I've penned an account of my 2006 Boston Marathon experience, although it wrote more like a broken pencil. I thought I had it figured out: fly into Boston on Sunday afternoon, run a personal best (yeah, in only my second marathon) and fly back early Tuesday, taking only 36 hours out of my schedule to conquer the bay. Bad plan.

Sunday started innocently enough. Planes were on time and I grabbed my race bag from a friend of a friend, who was kind enough to pick it up for me as I came in too late to pick it up myself. I had a light dinner, followed by a rough night of sleep at the very-expensive-yet-thinly- walled Airport Hilton. I arose at 6 a.m., had a bagel for breakfast and caught the T to the bus-loading site for Hopkinton. It is there things began to get interesting.

I climbed on the bus with others and began to roll. Generally, when you stay in a pack you're safe. Our driver had other ideas. He never drove faster than 50 mph and we quickly fell behind the other buses.

Before we knew it we had missed our turn off the expressway and had started toward the Appalachians. This became apparent to us runners as we began to climb into some pretty rough-looking hills.

After a near mutiny and some interesting banter (when our driver twice had to collect from us in order to get through tolls), we got our nose pointed in the right direction and reached the athletes' village and the start. What was meant to be a 45-minute ride lasted nearly two hours. They call that foretelling.

Scenic tour aside, I still had two hours to kill in the village before race time. I spent most of it laying on my back and listening to the radio. I didn't eat much; one more bite of a bagel, two PowerBars and a Gu. I drank a quart of Gatorade at the most.

At 11:10 a.m. it was off to the starting corrals. It was exciting to see all the other runners, to talk to a few of them, to get recognized in my Grand Rapids Marathon shirt and to see the enthusiasm of the pre-race crowd. I felt good, light and thought I was going to have a good race.

After the National Anthem and an F-15 flyover, the gun sounded. I was in the first of two waves, so I started right at noon. It took me four minutes to cross the starting line, most of it in a slow shuffle. Once across the line we went downhill, but not fast.

My first two miles were a blur of crowd, noise and runners everywhere. It was a test in trample management. Still, I managed to knock them out in a little over 15 minutes.

Heading into mile three I found my rhythm and started running miles in the low- to mid-7's. This is about where I wanted to be and all seemed well. All I can remember about miles 3 through 13 is a jumble of countryside, rolling hills, small towns, crowds (I must say the Wellesley girls were enjoyable) and the endless stream of runners ahead and behind. It was fascinating.

I managed to pass the halfway point about two minutes ahead of my Grand Rapids pace. Still feeling good, I had thoughts of negative splitting. Two more miles and my 25K was in the books in less than two hours. On I went.

Then it started to happen. I wasn't feeling the heavy, dull ache of exhaustion, but sharp twinges of pain in my left hamstring. I slowed down over the next few miles and ground to a halt right before the 30K timing station.

I hobbled across it to post my time and then tried to run more. No use. Another step and it felt like my left hamstring would seize up on me and pop.

Another runner saw my distress and came to my aid with IcyHot. I applied it to my left thigh and soon felt better. I walked a while, consumed food and fluids (even had a sip or two of beer ... that stand wasn't doing well) and managed to turn it back into a slow run. Foolish me: I didn't put any IcyHot on my right thigh. Another half-mile and I was again reduced to a walk.

A half-mile later my legs felt better, so I took off into the hills. I had done a lot of hill work in preparation, so I thought I was ready for them (and actually think I was). I managed to make it up Heartbreak Hill, surprisingly, not even knowing I was on it. My reward was another heavy dose of reality.

At the top of Heartbreak I had to stop, as both my hamstrings locked up. I turned left off the course to find a place to contemplate my next move, and unexpectedly (and conveniently) found myself standing in a med tent with techs looking at me and wondering if I could use their help. I obliged.

It took them a minute or two to get me horizontal from vertical. Any bend of the leg sent me into spasms. Once they got me down, they worked for 10 to 15 minutes, putting me in several unflattering positions trying to stretch my muscles. All the while they had me munching potato chips and drinking some fizzy stuff.

According to them my electrolytes were off ... who knew! After several warnings that I should walk more than I run, they let me go and I was back on my way.

It was the best of times and the worst of times (Wonder if Dickens ever ran Boston?). My legs were in revolt, I was somewhat dehydrated, my body was low on salt and I had 10K to go. On the plus side, the crowd was great and despite my hobbles they got me through to the finish line.

Considering time walked, 10 to 15 minutes on a cot, and a slow, cramp- plagued final 10K, I still managed to limp across the line in under four hours and finish mid-pack.

What did I learn? That Boston is best savored and not gulped. Thirty-six hours was disrespectful and the race made me pay. Though I consider running the marathon checked off my list, it still has the taste of unfinished business.

Fortunately, having qualified in Grand Rapids, I'm still good for 2007, so I've got time to consider another go. As justification I can say it was my first Boston, so maybe I get one practice. We will see. MR