Dear Boston Marathon,

I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.

When we first met, I was just 31, naïve and impressionable. I knew you were a Very Big Deal. That was the attraction—you were aloof, elite, hard to reach. People had to qualify for your attentions.

Your exclusivity seduced me—as if running from Hopkinton to Copley Square conferred some kind of serious “real runner” status.

We did have our fun. Remember when then-husband and I went to a Red Sox game with our husband-wife best running friends? And that time another friend and I drank red wine with linguini at a Back Bay restaurant and sipped limoncello at the bar the night before the marathon? And still broke 4 hours? Those were the good old days.

Blowing kisses to the 2014 Boston crowd

And yes, I did benefit from your reflected glory, even when I felt like a Serious Runner Imposter. During my Runner’s World years, I sat with colleagues on a Boston pre-marathon panel to answer race-day questions, though attendees understandably were more interested in hearing from 1968 winner Amby Burfoot and “Mayor of Running” Bart Yasso than me. Sure, I had run the race a few times, but I never qualified with more than a minute or so to spare. 

Bart introduced folks who’d run Boston consecutively for 15, 20, 25, even 30 years: the Streakers. 

“Haha, I qualified with just a minute to spare,” I said. “They may be the Streakers, but I am a Squeaker!” Haha! [crickets]

I got the last laugh, though, because “The Life of a BQ Squeaker” was possibly my most favorite article I ever wrote and definitely the most genius photographs (with apologies to Dimity, who thought the mice … posed … for the photos. I am sorry). 

The legendary squeaker mouse

I even caught the attention of then Washington Post, now New York Times columnist and podcast host Ezra Klein, which is a big deal in my small world, who noted my calling Boston “the holy grail accomplishment, the one that marks a runner as ‘serious.’ ”  

Of course, dear Boston, we can’t talk about our history without mentioning that terrible year. I was running on Boylston on April 15, 2103, focused on getting to the finish line and the airport to go home to my then 8-year-old when I heard a boom and saw smoke rising in the distance, then a second, louder, closer boom and flames. (I was not hurt, thank God.)

And the flip side, which was the resilient #BostonStrong 2014, when Meb Keflezighi became the first American man to win in 30 years, and spectators not only thronged the entire race course but cheered runners walking through the Prudential Center wearing finisher medals and wrapped in silver Heatsheets. Sniff!

But here’s the thing, Boston Marathon: We’ve both grown and changed from when we first met in 1993. You are even more popular—22,000 runners will run this year versus the 9,000-ish back then. More women now, yay! Just 20 percent then; 42 percent now. You are so much harder to get into: 33,000 runners attempted to register for the 2024 race, the highest number in registration history, and entrants had to run nearly 5 and a half minutes faster than their qualifying time to get in. Five and a half minutes faster? Um, haha.

And if we’re honest, Boston, I never really loved you all that much anyway. You are too hard. All those downhills in the first 16 miles, followed by dispiriting uphill climbs to the finish. Ugh. Your weather is unpredictable—90 degrees one year, nor’easter the next. And, apologies, but it turns out actual real serious runners take you more seriously than I can.

So I’m sorry; it’s not me, it’s you. 

I know lots of people revere you, and that’s wonderful—it’s their turn, and I wish them all good times on race day.

Looking back on our relationship with fondness and no regrets,

xoxo

Tish