I completed the Virtual Boston Marathon, my first and only 26.2 Mile event, two years ago yesterday, between the hours of 5:15 am and 11:27 am by running 47 laps around the outside of Fenway Park. It ended the argument about whether I was Brave or Stupid.

Two years later, I am honestly amazed that it really happened. The level of training and dedication I had leading up to the event was off the charts.

I knew in advance that if I was able to complete the distance that I would be able to say, for the rest of my life, that I had run a marathon, in fact the Boston Marathon. The pandemic cut the number of Hopkinton-to-Boylston Street runners by more than 20,000 and the BAA allowed 'virtual' runners to enter. I did, with an official entry and bib, as a member of the Boston Bruins Foundation Team.

If you've never read the story, I hope it transports you back to the date and you can feel what I was feeling. If you have read the story, it's worth at least looking at the photos because it is the most read Weblog of the more than 170 that have been written, and the most viewed on LinkedIn with more than 7,000 views back in 2021.

At 4:14 AM on Sunday morning October 10th, while driving to Boston on the Mass Pike, I received a second text from, Kirsten Glavin, an NBC-10 reporter, indicating she was on her way with a videographer and would meet me for an interview before the Virtual Boston Marathon I was going to run.

My son, Joe, had managed to arrange television coverage for my attempt to run the 47 laps around the outside of Fenway Park as my marathon course. Must have been a slow news day? Well, not really.

There must have been something that intrigued the assignment desk at NBC, and apparently I was going to be part of their Boston Marathon Coverage. As if there wasn’t enough pressure, now there’s show business to contend with too?

I might have been a little groggy when the text came in, mostly because I hadn’t slept well the night before. I stopped at a rest area to respond. I had been up since 3:00 AM and had spent the last few days in a very anxious state of mind, as I thought about the monumental task of running 26.2 miles. After the text exchange, I was now very wide awake, with my anxiety doubling, and the pressure building.

The reason for such an early start for this event was because the Red Sox had made the playoffs and this week they learned that they were to host a home game on Sunday, and that was scheduled to start in less than 12 hours.

I thought about asking Major League Baseball to delay the game a couple of hours so I could finish MY event, but decided against it. An afternoon game meant that I had to run a marathon, have an after-party, and get everyone out of the area before the parking rates rose to $60+ for the game and the meters were blocked off. (It was close: my brother and I almost had our cars towed and had to settle for $90 tickets).

I knew if I started about 5:15, I could get twenty miles in by 9:30 and folks would start showing up to watch the last few miles. So, there I was, on an abandoned street, where a half dozen night clubs had closed just a few hours earlier, with a microphone in my face, trying to explain what I was doing.

When Kirsten pointed the mic at me, and the videographer Steve aimed his camera, I breathed a big sigh of relief and dove in.

I knew from experience as a young man, that once the game started, the pre-game jitters generally went away. When the lights went on and the microphone was put in front of me, this particular game began for me and the jitters left quickly.

I finished the interview, followed my regular stretching routine, hit the timer on my Fitbit, and took off in the dark on the longest run of my life. A run, that if successful, would enable me to forever say (quite casually) “Yes, I have run a marathon,” and that’s not something everyone can claim.

On the other hand, if I failed, while that might be better TV, I would be disappointing the friends and family and donors and those who came to cheer me on at the finish. That’s the type of pressure that leads to clichés like: “Pressure causes some to break, and others to break records.”

In reality, while that is true, I would be disappointing myself the most. When I started the run, I realized that I was going to finish it, even if I had to crawl and hoped that I had done the work, enough work, to make 26.2 miles happen..

I had about 45 donors to the cause I was running, to help the Boston Bruins Foundation, and I wrote those names on strips of tape on my forearms, and as I passed the Ted Williams statue, I read a name, thought about our relationship, and dedicated the upcoming lap to them in appreciation of their friendship and generosity.

It helped, because 26 miles is too far to run alone, and I felt like I was with that person as I remembered our experiences together.

On the Wednesday before the marathon, as I was visiting my 91-year mother, she reached out and handed me a small object wrapped in a tissue. She told me it was to keep in my pocket during the run. When I unwrapped the small crucifix, I teared up.

