I spent Monday surrounded by some of our city's finest athletes, fiercest hearts and drunkest college students. It was a testament to the strength and perseverance of humanity, the phenomenal power of the mind, and the sporadic negligence of Boston's open container laws. That's right, folks, I am talking about the Boston Marathon.
As we stood on the sidelines of Coolidge Corner, yelling out the names of strangers more than it will ever again be socially acceptable, I felt a horrible pang of regret. Trying to place this pang, I considered my possible mistakes. Am I cold? Am I hungry? Did I wear the wrong thing? Do I wish I were drunker? I peered over at the inebriated coed a few yards down. She was hunched over a limping runner, pointing in her face (which looked to be on the verge of tears) and yelling, "I believe in YOU! YOOOOOU!" Nope. Definitely satisfied with my blood alcohol content.
Just then we saw a friend run by, and as we huffed and puffed next to her for 60 seconds of solidarity that she was probably too dehydrated to appreciate, I realized the (obvious) source of my regret. Why had I never done this? Here was a girl I've been sharing college with since day one, and she was doing it. We've done so much together — hell, she was once the Kevin to my Britney. Should I have known, as we sat in my dorm room that night, me in a blonde wig (askew) and her in a wife beater, crafting post-it note reminders of the night's events to ensure that our morning selves remembered them, that someday she would be smart enough to take an opportunity I'd been foolish enough to reject?
Now, however, all I could think about was whether or not I'd made a huge mistake. Couldn't I have done this, too? Sure, this fine woman is more than a little fitter than me, but I could totally take that barefoot guy in a leopard print unitard. I'm a healthy youngster, and all this time I've been sitting on an open invitation to attempt the Boston Marathon. After years of genuine bewilderment that anyone would run a marathon, ever, and preaching about the heinous damage it does to your body, I felt like a complete idiot for not RSVP-ing yes.
Just then, another dear friend from the days of yore approached the sidelines where we stood. She had slowed to a walk, and we could tell she was hurting, and so the decision was made to run the remainder of the course by her side. Twenty minutes and the longest distance I've run since field hockey practice freshman year (of high school) later, my regret was gone, replaced by a stabbing pain in my side and a blister on my sockless right foot. In jeans, Converse and no bra, I had run a mere fraction of the marathon I had been coveting minutes earlier, and as I crossed the finish line in worse shape than the friend I was running to support, one of my personal shortcomings became the saving grace for my wounded aspirations.
There is a reason I never ran the marathon. I am terrible runner. I have mild asthma, a crappy work ethic and a horrible threshold for pain. I could already feel my calves getting sore, but I was pleased with the lesson I had learned. I suck at running, but I am good at other things, like yelling, clapping and drinking. On marathon day, it takes all kinds, and I'll stick to my kind from now on. For all those that took their places among the other kind this Monday — congratulations, you were truly phenomenal. Look for me next year; I'll be on the sidelines, where I belong.
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Jessie Borkan is a senior majoring in psychology. She can be reached at Jessie.Borkan@tufts.edu.
