117 BOSTON MARATHONS...AND GETTING BETTER!

One tends to move slowly after a marathon, and the crimson, watermark stains on my racing shoes, symbols of blisters gone bad, encouraged me to urge my wife to, rather than travel the extra block to Boyleston Street, take a shortcut into the Lord and Taylor mall, where we could grab some lunch and a cold beverage.

Two very gracious women at a jewelry kiosk pointed us in the direction of the Atlantic Seafood Company. We found a table, I ordered an adult milkshake, otherwise known as a Guinness, and a pleasant waitress brought us our menus. After two delicious sips, my wife decided to take a picture of the foam-laced drink, which I asked her to caption, "A great day in Boston." It was electronically sent to Facebook and Twitter.

The waitress returned to take our orders, when the sound, like a muffled cannon, shook the building. "Was that thunder?" The young lady asked. "No, it's clear outside," I responded.

Hell had visited the world's oldest marathon.

The tragedy, carnage, and sorrow was unspeakable, but runners and those who support us have bonded together in an unprecedented manner since the tragedy of April 15. Physical and mental scars will remain for a long time, but the Boston Marathon will rebound, because the runners, spectators, and all associated with this iconic event will not allow a cowardly act of terrorism to spoil many future "great days" in Boston.

On Saturday, we hopped on the Green Line in Needham and headed to the Hynes Convention Center. The Expo was elbow-to-elbow, more crowded than I can remember in all of my previous fifteen Boston appearances.

Competitors were issued a "Runner's Passport," attached to a lanyard, which hung from the neck. This small amenity identified each runner, and did, indeed, serve as a 'passport,' which entitled all participants to VIP treatment from just about every resident of Beantown.

At Tia's, on the waterfront, we dined on sumptuous two-pound lobsters, and proceed to  Boston's second oldest tavern, in Faneuil Hall, before going back to our hotel in Needham.

Sunday was cool and breezy, while Marathon Monday's forecast was shaping up to be near-perfect: Temperatures in the 50s, sunny, little wind. We took many finish line pictures, including a picture near the finish line of the flags of other nations. We then met up with friends, Mike Carriglitto, Kathleen and Samantha Snukis, at McGreevy's, America's oldest sports bar, on Boyleston Street. Kathleen would go on to post a personal best time of 3:45 on Monday. More importantly, however, was, after frantically texting them late on Monday afternoon, they assured us they were safe.

After a terrific pasta dinner in the North End on Sunday evening, we turned in early in preparation of tomorrow's race.

For the first time in all of my Boston appearances, my wife drove me to the athletes' village at Hopkinton, avoiding the long bus lines. It was so deserted upon my arrival, I christened a brand new port-o-potty, found a sunny spot along the wall of the Hopkinton Middle School, and listened to music until it was time to go to the start.

The thrill of the Boston Marathon never diminishes. The crowds seemed to be larger and louder than ever. I don't think there was ever more than a 100-yard stretch in which one COULDN'T score a hand slap.

It was a rare day in which the weather conditions were pleasant for runners and spectators alike. In some areas, folks knew my name, calling out, "Go Joe," but for most of the race, my Oregon Track Club singlet invoked cheers of "GO OR-E-GONE!"

At Boston College, where the crowds were particularly rowdy, despite a pair of sore post-Heartbreak Hill legs, I pumped  my fist and screamed, "Go Jesuits," referring to the Catholic Order of priests who teach at the school, as well as the Order of the new Pope. My unique invocation drew raucous cheers.

Commonwealth Avenue was a sea of humanity, and as I loped down Boyleston Street toward the finish line, I was unable to find my wife, but was able to kiss my biceps to the roar of the crowd.

In true Boston Marathon style, a race official seated in a chair, high above the finished line, greeted us with, "Welcome to Boston. What took you so long?"

Through the long gauntlet toward the baggage busses, volunteers continued the hospitality runners experienced throughout the weekend. Medals, space blankets, food and drinks were distributed to the conquering heroes with reverence.

I met my wife under the "M" sign. She congratulated me on my time of 3:04:13.

We went for lunch.

The rest is history.

Go runners!

Go Boston!