Except for one old man who spends the day fishing from a canoe on the reservoir, the entire town of Hopkinton turns out for Race Day. Every able-bodied adult, it seems, directs traffic, cooks at one of the fast-food booths on the town green, or wears an official staff warm-up jacket and speaks into a walkie-talkie.

The residents care about making the race a success. On East Main Street, a woman pushing a stroller tells one of her sons, "Mickey, pick up that roadkill and throw in into the woods. Someone will slip on that squirrel." Mickey hesitates, and she says, "Don't worry, it ain't gonna bite ya."

Heading west, I passed them a few minutes after ten. I had given myself a two-hour head start because I was walking the Marathon and wanted to finish before nightfall.

I watched this race from the sidelines for three years, and I became familiar with the customary pattern of the day. First, there is the waiting, with the sandwiches, the tee-shirt hawkers, and the Red Sox game on the radio. Then you hear the television helicopter and the police sirens, and the wheelchair racers hurtle by on their fierce chariots of pride.

Wearing the colors of their country, or their company sponsor, the front runners do not acknowledge the cheering crowd. Conservative and calculating, they monitor their pace and fluid levels with the detachment of a boilerman checking fuel guages. Clumps of serious runners follow, dedicated amateurs clustered behind a pacer. Then the hump of the bell curve runs by, the anonymous pack one standard deviation from the mean. After that there are no more clumps but, rather, a constant stream, preventing you from crossing the street without careful timing and a quick dash.

Finally, the stragglers. It's their first race, and they will be happy to finish. They wear cut-off sweats and tee-shirts with messages like "Save Energy Sleep Late." Part of the race's attraction is that anyone can participate along with the best in the world. This does not happen in most other sports. You can't play outfield with Roger Clemens on the mound. You can't play point guard for Larry Bird. But if you own a pair of running shoes, you can start at Hopkinton with Ibrahim Hussein.

Last year I realized that I had seen the runners, but not the race. I wanted to know what the runners see and what it is like to go twenty-six miles on foot. So this year I decided to walk it.

I had no desire to run. I get tired walking up four flights of stairs, and running is worse. Running does not enthuse me with an endomorphine high. I get out of breath, become all hot and sweaty, and my knees hurt. I don't see the point. In high school I ran when the crew coach made us. I liked it then. I suppose it compared favorably with the rowing.

I do a lot of walking. I think better with my legs moving, and it is good to get away from Harvard Square. I like the quiet rhythm of covering ground on foot. Over the past four years I have developed a formula. A small problem may take me to the Charles. A medium problem and I will make it to Porter Square. With a real predicament I may end up out in East Boston and have to take the subway back.

For a month, I enjoyed telling friends that I was training for the Marathon and that I hoped to finish in under nine hours. I trained by walking back and forth to classes but didn't give much thought to specifics until I saw a map of the route in the Globe on Saturday. I had planned on taking the subway to wherever the race started, but I learned that even the commuter rail doesn't get out there. There is a shuttle bus that leaves from Copley, but I didn't know that then, and I was trying to calculate what a twenty-five mile cab fare would cost when a friend told me that her father, who was running, would drive me out.

At Hopkinton, I started off joined by a class of schoolchildren that was walking the first half on Monday and the rest on Tuesday. They wore flourescent orange bibs and their teacher shouted out final instructions, "Single file, stay together, don't leave the group."

I was nervous for the first few miles. I wasn't sure if I would be able to finish or how long it might take. I would be embarrassed to quit, but the ride west at sixty miles per hour on the Mass Pike had seemed very, very long. The morning air had contained hints of a March chill, and I had dressed accordingly, but by mile three I had tied my sweater around my waist and was carrying my down coat.

In Ashland, the tall sign at Silton Glass said, "Good luck Eric and 20 Miles To Go." As I walked by, the owner, Frank Tetschner, was taking Eric's name down with a pole twelve feet long. I asked him if Eric had decided not to run, or if they had had a recent falling out. No, Frank said, he had promised another friend, Nona, that he would put her name on the sign and he couldn't fit both names at once. Eric would have to be content with a photograph of the sign with his name on it.

At 11:30 I passed the Official YMCA Water Station at the five-mile mark. The team leader distributed advice and information, "Don't be disappointed if the elite runners don't take a cup from you. They have their own advance people with special solutions. You'll have enough business when the pack comes along, believe me. Those tables look full now buy you'll be surprised how fast those cups go."

The Boston Marathon happens to finish in Boston, but except for the last four miles it has little to do with Boston proper. The route is a journey through commuter country. You spend the first half of the race on Rt 135, which has a string of aliases: East Main Street, Union Street, Waverly Street, West Central Street, East Central Street, and Washington Street.