They came, as they have for the last five years, to support the masochistic masses at this crucial juncture.
"Here comes the first wheelchair!" said Dave Fernley, just as a racer, pumping his arms like well-oiled pistons, blew past. Fernley and his co-fans whooped and hollered.
"Go man!"
"Good job!"
And that's how it went for the next three hours. Non-stop cheering. Enthusiastic. Sincere. Encouraging. And personal.
Two years ago, Fernley, a 47-year-old social worker who has run 17 marathons, bought some plywood and painted a four-by-four-foot sign. It showed a brick wall with a black diagonal line through it. He strapped it to the top of his Subaru and hauled it to the end of Main Street where the runners turn around for the last six miles of the race.
"It was meant to be inspirational," Ferneley said. "Symbolizing 'Don't hit the wall.' "
"Nobody got it," said his friend, Ted Miller. "I think the artwork was a problem."
Then again, abstract thinking is a problem after a few hours pounding pavement.
"At 18 to 20 miles, you just feel bad," explained Siobhan Duffy, another member of the group. Duffy, 46, a publications project manager, has run six marathons. Her strategy for pushing herself through the wall, she said, is the same as everyone else's.
"You just keep going."
"It's like Alcoholics Anonymous," said running mate Bob Shore. "In AA you take it one day at a time. In a marathon, you take it one mile at a time." Shore, 53, a doctor of internal medicine who has run 12 marathons, can explain all about glycogen depletion and lactic acid buildup if you care to hear about it. But at the limits of physical exertion, sometimes knowledge isn't power. (Listening to an iPod, he says, is.)
"I tell myself, I'll get to mile 21 and stop," said Miller, 51, a veteran of 10 marathons - including Philadelphia. "Then I get to 21 and say, OK, I'll stop at 22."
