bottom of Heartbreak I saw the final person of our pack, Chris, in high spirits and looking strong going up the hill. Seeing him gave me more confidence. I was excited to get up there to really rock it over the final miles after Heartbreak. I caught up, gave some encouragement and began to charge up the hill. I zoned in to the next key moment, and at this point nothing else. No one else mattered to me. This was the final challenge that I needed to cross before heading into no mans land and seeing just what I can put my body through. If I was to have company, fantastic, but at this point I was zoned into the true mark that broke my heart. Not Heartbreak, not even the crest of the hill. It was that damn mile after. That mile that broke me and caused me to walk in a race for the first time since 2006. I had made it past that mark in October but by that point I was already broken. This was my moment to finally slay the beast and come out stronger.

At 21 something clicked.

It’s 8K. You’ve done 8K. Let’s race.

I pressed on the gas again. Every person ahead of me was now a target I was determined to break. Mile after mile I had focused on staying calm and not letting my emotions overwhelm me but at this point I found it hard to do so. I was actualizing. This was happening. I was passing people and in each I found memories of my own self fighting to stay on. I was in control of my own race and for once my body was holding on. I approached mile twenty two with vivid memories that I had replayed in my head over the last couple years. Three years prior I had contemplated dropping out, and now…

Now I had broken through.

Instead of breaking, I found my fastest mile of the race, a 5:28. I was filled with excitement and emotion but I knew well enough you can never count your chickens before they hatch in a marathon, especially at Boston. While most think of the last couple miles of Boston as a straight downhill due to the elevation profile, it has a couple of bumps that will catch you off guard if you’re not ready. Anything can happen in the last four miles. Many have thrown races away because their confidence has led them to believe that it wouldn’t get any harder than this. It was time to ride the line. Twenty two was a great checkpoint to feel good but it meant nothing if I crashed at twenty four because I got too ahead of myself.

I stayed calm. Let’s stay consistent. A sub 27:30 would be a nice finish. Let’s be conservative here and aim for that and if you feel great let’s really rip that last mile.

I was not at a point in the course that I hadn’t prepared too much for. Unlike the other segments of the course, in past attempts I was more focused on survival rather than the course itself. I always remembered it to be a bit tricky, not the easy downhill that the elevation charts lead you to believe but I didn’t have enough confidence in this section to charge hard here, especially knowing that at this point I was now in a place I’d never been in.

Mile 23 came and went and I clicked off another mile under 5:30. This time a 5:29 and now the feeling of being on my feet for over two hours had now begun to take its effects. My breathing was comfortable. The pace itself wasn’t an issue here. My legs just felt a little tired, particularly my feet. The laces had now began to constrict my inflamed feet.

Just 3 miles to go. Let’s see a sub 16:30. That’s nothing. You can do it.

Every step felt like its own challenge of self preservation. At this point the only thing that would end this race for me was a misstep. All the strength training I had done in the early season had kept me strong through the race. Foot pain wasn’t expected but something I had experienced before. If I could handle it in a 50K race, I could take it for three more damn miles.

Mile 24: 5:31. No. We’re not doing this. We’re not slowing down now. We’ve committed. You made the decision to run this pace. Now you have to live with it. We’ve gone way too far to falter now.

That mile was just what I needed to get myself back into this mentally. I was going to run under 5:30’s, no ifs ands or buts. The self talk at this point was as loud as it had ever been. As I came through familiar streets again I kept pushing. We were so close. I had become emotional at this point. This time I was actualizing. All these years being haunted by this course. That chip on my shoulder. And we were still attacking. I wanted to cry. It was the only reaction I could muster at this point. I still had something.

Mile 25: 5:26. 2K to go. 2K to go! Time to hammer this out!

But first, a dip under an underpass and Wait. Another hill. Crap I forgot about this one.

I had completely forgot about this one. It was Boston’s last gut punch and it caught me off guard. For the first time all day I felt some cracks and I tried to not let it shake me. I crested the hill and tried to get back into rhythm, trying to pull any energy from the crowd or familiar signs to keep me strong. And I found one, that light at the end of the tunnel.

1 mile to go.

I pressed. And pressed. Right on Hereford. I threw my arms up to get the crowd going. This was uncharted waters for me. I wasn’t just trying to finish at this point. I was trying to see how much time I could chip off. Left on Boylston. Hit that damn tangent and go!

The finish was in sight. As was a familiar singlet. The reminder of rejection I needed at a crucial time. It lit that final fire I needed to charge down Boylston trying to pass as many people as I could over the final stretch. I could see the clock now, 2:28**. I lost it. I pumped my fist and yelled as I crossed the finish line.

2:28:23. A 2 minute PR, and almost a 2 minute negative split.

I quickly recollected myself after crossing the finish line. First to the Trackhouse is one of Tracksmith’s Boston Marathon traditions. The rules are simple, first male and female to finish the race and get to the Tracksmith bar wins. Last October I has abandoned my my attempt to be first after finishing over 2:30. I figured this time out I had a shot. So I saved my watch’s activity and made the decision to start it again and make the attempt. I started jogging but my legs had now decided to shut down a bit. I crashed into some poor soul who abruptly stopped walking in front of me. What the hell!? He yelled and after a quick sorry I jogged by to get my medal as people remarked He’s still running!

I made my way to the bag check area quickly, tossed on my Tracksmith fleece and hobbled my way over to Newbury, yelling over at volunteers to help me find the easiest way to get off of the barricaded area. Thankfully I was not blocked off by security and that jog down Newbury felt tougher than the marathon itself. I started running, then walking, then running again. This was much longer than I remembered it being. Or maybe it was the couple pounds of gear I was struggling to carry.

Streets passed and I kept run walking carrying my gear bag in both hands. I slowly moved past people until I finally saw a familiar building.

There it was. I finally made it. Did I do it!?

I saw a camera crew there. I was sure I did!

I make my way up the stairs and ask Lou

Was I first?

Second. He smiled.

And I just couldn’t help but laugh. Completely exhausted by the day. Better luck next time I thought.

I ended up being third to the Trackhouse. As I enjoyed my beer I had come to find out that I had just snuck into the top 100. 93rd overall. It was that final kick down Boylston that ended up sealing that up. Had that not happened there was no way I would’ve finished where I did.

The afternoon was filled with new friends and old, celebrating the day, regardless of the result. We shared stories of our own journeys from Hopkinton to Boylston, our successes, our failures, but all just happy to be there. Because regardless of how things went, this was the marathon community at its purest form.

Boston. I don’t know what else to say. I’ve said multiple times that once I finally conquered you I’d move on. But here I am already setting plans for next year. You made me fall in love with running again. And here I am ready to challenge you again.

We’ll see you next April.

1 thought on “Boston”

  1. Impressive run!
    I’m one of the back of the pack runners but I also like to spot a shirt and try to run them down. It’s nothing personal, it’s just racing!


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