Running is a metaphor for life, and since the Wednesday Weblog consists of Observations at the Speed of Life, I write about my experiences. I know, deep down inside, readers who are runners really get 'it' when I share my race stories.

And I have to assume that non-runners are envious of someone walking the line between bravery and stupidity for such distances. This is a different story, with the same ending, because some trips are too far to go alone.

As loyal readers know, my "long-distance" running career ended on November 12^th when I crossed the finish line of the BAA Half-Marathon at White Stadium in the middle of Franklin Park. I don’t think I will miss the training. I do think I will miss the race day satisfaction.

To be honest with you, my distance era probably should have ended earlier. My sixth half-marathon was the hardest in a whole bunch of ways. It was actually harder than running a marathon. In addition to the course, what made it hard for me was everything that went wrong leading up to the event.

The most obvious obstacle to overcome was the weather. 

Last year at this event it was 40 degrees and rainy. This year? Temperatures were below freezing at the start and didn’t improve much. Other runners in the Distance Medley Tent had all kinds of adjustments for the temperature, including heat reflective sheets wrapped around them to stay warm. 

It didn’t help some people and other people just pretended that the temp was in the 60’s. At the start line, I was literally surrounded by shivering runners. Some participants were fully dressed in warm weather gear and still shivering, and others were wearing shorts and tank tops.

I did see one person getting to run with sandals and foot gloves, wrapped around individual toes. He may have been shivering the most.

I was not shivering. I was toasty. My preparation included four levels of clothing: a t-shirt, a heat shirt, a long sleeve shirt, and a Cumberland Farms sweatshirt. I also was wearing an old pair of sweatpants. I was prepared to drop most layers during the race if I heated up while running. (Note: all clothing discarded at a race like this is collected, washed, and donated, this year it was to Big Brothers and Big Sisters, and there is a LOT of clothing discarded before and during the event).

So, after finishing the Falmouth Road Race, I realized I had knee, hip and back problems. They likely weren’t caused by the race itself, but the event triggered more pain. The knee was due to arthritis, the back was from awkward movements lifting, and the hip was, who knows?

While training for the event, I only did about a third of my usual plan, because I just couldn’t run multiple times per week. I did do an 11-mile and a 9-mile run leading up to the event, but normally, I would have pre-run the course to get a better feel for it on race day and probably run at least 100 miles more than I did. 

Chronic pain kept me grounded. The doctor I saw suggested Tylenol and hinted that I was just old. Hmmm.

Finally, I was having some intestinal problems leading up the big event. You can figure out what that means and I won’t bore you with the number of porta-potty visits I made on race day. I’m sure you can get the picture.

So with all this working against me, and unable to get to bed early the night before, about 9:30 on Saturday night, the thought occurred to me to just quit, and not go to the race. That would have made my wife, my back, my hip, and my knee happy.

But no, walking that thin line between bravery and stupidity, and wanting to get one more annoying running story in the books, there I was at 5:00 am on the Mass Pike heading to Boston. The car thermometer read 24 degrees. Gulp. I parked downtown, hopped on the shuttle bus to Franklin Park and entered the tent reserved for runners who participated in the Distance Medley: running the BAA 5K, 10K and Half. 

I have done all three events for several years, primarily to enjoy the perks tent and because they have a better ratio of porta-potties-to-runners than the general population enjoys or doesn’t enjoy.

After the National Anthem, the horn sounded, and the first runners were off. It took about 15-minutes for me to get to the start line with announced 9,000 registered runners (less than 7,000 finished), and only a quarter mile into the race, I thought about dropping out. I did not feel good and started to dread pounding the pavement along Boston’s Emerald Necklace for three hours. But I kept on.

About three miles in, I shed the sweatshirt. About six miles in, I shed the sweatpants. About nine miles in, I shed the t-shirt. I had been getting warmer and warmer and clothing seemed to be getting in the way. I’m sure if we had run another ten miles I might have been naked.

My original goal was to beat last year’s time, but once the event started, I changed the goal to ‘finishing,’ and I knew it was going to take a major effort to do so. About two miles in, I realized I had no business running a half-marathon in freezing weather, bundled up or not, with aches and pains all around, and digestive issues on top of that.

