Riley McLincha, the 53-year-old "Wizard of Clio," is famed for, among other things, his "drubbling": dribbling three basketballs, sort of like juggling, while running races.

BOSTON (4/11/04) -- It's as close to death as I want to get. So I guess I'll call this year's Boston Marathon, held in temperatures nearing 90 degrees, my near-death experience.

Everyone complained about the heat. But that didn't bother me as I pondered the hell I was going to go through.

Ten days before the race, everything was fine. I had plans of breaking five hours, something I'd never done in my four prior marathons drubbling. In the mail I had received a hydration unit I'd use in Boston. I strapped it on my back and grabbed three basketballs to see how it would work.

After eight miles, I proclaimed it had passed the test ... but I decided to do a couple more miles anyway. That, I will remember as one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

With a quarter mile to go, a ball got away from me. I stumbled going after it, crashed to the ground, and the force of my body landing rammed my elbow into my chest. "There goes the Boston Marathon," I thought. I managed to get back to my car and began to think I might be OK.

My own diagnosis turned out to be a bad one. My doctor showed me the x-ray: at least one rib broken, maybe more. Being a Boston Marathoner himself, he said, "You might be able to run Boston in a lot of pain; I see no way you can do it dribbling three basketballs."

We looked at a clock; it was noon, exactly one week from the start of the marathon. "It won't hurt as much then as it does right now" was the best prognosis he could give me.

A week later, I was wandering around in Hopkinton as the race started. It would be more than 20 minutes before the crowd of some 20,000 starters cleared out enough for me to begin with b-balls.

People were asking why I would do such I thing. I'll admit it was stupid ... even without basketballs, it was stupid. Only people who have worked on a goal this long can understand not giving up. Three miles into the race, my back was aching like it usually does at 20 miles.

Five years ago, I'd set out on a quest to drubble the Boston Marathon. First I had to qualify, and injuries had been obstacles. After failing in three marathons, I finally qualified at Traverse City in May 2003.

Now I was 10 miles into the Boston Marathon and my hydration system was nearly empty. I got thinking, "That's why my back is aching," so I abandoned it.

I first started drubbling marathons seven years earlier to raise funds for cancer research. The same year, I lost a dear friend to colon cancer. He had taught me the importance of goals and sticking to them.

Now with more than a half-marathon in front of me, I was about to give up on one. There was no way I could double the distance I'd just come ... not in this heat, and with back pain extending from my fractures. I began walking and carrying the balls, something I never wanted to do.

At this point the spectators took over. I was wearing a shirt that said "The Drubbler," but most people read it as "The Dribbler." They would yell, "Dribble the balls," so I'd appease them for a hundred yards until they were out of sight and my body could take it no more.

I'd recover a little, then repeat my act, because people would not leave me alone ... they wanted to see me do something with the basketballs. Every time I would respond, they would cheer and comment about how cool it was. "That's unf**king believable!" one guy said.

I was in survival mode for the last half of the marathon: respond to spectators' pleas, then carry the balls again. There is never a lack of spectators at Boston, so I did this all the way to the finish.

Finally, Boylston Street ... I made the turn and stopped. I could see the finish line less than a half-mile away.

I psyched myself up to drubble to the finish line. This is the spotlight every runner savors: thousands of spectators, and everyone thinks the cheering is for them alone. This may be true if you're the first finisher ... or wearing a Superman costume, or dressed as a nun or the Blues Brothers ... or if you are an insane person dribbling three basketballs.

This marathon didn't turn out the way I'd envisioned it. The pain was worse than ever heading down the last stretch, but the crowd was cheering and I responded. Even people who saw it on TV told me how fresh and determined I looked after 26 miles.

They couldn't see the tears in my eyes. My emotions were flip-flopping every three seconds. No one was happier to cross the line that day than me ... the years of trying to qualify, all the work raising thousands of dollars for cancer research, and then the setbacks.

I threw up immediately after finishing, then my calves cramped so badly I laid down in the middle of Boylston. Nurses and EMTs worked on my muscles, then put me in a wheelchair. After being pushed 100 yards, I pronounced myself well again, wobbled back to my hotel and threw up once more.

It is good to be driven by a goal. But once you achieve it, you seem to look back on what you did in a different way.

Now I can close this chapter of my life that has driven me for years. I'm disappointed I didn't drubble the entire 26.2 miles, but what I accomplished was actually a greater feat.

Some people will say what I did was foolish, and I agree with them. One thing for sure, it was unf**king believable. MR