Monday, 20th April 2009 – Patriots’ Day, But Not a Scoundrel in Sight

I was in New York at the beginning of July 1977, just about half-a-life ago.  The natives were preparing to celebrate 200 years of independence from you-know-who.  A small band of Brit ex-pats met in a First Avenue bar to decide whether to skip across the border to Canada, where the money still had the Queen's head on it, or to go to Washington and show there were no hard feelings by joining in the celebrations.  Naturally, the celebrations won.  In at least one respect, it was a bad decision: from a heat and humidity point-of-view, there can be few less pleasant places than Washington in July.  But we woz there, and we all got the badge, and the T-shirt.

Now here I am, half-a-life later, in Boston, where it all started, celebrating the early victories in what they call the Revolutionary War.  The battles of Concord and Lexington took place just outside Boston, and Massachusetts has a public holiday on the third Monday in April to commemorate the victories.  Once again, I am determined to join in the fun, show there are no hard feelings.

The big event on Monday is the Marathon.  I must say this came as a bit of a surprise to me, because, being a rowing man, I thought the Boston Marathon was a rowing race from Lincoln to Boston in England, a race I once planned to take part in.  But that only started in 1946, whereas this running race started 112 years ago, in 1897.

I decide I should take part.  There is quite a tough qualification requirement, but I am going to overlook that.  Of course, I'm not going to run the whole race: I shall just do the hard bit.  The Boston Marathon is notorious for the Newton Hills, a set of four hills which occur about twenty miles into the race.  In 1936 the current champion, who was in second place, overtook the leader on the last of these hills, and gave him a consoling pat on the back as he did so.  This so upset his opponent that he rallied and retook the lead, going on to win.  The Boston Globe reported this as breaking the retiring champions heart.  Ever since, the fourth hill has been known as 'Heartbreak Hill".  I decide a trip out on the 'D' trolley to share the anguish would be a suitable celebration.  Of course, I didn't run all the way up, a dignified walk was sufficient.  But I did run a little bit of the way.  So I've run up Heartbreak Hill.

There are two kinds of people on Heartbreak Hill today: sadists and masochists.  The sadists are the spectators, and the masochists are the runners.  Some of the masochists, rather touchingly, emblazon their name on their bodies or shirts, thereby encouraging the sadists to personalise the sadistic messages they are shouting.  "come on, Mary-Lou", they shout, "only six miles to go".  One particularly sadistic member of the traffic police has nailed a sign on every tree saying "No Stopping".  I noted one particular lady, of about my age, looking determined to finish if it was the last thing she did, and looking as though it well might be.

Going back to town, this lunatic arrangement whereby the ball game ends at the same time as the race ensures that the trolley takes an hour.  But there are plenty of cheerful people bedecked in their silver blankets and medals to make it all seem worthwhile.

 

Tomorrow, it's "all aboard" the Lake Shore Limited and off to the Windy City.