I committed to doing the best I could and kept thinking about persistence and how anything and everything I’ve ever accomplished, personal and professional, had persistence as a common denominator. After all, this event wasn’t the first time everything didn’t go right for me. 

In fact, I can’t remember the last time there wasn’t at least a bump in the road of any objective I was pushing towards.

Here’s some of my philosophical points that I remember as I plodded along the 13.2 mile course:

• Mile 1: I am thinking that I just ran a mile downhill, but I feel like crap. Maybe I should just stop and walk back? Maybe I should pretend I pulled a muscle to save face?
• Mile 2: Well, I made it this far. Only 11 miles to go. What’s the big deal?
• Mile 3: I had enough of the sweatshirt. I had been heating up fast. Fortunately, I have another Cumby's sweatshirt at home.
• Mile 4: I thought the turnaround point for the street part of the route was at the start of the Longwood Hospital Area. I was wrong. We ran all the way past the hospitals, almost to the old Sears building. A killer mile, a mile longer than I expected. A real mental downer.
• Mile 5: The Brookline turnaround, at f’in last. I have to admit, I was tempted to cross over to the runners going the other way and shorten my route, but it wouldn’t be the same.
• Mile 6: I had enough of the sweatpants and sat on a stone wall and stripped them off, trying to keep my feet out of the leaves and debris next to the wall.
• Mile 7: I was warm, very warm, but it was cold, very cold. I stripped all my shirts off and stood there bare-chested for a few seconds, discarded my innermost t-shirt and headed off again. Someone may have had a thrill, but it wasn’t me.
• Mile 8: A slightly, and I mean slightly downhill mile. Enough to mitigate the pain I was feeling and give me hope that I might really finish.
• Mile 9: Reentering the park for the toughest three miles: almost all uphill. Just what you want after running nine miles, a couple of miles of hills. Perfect.
• Mile 10: This mile goes around the golf course in the park and is up and down and up and down. I ran the down and walked the up.
• Mile 11: This mile was brutal. All uphill, all steep, mostly everyone near me was walking. By the way, I am not the last person in this event, but there are only a couple of dozen runners behind me. I’ve started getting the sympathy cheers from the spectators. You know the ‘you can do it’ stuff.
• Mile 12: The entrance to the Franklin Park Zoo. I guess they hid all the animals, but runners went right down the main pathway of the zoo. It was flat, I ran more than I walked. I knew I was at the point where I was going to finish, even if I had to crawl.
• Mile 13: The entrance to White Stadium where the last 100 yards are on the cinder track. I tidied up my hair getting ready for the finish line photo where I would be raising my arms in triumph.

I got my medal. I got my t-shirt. I got my free bagel and banana in the tent. I got my picture taken with my time. I got everything I bargained for, and more. I proved, to myself, that I still have the willpower and persistence to overcome obstacles. I proved, to myself, that when I put my mind to something, even if my body isn’t fully onboard, I can get there, even in 29 degree weather.

For long time readers who remember the story of my first half-marathon, and the fear and trepidation of that ‘lifetime’ achievement, the story of Kathy’s Team will be familiar.

When I was fifteen years old, my ten-year-old sister, Kathy, was killed by one of my classmates who was speeding. She was on the way home from Confession.  One of the passengers in the car was a kid named Steve Harvey, who administered first aid to my sister laying on the street, and the doctors indicated his efforts kept her alive for about a week. Long enough for my parents to say goodbye. Steve was a hockey player and wore number 8 for Braintree High. When I got to pick my number, I picked 18 because it included the number 8, in appreciation of Steve Harvey. I had the number 18 on the back of my shirt during the half-marathon.

It’s a shirt I’ve worn seven times, and it will now be retired. For six half-marathons and one full marathon, Kathy’s Team has had two members but only one t-shirt. Each time a spectator yelled ‘Kathy’s Team’ I thought about that 10-year-old little girl, and for a few seconds, my back didn’t hurt, my knee was ok, and the pain in my hip went away. 

So, I am very proud that I finished the hardest race of my career, but you should know, it was too far for me to go alone. I had help. Thanks, Kathy.

You never forget.