Though he lives just down my street, I met Steve while running at our local park.
We’d both brought our dogs along, and we struck up a conversation while they got acquainted in the usual canine custom. We had age and geography in common, and similar tastes in beer and music. That’s plenty for guys to bond.
Running made us closer friends, and Steve’s encouragement made me a better runner, but we don’t run together as often anymore. 

Steve and I had been hanging out and running together for months when he suggested that I join him and his wife for the Vermont City Marathon. I was noncommittal. I’d thought about it before, but 26.2 miles seemed a daunting distance. I wasn’t convinced that running so far could be any fun at all. Steve said we’d work up to it.
Steve’s wife, Sheila, had run Burlington before, and she said it was an easy course. She was running her 10th marathon. It would be Steve’s second and most likely his last, he said. I was disinclined to think beyond my first, since I wasn’t sure I could even finish one.
The marathon was six months off, on Memorial Day weekend, when we started training. Steve and I ran together at least once a week, and stretched our usual five or six miles to eight, and then ten and 12. We did our first 12 miles along country roads in nearby Hollis, with one leg of the loop along a trail obscured by several inches of snow. The snow was slick and goopy. It chilled our ankles, and made every step just that much harder. It made me feel tough. I loved it.
I still dragged my feet about signing up for the race. Why pay good money to suffer? My feet hurt plenty, the first time we topped 16 miles. It was the same with the first 20, and the second. Those hurt even after we stopped. I felt old and creaky. Once, running in a rain, the chaffing from my shirt drew blood. I noticed, though, that those midweek six-mile runs didn’t feel like much of anything any more. One evening, with the courage of a couple of beers in my belly, I went online and registered for the race.

To be continued…