Despite a cold and rainy weather report, and the inability of 2300 pleading hearts to change it, we were committed to endure and reach our goals. Goals that have been chiselled into stone a little bit each day for the past 4 months. We dreamt of qualifying for the prestigious 100th year, 1996 Boston Marathon.

Clint and I needed a time of 3:10. For me that meant taking a minute off each mile from my March, Napa Marathon time of 3:36. I was told that was impossible. Clint, too, would have to make a big leap. Dick, my training partner, who would easily qualify, hoped for a PR and to help me qualify by also running a 3:10 marathon. We were all full of anxiety, fear, aspirations, and hopefully enough water and carbohydrates to get us to the finish line.

The busses arrived at 5am to take us to Folsom Dam. On the bus we wondered what to wear, how soon our shoes would be soaked, how much to eat and how much to take along. Some were in deep thought, others told stories, and all of us were wondering if those 18 and 20 mile runs we've been doing for months had prepared us enough for what lay ahead. Besides wondering if my knee would hold up for the fast 7:10 min/mi pace we were planning, I pondered if the amount of Ibuprofin I carried was enough to lessen the inevitable pain; first gripping the shoulders, then the legs and finally engulfing my entire body around mile 22.

The race began and the splashing feet and rustling trash bags moved forward. Clint, Dick & I formed a team and systematically charted splits and adjusted the pace to stay below 7:14. Dick chaperoned our progress and kept me from charging the hills. Onlookers with umbrellas, surely thinking we were stupid, shouted encouragements anyway.

We followed the plan. Trash bags off at mile 4, drink at the aid stations, careful on the down-hills, Ibuprofin when necessary, and most importantly, holding the pace. When the cold wind blew at our face, we formed a pace line. Each of us would take turns blocking the wind. Dick's family was on the ball; taking requests, handing him supplies, and encouraging us all. And the cheers got louder as we got closer. However, we knew the real strength would have to come from within as we entered the final 5 mile stretch, "The Avenues"

"The Avenues" is where the real battle is fought. The cross-streets slowly count down from 86th to 8th street, 5 miles away. Suddenly we find that more and more energy is required just to keep the same pace. Clint begins breathing hard, Dick is feeling the cramps grow in his calves and I have pain in my feet and shoulders. Dick and Clint have already taken their "glucose" energy packets. I'm saving mine for just the right moment...

At mile 22, I feel like the teamwork has done its job. We helped each other stay on pace and now it's up to individual determination. I feel confident that I have it in me to finish at 3:10 so I start plan 'B', my 2nd goal, to finish before my respected coach and training partner, Dick.

I have trained for this moment. I know my partner has a strong last-mile kick. I've practiced sprinting the last 6 or 4 miles of long runs. My plan is to get far ahead, break the separation, and make it stick. I use my glucose pack and begin pushing the pace. 7:13, 7:10. Now I "put the hammer down" and focus on track training; forward onto my toes, pumping arms up and forward. I don't feel the shoulder pain or the leg pain, it just hurts all over. After pounding out a 6:53 mile I'm surprised to get a slap on the butt and some words of encouragement from my coach (and competitor)!

Dick is fighting cramps but hanging with me. So at mile 24.5, I drop it down another notch and pull away as Dick mentally concedes and sends me on with a "you've got Boston. Now go get it!" I was completely focussed, eyes closed sometimes.

All around me were marathon casualties that went out too fast in the beginning. Men & women struggling from one cross street to the next, hoping the signs would decrease faster to 8th St. Race results showed that we passed over a hundred runners during that frustrating stretch, "The Avenues".

I passed Floyd, the Featherman. The feather in his hat slowly bobbing behind me. Dick, never having beaten the Featherman before, was spurred on by Floyd’s honorable sportsmanship, "Dick, you're looking good!" Dick had new determination. He could hear the locker-room talk if he lost his title to me, the "kid".

I recorded an amazing 6:43 mile and felt sure I had the win. With less than a mile left I heard charging footsteps behind me. There was a steam engine barreling down on me! Dick's arms were chugging pistons and his eyes were focussed on the tracks ahead. I had nothing left to give. "Come on, Dick!" I was so impressed with the speed and strength that he exhibited that I was proud as I watched him take the lead.

Still maintaining this cruel pace, 8th St. came into sight. My depleted body was pushed on by the cheers of the crowd and my own happiness as I crossed the finish line, 22 seconds behind Dick, but 95 seconds ahead of 3:10!! As our legs quickly transformed into clumps of cramped, knotted muscle we managed some hugs and a "high 5" and then turned around to see if Clint would make it.

Clint had watched the battle between Dick and I from behind. He was hurting but hoped there were enough seconds left in the bank to get him across in time. As he rounded the street corner, with about 150yds to go, the clock read 3:09. We were all yelling "Go Clint!" as the seconds ticked. Clint qualified with 26 seconds to spare, that's only 1 second per mile! We all celebrated as much as our sore, debilitated bodies would let us.