APRIL 19, 2021 – From 1897 through 2019, the Boston Marathon was held on Patriot’s Day—April 19 (after 1968, the third Monday in April). This year the traditional date coincides with the third Monday in April, though thanks to Covid, the race will run in October. I “ran Boston” five times, but my first—1978—was most memorable.
I arrived in Beantown on Friday, hyped for the race. The next day, my college friends Jeff Oppenheim and Tom Griffin accompanied me to Hopkinton to scout the starting area. Other runners were doing the same, and a group of kids with notepads made the rounds to collect autographs. Jeff and Tom looked on with amusement during the 15 seconds I pretended to be famous. On Sunday I lazed around to conserve energy. At five o’clock I started carbo-loading—a gazillion wholewheat pancakes followed by a whole grapefruit . . . peeled, not cut.
The big day started out cool and overcast—perfect race conditions. I consumed a banana and a double-bag cup of tea, then headed to the gathering point in Boston where marathoners boarded buses for Hopkinton.
The normally quiet hamlet had become the center of the world for us runners. By coincidence I encountered two fellow contestants from my hometown of Anoka, MN—Gary Somethingorother and “Doc” Andberg. I knew Somethingorother only by his photo that had appeared in a recent edition of the Anoka County Union telling about our upcoming participation in the Big Event. “Doc,” of course, was already famous. The local veterinarian, a native New Englander, was a veteran Boston marathoner with several masters world records. As I write this, it makes me feel old to realize that in 1978, “Doc” was younger than I am now.
(“Doc” and his wife Ruth, whose extreme Bostonian accent was a matter of acute distinction in Anoka, and their daughters Wendy and Julie were good friends of our family. When I got into running, “Doc” gave encouragement in his characteristically understated way—a gentle pat on the shoulder as he breezed past me astride my seventh-grade cross-country team on the local golf course.)
In Hopkinton, “Doc” was all business, but noting the weather, went so far as to say, “You should have a good race.” Somethingorother looked too big and talked too loudly to be a competitive runner. Plus, he was eating a giant jelly roll, which, in my estimation, definitely took him out of contention. Somehow, though, he’d managed a qualifying time (just under three hours).
When the gun went off, we runners began our way east. My stride was steady until we reached the cheering women of Wellesley College, where miraculously my pace increased. By Heartbreak Hill, that minute of glory was long past. At Kenmore Square, the crowd was thick, deep, and loud. Adrenalin competed with self-doubt. Over the din I heard my inner coach say, “Hold your pace.”
Then came the final stretch—the minute in which hope claimed victory over doubt, and at last: “FINISH,” writ large across the course.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
