I did the Jimmy Fund Boston Marathon walk once. It's walking, not running, but it's still 26.2 miles. I later published a commentary about the experience.

"If getting there is half the fun, well, I had a ton of fun getting to Boston Sept. 17.
Back in April, I had signed up for the Boston Marathon Jimmy Fund Walk because I wanted a physical challenge. Raising money to help sick children was an added bonus.
In a moment of bravado, I had decided to attempt the en-tire 26.2-mile Boston Marathon route. Of the 7,000 participants, only about 2,000 at-tempted that length and, judging from the lines at the first aid stations, quite a few dropped out along the way.
The walk is a fund-raiser for the Dana Farber Cancer Institute, as my friends, family and co-workers found out. Throughout the summer they all received one sponsorship request after another and came through for me in fine style.
With several sponsorships still pending, our five-person team raised just under $1,200. For perspective, several teams raised more than 50 times that amount. Nevertheless, we were proud of our efforts and eager to get started.
The sun was just coming over the horizon as we left Hopkington Green, the Boston Marathon’s traditional starting point. For the first few miles, the route resembled a Manhattan sidewalk as participants swept forward in a human wave.
By mile 3, my walking partner, Hometown General Assignment Reporter Ken Hoffman, and I had outpaced most of the Sunday strollers and found ourselves with relatively clear road in front of us. The road was flat and empty, and we were able to maintain our training pace.
Organizers had spaced re-fueling stations along the course, 12 in all. At each one, volunteers handed out water, sports drinks and various food items. By my count I consumed:
• 2 bananas
• 6 small candy bars
• 1 orange
• 2 granola bars
• 1 deli sandwich
• 10 health cookies, courtesy of Hometown’s Conscious Cook, Robin Glowa, each containing enough natural fiber to unblock I-95
• 3 small bags of chips and pretzels
• Enough water, fruit juice and Gatorade that, despite profuse sweating, I still patronized every portable john along the course.
Despite all this, I finished the walk with a ravenous ap-petite and headed to a local establishment for burgers, fries, nachos and liquid painkillers.

The walk started in a remote, sparsely populated area. Motorcycle-mounted police rode herd on the group, keeping us out of harm’s way.
At half-distance, we picked up the rest of our team, Marla and Vanessa, who had opted for one of the shorter routes.
Ken and I made the mistake of sitting down to have lunch, which made getting back up a bit of a challenge. Still, we pressed on.
Mile 16 brought us into Newton, Mass., home of the four Newton hills. Each of these hills has a name, but the best known is the last, longest and steepest.
Heartbreak Hill begins at mile 20 and rises, in three stages, past the 21st mile. A sign at the top congratulated the weary trekkers, along with a (false) promise that the course was all downhill from there.
The last four miles passed in a soreness-numbed haze, but a few things stood out in my mind. For starters, at mile 22 or so, Dana Farber patients and cancer survivors manned the checkpoints, handing out food and drinks, and encouraged those who looked like they were nearing their en-durance limits.
A pat on the back from a cheerful 6-year-old who clearly is enduring chemotherapy can easily convince you to finish those last miles. If they can keep going, so can you.
Then, there was the matter of the curbs. Once the walkers entered Boston city limits, there were police officers at every intersection. They stopped traffic every time a group of walkers approached and waved us along.
The curbs were city-style, about five inches high with steel edges. Each curb had a small, flattened section where cyclist and wheelchair-bound people can get out of the street and onto the sidewalk. Just like virtually every other walker, I lined up at the ramps because the five-inch step onto the curb was simply too daunting for legs burning with 24 miles worth of lactic acid.
Finally, there were the spectators. We had seen peo-ple standing along the side of the road since the start, and many others had left signs and other inspirational mes-sages for the walkers. Once inside Boston, though, there were hundreds of people. Some clapped and called out encouragement; others waved signs that said “Thank you for helping...” with the name of a family member battling cancer.
My mother and one of my sisters waved from the crowd as we neared the 26th mile. I motioned them into the street.
“If I stop my legs now, they aren’t starting up again,” I said.
And then it was over. Crossing the finish line, I paused briefly for a photographer, and then continued on to where my wife, Maggie, and the rest of the family waited. A volunteer placed a medal around my neck.
In the final analysis, the amount of money I spent on training supplies, hotel accommodations, meals and en-try fees very nearly equaled the amount I raised. Economically, I would have been wiser to simply write a check. But walking into Copley Square, with cheering crowds lining both sides of the street, was an experience beyond any dollar value.
If the weekend taught me anything, it was the value of perseverance. There is nothing in particular that separates a marathon walker from anyone else, except the mental determination to push through the soreness and keep going.
I mean, Ken and I weren’t inmates or draftees. We didn’t have to walk, let alone cover the entire route. In fact, buses roamed the course continually, offering a ride to the finish for those who had had enough.
But cancer patients can’t just quit if their treatment gets too tough. And neither did we. I have the T-shirt to prove it."

This column reflects the opinion of Editor Donald Eng and does not necessarily represent the views of Hometown Publications.