At 23 Miles the Crowd Won't Let You Stop

John Maynard Keynes couldn't have put it better when he said, "In the long run we are all dead." But despite cold weather cramps, bursting blisters and thighs numb from 26.2 miles of cement, thousands of death-defying runners triumphantly crossed the Prudential Center finish line Monday.

It all starts early in the morning in Hopkinton when runners of every shape, size, sex and mentality show up for the pre-race rituals--stretching, taping, slathering on the atomic balm, and (hopefully) unloading part of the carbohydrate feast of the night before. Warning for you prospective runners; the lines start forming for the john at 9 p.m.

Cow Man will probably be there, along with Super Runner. Cow Man is known in marathoners' circles for racing in a 15-pound, authentic Indian headdress and keeping a pretty wild pace. Super Runner, sporting a full red cape, tights and the proud yellow "S", claims he flys marathons.

"I'm a lousy runner so I just fly the course." Super Runner told me yesterday.

The Boston marathon tends to draw out a vein of exhibitionism in runners. Why elso would someone sweat out the course in a full tuxedo as one runner did Monday? "It's like the race is a parade and the runners are floats, only better," one runner said. Another hint for you prospectives: wear something catchy so the crowd will yell for you it can carry you through the race. Try, for example, a totem pole mask and a flowing blond wig, like one Japanese runner did this year.

The starting gun fires at noon, cheers break the tension-filled air, and a slow, thick mass of human lava flows down the Hopkinton road towards Boston. For the next several hours all that matters is your body, the distance and the time.

So what do you think about for 26 miles? The crowd. A million spectators make the Boston marathon the best footrace in the world. Entire village populations line the road to cheer you on. But that's not all they do.

Jogging past a bar in Framingham (6.75 miles), runners strode to Elvis tunes performed by a live country-western band perched on the tavern roof. One runner said of the crowd: "They think they came out to watch us--WE came out to watch them!"

Then, at 13 miles we hit the Wellesley hill--and the Wellesley girls. One male friend described it like this: "For the first time I knew what a woman must feel like when she walks past a construction site." A hint for the guys: beware of bottom pinchers.

Runners also pull each other through. "Right before the hills, this guy came running up to me and said, 'come on, let's do it together.' We cruised up Heartbreak," a Harvard senior told me. Out of 10,000 runners, I met the same man that I had run with last year, and we commiserated for 20 miles.

At the top of Heartbreak Hill a fat man stood on a truck with a microphone blasting away. "You have just climbed 90 feet and it's all downhill from here--less than five miles to go." But those last few miles are eternal. Struggling down Commonwealth Avenue in a daze, the Green Line trolley beckons temptingly.

Then the Prudential tower appears in the distance, and the shouting reaches a crescendo. For one instant you feel as though you could be winning.

In 1928 Calvin Coolidge said he chose not to run. But sitting in the garage under the Pru, wrapped in an aluminum space blanket, legs totally cramped, smiling, I think that those of us who chose to run are happy we did.

The author of this story ran in her second Boston Marathon Monday and completed the course in 3 hours, 30 minutes.