"There are marathons — and then there is Boston.
The oldest annual marathon in the world. The crown jewel of the World
Marathon Majors. The race that runners everywhere dream of.
You don’t just sign up for Boston. You earn it. Some chase the ever-shifting
qualifying standards for years, shaving seconds off tired legs in pursuit of a
BQ. Others, like me, find another way — fueled by a dream too stubborn to die. I have seen runners, once possessed by the dream of a BQ, defy age and qualify.
I didn’t qualify by time. I qualified by heart — through a charity bib,
carrying a cause bigger than myself.
And when I stood at the start line in Hopkinton, where legends have run since
1897, it didn’t matter how I got there. I was part of something timeless.
This is my story."
There Are Two Races, Actually
Let’s not talk about John Korir, Sharon Lokedi, or the elite
field of a few dozen others. (By the way, John and Sharon won Boston
2025—congratulations to them!)
But here’s the truth: 99% of finishers don’t know the
elites. Yet, there are two distinct classes of runners at the Boston Marathon.
First, there are those who chase the ever-shifting goalposts
of qualification times. Then, there’s the rest of us—dreamers who simply want
to run the oldest marathon on Earth.
lt All Started Here"
Bostonians proudly declare this about everything—the
American Revolution, Harvard (the first and finest university), the first major
marathon (1897, now in its third century), and even the first inclusion of
women in a major marathon.
So it’s no wonder every marathoner dreams of running Boston
at least once. Some are "children of the faster gods," hitting those
elusive qualifying standards. The rest of us? We’ll never be that fast—but
Boston graciously lets us in anyway.
Me too—I had the dream and desire, but not the pace. Getting
into the wildcard zone wasn’t easy. But when the opportunity arose, I grabbed
it, even though it meant running back-to-back after Mumbai and Tokyo.
The Great Divide
Qualifiers are sorted by pace into waves and corrals—a
finely tuned hierarchy of speed. The rest? We’re packed randomly into Wave
4—9,000 runners strong. A 25-year-old who missed their 2:55 BQ by five minutes
stands behind a 70-year-old aiming for six hours. Chaos. Camaraderie. Boston.
The Course: A Cunning Beast
This isn’t just a marathon; it’s a tactical duel. The
terrain demands respect:
- Start:
Steep downhill (quads beware).
- Middle:
Gentle rollers (deceptively tiring).
- Testing
Times: Newton’s infamous hills, including the aptly named
"Heartbreak Hill." By then, your legs are shredded from the
early pounding.
- Celebrate:
Survive those, and you might fly the final downhills to Boylston Street—if
you paced it right.
After Tokyo last month, I trained specifically for these
segments: Control. Cruise. Push. Fly. All my long runs were running-power
monitored. I’d start easy on downhills, take hill loops at a slightly increased
pace, climb strong, and then finish with a fast downhill.
You can’t prepare for Boston weather in Mumbai. Discussions
in the Boston Marathon Facebook community offered amusing insight: prepare
for everything. Don’t trust the forecast—it’s the least reliable thing. It
might be windy, rainy, or sunny. This marathon was never going to be a personal
best—but it was always going to be a lifetime memory. I wasn’t worried about
the weather—I was excited about the uncertainty.
Old Soul, New Energy: Boston Welcomes the World
Getting to Boston for Marathon Monday was a dream in itself.
It’s the only World Major held on an extended weekend to commemorate Patriot’s
Day — and it feels special from the moment you land.
Boston is more welcoming than any other major city I've
raced in.
In Tokyo, the city was efficient and courteous, but often too busy to notice
the runners.
In Chicago, the perfect grid of towering skyscrapers felt grand but a bit
overwhelming.
Berlin moved fast — organized to the last second, but businesslike.
London had historic charm, yet the city's marathon spirit felt tucked into
certain pockets.
But Boston?
From the airport immigration officer to the bus driver — everyone noticed you.
Everyone welcomed you.
The city buzzed with energy. Blue jackets were everywhere. It didn’t feel like
a race day — it felt like a city-wide celebration.
At the expo, on shakeout runs, during city tours — the
spirit of Boston Strong wrapped around everything.
Born from tragedy after the 2013 bombing, it’s now more than a slogan — it’s
the soul of the city: resilience, unity, determination.
Boston is not just the oldest marathon in the world; it’s
the heart of marathon running itself.
The Journey to the Start Line
Reaching the start line is hard—in both spirit and
logistics. This is a point-to-point race. You need to get to Hopkinton, a town
26 miles away. Hundreds of yellow school buses ferry runners from Boston Common
to the holding area: Athletes' Village.
It’s a marathon in itself— breakfast, loading zone queues,
long bus rides, waiting for your wave, getting hungry again, eating your
supplies, moving to corrals, and finally inching toward the start.
