Twenty Six Miles to Boston
After one false start, in which I managed to misjudge the immense size of my feet, (a silly mistake after all, since I've been wearing the same size twelves since the sixth grade, when Melissa's boyfriend first coined the phrase "dude your sister is a Sasquatch,"), and a very pleasant conversation with the customer service representative at Zappos, (who, if she was shocked to hear a request for such large shoes, did not break the conversation to reveal such), a brand new pair of Saucony Grid Tangents have arrived in the mail.
If nothing else good ever comes out of the internet, and it is possible that this might be the case, what with viruses and online predators and identity thefts, (My friend Katie's brother hatched a plan to hitchhike about Europe one summer. Her mother told him, "John, I can't let you do this! You might get killed. Or worse! Your identity might be stolen!"), I will still applaud it because of Zappos.
My shoes are yet blindingly white, with shiny teal accents, much better than the shiny yellow green accents of my previous pair of Saucony Grid Tangents, and they are somewhat fashionable and very fast. I am now on a shoe owner's honeymoon. I am wearing running shoes with jeans, even though I know it is not an attractive ensemble. I am running to work in the morning and from work in the evening and good things are happening: on Monday I saw Tom Brady walking a tiny little dog (we live on the same street as Tom Brady; he was wearing a green cap and was embarrassed to be seen with such a wee pet). Forrest Gump echoes in my head and everywhere I go I run run run run run run run. The Marathon is next Monday and so everyone who I pass, or, more to the truth, everyone who passes me, is putting the finishing touches on their training, preparing for Patriots Day and their victory march to the library.
This Marathon flurry makes me smile. Six years ago last weekend I received an invitation to be a part of the Harvard College class of 2007. This came with the mail on Wednesday. On Thursday we packed up our van and drove to Boston to see what Harvard was all about. There was some nervousness and trepidation in this future far from home, but what Harvard was all about was everything I could have wanted. What a magical weekend: to stumble through the histories of America and to imagine the futures that awaited for me; to be in Boston for the Marathon, an event that had held incredible lore for me since Mrs. Troller ran in it in 1990 and all of Manchester Grade School wore t-shirts with her picture on them and ran our own little race down Blaine Road. When I received my admission letter and called the high school to tell them that I would not be at school on Thursday or Friday, Mrs. Troller got on the phone to tell me that we must see the Marathon while in Boston.
The day before the race, my parents and I toured downtown Boston, checking out the finish area and considering the best places and time to see the race. We asked everyone who spoke without "R" sounds, they were locals, after all, and would know which vantage was the best. Marathon Monday was bright and sunny, the people were in the streets, vendors were selling Greek flags, and bands played. We stood on the sidelined and cheered as troop after troop of Orthodox priests marched down the race route, blessing the course and preparing the way for the runners. Huge numbers of little blue and purple haired women gathered together to chatter about running or sheep their native Greek tongues. Everyone was dressed in light blue, there to celebrate the incoming Greek marathon champions and we stood there with them to applaud their native heroes.
For two hours we waited with the Greek nationals, our worries increasing every minute. Would the Greeks move from the race course in time for the runners!? And each minute that passed it seemed certain that there would be a collision!
After two hours of running down Tremont Street wondering "When will the Marathon come through? How could we be missing the Marathon?" we found out that we were watching a Greek Easter parade.
I think that I should like to run The Marathon and for years and years I have thought such, ever since I defeated my classmates in the First Annual Troller Fun Run, in fact. Occasionally I have an argument with my inner naysayer. "You can't run a marathon. It's too far and too long and too hard." But some little light in my brain responds, "why the heck can't you? All you have to do is keep going. Run run run run run run run run run run." Katie is always running marathons, she just keeps going. This boggles some of us; Hilary says, "I've read that it is unhealthy to run a marathon, it's really hard on the body. I've heard that running a half marathon is much healthier and it is just as satisfying." I don't know if that is true and I'm sure that I would never say, "oh, you run marathons? I ran a half marathon. I think we share the same sense of self satisfaction." But it is a nice enough idea.
Boston 2010 here I come! Or maybe 2011, I don't want to rush into anything. At any rate, I'll be out there, sometimes, pushing across the bridge, down the street, and along the river, dreaming big dreams and just listening to the beat: run run run run run run run.
If nothing else good ever comes out of the internet, and it is possible that this might be the case, what with viruses and online predators and identity thefts, (My friend Katie's brother hatched a plan to hitchhike about Europe one summer. Her mother told him, "John, I can't let you do this! You might get killed. Or worse! Your identity might be stolen!"), I will still applaud it because of Zappos.
My shoes are yet blindingly white, with shiny teal accents, much better than the shiny yellow green accents of my previous pair of Saucony Grid Tangents, and they are somewhat fashionable and very fast. I am now on a shoe owner's honeymoon. I am wearing running shoes with jeans, even though I know it is not an attractive ensemble. I am running to work in the morning and from work in the evening and good things are happening: on Monday I saw Tom Brady walking a tiny little dog (we live on the same street as Tom Brady; he was wearing a green cap and was embarrassed to be seen with such a wee pet). Forrest Gump echoes in my head and everywhere I go I run run run run run run run. The Marathon is next Monday and so everyone who I pass, or, more to the truth, everyone who passes me, is putting the finishing touches on their training, preparing for Patriots Day and their victory march to the library.
This Marathon flurry makes me smile. Six years ago last weekend I received an invitation to be a part of the Harvard College class of 2007. This came with the mail on Wednesday. On Thursday we packed up our van and drove to Boston to see what Harvard was all about. There was some nervousness and trepidation in this future far from home, but what Harvard was all about was everything I could have wanted. What a magical weekend: to stumble through the histories of America and to imagine the futures that awaited for me; to be in Boston for the Marathon, an event that had held incredible lore for me since Mrs. Troller ran in it in 1990 and all of Manchester Grade School wore t-shirts with her picture on them and ran our own little race down Blaine Road. When I received my admission letter and called the high school to tell them that I would not be at school on Thursday or Friday, Mrs. Troller got on the phone to tell me that we must see the Marathon while in Boston.
The day before the race, my parents and I toured downtown Boston, checking out the finish area and considering the best places and time to see the race. We asked everyone who spoke without "R" sounds, they were locals, after all, and would know which vantage was the best. Marathon Monday was bright and sunny, the people were in the streets, vendors were selling Greek flags, and bands played. We stood on the sidelined and cheered as troop after troop of Orthodox priests marched down the race route, blessing the course and preparing the way for the runners. Huge numbers of little blue and purple haired women gathered together to chatter about running or sheep their native Greek tongues. Everyone was dressed in light blue, there to celebrate the incoming Greek marathon champions and we stood there with them to applaud their native heroes.
For two hours we waited with the Greek nationals, our worries increasing every minute. Would the Greeks move from the race course in time for the runners!? And each minute that passed it seemed certain that there would be a collision!
After two hours of running down Tremont Street wondering "When will the Marathon come through? How could we be missing the Marathon?" we found out that we were watching a Greek Easter parade.
I think that I should like to run The Marathon and for years and years I have thought such, ever since I defeated my classmates in the First Annual Troller Fun Run, in fact. Occasionally I have an argument with my inner naysayer. "You can't run a marathon. It's too far and too long and too hard." But some little light in my brain responds, "why the heck can't you? All you have to do is keep going. Run run run run run run run run run run." Katie is always running marathons, she just keeps going. This boggles some of us; Hilary says, "I've read that it is unhealthy to run a marathon, it's really hard on the body. I've heard that running a half marathon is much healthier and it is just as satisfying." I don't know if that is true and I'm sure that I would never say, "oh, you run marathons? I ran a half marathon. I think we share the same sense of self satisfaction." But it is a nice enough idea.
Boston 2010 here I come! Or maybe 2011, I don't want to rush into anything. At any rate, I'll be out there, sometimes, pushing across the bridge, down the street, and along the river, dreaming big dreams and just listening to the beat: run run run run run run run.
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