We had a little over 70 starters including the six little loop (5.1 mile) non-finishers. This was about twice our previous high, so I guess word is getting around that this is a fun race. We also had a good weather day, always a gamble at this time of year. As a matter of fact, it was warm enough so that the course actually ran a little slow because the sand didn’t have that firmness that comes with sub-freezing temps.
  As usual, there were all kinds of stories. The pleasure I get out of knowing so many people is that I get to participate with them emotionally in their races as well. I always end up so inspired, especially by the challenged ones. But four-time champion and race winner Greg Stone frequently flatters me by asking for training advice. Then there is the Cape Cod Ultra Society, about 18 of us at the moment, and they all share their races with me.
   And this winter I have had this loveable crew of 10-12 hardy beginner runners who meet me at the Osterville Historical Society two nights a week. We use an open-end boat shed for the ten minute roll call and talk from the ancient coach. And I must say, this is a very, VERY diverse group! BUT TOUGH! Enthusiastic!  Most are beginners but two decided to try the whole 25K – a ten year old boy and a 64 year old man. The little guy, Lukas Janulaitis, flew through the initial little loop, then waited ten minutes for his mom to come in so he could ask her permission to continue. I had stayed out of it, even though I knew how much he was hoping to do it. He has been in my running classes since way back in May, never missing a session; very shy and quiet, a model student. But after all, it was a parent’s call, though I had a hard time not chatting up about other ultra little guys (Gavin Wrublik always comes to mind). A few hours later I had the joy of watching a memorable family portrait as Lukas jogged to a proud finish in the blue and gold day. Smiles and tears. A photo framed by the immense sand dunes and the blue white caps of the Atlantic. His dad had trudged out two and a half miles on the beach to meet him.
  There were so many other great stories, it is just that Lukas had the best of them. My good friend and Volstate finisher Fred Murolo was his usual steely self, completing the 50K for the sixth time in a row to keep his record perfect. Legitimate tough guy Special Services Koa Hasegawa slogged through the deep sand to carve out a finish, and promptly declared it "was the toughest thing I have done lately!" Considering he has been dropped in the middle of the Everglades and other jungles in survival training sessions, that’s saying a mouthful. Colleen Murphy was first woman in the 50K and beat all but eight of the guys.
Jamie Zschau won the 25K in a new course record 2:07, and Molly Alesch was first woman in 2:19. (It is generally estimated that running these dune races are about 40 minutes a half slower for the distance in the deep sand.)  Mountain and Hardrock runners Julian Jamison and Jeff List used the event for bigger and tougher prey (Julian for another try at that elusive finish at the yellow gate in the backwoods of Tennessee).
  There were great mug shots fore and aft, many of them displaying the classic rear view — a bent over position that illustrates just how shapely the distaff anatomy becomes from running all these fatasses. Race director Bob Jensen conducted the whole thing with ever-smiling wife (and head timer & cheerleader) Fiona, replete in his colorful new court jester outfit and top-fashion Tibetan cap fresh from California. The quahog chowder got the triple A review, and we got to use the new bath house as headquarters, a step up from the 8 by 12 camper of previous years.
  My race was one that I’ll remember for a long while. I have been training my ass off this winter in hopes of a decent Boston and Self Tran six day, but a 17 minute p.b. for the course at age 70 was something I would never have predicted. 12th out of the 40 runners in the race, and I managed to edge out a few guys on the beach homestretch (you will never know what it meant to an old gaffer by coming up afterwards so graciously and shaking my hand and calling me "Sir. Oh you machine Sir.")  Everything just clicked, and I kept thinking of Karl King’s advice, "when all else fails, try training." I’ve put in 80 and 90 mile weeks despite a week crowded by opting for opera courses, Big Brothers, ten minute play lectures, and high school basketball games. The key has been yet another diet that has shaved another four pounds off my previous starvation routine. I have yet to discover where losing weight is not cost-effective even when I am now 25 lbs. less than the weight I played football at in high school. Also, reading the National Master’s News and the incredible Earl Fee and his three times a week interval sessions. (amongst other exploits, Fee at age 80 has run 400 meters in 71.24 seconds) His books reflect the intellect of the retired nuclear physicist he is — he does not accept previous perimeters. I love that; we all can tag along and get dragged to new vistas ourselves.
The Fatass was a good start. For direction, for inspiration, I used a ten year old boy and an 80 year old that I have never met.

