Quite by accident, Fladd and Reese have discovered an all purpose excuse. It's simple,
easy to remember and doesn't depend on the fragile framework of logic. If either or both
of them make a huge mistake - even a gigantic, foot-in-the-mouth-up-to-the-knee type of
gaffe, they have learned that they can get themselves off the hook with eleven simple
words:
"You'll have to excuse me, I'm training for the Boston Marathon."
It is astonishing how useful the phrase is. "Oh...was that YOUR sandwich? You'll have to
excuse me, I'm training for the Boston Marathon." "Was that due TODAY? You'll have
to forgive me, I'm training for the Boston Marathon." "Golly! Sorry about your poodle.
You'll have to forgive me..."
It doesn't work in all situations. Fladd in particular, is disappointed that the phrase isn't the
woman-magnet he'd hoped ("Can I buy you a drink? I'm training for the Boston
Marathon." - "REALLY! Ooh, you must be strong. Can I feel your leg?"), but it really is
amazing how effective the phrase is at distracting otherwise irate people from acts of
conspicuous idiocy or incompetence.
Unfortunately, the two soon discover that the "training for the Boston Marathon" excuse
has a short shelf-life. After just a few weeks, it becomes difficult to use without prompting
inconvenient questions in response - "Oh, really! Have you qualified yet?", "When will
you be qualifying?" and eventually, "YOU aren't really running the Boston Marathon, are
you?"
Reese and Fladd eventually decide that it is time to look into this whole business of
qualifying. They had been appalled early on in the process to learn that in order to earn the
privilege of paying $75 for the chance to kill themselves running 26 miles with 12,000
other masochists, they would have to run another marathon first. Not only that, but they
would have to run it quickly - they would have to finish with a time of less than 3 hours, 10
minutes. This is - to say the least - a daunting prospect. Fun is fun after all, but 3:10?
They decide that the time requirement must be more of a guideline than a rule - after all,
they live in New Hampshire, which means that they are Bostonians of a sort.
Kind of.
When it suits them.
The whole time-based qualification thing must apply to non-NewEnglanders, not to locals.
Fladd decides to look into this. He contacts the Boston Athletic Association, the group that
sponsors the marathon and arranges an interview with Jack Fleming, Head Media Guy for
the race. They set up an appointment to talk at the BAA's office in Boston.
Appropriately enough, Fladd ends up running to the interview - he foolishly only allots a
half hour to find a parking space in Boston and is late. The BAA is located several floors
up in a building in the hip part of town (it shares the building with the HardRock Cafe).
Fladd flirts briefly with the idea of taking the stairs - he doesn't want to look like a lazy
elevator-taker, but in the end, decides to take the lift anyway. As it turns out, everyone
who works for the BAA is so absurdly fit that he gets a great workout anyway - holding in
his stomach for the length of a 1 1/2 hour interview.
Fleming is great. He is warm, personable, knowledgeable - but sadly, of no use
whatsoever. Oh sure, he is able to give Fladd all the information he can possibly use - just
not the information he wants to hear.
Fleming goes into the long and distinguished history of the marathon and the history of the
qualifying times. As it turns out, the qualifying time requirement was originally established
to help curb the huge numbers of runners who would otherwise overwhelm the resources
of the race. The Association sets the qualifying time low enough that only a certain number
of runners will be able to enter the race. Over the years, the race has become so
prestigious that it sets the standard for finishing times in marathons all over the world.
Fleming is sympathetic, but emphatic - qualifying times are not negotiable.
"The BAA's philosophy is that setting the standards this high is ok," Fleming says. "If it
takes several years for a runner off the street to qualify, that's what running is all about -
setting nearly impossible standards and pushing yourself as hard as possible. It's important
for people to realize that you can't just do this on a whim. It takes dedication."
Which kind of takes the wind out of Fladd's sails.
