This post was an April Fool’s joke. Since it’s not April 1 anymore, I need to make that clear so nobody thinks it’s real and hates me.
If you were reading this blog last summer, following me on my quest to qualify for Boston, then I don’t need to tell you how much it meant to me.
It was everything. For months leading up to it, the goal was all I could think about. I had never worked so hard for something in my life, and still there was a huge chance I’d fail.
I have never felt the way I did as I lay in the grass, minutes after crossing the line at the Wineglass Marathon with exactly one minute to spare. Exhausted. Relieved. Validated.
As soon as the results were official, I signed up for Boston, carefully and proudly penciling in my 3:09:59. I was going to enjoy the hell out of that race. It would be my reward for so much dedication and sacrifice. I wasn’t going to try to PR there—my only goal would be to drink in every last bit of the atmosphere, the partying, the cheering, the Wellesley girls on the sidelines. I’d let my adrenaline determine how fast I’d go. I might even drink a beer during it like people in the stories I’ve heard.
And then we found out. It was a blessing and a curse all at once.
Erin was pregnant. The due date: April 19, 2010. The day of my first Boston Marathon.
I did the thing that expectant fathers are supposed to do. I told Erin the baby was the most important thing in my life, that Boston didn’t come close. There’s always next year anyway.
But inside, it was killing me. When the Boston Marathon filled up two months early, it only made it worse. So many hopefuls could no longer get in. Yet I held a golden ticket. A race number.
And here, I couldn’t go. The number, the hotel booking, everything would go to waste. Sure, I’d get my hotel money back. No refunds for the race though. They’d send me a t-shirt and every time I’d look at it, I would only feel worse that I missed my chance.
All because of the baby. The supposed “miracle.”
This week, I made a decision. I’ve never felt so conflicted, but I’m standing by it. I’m going to be in Boston on April 19th. If the baby comes before that, great. If not, so be it. Erin will be fine, and I can’t imagine a better “congratulations on Boston” than coming home to a brand new bundle of joy.
On this first day of April, I’m announcing that decision to the world. I can’t say I’m proud of it, but it’s something I have to do.
They say you should run Boston as soon as you qualify. I’ve heard stories of people who postponed it, saying they’d be there next year, or that they could always qualify again. Then they never make it back, and they regret it their entire life.
If I were to make a mistake like that, I couldn’t live with myself.
If I were to pass up this opportunity, then every time I’d stare into my little April‘s eyes, I’d feel like a complete fool.