![]() I smile now and I think of that special time and the running community that existed and thrived then. The debutante young runner full of piss and vinegar went down in flames and drowned his sorrow in cola, champagne and beer. “Hodgie you okay?” “Fishman, I need a Coke a Cola brother but first I got to rest a bit I am wambled.” Someone screaming as they have a horrible blister lanced and the blood flows freely ya musta got lost, musta got shot it’s a freaking war zone in here. In all the hubbledebub I lay on a cot in a parking garage smelling oil and vomit drinking some foul warmish water and trying to gather enough strength to get up and head outside where a friend was awaiting me. Take me back take me way, way, back to Hereford Street and the babes go wild I’m all sunburned and rejected, dejected and dissected. ![]() And that was then and this is now you never dreamed or ever thought how could you, why would you, you got here and now when the marathon started at the famed Hayden Row Street in Hopkinton Ma and hooked a quick right to Beantown. So, running gave the life meaning and Boston and its marathon gave the running purpose. ![]() “The small group ran in harmony left foot right foot synchronicity upper bodies relaxed flow and temperature cool enough to see your breath in April the day appeared sunny and warm with Spring having sprung one individual among them calling out the names or better the nicknames of the favorite foreign runners coming to town that would add the flavor to the stew and the pace is quickening.” ![]()
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