For me, it wasn’t boring—group travelled together, cracking
jokes and worrying about Heartbreak Hill. An elderly American
runner Ms Carrie running her second Boston sat beside me.
We began talking about running; by Hopkinton, we knew about each other's
families and professions. We wished each other luck and parted ways.
The Race Begins
With the narrow course and the sheer number of runners, a
sign caught my eye: “Kenyans have already reached.” Almost —they started at 10
AM. It was now 11:30. They need just little over 2 hours .
I smiled, stepped on the timing mat, started my watch, and
tried not to trip. I had seen this start line the day before when my
Indian-American friend Kamal Datta gave me a tour. Kamal, a
multi-talented Boston based runner and founder of a marathoner
portal, had interviewed 26 runners from 26 countries at Berlin 2023—I was one
of them. Our friendship, rooted in passion, had lasted since. I felt
gratitude—for him, for my Dubai friend Shyamji, and for this moment.
The first miles were frustrating—no room to move. "Stay
calm, wait for an opening" became my mantra. Weaving wastes energy. I
tracked my running power, trying to conserve energy, but the uneven pacing took
its toll. The scenic, wooded route—lined with picturesque wooden houses—helped
distract me.
The weather? Bright and sunny but pleasantly cool—perfect
running conditions. I remembered the Facebook advice: prepare for anything. The
key to Boston is not chasing PRs—it’s soaking in the experience.
Though I’d vaguely aimed for a PB, races rarely go
perfectly. First hurdle: pacing. I kept losing and finding Shyamji in the first
5K. Despite starting just two years ago, this was his 16th marathon across
three continents and his sixth World Major.
Cruising miles Through Woods
, Towns and Heartwarming Wellesley
As gaps opened, I found rhythm. Boston is unique—it starts
in a town and runs toward a city. The evolving landscape—wooden homes, cherry blossoms,
wild trees, streams, ponds—felt like a moving postcard. Spectators set up
chairs and tables, cheering in town squares.
At the one-hour mark: 11K done, right on plan. Normally I
break races into four segments with time targets—but today, absorbed in the
course and crowd, I forgot. Yet my legs knew what to do.
Crowds grew at each town, their cheering louder and more
sustained. At Wellesley College’s "Scream Tunnel," hundreds of
students screamed in synchronized frenzy. Placards offered everything—from beer
at the finish to a kiss right now. Some runners gladly accepted!
The Newton Hills not really Heartbreaking
The rolling terrain continued until Newton’s Hills arrived.
I switched my watch to current pace and stayed steady. The air was crisp, the
sun warm—I splashed water on myself to stay cool. My wet shirt might chafe, but
that was for Future Me to worry about.
Heartbreak Hill came at last—not as steep, but long. A sign
congratulated us: “You’ve conquered Heartbreak.” It’s more mental than
physical. The name? It dates back to 1936 when a runner lost his lead here and
the race slipped away. Nearly a century later, it still haunts.
The Final Push
The last segment was meant for flying—but my mind drifted.
Spectators screamed. A train passed beside us—I waved; a woman waved back. At
33K, I was just 500 meters behind my race plan. But I didn’t try to close the
gap. I didn’t want a PB. I wanted to live the moment. Just yesterday, the maple
trees lined Commonwealth Street, full of life and beauty.
Now, they stretch bare toward the cloudy sky, their lifeless forms matching the
tiredness in my mind.. My mood dipped. Fatigue? Maybe. Skipping that gel? Possibly.
Tryptophan messing with my brain? Who knows. Clouds brought a chill. My pace
slowed.
Sub-4 was safe. Why push? Boston Sub-4 is still Boston
Sub-4.
The final battle was internal—not against the clock, but
against that voice saying, “It’s okay to slow down.” My calves, quads,
hamstrings, and shoulders joined the voice.
I searched for landmarks. At Tokyo, boredom hit me at 37K.
Today, it came a bit later. I tried counting runners I passed. I tried chasing
a shirt in front of me—but forgot which one. They were either too fast, or I
lost track.
The Finish Line
Then, I saw it: the crimson CITGO sign—holy
grail for tired legs. In morning only someone told me , “when you see this sign
, you are almost there”
Relief washed over me. But not speed. I turned the final
corners, dragging myself toward Boylston. “You should look proud and happy,”
something inside me quipped.
So I smiled. Raised my arms. Crossed the line.
Photographers were certainly there.
I looked at my watch: 3:55. Just two minutes
over my personal best.
And yet, the question in my mind wasn’t: Why didn’t
I push harder?
It was: Why didn’t I enjoy the final moments more?
As I walked back with my heavy unicorn medal, I felt
it:
This wasn’t closure. It was ignition.
Because now I want to qualify. Not me too , but earn
it.
Boston, you’ve awakened something in me.
I’ll be back soon
As a BQ.
