Greg Janicki runs his first Boston marathon.
BOSTON (4/18/05) -- It had all the makings of a middle school field trip: giddy chatter, backpacks, water bottles and hyperactivity. Yet this group wasn't headed to the science museum or summer camp. This group was seated, quite anxiously, at Gate 60 at Metro Airport awaiting NW Flight 372 bound for Boston and the Boston Marathon.

The group included first timers, second timers and those who count their Bostons in years ("I ran 1996, 2000, 2001 and 2003") rather than quantity. I was one of the 14,000 first timers entered in the 2005 race, which made up roughly two-thirds of the 20,000-plus field.

But even as a first timer I had plenty of information to fuel my expectations. Running buddies told me about the first four miles --- a steady downhill your legs will feel 20 miles later; magazines lectured me about going out too fast -- resulting in cramps, pain and general misery midway up Heartbreak Hill; and my wife told me to enjoy the day ... because I may not get another chance.

I trained. I knew my schedule. I was ready.

So I thought. Then I got to Boston.

It was the day before the race, Sunday morning, as I sat in my Boston hotel restaurant eating breakfast alone, that doubt first appeared. He came in the form of the runners I spied on the street below. At first I thought it might be a few locals who weren't running the marathon. Then the numbers multiplied. There was a pack of two more, then four, then six more, all wearing Boston Marathon jackets, Boston Marathon t-shirts or Boston Marathon hats. Hundreds of them. Running.

Did I mention this was the day before the marathon? Did I also mention that I was the only person in the whole restaurant? And also, what seemed like the only person in all Boston (except my waiter) not moving fast?

Panic formed. Did I miss some Boston ritual that requires you to run the day before the marathon (I've never done that)? I wondered if I missed a special day-before ceremonial breakfast. It was now 8 a.m. and the restaurant was still empty, two hours after opening. My slow waiter told me I was the first diner of the day.

I couldn't have missed anything -- I read the marathon welcome brochure so thoroughly my wife thought a test on the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority was part of the qualification requirements. As a nervous twitch moved from my lip to my stomach, I finished my last bite of bagel and left the room. The energy-sapping monster "doubt" was now front and center was exerting too much energy or sitting in my room too jumpy to nap or read, but scanning the Boston brochure one more time to find that breakfast meeting I was certain I missed. Doubt ... doubt. The next morning, race morning, I was relieved to see faces, lots of them, as I entered the restaurant at 6 a.m. And, I was relieved to learn, no street runners. But doubt is a persistent bugger who looks for any opening to twist your thoughts, and he followed along for the next six hours, sometimes pressing his face so close to mine I thought we were one in the same.

The six hours between breakfast and the noon start leaves you lots of time to occupy. But while it may not have been part of the "race," those hours were as much a part of my Boston memory as the 26.2 miles.

Between the last bit of bagel and the starter's gun my Boston experience took root. During those hours I relished the anxious walk from my hotel to a line of friendly-looking yellow school buses creeping up to the runners' loading area at Boston Commons; I savored the support of a woman from Windsor (with a Scottish accent) who volunteered just because her nephew was running; I delighted in the hour bus ride next to a first-time Bostoner from Toronto who loves cross training and his wife (not in that order) because she pushed him to qualify ...

I tolerated the three trips to the porta-john at the athletes' village in Hopkinton; I enjoyed a bag lunch at 10:20 a.m., smoothed Vaseline on my feet and thighs at 11:15 a.m., and settled a brief internal debate on tanktop vs. shirtsleeve at 11:28 a.m. by choosing tank; I sat with my back against the wall of Hopkinton High School talking to a guy from Kalamazoo about his treadmill and wife and two-year-old daughter; I took one more trip to the pine trees behind the porta-john ...

I reveled in a half-mile walk to the start, past kids with lemonade stands and "welcome runners" signs on lawns; I heard the gun for the elite women's start (in the porta-john near the start); I endured a slow, I-think- I-have-to-go-again walk past the starting corrals -- corral one (these guys look fast standing still) and two (wow, there are some pretty fast women in there) and three (that guy qualified that fast? He looks like my Uncle Bud) and four (how far back am I starting?) and five (maybe next year) and finally mine, six (it's in the sun and it's too hot, so I waited in the shade under a beautiful tree on a beautiful street in a beautiful town).

Then, 15 minutes before the start, I squeezed through the gated corral entrance after one last trip to the backyard "nature" porta-john 50 yards from the start.

Now I was ready, with 20,404 others each with 20,404 reasons for being there. The five minutes before the gun felt longer than the 18- month wait to get there. As the gun fired my confidence returned.

