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Attached is a story from Brian about our Boston adventure 2 weeks ago. I added the names of the damaged ones in parenthesis and in red. I have left the story intact even though it blasts me Mightily. As this years winner of the Al Clark award at the WRM, it behooves me to be nice to everyone, show respect and enocuragement. HOWEVER, in this case - Brian should not blasted the tall one since the tall one holds the key to the website....SO - I did set things right AFTER his story (also in Red). I hope you will find each of our stories entertaining as they are meant to be. Brian and I are best of comrades... The Twin Towers o f Boston, MA Brian Peacock May 1, 2009 It was a breezy Monday morning in Hopkinton, MA that greeted 20,000+ patriots and a lone loyalist. Many of the patriots were newbies, excited beyond their wildest imaginations. The rituals spread like the swine flu around the high school sports field. There were stretchers and sleepers, trotters and talkers. Many washed down bagels with coffee, while others relied on sports drinks and energy bars. Bananas were universally popular. The lines at the porta johns shuffled forward step by step until a sudden sprint for the next available door brought out gracious admissions of defeat. The sea of humanity edged their way down to the corrals according to qualifying speed. Some cheated, I don’t know why because the chip tells no lies and the first mile will be slow anyway. I had surveyed this scene many times, a hoard of mad men and women trying to say something to themselves and the world of sane non runners around them. Some three hours later, the breeze was still blowing in our faces from the south east as I strode swiftly up Heartbreak hill. What Hill? I see no hill? I don’t know what they are talking about. At the top of the hill the course turned into Beacon Street and there I spotted not one but two towers. There was the stationary Prudential Tower that had survived this annual onslaught of patriots and loyalists for many years. A majestic sight reaching to the sky. Proud. To the left I saw another tower. This one was moving (Ken). Well sort of moving. Staggering would be a better word. It was drooping, clearly in physical pain and mental anguish. A sorry sight. Hallucinating. The kind of sight of a once lofty one being starved of Twinkies. The sight gave me a cruel thought. I must catch it and pass it and twist the knife in the wound. But I had been slacking, stopping here and there to slap hands and chat with my fans, and pause to thank the many volunteers along the way. I would really have to turn on the afterburners had I known that this opportunity would arise. But then my conscience got the better of me. Why kick a man when he is down? Even in jest. The pathetic picture was sufficient entertainment. Been there done that. Hallucinating. I have the good fortune of being telepathetic so I could see what was going on in this fried mind and body. Twinkie starvation in the extreme. It saw a sylph like F26 floating towards him, coming to pick him up and carry him the rest of the way, reminiscent of that day in Tuscon where the same apparition had carried him to a glorious finish. Like a mother with babe in arms. And then there was a nurse like creature coming to him from the side lines, carrying Coke and Twinkies. Another angel. Perhaps he was in heaven after all. Suddenly Father Christmas jumped out in front of him (Steve), loaded with cameras, snapping away furiously. That same Father Christmas he had seen the day before cruising down Boylston Street. Was he dead or alive? These hallucinations were weird. He must be in the twilight zone. He then turned into Boylston Street, totally spent. Not the majestic entrance that he had planned, rather a sad, drooping picture of a once upright tower. There at the end of the tunnel he saw the magic number 3:58. And standing on the finish line was a grinning youth (Rob), beer in hand, ready to gloat. But he had no cause for gloating. He had finished a paltry 1900th in his age group and let the team down. But gloat he did. Hello old man he said to the staggering tower, what kept you so long? I did a 3:12, can’t be bad for my first Boston. But the fallen tower had no spirit to respond. Meanwhile minutes later I crossed the finish line, bright and cheery, ready to go out and run the race again. Should I or should I not have passed that dreadful, dreaming dog? I decided no. In the interest of team coherence, I must lead from the back and not humiliate these lesser mortals. So that was the end of the first Boston Marathon for the Mountain Milers members. Unfortunately they were beaten soundly by the Bay Area Running Club from Texas and the Greater New Bedford Track club, who will share the prestigious Peacock trophy for the coming year. The second tower has recovered and wears the Boston Medal proudly as does the youthful one. Next year we will have the real F26. OK now for the REAL stuff. First– inspite of a total collapse in the last 9 miles due to hamstring problems I gutted it out and finished. My chip time was 9 minutes ahead of Brian. Additionally I started 7 more minutes ahead of Brian due to my significantly higher qualifying time putting me 7 corrals ahead of Brian. Hence I crossed the finish line some 16 minutes ahead of Brian. That would translate into about a mile and a half. Now, at my significant height, I can compensate for the curvature of the earth and would be able to see 1.5 miles in advance. At Brian’s non-significant height, that would be impossible – hence he would never have been able to see me. Next, very few of us know that Brian has been accumulating flight time to obtain his pilot’s license. Brian's eyesight is in question. In one of his recent trips, Brian decided to come in “Nose First” – somewhat trashing a perfectly good airplane. From this point forward, Brian should be known as “Nose-Dive”. In his story, Brian mentioned that Rob was only 1900th in his age class. Rob’s age class was messed up and he actually passed 2700 runners based on his seeded bib number. Rob finished 3000th after starting 5700th…..a significant feat. And Rob doesn’t just like to talk about himself. Once he mentioned Heidi. Oh no, forget that, he was talking about some woman named Heidi that he met in a bar. OK, so I guess Brian got that part of the story correct…sorry Rob. What about the Saturday training runs where Brian bailed out on me early? What about Brian complaining about some dinky uphills on the long run to Skull Valley? We will miss Brian when he goes to Singapore this summer. Well mostly. OK, partially. It is hard to find him when we run in a group… |
