Clover used to run great circles around me, but she’s old and gray now. She doesn’t seem to mind waiting. She takes my seat, or curls up on a blanket in the back. I’m told my car reeks of dog, but I’m blessed with a blunt sense of smell.
I had planned to loop the loop four times, but somewhere along the third time around, I convinced myself to go for five. I’m usually pretty persuasive at talking myself down from such flights of fancy, but I managed to keep on chugging past the car one more time. My running has never been much to brag about – I’m just not that fast – but I couldn’t wait to tell Steve, and other folks, too. I’d run 25 miles, and I was damn proud of it. For the first time, I felt confident that I could run a marathon. I told some coworkers about the race the next day. That way, I figured, I couldn’t chicken out.
I was far from cocky, though. I wanted very badly not just to finish, but to make a good showing of it. It is a race, after all. Early on, I figured I might finish in five hours. As the race got closer, I broke four hours in my wildest dreams, but I kept that to myself. Good thing.
I had run exactly one race since high school, and that was four years before. It was the penultimate, 8.5 mile leg of a relay around Lake Winnipesaukee, and I had a blast. We were supposed to be just having fun, but my date was in the team vehicle. I ran my heart out, and finished in 66 minutes, gasping like a fish and with snot streaming out my nose. So much for impressing the girl.
I was excited and a bit scared as Evan, my sister and I drove up to Burlington and pitched camp just outside the city. I didn’t sleep well that night, and I doubt a proper bed would have helped. I woke early and antsy, and spent more time than usual in bathrooms and Porta Johns.
I was surprised at how many people turned out for the race. I’m not much for crowds of several thousand, no matter how festive, but it’s a rush to be part of a mob with a purpose.
Steve started lagging around mile 14, a little while after we’d topped the biggest hill on the course. He'd hurt his knee somehow. We tried stopping to stretch, but it didn’t help. I felt great myself. We’d passed our fan club, and I high-fived my son. I thought maybe I should stick with Steve out of solidarity, but he insisted that I carry on, so I dropped him like an empty cup.
That great feeling didn’t last much longer. Miles 16 through 19 were the worst. I wanted to stop or walk a bit, but feared I wouldn’t want to start again. Also, I had to pee, and we were running through the suburbs.
Once we reached the home stretch, the course was thick with spectators and I actually opened up and ran like hell, figuring incorrectly that the finish was right around the next bend. I finished in 4:15. Though I could hardly have run another step, I couldn’t help thinking I could do better.
It took a few days to recover from that first marathon, but I was out running again later that week. I felt good. I began to imagine I might do it again sometime. Steve wasn’t so lucky. His knee kept hurting, so he slowed down and took a few weeks off. I kept running.

 See part one,  or check out part three

Here I am at the VCM finish: