When I first decided to run the Boston Marathon--a rather spontaneous decision that came only two weeks before the race--I have to admit it was mainly to emulate one of my childhood heros, George Plympton. Old George would go out and do something extraordinary, then limp back to his typewriter and tell the world how terrifying it all was. I could just envision myself laid up in my hospital bed, dictating the headline of my story: On Her Last Legs--Special to The Crimson, UHS. Looking back on the events of last Monday. I can now laugh at my misgivings. The marathon was, despite the fact that I still hate stairs with a passion, a lot of fun.

It didn't look that way at first, however. The day began ominously as seven of use crammed into a small, yellow Plymouth and drove out to the start in Hopkinton. As we drove farther and farther into the country and still hadn't reached our destination after 40 minutes. I couldn't imagine I'd be doing the reverse of this on foot. Once in Hopkinton, we were engulfed by a sea of runners--thousands of them, many of them wearing plastic leaf bags to keep warm in the bitter wind. A visitor from outer space would have felt right at home.

Shortly before noon the runners lined up for the start, those marked "official" staggered by times, and those marked "unofficial"--at the back of the pack--staggered by the prospect of running 26.2 miles. As the gun sounded, we struggled frantically to remove our uncooperative sweats and wound up as the last runners to cross the starting line--not an auspicious beginning.

Moving up through the crowd of runners, we found our pace as the pack began to thin a little, leaving room for a normal stride. One of the first highlights of the race was a glimpse of Groucho Marx running by in a tailcoat, undershorts, bow tie, glasses and cigar, speeding through the field in characteristic bent-over running style.

The nine-mile mark was a personal triumph for my brother, a sophomore in Lowell House who ran with me the entire way, and me, for it was one mile farther than either of us had ever run before. Only 17.2 miles to go! The crowd responded to our whoops and cheers with more cheers, hand-slapping and orange slices. We would not be so effervescent at the 18-mile mark.

Still spry after ten miles, we cruised into Natick, where the entire town and their second cousins twice-removed had turned out to watch us poor, driven souls run by. To the right of our path in an empty field stood a small, unremarkable paint store with a ten-piece rock-and roll band perched on top. The music was such a boost that the entire pack sped up a full minute per mile, and I kept searching for hidden rock bands along the rest of the route.

At the 12-mile mark, we became aware of a dull roar ahead, louder than the usual crowd noise that stretched uninterrupted from beginning to end. At 13 miles, the halfway point in the race, we were in Wellesley, where we funneled through a mass of screaming students who stood cheering in the rain for hours. After that experience I will never have the heart to make a wisecrack about Wellesley again, although one quick-minded student tried to get my brother's phone number as we ran by.

At the 17-mile mark we encountered the first incline. Heartbreak Hill consists of three separate rises set about a mile apart. And contrary to popular belief, it wasn't the hills themselves that made our hearts sink and our legs cry out in agony, but the knowledge that after the last hill there were still six miles left to go.

I had always imagined "hitting the wall" would be something like getting hit head-on by an oncoming truck. Well, it's not. An almost imperceptible pain begins to grow into an overwhelming, gnawing numbness--an exhaustion beyond words. We both realized that if we stopped, even for a minute, to stretch we'd never start running again. So stopping was out of the question. Just dogged determination, numbness and black thoughts all the way to the seemingly ever-receding Prudential Building.

Crossing the finish line in just under four hours, we fell over onto the lane-dividing ropes, doing our best imitation of the original Greek marathoner at the Athenian finish line. But unlike that ancient hero, we had no message to deliver to the crowd, just a small one to ourselves--"we finished."