More Than Boston

April 21, 2025

Greetings from the naming,

For one hundred and twenty-nine years it has been called the Boston Marathon, but maybe that’s not quite accurate.  It is famous for many things, including being the oldest continuously run marathon in the world, famous for the difficult qualifying standards and challenging course. Famous because it finishes in Boston, a jewel of a city with a rich history to match that of the marathon.  They call it the Boston Marathon, because to name it what it really is would be impossible to put on a T-shirt.

Right now, as I write this, just inside the starting line, there are thirty thousand runners waiting to go.  They are sweating, nervous, laughing, emotions are close to the surface so there may be tears.  Most are gathered in Athlete’s Village, a space that has been cleared behind a school in a town almost thirty miles from Boston. They are eating bagels and playing games and standing in line for the porta-jon.  There are reunions and new friendships made.  People are signing each other’s race numbers, asking “Where did you qualify?”

It is a small village called Hopkinton.  If all the population stayed home today, the runners would outnumber them by fifty percent.  It is a living demonstration of graciousness and patience.  The runners leave in waves, walk in subdued conversations through town, between the little bungalows and along picket fences and past signs asking people not to pee in the yard. And then they line up in a brilliant colorful column of living art and wait for the cannon to release them.

The runners will leave Hopkinton about the time I finish writing this.  They will run through

Ashland, Framingham, Natick, Wellesley, Newton, Brookline and finally into the city of Boston.  Each town has its own personality on marathon day, shows up for the race with its own special passion. 

I have driven through these towns before and didn’t recognize them without the people along the road, holding signs, ringing cowbells, handing out bananas or ice cubes or bacon.  When it’s not marathon day, they become shy and reserved.  It is as if they are in disguise the rest of the year, and only on Patriot’s Day Monday that they become at their best, to be part of something larger than their best.

 The race brings out something in the world around it, something more.  In Old South Church they hold space for all the travelers to come and be a part of their worship in the Blessing of the Athletes, a magical hour that fills hearts with hope and courage. This is the marathon too.

There are half a million people lining the sides of the road that winds from the start to the blue and gold finish line.  They are screaming and cheering and encouraging.  All of those people have names.  There are millions of people watching on TV, including the families of the runners, sitting on the edge of the couch cushion, holding something lucky, willing their loved ones to be strong, to be safe, to run and not be weary. These people are also the marathon. 

There are many other runners who chose to be at the Boston but didn’t make it, and these watch with different eyes.  They feel all of the miles, feel all of the tears and aches and joys and connections, feel the twitch in the legs, the urge to run. They are in the race in every way except one.

This marathon is more than the start, or the finish.  It is more than the ten mile long downhill or the Heartbreak Hill at mile twenty.  It is more than the water stations, the Scream Tunnel at Wellesly, the dip on Commonwealth when you can’t face even one more tiny uphill.

The race is more than the fans coming out of Fenway park to add their voices to the wildness.  It is more the Citgo sign.  It is more than Right on Hereford, Left on Boyleston. It is more than the living roar of the crowd that narrows the pavement leading to the finish line.

It is more than the thirty thousand stories behind every runner who waits to be let onto the course.  It is more than the thousands of miles they trained, or how many attempts to qualify, or the strain on their families and jobs and friendships as they slogged through the effort.  The marathon is more than the injuries, the recoveries, the failures and victories. It is more than strategies and carbo loading and shoes and shorts and music and cadence.

This marathon, with all of its history, its quirks and traditions and victories and tragedies, is more than one place, or one road or one person’s experience or that of thirty thousand.  It is all of that, and all of that again because it becomes more when you put it all together. It is larger than one day or one town or one finish line or one name, or all the names. But when someone asks, even though we want to tell it all, we know you have to experience it to understand. 

And so we call it the Boston Marathon.

Hope this finds you giving it all,

David

Copyright © 2025 David Smith