Boston Pie in the Sky (Part 2 of 2)

“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.”



A flat tire? Great. How would I make it to mile nineteen in time to see Jason? How would I even make it out of the parking lot? Thankfully, Wim had a spare tire in the trunk and the gentleman happened to be a mechanic by trade (not just by gender). He graciously volunteered to put the donut on for me.



“Now, just don’t drive over fifty-five and you’ll be fine,” he said, rising to his feet.



I thanked the man and headed for the highway. The tire change had cost me some time, but I decided to play it safe and drive slowly. If the spare exploded, I’d have to walk to Boston. And carry three spent men back to the car.



I drove about twenty miles, picked an exit, and tried to find the racecourse. After getting directions at a Laundromat and navigating through car-logged residential streets, I found a parking space and checked my cell phone to estimate Jason’s running time.



Jason had told me, to my amazement, that modern marathon runners wear computer chips on their shoes to track their progress. He’d also arranged for my cell phone to receive text messages informing me of his pace as he passed certain mile markers. My cell phone now showed that he’d passed mile fifteen running a six minute, twenty second pace…about half and hour earlier. I tried doing the math in my head. If he’d maintained that pace through mile nineteen, then I’d already missed him.



Now I was running. I found a suitable spot within the narrow crowd of people lining the racecourse and clapped half-heartedly for passing sweaty strangers. I didn’t see Jason anywhere. Although I knew he’d still love me regardless of my athletic attendance, I’d come to Boston to cheer him on - not carry him home.



I waited a few anxious minutes without seeing Jason, then trudged into a nearby bakery to get directions to the subway. I felt like a loser girlfriend. But maybe I could catch him at the finish line. Blinking back tears, I explained my situation to the cashier inside and scribbled her directions onto a napkin. Interestingly enough, her instructions told me to cross the actual racecourse.



I jogged a hundred yards or so along the throng of people and looked both ways before crossing the road. Once the closest runners passed by, I dashed to the other side of the street. As I reached it, I heard a familiar shout.



“Kate!” Jason yelled as his feet pounded the pavement. I spun around, astounded. Jason had no idea why I’d crossed the course, but he gave me a hug, told me he loved me, and sprinted away. Had I been a mere fifteen seconds earlier, we never would have seen each other.



My eyes and shirt were both damp from Jason’s embrace. I was filled with wonder at God’s sense of timing, and could not have felt happier even if Jason had won the Boston.