As a native Masshole, I’ve always known that the third Monday of April brings a state holiday—not the start of school vacation, not Patriots’ Day, but Marathon Monday. I’ve grown up watching the race from both near (the streets of Boston) and far (my television). I know my Heartbreak Hill from my Hopkinton (which, by the way, is a mere four miles from my front door). But after 21 years of watching the marathon, this year, I finally ran (part of) it.

Now, before you get too excited, I did not complete all 26.2 miles of the Boston Marathon yesterday. I somewhat illegally ran a mile and a half with my blockmate Kellie, who was running (the whole) marathon for the second time.

For those of you who have never been to the Boston Marathon, do yourselves a favor and go. Run it, watch it, bring some food and drink and make a day of it, because this is my city at its finest. Thousands of people make the journey from Hopkinton to Copley Square—many to raise money and awareness for charities—and thousands more line the streets, handing out free baked goods and cheering on the runners who have written their names across their singlets.

I hopped onto the race course outside BC just after Heartbreak Hill. Though some runners were understandably fading, others ran past with huge smiles, encouraging the crowd to pump up the volume and proudly displaying their ridiculous costumes (the best one I saw was a rubber ducky, but shout out here to Burgerman). The most entertaining runner of the day was a Korean man who ran alongside the road giving high fives, then stopped abruptly, turned to the girls standing next to me, pulled a camera out of his fanny pack, and asked the girls to take a photo with him. Only in Boston.

As I ran alongside my blockmate, I found myself overwhelmed by the number of people cheering her name, encouraging her to keep up her pace, and congratulating her on her accomplishment. Before today, I hadn’t quite appreciated why she chose to repeat the feat this year after swearing in the days post-marathon last spring that she would never do it again. Now I understand.

I dropped out at Mile 23 and let Kellie finish her amazing race alone—which she did in style, clocking in just under four hours and raising almost $3,500 for liver research.

Did my brief marathon experience inspire me to run Boston in its entirety next year? Perhaps. But at the very least, you can bet I will be skipping class again to go celebrate with my city on my favorite Monday of the year.