Boston Marathon, Part 3 of Who Knows How Many

There's a reason Brian doesn't want to talk about next marathons, and his experience traversing Boston during two major sporting events on Monday has a lot to do with it. We both knew I'd have the simpler job going into it; after being chauffeured to the Start, all I had to do was run west to east, following whoever was in front of me and accepting water and encouragement from throngs of people.

Brian had to negotiate the throngs of people.

With a hyperactive three-year-old and a mother-in-law who devotes 80% of her brain to knitting patterns. Both of them also like to eat at noon and nap at 1:00, or there's hell to pay. Neither one particularly enjoys overly crowded public transportation.

Uh-oh.

After finally parking at Copley despite city road closures and a Garmin that couldn't understand how the turnpike was not an option, my three intrepid fans hopped the T to Woodland to meet up with the rest of my squad. As noted in Part I of this infinite series of race reports, they were all in place to see me at mile 17. This would be the 20 seconds of fun in their otherwise hellish day.

They waited for an hour to get back on the T at Woodland because apparently, I wasn't the only person with a master plan to see family at mile 17 and the finish line. After finally getting on a train--along with everyone else in the free world--they sat. And sat. By this point, around 1:30 pm, Henry had not yet had lunch and was asking for food and a nap. With all of the people on the train, it was about 95 degrees, and my hot, exhausted, and starving child fell asleep. He slept while the train went nowhere for whatever reason. He slept when they stopped to laugh at the Sox fans who also wanted to get on the train after the game. He slept through lunch with his uncle, cousin, and grandmother at Longwood, when Brian and my dad stayed on the train to get to the finish line.

When Brian and my dad made it to Copley, I was waiting for them. I ran 9 miles faster than they could travel the same distance by train.

Suffice it to say, Brian did the real work on Monday. "Marathon spouses have a hard job," he said yesterday when I asked what kind of exchange we could make to allow me to train for another one.

"How about one night per week when you get to go out by yourself?"

"Nah."

"How about a bottle of good gin a week during training?"

"Nah."

"How about this: the Miami marathon in January. Race starts at 6:15 a.m., so you'd be eating breakfast when I'm halfway done. The finish line is near the Start, and you don't have to race around to see me on the course. It's flat, so I'll be done earlier. And then we have a beach vacation for a few days afterwards."

"I'm listening."

Baby steps, people. Baby steps.