The "boom" of the cannon went off at 7:45 am on a chilly 38-degree morning in Portland, Maine, October 5, 2003. I was worried whether I should be wearing running pants or long sleeves or even double shirts. I decided to wear all three. This marathon was just going to be a "long run" for my Marine Corps Marathon race coming up in three weeks. It really didn't matter what I wore, I guess. Let's just go out a steady pace, I thought to myself, and finish somewhere as I would if it was a long run around Indian Lake.

But something about this day seemed a little different. I couldn't tell what it was at first...was it the clear blue sky after torrential rain the day before? Was it running with my friends who only doing the half-marathon? Was it the cool autumn air which seemed so unusual since my last 20-plus mile long run only two weeks earlier, when humidity had been at tropical pitch? Was it the fact I was even worried about how many layers I was wearing after being in a tank top two days earlier? I didn't really know...but I would soon find out.

As I jogged along during mile one, I recalled why I was here. I had been attracted to "long run" marathons as a training tool for some time. It's fun to break up the boredom of solo training, get race experience, and more importantly, have some water stops along the way. It gets old running in and out of Honey Farms with sweaty one-dollar bills all the time. I was happy with my decision as I watched the remnants of a sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean giving light to a peaceful Portland harbor. We landlocked runners can find another world when we run run near the ocean.

Somewhere around mile 4 or 5, I selttled into a comfortable 9:00-9:15 pace. No speedy Gonazales here...just a runner who has a passion for raising money by running marathons. You know the type...the ones who get critized for not being "real runners" because we get a chance to participate in the "Big Dance" and run the Boston Marathon. One of these days, I thought, I would dispel that myth.

At mile 5, I looked over the heads of the runners and wished I had a camera as the sky opened up into an array of blue, gold, green, and yes, a bit of silver. I though about the recent article I read by CMS member Barbara McManus. When I first joined CMS in March of 2002, I worried how a casual runner like me could get the benefits of a racing group like CMS. Growing up in Worcester before CMS was even founded, my memories of the early CMS days were filled with elite racers who always won every road race held in the area. I remember driving by the CMS headquarters on Lake Qunsigamond with curiosity, respect, and, I must admit, a little fear. Maybe one of these days, I felt, I would sign up.

The "one of these days" finally occured in March 2002 as I was training for the 2002 Boston Marathon for my favorite charity, Brendan's Buddies. I was searching for competent motivation. Only four months earlier, in the fall of 2001, I ran my first marathon in Mystic, Connecticut in 5:11:13. At the urging - or shall I say warning - of the now late and great Mrs. Johnny (the Younger) Kelley, who ran a small footware store in Mystic, Connecticut, I needed to "get a little lighter and try some real running shoes" if I was going to run a marathon. Her kind words motivated me to my first marathon finish a few weeks later.

Now, two years later, some of the same words from new CMS friends I have met, combined with inspirational stories written by CMS members like Kevin Beck, Kevin Fallon, and, most recently, Barbara McManus, have pushed my horizon toward goals I never dreamed when I first started this marathon odyssey. I continued to be motivated by raising money, but I wondered if I could ever run the next hurdle of marathons...the sub 4-hour finish.

But goals like that are better left for races, I figured. It was time to say goodbye to my half-marathon friends as they hit the turnaround at mile 7. I was touched by Barbara's story of how important her relationship was to her grandmother. It's funny how motivation comes from places we never expect. My friends said goodbye with the parting words, "keep the pace."

I was starting to hit the hills when my own motvation started to fill my mind. My "Mount Marathon" began with a quest to break four hours and raise $100,000 for Brendan's Buddies in the process. Sometimes these goals do not go hand-in-hand, as one can imagine. Give and take and give and take until finally it all comes together. Yes, fund-raisers can be "real runners." There is something about the sub-4 level which garners some crazy kind of decal you can add after you finish your first marathon.

I was alone now at miles 8-10 except for some unknown-to-me fellow runners. It's funny how the crowd thins at the half-marathon points during these combined races. If you want to feel alone, this is the time, even though you are surrounded by people whose names are just numbers pinned to some clothes. I remembered last winter, when my half-marathon friends and I gave the NICU at the U-MASS Memorial Health Center our first check for $50,000 after running the 2002 Boston, Chicago and New York Marathons.

What would 2003 bring, I wondered. The 2003 season so far has raised about $25,000 after the running of the 2003 Bermuda and Boston Marathons. We (my wife June, a number of NICU nurses, and numerous friends) were planning to raise even more funds the week after Maine at the Tufts 10k. Our first goal of $100,000 was in sight. My times were improving, but stuck somewhere between 4:10 and 4:20 after eight marathons.

This all changed at mile 13.1 in Maine.

