Boston '96

Where there's a will there's a way. Fever, Aleve, and my one and only Boston

1996 was the 100th Boston Marathon. A lot of people say “100th anniversary” but the first race was 1897. I’m a history nerd so that’s important. Either way, it was the hundredth. My dad ran Boston three or four times. My mom was from Boston. My parents met in Boston. So to say that I grew up knowing full well that the Boston Marathon was a bucket list race is a drastic understatement.

By the time 1996 rolled around I was in my mid-30s with a few New York’s and a bunch of LA’s to my credit. I qualified at the one and only Disneyland Marathon, where the course was remeasured midrace due to an early error. Race organizers swear they got it right but to this day I believed they added at least a mile. I didn’t wear a Garmin back then or I’d know the truth. It was a hot Southern California day and the Santa Ana winds kicked up during the second of two half-marathon loops around the Magic Kingdom and Anaheim. With them came dry skin and chafing. I got a nice medal of Mickey Mouse for my efforts, blood streaming down my thighs, and a race announcer calling out my name as I finished on Main Street. My time was just north of three hours. On to Boston I went.

My sister lived in Roxbury. I crashed there in the nights leading up to Patriots’ Day. I did all the usual things you do before a marathon, mostly enjoying the expo and staying off my feet. But on the Sunday night before the race I began feeling a little flu-ish. A fever spiked. I ached. As I went to bed I knew there was no way I could run a marathon in the morning.

But this was Boston.

I made my way to the school buses for the trip to Hopkinton. I could barely keep my eyes open and my fever continued to soar. I tried not to breathe on anyone, not wishing to inflict my illness on fellow runners. Somehow I made it to the starting line. Just before the gun I popped six Aleve (I still remember the number precisely because it seemed far beyond the normal dosage) and vowed that I would take it a mile at a time.

Boston is point-to-point so quitting would be problematic. I made it through those first downhill miles, feeling so uplifted by my medication that I slapped fives with more than a few spectators. Then I realized this was stupid and that I needed to harness my energy. The go/no go point would be Wellesley at halfway.

At mile 12 I knew I was done. Drop out, figure out the logistics, spend the money I carried in my running shorts on a taxi or whatever it took to make my way to Roxbury.

Then I got to Wellesley. The energy from all those students and the excitement from their cheering made me forget I had to the flu. I had to pay it back. I had to finish. I have never felt so much love and support from a running crowd.

So I got it done. The official time is out there somewhere but I think it was around 3:45. I actually ran into a few friends from home who had just finished. Then, this being Boston and me being a tourist, I went to Cheers for a cheeseburger and two pints of Bass Ale. Right about then, the Aleve, the Wellesley, and the endorphins evaporated. I don’t remember how I made it back to my sister’s apartment but I do remember sleeping for a solid 24 hours before flying home.

I never ran Boston again. Don’t know why. My finisher’s medal is on the shelf behind my writing desk along with my Raid Gauloises trophy and Tough Guy medals. I owe it all to Aleve — and Wellesley.