Everything was in place for the ending you are supposed to dream of. Except dreams don’t always come true.
I had turned onto the famed Boylston Street, the roar of the crowd sounded like I was on the 50-yard-line of Mile High Stadium — the original Mile High. The cheers were utterly deafening.
The finish line of the 122nd Boston Marathon was finally in sight. This was it, the place of so much inspiring history — the oldest marathon in the world, the place where women broke gender discrimination barriers, the run that elites consider more prestigious than the Olympics, the hallowed grounds where millions of everyday runners like myself had come for generations to push themselves in pursuit of something better.
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