Being bothered by my earlier decision to wear all these layers, I stopped at the 13.1-mile marker and decided to shed my stretch pants. A difficult decision. Not because of the $29.00 replacement cost, but because in some weird way, I'd grown attached to them after 1,000 miles or so of training. I checked my watch and saw I had posted a 1:55 half marathon split. Too fast, I thought at first, but as I retied my shoelaces, over 100 runners passed me. It took nearly two and half minutes to discard the pants. Talk about a pair that just didn't want to leave!

My nerves were a bit rattled so I relied upon some good old experience and downed an orange GU pack, hoping to restore my anxiety level. I wanted to catch the pace group I'd found somewhere around mile 9. I kept telling myself to keep my strides short, keep my arms steady, make simple wins by passing each runner. I recognized a runner I passed earlier at mile 7. If I can catch this one, I thought, then I might be able to find that easy-pace group I remembered.

I caught and passed different groups of runners. And just as I'd felt some difference in this marathon at the beginning, I felt it as again each runner said "good stride...go." Never once did I hear a grunt or a moan as I passed a runner. Friendly is an understatement. Each passed runner pushed me. I kept my eyes ahead trying to find more recognizable clothing.

I missed the mile 14 and 15 markers. I had no idea what my splits were. I collected my statistics at mile 17 and was surprised to see a 7:55 mile split. Naw, I thought, I probably missed the earlier marker. I now had my sights on the group for which I'd been searching. I caught them, said hello again, but never stopped. My feet would not let me. They threw some well-wishes toward me and off I went, passing more runners.

At mile 19 I knew I had only the distance of the Falmouth Road Race to go. I recalled my 8:00-8:15 mile splits for that race only two months ago. I thought, I'll keep pushing just like Falmouth, only without the unforgiving 92 degree weather. Well-wishers along the route kept yelling "go 623!" I had no idea that was my number. How many races do we run and never really look at our numbers? I was amused by the "623" chants but I was even more amused with my sub-8:00 minute splits at mile 20, 21, and 22.

The day was different. At mile 22 I was surprised to see a handsome Monarch butterfly perched on the curb near where my foot landed. How strange, I thought, to see such a summertime creature on a cold autumn morning near the ocean. Then I remembered that the Monarch reminds my mother of my late brother, who died six years ago. I looked up and smiled.

Walls do come and walls might not go. I wondered why I didn't feel my normal wall at 18-19 miles. Even marathons without "heartbreak hills" start to open their jaws at mile 18 and swallow unsuspecting runners. Maybe it was the back-to-back pasta dinners, or maybe it was something else. No matter - the asphalt monster picked its teeth up at mile 24. Too bad, I thought...everything had been flying so well. Cheering crowds were yelling "only two more miles!" but try telling that to a wall-climber.

Grab another orange GU and back off to 8:30, I thought. This seemed reasonable at the time. The runners had spread out to every 45 seconds or so . Passing anyone else was not in the cards. But I had gone nearly 11 miles without anyone passing me. It's funny where the motivation comes from. I wished I had the bike rider speaking French to me like Barbara McManus had had in Quebec. Heck, I wished I was in Quebec...anywhere but on the wall.

Mile 25 came without incident at an 8:30 split. Like quicksand, the wall was grabbing at my legs trying to pull me back into its black abyss. The course backtracked over many of the initial miles I had enjoyed during a sunrise that had occured only a few hours earlier. I didn't much mind now that I did not have a camera. The course formed a half-moon shape around the bay. I could not find the finish line. I worried I was like Tergat in Berlin and had missed a route marker. Another missed chance to break four hours. Because of the 45-second distance between me and the runner ahead, I lost my visual fix. Where was I? As in one of those bad dreams, the finish line kept getting farther and farther away.

I looked at my watch and only 5 minutes had elapsed since mile 25. OK, settle down, I thought, the 26-mile marker should come up soon. I searched aimlessly and only found runners who already finished doing their warm-downs. Doesn't that just get your goat, I thought. Asking for directions was out of the question, especially for a guy. I'll just keep trusting my nose to find the finish line.

Like a rainbow over Oz, I saw the mile 26 marker just off to my right at an 8:49 split. Now where was the last .2? Such a small race had no throngs of thousands yelling like crazy. I soon saw the 13-mile market for the corresponding half-marathon. Now where? If I don't see the finish line soon, I thought, the chip mat will have to fall on my head from some light pole.

A quick right turn solved my problem and the sea of roadway opened up into a colorful display of finish line grandeur. So many balloons, electronic lights, and hundreds of people yelling "go 623!" That's when I realized about a whole minute had elapsed since the runner before me crossed the finish line. This crowd had only one runner to cheer on - number 623. When the race official patted me on the back moments before crossing the chip mat he yelled, "good job, 623."

Hey, 623 was me and 623 just ran a 3:45:15 marathon!

Thanks CMS...I'm glad I joined.