~ Pete Stringer, stealth ultra reporter

~ Pete Stringer, nearing 200

  I first tried the venerable old road race back in 1978 on something akin to a whim, when my brother, my brother-in-law, and a friend all decided on an optimistic Autumnal day to just jump in the fray the next Patriot’s Day and run from the back of the pack, bandit-style, and see if we could finish the historic 26 miles.
  And despite some laughable mistakes, we did just that. We finished, and that was the point. Wasn’t it? Victory was ours. Except…it seems, for one thing. The difference between me and the other erstwhile thinclads was that I had fallen in love with the lilt of the Siren’s song, and have never quite recovered from the blush of that first kiss. With the exception of a few scattered years here and there healing injuries or dabbling in epic ultraruns, I have returned to Hopkinton each third Monday in April as fit as an old warrior can manage after winter training stuck in the rutted tracks of Cape Cod’s inclement Januarys and Februarys.
  And I was to find each Boston would have its own individual differences, something uniquely remarkable to make it memorable, so that instead of the race all swimming together in my memory, it was kaleidoscoped with brilliant stars, each embellishing itself indelibly in my memory as a precious gem to be highlighted for its own bright personality.
  The first was replete with family, with the landing zone my dear sister Sally’s hospitable home in Reading, then everyone following our progress armed with video camera at salient points along the route. It was raining that day, and we all agreed laughably "to just meet up with one another at the finish", our innocence not understanding that this was an impossible logistical task. There were tears and heartfelt congrats on that historic day, but the hook was undeniably set deeply into my skin to be secure to last the decades.
  1982 was my first ‘official" Boston, a legally time-qualified runner. Paradoxically, and perhaps quixotically, my training that year was done 90% of the time round and round the confines of an alcohol halfway house in Norton. I was then 41 years old, and had decided I needed more supportive structure than I was getting if I were to ever end my battle with addiction. If nothing else, it proved that where there’s a will there indeed is a way, and I have been told many times since that it served as quite an inspiration to my fellow residents that there was a way out. It served as the first of many medals I was to give away, to award someone for their own act of courage or need of motivation.
  1984 is remembered as the last marathon I ran as a heavyweight. At 182 lbs., I decided I was simply too big to achieve the fast goals I set for myself, and began a better understanding of nutrition for a runner. It was also the year I flew down from Burlington, Vermont for the race as the guest of the Methodist Church of Burlington. I had become something of a poster child for their outreach program while living in that city to simply be closer to my kids. My time of 3:16 that year also stands as what can be achieved by training in mostly sub-freezing temperatures. The St. Albans running folks taught me to be tough!
  My 8th Boston in 1988 will forever be remembered as my most joyful; the only one I ran step-for-step as a partner in a team. My dear nephew Craig, never a team-sport athlete, had expressed a keen desire to run the marathon, and became a devoted coach-by-mail student, doing the training and loyally reporting by U.S. Mail the completion of the specific workouts. We were to bound down Boylston St. practical ly arm in arm in a very emotional finish. You might say, he showed me what he was made of, and in spades.
  1991 was slow and tough because I had been operated on for a hernia two weeks prior and had been told it was too early to do any serious exercise. And just three weeks before that, had a heel spur removed. Double jeopardy. Well, heck, I thought, I’ll just traipse along gaily, and smell the roses along the way. A walk in the park! The time was a glacial 3:58, and I felt it a walk in the park! (I read these notes with chagrin today, and serve as Father Time’s best example of his ever-ceaseless slicing scythe. A 3:58 today in the very best of conditions would make me jump for joy!)
  1993 was best forgotten. No, scratch that — best remembered. Gosh, I had better. It was the very last one that alcohol played a major part. My last long battle with the bottle, one that at first dramatically involved a rescue by well-meaning friends, a capture and transport to my last detox, skipping or escaping out of that well intentioned institution in the middle of the night in a snowstorm to return to fueling the raging fire that was my out of control drinking. How I got from Falmouth that night hitch hiking was about as likely as how in the world six weeks later I was to run Boston straight from my alcohol-soaked sofa. The Tuesday edition of the Boston Herald filled its back page with a full sized photo of little ol me hanging onto one of the saplings at the finish line, captioning it "the Agony of De Feet." If ever there was the embodiment of Mary Stevenson’s classic poem "Footprints", I suppose that was it. God smiled down on me that day, and granted me worthy of one last chance.
