Ah yes, Boston. The world’s oldest marathon, the ultimate proving ground, and the only race where the most intense drama of the day was my lip balm situation.
Let’s rewind. I left my ChapStick in the car. A rookie slip-up that spiraled into a full-blown emergency by sunrise. The Boston Common was bustling with runners, volunteers, and… not a single open convenience store in sight. Not exactly optimal mission prep for an Iron Force 99 operative.
Then came the bus ride to Hopkinton—also known as “Lauren chaperones a field trip of 3-hour marathoners.” I was the elder on board, surrounded by fresh-legged youth discussing their speed workouts and PR goals like they were ordering Starbucks. Meanwhile, I was wondering if anyone else felt like the chaperone on a field trip to Hopkinton, looking at all these youngins desperately clinging to their hydration strategy and sense of self.
A car accident one mile from the Hopkinton exit had us trapped in a bus standstill. Eric, scheduled to arrive an hour after me, somehow beat me to the start village. I don’t know what hyperdrive he used, but I was jealous of the hunk of junk he rode in on.
And then—the moment of salvation.
I arrived in Hopkinton and made a beeline for the medical tent, where the real MVPs live. I walked in on the verge of lip deterioration, and they handed me lip balm like it was Olympic gold. Instant relief. The tent deserves its own mile marker. Possibly its own float in next year’s parade. Iron Force 99 crisis: neutralized.
Once I finally made it off the bus, the porta-potty lines were next level. I had to channel my inner Usain Bolt just to get in, out, and to my corral without wetting my bib. Honestly, it was a race within a race. Medal-worthy. Mission: barely accomplished.
The start? Wave 2, Corral 7: where the start of the Boston Marathon is so chill you don’t even know it’s started until “START” is suddenly under your feet. A vibe, but not a dramatic one.
First few miles felt great. Saw Kathryn, Kelly, Kathy, and John in Ashland and got a boost of little surge of joy (and endorphins). Then came that Nike sign: “You’ve already run half a half marathon!” Cool. Nothing like corporate math to remind you you’re only 6.55 miles into a 26.2-mile journey.
Missed my Wellesley cheer squad due to MBTA (May Be There, Actually) shenanigans, but made up for it by GoPro-ing the scream tunnel for the first time. Absolute chaos. Kisses flying everywhere. Signs that read “Kiss me, I’m majoring in Drama.” I laughed so hard I think I startled the runners around me.
Around Newton, September by Earth, Wind & Fire blasted through a speaker and I thought the universe was with me, having willed the song for the Guardians ride just a few months ago. Then the hills reminded me that nostalgia is no match for lactic acid. I got humbled hard.
The Boston College Barbies and Kens were out in force, cheering with unmatched enthusiasm. I, of course, forgot to turn on the GoPro. It’s fine. I was too busy trying to keep my legs from filing for emancipation.
Brookline was where I had to dig. Deep. Like, find-your-inner-rebel-and-motivate-yourself-to-fly-into-the-Death Star deep. This was the mission zone where grit meets purpose and your legs stop cooperating around mile 23.
And when I turned onto Hereford, it hit me: time didn’t matter. Pace didn’t matter. What mattered was being there. Being present. Being enough.
Every finish—no matter what time—is enough.
Because Iron Force 99 doesn’t just train for performance. We train for the fight. For the journey. For the moments that remind us why we show up in the first place.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to buy a lifetime supply of lip balm.
