2008 Woodie Awards
Marathon day strengthens hearts
Ryan Weaver
Issue date: 4/20/06 Section: Lifestyle
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On Beacon Street near Coolidge Corner in Brookline, a few miles from the finish line in Copley Square where the sidewalks were still teeming with race-day revelers, a young man with a wide grin held a big yellow sign reading "Go You."
The Boston Marathon, an annual event that draws tens of thousands of runners from around the world, brings a benevolence to this normally tourist-wary New England town. There is a vicarious thrill in the air, a feeling of big-ness that silences some and prompts others to cheer at the top of their lungs for "Stacy," "Moose" or "Dana Farber," whichever name is emblazoned on the shirts, foreheads or limbs of the runners whose euphoric and exhausted faces bob past.
This race is not about highly paid pros and flashy clothing-try short-shorts and gorilla suits. The players are everyday people who have been training as early as 4 a.m. before work and in the dark hours of the night, in the freezing rain and the dank of basements.
In the days before the race, few talked of "winning." This was seen as decidedly beside the point. Simply entering the race was enough for many.
A great number came in droves from mild-mannered places like western Pennsylvania and Ottawa, Canada. With them they have brought entire families for moral support, and in a group, it is often difficult to pick out the runner among them.
"Not me," said one woman, motioning to the wheelchair-bound man at her hip. "He'll be racing." The man said that at his last marathon, he had clocked in at one hour and 30 minutes.
"Not me," said another downtown visitor, a fit-looking young woman. She pointed to a gray-haired older woman perusing the souvenir T-shirts nearby. "My mom's running."
One tanned man in his 40s leaned in confidentially as he gave his theory on why so many of his fellow runners, whom life had declared over the hill, decide to go up against a few more-namely the deadly "Heartbreak Hill" part of the course in Newton, which has seen many a marathoner break down at the halfway point.
The Boston Marathon, an annual event that draws tens of thousands of runners from around the world, brings a benevolence to this normally tourist-wary New England town. There is a vicarious thrill in the air, a feeling of big-ness that silences some and prompts others to cheer at the top of their lungs for "Stacy," "Moose" or "Dana Farber," whichever name is emblazoned on the shirts, foreheads or limbs of the runners whose euphoric and exhausted faces bob past.
This race is not about highly paid pros and flashy clothing-try short-shorts and gorilla suits. The players are everyday people who have been training as early as 4 a.m. before work and in the dark hours of the night, in the freezing rain and the dank of basements.
In the days before the race, few talked of "winning." This was seen as decidedly beside the point. Simply entering the race was enough for many.
A great number came in droves from mild-mannered places like western Pennsylvania and Ottawa, Canada. With them they have brought entire families for moral support, and in a group, it is often difficult to pick out the runner among them.
"Not me," said one woman, motioning to the wheelchair-bound man at her hip. "He'll be racing." The man said that at his last marathon, he had clocked in at one hour and 30 minutes.
"Not me," said another downtown visitor, a fit-looking young woman. She pointed to a gray-haired older woman perusing the souvenir T-shirts nearby. "My mom's running."
One tanned man in his 40s leaned in confidentially as he gave his theory on why so many of his fellow runners, whom life had declared over the hill, decide to go up against a few more-namely the deadly "Heartbreak Hill" part of the course in Newton, which has seen many a marathoner break down at the halfway point.
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