Boston Pie in the Sky (Part 1 of 2)

Confession: I’m not a huge sports fan. I’ve never flown athletic flags on my car, painted my face in bright colors, or whooped and hollered for my team in inclement weather. This is probably because there is no “my team.” I watch one football game a year out of patriotic duty, and even then I mostly just pay attention to the commercials. So when I started dating a marathon runner, I had no idea how adventurous the world of athletics could be.




In April, I flew up to Boston to watch Jason run the city’s famous marathon. He had already completed the Boston three times and had nothing to prove. However, he’d never had a girl in the stands before, so this race would be something of a novelty. I looked forward to seeing Jason rejoice in his element, and felt determined to be a supportive girlfriend.



For the non-sports fan, watching a marathon is wonderful because you only have to pay attention for the four seconds your man runs by. The tricky part is getting to a certain point on the course before he does. This is where expert driving comes in handy. And unfortunately, I’m no expert.



On marathon morning, Jason met me at the Harvard dorm room I’d spent the night in and led the way to his two racing buddies, Wim and Cal. The four of us piled into Wim’s large Buick Le Sabre and headed to the marathon’s starting line, 26.2 miles away. After missing the off-ramp onto the freeway, it took us nearly an hour to turn around. Boston doesn’t like left turns. Thankfully, we had plenty of margin and arrived at the shuttle site well in time for the race.



After parking the car, we boarded a school bus that took us to the starting line in the town of Hopkinton. I have never seen so many healthy people in my life. Thousands of leggy men and women wore tiny shorts and sat on the grass, walked under huge tents, listened to the open air concert, or stood in long lines for the portapotties. Meanwhile, hundreds of volunteers collected the runners’ bags, handed out racing bibs, and organized tables of Gatorade along the course.



The four of us sat in the warm sunshine until it was time for Jason to line up. As he waded through the river of humanity, Jason kept his eyes on me and mouthed the words, “I love you.” A few minutes later, a gunshot set the river racing toward Boston. I waved Jason off and retraced my steps along the flood of runners back toward the shuttle.



The plan was simple: after seeing Jason cross the starting line, I would return to the car, drive nineteen miles, cheer Jason on when he most needed encouragement, take the subway to the end of the race, and then reunite with the men. But does life ever go according to plan?



After I turned the key, Wim’s car rolled out of its parking space like a groggy tortoise. That’s not normal. I fiddled around for a minute, then sheepishly released the parking brake. Thinking all my problems were solved, I lightly tapped the gas pedal.



That’s when I noticed the flippity-floppity noise. That doesn’t sound good! Jason was getting further and further down the course by the second. If I couldn’t get Wim’s car to work properly, I could miss seeing Jason altogether. Just then I spotted a couple heading to their car. Feeling so stereotypically female, I rolled down my window.



“Excuse me,” I said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but my car’s making a funny noise. Do you have any idea what could be wrong?”



The man took one look at Wim’s car and replied with, “Well, for starters, you have a flat tire.”


Visit me next monday for the conclusion!