I'll be there, as usual, at Rte. 135 in Wellesley, just before the scream tunnel at Wellesley College and a mile before the half-way point, baying at inappropriate moments, scrounging for food and generally making a nuisance of myself. I'm just crazy about the Boston Marathon!
Just as humans love to watch foxhounds leap over fences during a classic hunt, foxhounds love to watch people run. Why? I will explain: they love to be incited to run, and, then, naturally, to beat said humans. Certainly, if hounds were bred to run in a straight line, we'd have captured every marathon record there is out there, by a ton.
Mom, however, will be sitting out the half-marathon she's been training for, having done entirely too much Cross-Fit jumping around with heavy weights and tearing a crucial muscle in her leg. She's been on the IR for weeks, but I haven't given her a break in the walk department. Work through it, Mom, I say.
Because I've had some practice, trying to feel sorry for Mom and all, I'll try to gather up some sympathy for the struggling runners out there tomorrow. I know it's tough for peeps. If their hot, perspiring faces need they need a lick or two to keep themselves going, I'll oblige. A loud bay might also do the trick, propelling them the rest of the 13 miles to Boston. Onward, runners—I'll be watching you!
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