SLOGGING AWAY

I grew up with the impression that marathons were a spectator sport. The Boston Marathon ran by my doorstep, one of the three-family brownstones on Beacon Street, at approximately the 22.5-mile mark.

For the old-timers of the neighborhood, “Marathon Monday” was the day to set up a beach chair and chat with neighbors. For us kids, it was a day off from school – the start of April vacation, and a chance to spend the long afternoon outside.

We counted ourselves lucky if we caught the moment the elite runners, all muscle and grace, flew by. It was like spotting a shooting star – a thrill and then gone. But for us, the real marathon – the marathon worth watching – didn’t come by until later, long after the elites were at the finish line, the photo of.