In my pre-kids life I ran a lot. I loved triathlons and competed regularly, in part because each time I trained for a marathon, I got a stress fracture.
My doc said it was time to take up swimming or cycling. So I did both.
Four times I trained. Four times I’d done a long run around 22 miles. Four times I had bone scans that showed rapid bone repair suggestive of a fracture.
So I gave up on marathons.
And after kids, I gave up on racing entirely.
But ever since Monday’s horror, I want to earn that blue and yellow jacket I keep eyeing on Spouse’s side of the hall tree. I want to wear a BAA T-shirt until it has holes and embarrasses my kids. I want to wear the logo now so intensely I can’t stand it.
I’ll train to see if I can qualify, which would require a 3:45 marathon this year. If I can do that, run 26.2 miles at an 8:34 pace (which is a stretch, considering my fastest 10K was 48:00 and my half-marathon pace was a comfortable 9:00), then I’m running Boston next year.
I’ve tried being one of the tens of thousands who stand on the side and cheer their guts out for hours and hours. It’s awesome.
But it gets dizzying, watching all those runners go by. I was almost seasick, by the end of the two races I supported.
So I’m going to try it the other way this time.
Either way, I will be in that city next Patriot’s Day. I stand with Boston and I will do my best to run in Boston.