In mid-August, my pal, Sam, and I raced the T—our fourth race against the puttering B-Line and fifth race total. It was the single hottest day of the summer and heinously humid when we took off late morning. The sidewalks were packed with incoming college students, Red Sox game-day traffic, and the usual Sunday brunch-goers. But, we had a race to run. And we had cheering old ladies to impress. So we ran. (Not all heroes wear capes.)
When we finished the (miserable) 4.1 miles, we were deliriously out of it. We celebrated (chest-bumped and shouted incoherently until Sam threw up his sprinkled donut all over the sidewalk). Then, like always, we waited for the train to loop back from Park Street, so we could (trash) talk with the same driver on the return trip to Boston College.
The driver couldn’t believe it (I was going 25 the whole time, and I didn’t even wait for slow pokes to get on the train. And you fools still beat me!). While we were chatting with the driver, a guy sitting nearby started perking up. The curious fella couldn’t contain himself.
“So you guys just, like, race the T? For fun?”
“And you manage to win?”
“This is a hoot. Could I write about you guys? I write for the Globe.”
My favorite American story: we lived where nothing was happening, and we made something happen ourselves. — Austin Kleon
Finishing that 5K was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I ate more Fettuccini Alfredo and drank less water than I have in my entire life. People always talk about triumphs of the human spirit. Well, today, I had a triumph of the human body. That’s why everybody was applauding for me at the end, my guts and my heart. And while I eventually puked my guts out, I never puked my heart out. I’m very, very proud of that. — Michael Scott