I sprinted across Harvard Yard and out into Cambridge. I stayed at the fire until 3 a.m.

I came out as a fire-buff about two years ago, after becoming addicted to the emergency scanners at my place of work.

Unsure of my newly found identity, I took to the Web to see if I could find someone to share my calenture.

And sure enough, I found company.

We're not a desensitized lot of voyeurs, by the way. Many buffs volunteer for the Red Cross, helping families rebuild after they've lost home or hearth.

Most of us are certified in CPR and are ready to lend a hand when needed. Others serve as volunteer firefighters.

For fire-buffs, living around Boston is heaven. We know about the legendary fire captain who could extinguish a five-story blaze with solely the deck gun on his engine.

We regale in details about the BFD's stick work, their heroic rescues of man and animal. Walking down Newbury Street on a cold Friday night, we follow the screams of Ladder 15 and Engine 33 as they investigate smoke from a building on Comm. Ave.

But we wonder at times why our hobby seems to result from human suffering.

Personally, I don't like fire and never have. I don't like to suffer and cry when those around me do. I was never a pyromaniac as a young teenager.

But I was never indifferent to a passing fire truck. My head would follow the Doppler effect, twisting around to see the pulsating lights disappear off to perform acrobatic feats of heroism about which I could only imagine.