Step By Step: the Marathon Journey

Thousands of runners breathed a collective sigh of relief Monday, finding the weather in Boston nothing short of ideal. The forecast called for sunshine, a high of 60, and a strong tailwind. By 6 a.m., lines of bobbing heads wove through the Common, waiting to board the official Boston Athletic Association buses to the Hopkinton starting line.

It’s hard not to think, on a drive approaching 40 minutes, of how challenging it will be to cover the distance on foot. Those hailing from New England passed the time by commiserating over the difficult winter. They recalled frozen eyelashes, treacherous ice patches, and snowbanks flanking the roads.

With palpable nervous energy, crowds spilled off the buses and into the Athletes’
Village in Hopkinton. As the day warmed, runners shed layers. Discarded clothes were collected by volunteers and donated to local Boys & Girls Clubs. In waves arranged by speed, runners left for the starting line, bib numbers pinned carefully to their singlets.

Wheelchair racers started just before the elite women, followed shortly after by the elite men and larger pool of entrants. By 10:40 a.m., the final wave of runners, composed of charity teams, took off from Hopkinton center.

Since the first few miles of the course slope gradually downhill, it takes incredible
control to run more slowly than feels natural. The goal of this first stretch is to conserve energy for the daunting hills coming later in the race. It can be helpful to pick a runner about your pace and stick with him. For some, this pacer came dressed as a b.good burger or fry, as a handful of runners donned costumes.
Passing through Ashland and into Framingham, other threads stood out as well. One man ran in a tux, another in full firefighting gear. Flo Allen Hopson, mom to Celtic star Ray Allen, ran in a singlet labeled "Mom Allen," and gamely posed for photos with fans as she tackled miles 6 to 8.

Running next to a girl wearing a shirt that read “Bill needs a date” was a man wearing a shirt reading “Bill needs a new job.” Next to him, of course, was a friend whose shirt read “I’m Bill.”

Just as many runners were experiencing a dip in energy as they got into the double-digit mile count, a large banner on the roadside announced they were hitting “Wellesley with Screams.” You could hear the ladies of Wellesley before you saw them, and their famous “scream tunnel” lasted nearly a mile. “Don’t you wish your girlfriend could scream like me?” one sign asked.

Wellesley Square marked the half-marathon, and fans who had signed up for text alerts were issued notice that their runners were approaching Newton. This is just where the farthest reaches of the T hit the marathon course, so the crowds thickened substantially.

Runners braced themselves for the approach of the Newton Hills, a series of hills on Commonwealth Avenue that culminate in the notorious and universally dreaded Heartbreak Hill.

Surmounting Heartbreak Hill is a feat on any day, but having already run 20 miles, many runners hit a wall. Once over the top, though, racers were greeted by the rowdy mobs at Boston College. Runners could count on a few laughs here, and even a Solo cup of beer if they chose to accept.

Continuing to descend in altitude, with the wind at their backs, runners passed through Brookline, where there were nearly no lulls in the noise from spectators. A man holding a whiteboard kept runners posted on the Red Sox score, giving runners and bystanders alike another reason to celebrate when the Sox won.

Leaving Brookline, runners caught their first glimpse of the CITGO sign and knew the end was in sight. Crowds roared as runners passed Fenway and the “1 mile to go” signs.

It was easy spot runners crying, and limping, but now they were too close to give up. With a right on Hereford and a left on Boylston, the finish line loomed, so close but so far. A woman stopped to grab her toddler from the crowd, and at the same speed they crossed the finish.

Just across the finish line, volunteers greeted runners with heat blankets and medals. 

Seasoned marathoners and first-timers alike sported the uniform of Boston glory, and graciously, if a bit deliriously, accepted congratulations and headed off to celebrate.