Fleming mentions the participants who run to raise money for charity. (Fladd's ears perk
up - this sounds like a loophole.) The BAA gives out about 1,000 places in each marathon
to "charity runners", but only to serious ones. "We want to promote serious running," says
Fleming. "We support charity groups that have their own training program - we want their
runners to be trained and ready for the race. The hope is that those runners will start out
with a 'once in a lifetime' attitude, but develop a real love for the sport as they train and
stay with it." He tells Fladd that all the charity numbers were given out for this year's race
long ago.
Fladd asks about the black market in marathon numbers. He has heard rumors of an
underground auction that takes place every year on the day before the race.
Fleming squashes that idea. "That is almost unheard of - anyone who was caught selling
his number would never be able to compete in ANY marathon again. Why wouldn't a
person want to qualify on his own, anyway?" he asks, sounding genuinely mystified.
Fladd clears his throat nervously and takes one more shot. What about the runners who
just tag along at the end of the race?
Fleming's face darkens. "Oh," he snarls. "Them."
The technical term for Them is "Unqualified Non Official". Race officials call them
"bandits" or "turkeys". "People think that bandit status is more or less an unofficial
qualification," Fleming says. "They don't have any idea of the contempt that serious
runners have for the bandits. Each year, there are 2,000-2,500 turkeys in the marathon.
My feelings are mixed at best. The bottom line is, they're unofficial. They don't have
numbers. They haven't earned the right to be there. They take space and resources from
the athletes who have. If runners are shoppers, the bandits are shoplifters. We don't have
them arrested or anything - though technically, we could - but we don't like to encourage
them."
That answers that.
Fladd thanks Fleming for his time, then slinks out of the BAA offices. He sighs, lets out his
stomach and goes out for Indian food in Cambridge before driving back to give Reese the
bad news.
Reese is disapointed but philisophical. "Well," he says, "I guess we'll have to do it the hard
way."
They do some research and discover that their best shot is probably to qualify at the Las
Vegas Marathon. Reese likes it because the weather is generally good for the race and the
course drops about a thousand feet in elevation overall. Times are generally better than
average. Fladd likes Las Vegas for motivational reasons - runners start the race in the
middle of nowhere in the desert and run for 26 miles toward the showgirls. His theory is
that with any luck, race officials will put a few of the chorus girls on the back of a flatbed
truck with trays of cocktails to taunt the runners into better race times.
Unfortunately, Las Vegas falls through. Neither Fladd nor Reese is in proper condition in
time for the race. In addition, financial considerations make the whole enterprise dubious
at best. The two runners don't have a lot of confidence in their ability to influence airline
officials with their "I'm training for the Boston Marathon" line.
"What about the lottery?" several people ask. "Everyone knows there's a lottery for
marathon numbers!"
"There is NO lottery!" says a now impatient Fleming, when reached on the telephone.
"We had a lottery a few years ago for the 100th anniversary of the Marathon, but it was a
one-time thing! There is NO lottery!" He hangs up.
The training goes on.
A week later, Fladd has an interesting conversation with a woman named Denald Hinekle
McCarthy, who will be running in this year's marathon. "Where did you qualify?" he asks
her. (He's learned the code by now.)
"Well, actually I didn't," she says. "I ran in the DeMar marathon in Keene last fall, but
my time wasn't great - about 4:12. The BAA let a friend of mine trade his number to me.
He won it in the lottery."
Aargh! Fladd's mood could best be described at this point as "pissy".
"The marathon people were great," McCarthy says. "I'm running for the Neurology
Department of Brigham and Women's Hospital. I'm representing my friend Christopher
Rich. He's had 5 brain surgeries since last summer to treat over a dozen aneurysms. Each
time he undergoes surgery, he has to learn to walk all over again - he has to establish new
neural pathways. His LIFE is a marathon!"
Fladd congratulates her and wishes her luck. He feels abashed, but it has to be admitted
that he wonders about the possibility of wrapping Reese's head in bandages in a last-ditch
effort to get a number.
"We're going to have to do it the hard way," says Reese.
"You said that before," says Fladd, as he laces up his shoes, ignoring the persistent,
nagging pain he's been feeling lately in his right heel.
"I was hoping it would sound better this time," says Reese.