Then 2,000 people passed me in the first mile and doubt jumped on my back for the ride. For the next six miles I desperately worked to keep my mind on something other than running and the heat of the 70-degree cloudless day.

Eventually I found a rhythm, drifting between recognizing the moment and ignoring it. There were instances when I realized where I was and took it all in, high-fiving spectators and smiling at the kids passing out oranges. And then there were the stretches when my focus was on merely getting to the next mile marker or the next water stop.

So, yeah, it was like any other marathon -- any other marathon that has five-deep screaming spectators for 26 solid miles with a half-mile stretch through an all-women's college that brings tingles to my arms just thinking about it.

It's like any other marathon that has two terrains: uphill and downhill. It's like any other marathon that has a runner stopping at mile 19, pulling out a camera and asking a spectator to take his picture. It's like any other marathon that has a runner pull out a cell phone at 25 and scream, "I'm almost home!"

Yep, and just like every other marathon there is a "Boston Marathon" banner you spot coming around the final corner, 0.3 miles from the finish, that is so "typical" it brings tears to your eyes.

Yep, it's just another course; just another marathon. And the Declaration of Independence is just another op-ed piece. I crossed the finish line in 3:40:40 -- 10 minutes slower than I had hoped and 24 minutes slower than I had qualified. But it was precisely 26.2 miles from where I started and that's all that really mattered. Doubt vanquished, once again.

Forty minutes later, around 5 p.m., I was sitting in an ice bath. By 6:30 p.m. I was able to stomach soup, salad and a beer. By 8:30 p.m. I was asleep.

By seven the next morning I wanted to do it all again. All of it. I wanted to hold on to the feeling.

As I said goodbye to the last new friends I made on the airport shuttle bus, I didn't want to let go. I smiled as the first-time wife told me she threatened her second-time husband with divorce if he didn't run with her the whole way ... he did. I genuinely listened to the couple from Iowa with two teenage daughters who provided advice on coaching my newbie-runner son. As each stepped off the bus I thought, please, please, let's talk some more about the start, your pace, the hills, my shoes, the crowd.

Terminal E at Boston's Logan Airport lacked the thrill of the Boston- bound flight three days earlier. A few red Boston race shirts and blue Boston 2005 jackets dotted the terminal. I shared a wave with the guy I'm sure was in my corral and gave a consoling smirk to the woman who dropped her boarding pass, stared at it for five seconds before bending with a groan to pick it up.

The flight itself took me even further from the Boston aura. Conversations drifted throughout the noisy cabin; I caught words like "pace" and "sore" but also bits like "The Tigers" and "e-mail." Leaving the plane and shuffling into Detroit's Metro terminal, further still from Boston, was like awakening from a favorite dream. I knew that few of the travelers sitting in the bars and slouching in their chairs recognized the Boston jacket I wore, and fewer still ever did (or could do) what I just did. But rather than feeling proud, I felt, for a moment, lost.

Through the parking garage, on the freeway and up until I clicked the garage door opener on my car visor, I searched for one last glimpse of a familiar face, the Boston blue jacket or red shirt. But it didn't appear. It was over.

In the subsequent days I relived the experience with friends. One friend asked if I would do anything differently and, strangely, my answer had nothing to do with race strategy or training.

I told him I wished I had crossed the finish line with my hands raised (a Boston tradition, apparently) instead of my usual across-the-finish-line pose: hands on watch. The latter pose meant my official Boston finish photo doesn't really capture the moment.

I also said I wished I had written my name in marker on my arm -- the passionate fans along the route looked for it, and while "Go 6832!" or "Go red!" (my tanktop color) was inspirational, who knows, I might have gotten a kiss from one of the screaming Wellesley girls if they would've known my name.

But what most occupied my thoughts the weeks following the race was not the race, at least not just the race. Sure the race was the reason I was there, the reason I trained through a cruel Michigan winter, and the reason I gave up all those other things I could have been doing (though I forget what those are at this moment).

But the race is merely a part of Boston. The event is more than just a 26.2-mile run from Hopkinton to Boston.

It's a plane full of giggling 40-, 50- and 60-year-olds; it's a heartening conversation in the elevator with a single mom from California who qualified for Boston on her first try; it's a four-block line for the pre-race pasta party that seemed like four minutes because I couldn't get the smile off my face; and it's those blue "Boston 2005" jackets that will forever signify a friend.

The 109th Boston will always be my first, but the great thing is that you can always get better with practice. And I already have a black marker ready for my next field trip.

Greg can be reached by e-mail at runrun262@hotmail.com. MR