  Inspired perhaps by my miraculous gift, my imagination soared to new and broader fields, that of ultramarathons. There were longer and longer races, 50 milers and 100 milers, all peopled by men and women who acknowledged no horizon too far, and simply seemed to be saying, if you direct me, I can get there. and I began the adventure of running in the wilds of this huge country.
  But Boston remained the training ground, the touchstone to measure the fitness for such outlandish pursuit.
  1996 was the celebrated year of the 100th Boston Marathon, and I stood with one of 38,000 far from the starting line in Hopkinton. So distant a place we kidded ourselves, chuckling  that they must have placed our corral out in Worcester, for we couldn’t even hear the starting gun go off .
  1997 and my daughter Kerry came from out west in Oregon to run Boston with me, a full 19 years after she had watched her dad run his first in ’78. I still can envision her as a nine year old, and arms akimbo in my sister’s front yard, declaring that she intended to come run it one day. And, by golly, she did exactly as she said she would, beginning a lifetime talent of positively forecasting her future.
  2002 was my slowest yet; but for all the right reasons, as I was recovering from serious Achilles surgery performed by the estimable Dr. John Willis. He was my miracle doctor, because after extensive x-rays and M.R.I.s, the first orthopedic surgeon seemed to almost enjoy declaring to me my that "your running days are over!" To that, I say thank you to Dr. Willis and thank God for second opinions. I slyly wonder if that first forever-unnamed doctor would enjoy me showing up at one of his clinics now nine years and another 70 marathons later?
  2007 was important because I had started the charity that I combined with Boston to run for the homeless shelter in Hyannis that was run by my friends in the Housing Assistance Corporation. Because of my own background, it was a good chance to give back to the community in a personal way. Mainly, I spoke, and ran, and wrote letters, and raised a lot of money. I am told this has made a big difference. It was also the year I began running the six day race in New York, a race that was more forgiving to an aging old gladiator who was losing all his speed but rewarded persistence. Unfortunately, its timeframe always has the race starting just four days after Boston, so I serve as the living sacrifice to the Bible’s wise words of the difficulty of serving two masters! At least, not all at the same time!
  Now, to this year, 2011. My 197th marathon or ultra. I shall be 70 this summer, and fully realize that I am on borrowed time when it comes to running marathons. So many of my peers have left the sporting fields, many reluctantly and loudly protesting against the cruel nature of their injuries or illness. I am one of the few lucky ones.
  But gee, I am so glad I got to stick around.
  You see, my most amazing inspiration this year has been my little grandniece Sephine, my brother Paul’s granddaughter. Take your very brightest paints and brush up a little blond angel, and you get a proper picture of how a brave heart and a beautiful soul can live in one 40lb. package. Very, very  powerful. I had a little pink T-shirt printed up and an identical large sized pink singlet for this senior runner, proudly stating that we were indeed the unstoppable, unsinkable and — soon to be famous! — Sephine’s Team –  and we meant to finish. Me, a 26.2 mile jaunt from Hopkinton to Boston; Sephine the more challenging and dangerous route always accorded the best and bravest of all the warriors. You would think with all this experience I would be leading the way, but no…. No, who’s kidding who here? Sephine is way up there in the front on the shining white horse; I can see her clearly  from back here in the ranks. She is our leader. For I am a soldier, just hoping to prove worthy of my brave captain, and if I can manage to follow her example, perhaps, just perhaps, we can all get to live and be healthy for a very long time.
  For it is a fact that I have seen the evidence of the power of prayer, and I grow yet more humble and hopeful with each passing day.

~ Pete Stringer

~ Pete Stringer

  Next door, with about 300 yards of woods separating us, there is a small school that was used as Osterville Elementary School for 30 years, but recently a scarcity of students regionalized the area and the school became the Cape Cod Collaborative, a facility for the use of the mid-Cape’s special needs students. One of the first things these people did was construct a quarter mile old style (MY era!, and certainly my preference) cinder track around the circumference of the soccer field.
  Four miles away, the Barnstable High School has just completed work on it’s new state of the art football field/upscale track opening tomorrow in time for the traditional football game against Falmouth.
  In addition, the ocean and its beaches are two and a half miles away. Any time there is snow, you just have to wait for a low tide to still run on bare sand.
  Hmm… no excuses not to go running today.
  ~ Pete Stringer