For as long as I've been a runner, I've always wanted to run the Boston Marathon. As a teenager, I would marvel at the stories of Bill Rodgers winning this race. I would imagine the fear a runner would have, knowing Heartbreak Hill was looming. And of course, I would replay the visions of my childhood hero Alberto Salazar holding off a determined Dick Beardsley on Boylston Avenue.

I ran my first road race (a 10,000-meter race in my hometown of Hart) at the age of 13 and my first marathon (the San Diego Marathon) at the age of 27. Throughout the years I've lost count of how many road races I've run, but I knew this: The 112th Boston Marathon would be my 21st marathon. I was as excited to run this race as I've been for any race I've run in the 30 years I've been a runner. My training had gone very well, my training partner Mike Scannell made sure of that. Mike has served as my personal pace setter on numerous tempo runs and speed work sessions. There was no reason that my own Boston experience would not be a positive one.

So, as I get off the bus in Hopkinton, Mass., I can literally feel the excitement. I, along with my friends Anna Gaethe and Bob Dickie, make our way through the athletes village to the bag drop buses. There is a nip in the air, but that's great weather for a marathon. As the three of us reach our starting corrals, we part ways and wish each other good luck and good racing. I enter corral No. 2, which I was assigned based on my 2:59:19 performance at last November's San Antonio Marathon. The corral is right in front of the church, where several children had set up a tent with water and energy bars they were giving to the runners. I chuckle at one of the signs they had made. Emphasizing the famous Boston accent, it says, "Free Powaah Baahs and Wataah for Runnaahs." I spend the next 40 minutes or so relaxing and waiting for the start.

When the mass of runners begins to surge forward, I simply try to stay calm. I'm far enough away from the actual starting line that for a few seconds we don't move, but slowly we go from a walk, then shuffle, to a jog, and finally to running. Many runners use the early part of any marathon to get warmed up and loose, but in Boston it's even more important to hold back early because the first miles are downhill. Go out too fast and you'll really pay for it later. I simply get into my rhythm and make my way through the crowds of runners.

I quickly begin to get warm as the cloud cover present before the race disappears. I pull off my arm warmers and gloves and toss them aside, I can't help but think, "There goes $27 worth of gear." As I make my way along, I pass many runners. My goal is 2:40-2:45, and I click off the mile splits that I need to achieve that goal. However, by six or seven miles, I start to realize that my legs aren't feeling sharp. My left hamstring and left hip are getting tight. I hope the tightness would fade, but it simply doesn't. As the pace slows, I start to struggle a bit right about the time we enter Wellesley. At this point in the race, I am running with three other gentlemen. I had been letting them set the pace for a couple of reasons: They were blocking the bit of headwind we were encountering, and I found that simply sitting in the back let me take my mind off the tightness in my leg.

In Wellesley, I start to hear a strange noise. Now, I've heard and read the stories about the girls from Wellesley College, but I've never experienced anything like it. The noise simply gets louder and louder as we get closer and closer, high pitched and intense. These beautiful young ladies are so loud, so encouraging. Plus, I know they are screaming for ME, so I run a little taller, a little faster, as I'm sure every other runner did. As we pass them, I couldn't help but realize this is one of those Boston Marathon traditions, and I'm right smack dab in the middle of it! As the scream fade, no one says anything for a few seconds. I break the silence in my group with a simple "how about that!?!" Everyone just laughs! It's then I realize the tightness in my leg is gone and the pace is back up a bit. I begin running some solid mile splits after that. However in the back of my mind I know the Newton Hills, which include Heartbreak, are looming. I simply stay on task, knowing that while my time goal was no longer in reach, I could still have a great performance. So for the next few miles, I just stay relaxed, drinking at every aid station, and enjoying the crowds who, although not as loud as the Wellesley girls, are packed along the course.

Sure enough I see the sign that welcomes me to Newton, and the dreaded Newton Hills. I had been running nice and steady, but I knew what was in store for me. I climb to the first of the three hills and struggle. I get over the first one and my split for that mile is my slowest of the race to that point. The good thing is after I crest the hill, I get right back on pace, but now my right hamstring is getting tight. The next hill appears and again I struggle, and the split for that mile is now the slowest of the race. Once again though, after I crest that hill I get right back on pace again. I now sense a pattern. I tell myself to just get over the last hill and do a final push to the finish (Easier said than done). My right hamstring is really starting to hurt. For Heartbreak Hill, I'm actually excited to attack it. I lean into it and go to work. I say everything I could to myself -- just keep your arms and legs moving, don't relax to much, keep moving, eyes up, keep your hands relaxed, don't ease up -- and it helps. I see the top, and I'm almost there.

As I get to the top, I start to hear a sound coming behind me. I can't quite make it out, but it's low and loud. I start to hear people in the crowd saying, "It's Lance!" and everyone starts screaming. I sneak a quick peek over my shoulder and I catch the sight of a bright yellow shirt. Yep, that's him alright, surrounded by about eight other runners who are having the time of their lives. I feel like there is a train coming and I am on the tracks, so I do what anyone with a brain would do, I get off the tracks. I move over to the right, allow the Lance pack slowly go by me and then jump on the caboose. As the pack makes it's way along the course the crowds are going absolutely insane. They are louder than the Wellesley girls. It is like a rolling thunder! Lance has a stoic, determined look on his face. I'm sure the crowds he encountered during the Tour de France were at least as loud as this.

 

But for me, it is another thing to wake me up, and I need it. My right hamstring is really getting tight. Before I know it, I find myself right next to Lance. I don't say a word. I don't want to bother him. But when we start to go up a little incline I notice that he was forcing it a bit. I did what I would do with anyone else. I tell him to keep his head and to not push too hard yet. He replies with something about having to keep working. I then tell him to drop his hands, drive his elbows back and relax his shoulders, which he does immediately. I start to feel better and I make my way to the front of the pack and I feel like I'm pulling away. I get ready to take some water at an aid station, and I look over my left shoulder to make sure I won't cut anyone off and to my shock, Lance is right there. How cool is that? He is using me like a rented mule!

We hit mile 23 and I hear someone behind me say that we are right on pace to run 2:50. It is at this point that I fall off the Lance train and watch Lance slowly pull away. It is obvious that he is hell bent on running under 2:50. Sadly, my right hamstring decides at this point to stop cooperating. I simply try to maintain a solid rhythm, good form, and a forward momentum. Soon I pass the famous Citgo sign, almost done. When I make the final right turn, followed by the final left turn on to Boylston Avenue, I realize that I had just spent close to three hours running in the footsteps of my childhood running heroes and that I had heard the same cheers they had.

The crowds on Boylston are amazing, as their cheers literally lift the runners and propel them the final 600 meters. I make a final push and hit the finish in 2:51:20. It's a solid effort, eight minutes faster than any marathon I've run as a masters (over 40) runner.

Looking back, it was an amazing experience, one that I would recommend any marathoner. I may not have run the goal time I had set for myself, but when it was said and done, the effort and experience more than made up for it.

Gary Brimmer, 43, is from Swartz Creek. Brimmer, who served 22 years in the Army, now works for a leadership company called Team. He's been a runner for 31 years, and has completed 21 marathons. He also coaches several runners from across the country.

If you would like to post your own running travel tale, feel free to post a comment or e-mail Christofer Machniak.