Painfully fun memories of the 1990 Boston Marathon

With Boston behind and my whole life ahead, it's clear to me now where those long miles led. Despite the excitement and long winter runs, that one run in Boston was so painfully fun. So here's a look as I remember it then, in case it's your turn if ever and when. 

Well, the gun went off and so did the pack, but as for me and 9,000, we hung in the back. This was not by our choice it was plain to see, the herd couldn't move and therein was, yeah, me. 

So I walked and I shuffled to the end of mile one, in just 15 minutes after the gun. Wow! Was my thought as I waved to the crowd, a mile PR, won’t the guys be so proud! But soon it had struck me to pick up the pace, for ‘twas then I remembered I was still in a race. 

So I tucked in my chin and I opened my stride, I lifted my quads and I started to fly. I was burning and sweating and ready to go, now make up some time and stop running for show!  For a half dozen miles my wheels were on fire, I was weaving and bobbing and not even tired. Out of my way! Give me some space! Said the thoughts on my mind and the sweat on my face. But not far ahead as though I woke from a dream, my wheels began slowing and I ran out of steam. How could this be at just mile 11? I shouldn't be crashing for at least the next 7. 

As you might have suspected, I'd done something wrong, like forgetting to breathe for a little too long. My arms were now dropping and the pavement was hot. What a fool! Were my thoughts for those breaths I forgot. The time had now come at two hours out, for a moment of silence to peacefully pout. 

And like a hole in my head had I needed worst news, when I’d arrived at “The Hill”, the hill of heartbreak and blues. What were they thinking when they dreamed up this race, to insert a big hill in such a God-awful place? But without further ado I went into my trot, up that three-mile mound in my quest for the top. And lots of things happened that I'll choose not to tell, but suffice is to say: that “Hill” led to hell. 

With five miles left I crested the top, and I said to myself, kick it in and don't stop! Of course this was silly since I couldn't see straight, but the thought is what counted and I stayed at snail’s pace. 

So into the homestretch I seemed to arrive, and I thought of the winners and all the high fives. My blisters were huge and my throat more than dry, as the clock at the finish stood against the blue sky. It took me 3:37 as it were on this day, but I'd aged a few years in the process I'd say. And while the actual finish is somewhat a blur, the card in the mail set I'd finished for sure. 

So I'll cherish old Beantown to which I had run, and I'll always remember, it was painfully fun.