Despite a cold and rainy weather report, and the inability of 2300 pleading hearts to change it, we were committed to endure and committed to reach our goals. Goals that have been chiselled into stone a little bit each day for the past 4 months. For me it was to qualify for the 100th year, 1996 Boston Marathon. I needed a time of 3:10 which meant taking a minute off each mile from my March, Napa Marathon time of 3:36. I was told that it was impossible. Dick's goal was to set a personal record, and to help me qualify, by also running a 3:10 marathon. Clint, too, dreamt of qualifying for the prestigious Boston Marathon but he only realized about a month earlier that a 3:10 might be possible. Pat trained hard early on in hopes of personal record but, after hurting his back in a fall, decided to attempt the 26.2 mile run, non-stop, in about 4 hours. 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 where the start would be. 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, some were telling 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. I was thinking two things: If my knee would hold up for the fast 7:10 min/mi pace we were planning and if the Ibuprofin I was carrying would be enough to lessen the pain that I knew would start in my shoulders, work through my legs and engulf my entire body around mile 22.

The race began and the splashing feet and rustling trash bags moved forward down the course. 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 must have thought we were stupid but 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 all of us. Pat's girlfriend, Judy, was also at all the intersections offering food, aspirin and encouragement. 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 called "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' for my 2nd goal: to finish before my respected coach and training partner, Dick.

I have trained for this moment. I know that my partner has a strong last-mile kick. In training I've practiced sprinting the last 6 or 4 miles of a long run. My plan is to get far enough ahead to break the separation and make it stick. I use my glucose energy pack and begin pushing the pace. 7:13, 7:10. Now I "put the hammer down" and focus on my track training; forward onto my toes, pumping arms up and forward. Now 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 will show that we passed over a hundred runners during the frustrating stretch called "The Avenues".

One of the runners I passed was Floyd, the Featherman. The bobbing feather in his hat slowly drifted behind me. Dick had never beaten the Featherman. With honorable sportsmanship, Floyd encouraged Dick with, "you're looking good" and sent him onward with new determination. Dick 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, and checked on the progress that Pat was making.

Judy gave us the report: Pat was hurting and trying to ignore the pain. He had 6 miles to go and the projected time was 4:11. He had not walked yet. The rain was coming down hard and the runners were coming in cold and not-to-happy looking. Pat was nearing 8th st. He was deadly determined and his focussed stare was unchanged by our loud cheers. Still wearing the rain-protecting trash bag, Pat crossed the finish line in a very respectable 4:01.