I like to dream big—and then carry out my dreams.

Last summer, while careening across France in a spiffy TGV, I got the brilliant idea to run this year’s Boston Marathon—thereby obscuring an inglorious high school athletic career and, more importantly, proving to myself once and for all that I can do almost anything if I put my mind to it.

So it was that I found myself plodding my way up Heartbreak Hill last Monday afternoon, my legs aching, my body complaining, my will to carry out my dream of running the Marathon in question.

This is my story.

7:24 a.m. I practically jump out of bed, six minutes before my alarm is set to go off. Big breakfast. Quick shower. Make an unexpected run to the T station to meet Mimi Asnes `02, another marathon runner. We take the Green Line to meet my friend and Crimson editor Robbie Silverman `02 and his dad Sam in Newton Center.

Talking about the marathon, seeing the beautiful weather, I’m really excited. On our way to Hopkinton Mimi mentions a woman who once got a 108-degree fever and brain damage while running a marathon.

I tell Robbie—who, unlike me, is an official runner and fast—not to do the same thing. (The irony, of course, is that Robbie would end up collapsing just before the finish line of dehydration and a 104-degree fever, crawl to the finish line, and be featured on the Channel 5 news that night. He still finished in 3 hours flat.)

10 a.m. We get to Hopkinton and go to pee in the woods for the first time—along with various other runners of both genders.

Runners have no modesty, Robbie says.

On the shuttle bus to the race’s starting point, the guy sitting next to me gets me really pumped about the Marathon, assuaging my fears about Heartbreak Hill and telling me how great it is to have the spectators rooting for you all along the way. I’m raring to go—all of me, that is, except my left calf, which had been bothering me since the day before, is still really tight.

11:30 a.m. After chilling out for a bit, I head toward the bandits’ starting point—and suddenly see a woman’s bare buttocks in all their unobstructed glory!

I quickly turn away, feeling puritanically ashamed. Geez, no one cares about even making an effort to take cover at all.

The next half-hour is spent walking around, drinking lots of water, and participating in some more massive last-minute expeditions.

12:14 p.m. We finally start moving! Awesome!

12:20 p.m. At long last, and to many cheers, the other 6,000 bandits and I cross the starter’s line. The first several miles are wonderful. I’m warm, completely energized by the crowd and the bluegrass music. My calf has loosened up, and I’m running ahead of my pace. (My theoretical goal was to run a four-hour marathon.)

1:08 p.m. I pass Ma Yates, now relegated to my rearview mirror. Goodbye Granny!

1:50 p.m. At 10 miles, I’ve run for 90 minutes—exactly the pace I need to be on.

But my run goes downhill from there. By the halfway point (13.1 miles), I’m still on track for my four-hour finish, having run the first half in two hours flat.

But then my legs stop cooperating.

Pretty soon they’re aching.

The blisters on my feet become more and more noticeable, and each step becomes painful. As I run slower and slower, I come up with a new plan—four hours is long gone. Now I just want to finish.

2:45 p.m. Cheering pretty Wellesley girls spruce up my spirits a little bit, including the one who holds a sign which reads, “Kiss me. I’m a senior.”

Of course, I don’t notice it until I’m past. Gotta keep on going forward.

3:12 p.m. Around Mile 17, I start having my first delirious thoughts—a series of ideas which jump out at me one after the other, almost without time to actually think about each one.

During my short six weeks of training, I found that when I had hours on end to think on my longer runs, I would invariably run out of worthwhile topics and start getting creative.

Now I’m hurting, wondering why I didn’t train on any hills at all—another no-no—and alternately thinking of my roommate’s main motivational tool for me (a hideous evil laugh at my attempt to do this) and the strange characters who keep passing me on the roadway.

3:45 p.m. At some point—I’m not really sure when—Heartbreak Hill begins.

And goes on and on and on.

But I keep pushing, slow as I am.

This is where my roommate said he would meet me, expecting that I would crumple to the ground and that he would give me a good ole kick in the ribs to get me going again. But I don’t see anyone-and, more alone than ever, keep on going.

(Turns out both of my roommates had left just a few minutes before I got there to go to class.)

On Mile 19 I suddenly notice that Mimi has just passed me. I figure I will catch up with my long legs on the final downhill portion of the course.

But I never see her again.

4:15 p.m. Mile 22 was, I think, the worst part of the race.

With only four miles to go, my legs felt both like heavy steel armor and jelly.

Save me, Lord. Save me, Mama. Somebody save me!

4:30 p.m. Then I get delirious again. The end seems so close, and yet I can barely move!

Because I’m wearing a “Life is Good” T-shirt, every so often someone calls out, “Life is good, buddy” or “Life will be a lot better in 3 miles”.

I get the feeling they’re making fun of me. I’d like to see you run a marathon instead of standing there lackadaisacally with that beer in your hand, buddy.

4:40 p.m. Mile 24. I keep drinking fluids, as I have throughout the race, except this time when I’m grabbing some water I suddenly cry out, “Where are my legs?!” A race official tells me to drink more fluids. Then a friend from my camp counselor days recognizes me and tells me to “Keep going, Ned!”

I’m happy. It’s the first time someone’s called out my name since this thing started.

4:51pm: Mile 25. The end is so near, I can almost taste it. I speed up heading into the 25.2-mile sign, then I turn it up a few gears.

This is the last mile I will have to run for as long as I want. Might as well go all-out.

And suddenly, my aches and pains go away. With the crowd ever louder, I run almost effortlessly. I didn’t even come close to four hours, but I’m going to finish-and, it seems, that’s all that really matters.

Two turns left. I make the first, see the final corner a little ways ahead, and run even faster. And then, when I make my move onto the final homestretch and see thousands of people lined up on either side of me and a beautiful blue “Finish” sign off in the distance, I shout with joy and start sprinting to the end.

Is this me? Am I really doing this?

Coming home, I’m more focused than I’ve been throughout the entire race, bolting down the center of Boylston St. with only one thought in the world-I’m almost there.

And then I cross the finish line, 4 hours and 41 minutes after I began. I may not have met my goal, but I survived. I finished. I’d turned another crazy dream into reality.

And I was happy.