Although I could have run in the actual Boston Marathon as part of the Boston Bruins Foundation Team, my family and I were concerned that such a tough course might take a toll on a 70-year-old guy, who only had about 10 years of running experience, and had never run a marathon. We settled on a virtual event that would consists of short laps, so I could rest and refresh any time I wanted.

Because Loretta’s, our favorite Boston eating and drinking place, was behind Fenway Park I put two and two together, and reserved the Patio area of the restaurant as our base of operations, with the route being .56 miles around the park.

Much to my surprise, the station had assigned the reporter and videographer team to stay with me for most of morning. That meant follow up interviews, running shots at different points around the park and shaking pebbles out of my shoes. Originally, they planned to stay for the whole six hours, we learned shortly after I started, but a shooting in Stoughton called them away. Both Kirsten and Steve were great to us. Just the five of us, including a brother and my son, on a darkened street before 6 am, all of us hoping I had the heart to make it the six hours it would take me.

About two hours after I started, or as we runners say, about 10 miles later, daylight washed over the neighborhood. The videographer had been following me around, getting action shots as I lumbered down behind the Green Monster, or in front of the ticket office, or through the dueling construction sites that dominated part of the route.

The Fenway Park security guards, some of whom recognized me from previous training runs, waved, and I joked that I was going to run a lap around the warning track.

The Red Sox Clubhouse manager, Tom, a friend who had given me a bottle of champagne from the 2018 World Series, popped out of the park to encourage me, and it worked.

The laps and miles went by. The route started over patched and re-patched blacktop between two constructions sites, then to a long and fairly new sidewalk by the statues, then onto Jersey Street and the ticket office, finally a nice gradual downhill behind the left field wall on Lansdowne Street.

Time went by. 10, 20, 30 laps. With a brother and sister who joined and my son to staff the aid station, and with Dr. Markenson coming with anything I might need, or I mean he might need to help me, the morning was moving right along.

I monitored my heart rate and reported in to the good doctor, grabbed a Clif energy gel every hour, drank plenty of water, and stopped to chat with my family and/or the reporters for most of the laps during the first four hours. I was not running for time, I was running for distance. I didn't care how long it took, as long as I made it.

My feet were hurting first, then my knee. Not enough to quit, just enough to remind me of my age. My first goal was to make it to 15 miles, a high school friend, Joe, had told me that it was a psychological tipping point, and once I hit that mark, I knew I would be on the homestretch.

About 10 am, or about 22 miles into this thing, friends started arriving for the after-party with two of them, Carrie and Kerry ready to run some laps with me. Now I had peer pressure working for me.

First Kerry ran with me with a customized playlist to keep me motivated, and then I ran with both. They were amazed that I could still talk, breathe and run after so long, but it was no big deal to me. They also prevented me from getting hit by at least one car. It was like having a police escort with sneakers instead of motorcycles.

Fortunately, I also had a trainer and a nutritionist who knew what they were doing, I am good at following directions, so I knew I had the conditioning, it was only a question of if I really had the heart.

At mile 22, I started running laps with T-shirts I had made in appreciation of donors, sponsors, clients, and organizations I volunteer with, a total of 12 in all.

For the final push to that magical 26.2 mile finish line, I took my son, who uses a wheelchair, and pushed him partway up Lansdowne Street and turned around. The after-party guests had commandeered a roll of toilet paper from Loretta’s and stretched it across the street as a finish line, and Joe and I broke through with tears streaming down my face and proof that I had the heart to do this.

So to answer your questions. The training part of this is not something I enjoyed. Lots of lonely miles, which made the last few so enjoyable. Did I have doubts? Absolutely, right up to the microphone. Would I do it again? Not this way. I would wait for the Red Sox to have a crappy team and for the construction to be finished around the park.

What was the best part? There were two that I will always remember.

First, the number of people who said or wrote to me that they were inspired by my effort will have a lasting impression on me. That is an impact that lasts beyond the 6 hours and 12 minutes of the run. While you were thanking me, it is I who owe you thanks for making my effort make a difference.

Second, I think deep down inside, from the time we are pre-kindergarten, we want others to be proud of us. We might never talk about it, and over the course of our lives, we probably don't hear it that much. I've heard the phrase 'proud of you' more in the last 72 hours than at any other time in my life. And at the end of the day, I'm proud of me too, and thanks for your kind words.

The slogan of my fraternity, Phi Sigma Kappa, is 'Damn Proud' and I AM damn proud.

Thank you.