For over two months now I've been in training. Early to bed, early to rise, a lot of orange juice and all the rest. You know.

It wasn't exactly the Boston Marathon I was priming for, but to hell with your Jerome Draytons, your 26-mile-and-then-some jogs, your beef stew. This was far more important.

At first, I thought there was no way. Those initial few workouts were killers--the side-stepping down two flights of stairs into the Winthrop courtyard, past the superintendent's office, and onto Mill Street.

They laughed, they ridiculed, they looked at me as if I had just taken a called third strike in softball. You must be crazy, they said, even to consider this. You must be crazier, they said, to show your legs in public.

But they impaired me not.

By the end of February I had made it to Plympton Street, and as March rolled around, Harvard Pizza seemed but a heartbeat away. Of course, the fact that I would occasionally stop in for a few pepperonis didn't help my training much.

When it came time to make the big push to the intersection of Plympton Street and Mass Ave I considered packing it in, but that would have been too easy. So I took a week off and thought about it instead.

Now St. Patrick's Day was just around the corner, the temperature was leaping daily, and the inspiration returned. (It must have. How else can you explain going to FineArts 13 twice in the same week?)

Once past Mass Ave and into the Yard, there was no sweat. Widener quickly became a blur, and as I'd cut down the path between Sever and Emerson toward the Fogg--which I was in most of the time--I'd wonder why everyone thinks that good weather gives them a license to walk around with half of their clothes.

The Fogg did become a sort of landmark for me, though. It was the halfway mark, the red line, the 50-yard stripe, the seventh-inning stretch. (Three out of four's not bad.)

It was also well into March, though, vacation was getting close, and I had to pick up the pace. So I did.

Twice a week I have an afternoon Government class at 2 Divinity Avenue, and in those last two weeks of March, I missed not a one. This part of the journey--from the Fogg past the GSAS and onto Divinity Ave.--I had affectionately termed Heart Attack Hill. Which is what anyone who saw and knew me got when they spotted my matching tee-shirt, gym shorts and Rene LaCoste sweat socks.

Now I was practically home free, but not quite. It remained for spring vacation--and a few sprints on the Clearwater beach (I had to get that in here)--before I dared venture on the final leg of this arduous journey.

When, last Monday, I finally left Divinity Ave. in the background and reached the Bio labs, I realized, among other things, that I had never before seen most of the people emerging from the laboratories. At least there's one thing in my Harvard career to be proud of. (Just kidding folks.)

Anyway, by Tuesday I had shaken hands with the Bio rhino, and by Wednesday I had seen the parking lot adjacent to Vanserg. If I never see it again it will be too soon.

And now it was last Thursday, and it was the wee hours of the morning. About 9:55.

The night before, which was probably Wednesday, I had decided that tomorrow would be the day. I awoke early--about 9:35--took a quick shower, and was off.

Past Harvard Pizza, across Mass Ave, by the Fogg. Divinity Avenue in a sprint, a good morning kiss for the rhino, through the Vanserg parking lot in a blaze.

And suddenly, there it was, the Center for European Studies.

And even more suddenly, there I was, in my first Gov. 106b section.