I been Colt 45’d
“The small group ran in harmony left foot right foot synchronicity upper bodies relaxed flow and temperature cool enough to see your breath in April the day appeared sunny and warm with Spring having sprung one individual among them calling out the names or better the nicknames of the favorite foreign runners coming to town that would add the flavor to the stew and the pace is quickening.”
So, running gave the life meaning and Boston and its marathon gave the running purpose. And that was then and this is now you never dreamed or ever thought how could you, why would you, you got here and now when the marathon started at the famed Hayden Row Street in Hopkinton Ma and hooked a quick right to Beantown.
Take me back take me way, way, back to Hereford Street and the babes go wild I’m all sunburned and rejected, dejected and dissected. In all the hubbledebub I lay on a cot in a parking garage smelling oil and vomit drinking some foul warmish water and trying to gather enough strength to get up and head outside where a friend was awaiting me. Someone screaming as they have a horrible blister lanced and the blood flows freely ya musta got lost, musta got shot it’s a freaking war zone in here. Hold my stew.
I stagger for the exits. “Hodgie you okay?” “Fishman, I need a Coke a Cola brother but first I got to rest a bit I am wambled.”
The debutante young runner full of piss and vinegar went down in flames and drowned his sorrow in cola, champagne and beer. Next day back to work.
I smile now and I think of that special time and the running community that existed and thrived then. No more Ring Road, no more Eliot Lounge no more walkway of the running stars, no more beef stew not that I ever wanted any. So many of us then with vivid imaginations picturing ourselves having a great race in the biggest one we were aware of.
Time and we all know time has a way of accelerating and standing still at the same time like it don’t matter and for most purposes outside of humanity it really don’t. One day this event on Patriots Day will pass me by well– truth is it already has and then some I just don’t let go like so many others with a deep connection rooted.
45 years before my debut it was 1932. Paul De Bruyn a German immigrant won the race his preparation was reported to have been a few 15 mile runs home from work during the week and running up the 26 flights of the hotel Wellington in NYC where he worked he also took jaunts around the boiler room where he shoveled coal.
Though we have increased our understanding of the body how it works I don’t think methods of training more effective than this athlete may have been devised or ever will.
In 1977 running with my friends and mentors and our idiosyncratic coach advising and guiding us I never thought of the end point I lived in the moment, otherwise I would never have been a part of it because it had no value in the terms that we value things in. Even our coach would try to keep us on the straight and narrow perhaps felt a bit responsible for us letting us carry on with our pointless dreams our vivid imaginations.
But then, he was certainly doing so and if you are going to be enthralled and entranced by something why not this?
That may have been the essence of the era and though you can come up with many reasons why it ain’t the same today except for some outliers, our lovely little sadistic holiday outing jumped the shark.
Will it last in its current form or will an uneaten bowl of stew show its true value beside a medal and some other junk you paid for ten times over for maybe your fundraising is satisfying and rewarding enough but Boston just a vehicle.
No need to scry, I know what happens. I been one lucky wooba gooba.
Just my imagination:
Just My Imagination: