A Wicked Cool Race

Paul finished his first Boston Marathon with a personal best: 3:07:41. That translates to 7:05 minute miles.

Think about that. Running 7 minute miles for 26.2 miles.

Paul and his brother ran side by side up until the Newton Hills (aka "Heartbreak Hill") section. His brother fell back about a minute. They finished two minutes apart.

I haven't yet talked to Paul, so I'm piecing this together by looking at his online split and finish times.

Right now, I would give about anything to be in Boston, cheering and jumping up and down, my eyes swelling with tears, my heart ready to burst. I'm so proud. I'm so happy.

Paul has not only completed a life dream by running the Boston Marathon, but he ran it faster than any race he has ever done. He started in Hopkinstown, rushed through the screaming coeds at Wellesley, conquered the killer hills without hitting "The Wall," and finished, triumphant in downtown Boston.

How heroic. What's even more heroic about this is that he does not toot his own horn. I'm the one announcing his times to the world and "accidentally" dropping his qualification into everyday conversation.

He's the one that wakes up early, runs an ungodly amount, and then goes home to wipe bottoms, wrestle with his sons, wash the dishes, and listen to his wife whine about her exhaustion. All the while remaining the sole breadwinner for our little tribe.

He inspires me. He challenges me to work for my dreams, and he reminds me that glory is within my reach, if I'm willing to put in the miles.

Congratulations, honey. Now go have a well-deserved ale (or three).