Before I even hit the first mile marker I found it necessary to imagine that my finishing the Boston Marathon would decide the fate of the world. Suddenly I was wearing fatigues. My feet hurt terribly, but I was consoled by knowing (thanks to the movie Platoon) that my feet were supposed to hurt. The runners all around me became wielded machetes clearing my path through the infamous Hopkinton Jungle. The mission was to reach Boston before the beginning of rush hour, deliver the message to high command and wallow in the glory of saving the world from some ambiguous but devastating threat. It was already 1430 hours—no time to waste.

By mile four, I had forgotten my mission and was simply a tired man who had to pee and poop. Along with the thousands of others who drank excessive amounts of water in the days leading up to the marathon, I was relieving myself on the shiny tires of brand new SUVs. My running mate Darin's valves, luckily, unlike the rest of us, shut down completely. The women must have willed theirs closed, I figured, because precious few braved shielding themselves behind fire hydrants and peopled lawn chairs. About the latter of the p-words—number two—I'll spare you the monumental effort certain muscles performed in order to stem the tide. Just know that it virtually took more out of me than the running itself. If you think running a marathon is hard, try running a marathon when it's soft!

Being that it was my first marathon, I had no idea what I was getting into. I decided to do it just one week before the race, having never run more than five miles at a time before. And most of that kind of exertion was staged back in high school for the sake of Debbie and Sue and Leah, whose homes I'd run by. Running sucks, really. It hurts your knees and ankles and gives you nasty blisters on your feet. But I was pretty fit, and I figured that if humankind needed me to reach Boston by rush hour on foot, well, I would be there.

Without numbers, Darin and I had to sneak in with the other "bandits." We managed to slip through the barriers somewhere in the 14,000nds with all of those old, slow folk who actually raised money for charity to earn a coveted number. I felt like an intruder. I mean, all of these people belonged there except for me. Not only did they qualify or raise money but they also trained for this. I was a poseur. But then the F-15s flew overhead and the start gun went off. Adrenaline. Arms at the ready. Mind steadied. But wait a minute ... we weren't moving. Two minutes, nothing. Eight minutes ... a hiccup forward with cheers from the troops. As the official clock read that ten minutes had already passed we were just barely walking, like in a shuffle, with even more cheers. And then, like a link in a slinky that finally gets to take its turn, we were off. Unbelievably, the "elite" runners were already in Natick by the time we crossed the start line. The funny thing was that you never saw a happier group of people about to embark on self-inflicted torture in your life. I had always thought runners were kind of strange, now I was sure.

The Boston Marathon is considered one of the most challenging marathon courses in the world, but in another sense its aura and the huge crowds of spectators who line the streets make it one of the easiest to finish—a tasty little paradox, no? Many runners had their names written in big letters across their shirts. What this does is guarantee one's own 26.2 mile-long cheering section. Darin had a big "D" on his, and the "Looking good D"s and the "You can do it, D"s and the "Yeah D"s and, when we passed Boston College, the low, guttural "D-D-D-D-D-D-D"s were all very inspirational. Some runners dress like clowns or bunny rabbits or transvestites. This became my second most effective motivation: I vowed not to let any of these types outrun me. I don't think I succeeded there. In fact, a speed walker—granted, a very fast speed walker—dressed like an Easter Bunny passed Darin and me at mile 22. It was totally devastating to our morale, to say the least. A cruel joke. Utter travesty. We picked up the pace and, even if it weren't true, beat him by 15 minutes. I swear.

The most impressive thing to me, though, about the Boston Marathon, is all the good things it says about people. Of course, there is plenty of money tied in to the whole event. But when you forget about Satan for a moment, some of the nicer aspects of the Bostonian nature seem to rise to the surface on April 19th. I mean, these spectators genuinely encourage you. I think the Wellesley College scream is the most famous example. These young women manage to turn the pavement out in front of their school into the likes of a Red Carpet on Oscar night. I thought I was a Backstreet Boy or something, and—don't tell anyone—it felt goooooood. Pain? What pain? Some were offering free kisses just because they were seniors and you were pathetic. After exiting stage right and continuing on, cries of "Halfway there!" and "You're almost at the top of the hill!" and "You're going to make it!" and "The Yankees suck!" sweep you along on wave of good feeling. Sure, they're all drunk, and most got the day off from work or school, but I felt like they really meant every word of it. (It must be said, though, that all Bostonians know deep down that the Yankees are far from sucky. Thus in the act of uttering that the Yankees suck, Bostonians revert to their typical falsifying ways, something, as a New Yorker, even I tend to overlook on Patriot's Day.) Admittedly, the Red Sox beat the Yankees 4-1 that same day. Dozens of people had scribbled the score on pieces of cardboard, which pleased many a runner for a few seconds until the pain came back. But such camaraderie and general good will all around truly made it a nearly pleasant experience. I almost thought I was on a mission not for the United States but for the Salvation Army!

Most thought I was a little dumb for giving the marathon a try without "properly training." I wasn't sure. Some of my family members, who will remain anonymous for their own protection, are into totems and into the meaning behind seeing certain animals at certain auspicious times. I don't know about that kind of thing myself, but the day before the race, a little anxious and over-hydrated (which isn't a good combination), I figured I could use a sign of sorts, even if it would just concern my urethra. Anything,
you know? Just that moment I looked up and—light but deliberate drum roll—saw two birds taking turns pacing each other through the sky until they flew out of view. I said to myself, "Damn, that's good, I think." I told Darin. Now, Darin is rational but at the same time at least open to the uncanny. He thought it was a good sign too. He'd been training four or five days a week for four months but wasn't as confident as he wanted to be about his prospects for finishing. Thus the bird thingy was very welcome.

Indeed, that is how it happened. Darin kept me going in the beginning and I kept him going in the end. We took turns pacing one another just like those fucking birds!

Okay, enough of that. Let me tell you about Goo. This stuff rocks. It tastes like frosting and it gives you power. It's free too—they just give it to you. You suck it out of the package while you run and somehow your body likes it right away and you are suddenly filled with power! For a quarter mile anyway. You see, the thing about marathons, since I can speak with authority now, is that they're a lot easier than you might think. With all the excitement, the Gatorade, the Goo and the F15s, the crowds and the omens, finishing is nearly inevitable. Of course, you won't be able to walk for three days afterward, but you get to miss another day of work and your boss is more than happy to allow it. People think you're special, and, damn it, you are special. Running down the final stretch on Boylston Street is enough exhilaration to make you forget that you've forgotten you have legs. Saving the world ain't too bad either.

Copyright © 2001 Paul Edelman. All Rights Reserved.

Paul Edelman is a middle-school teacher.