Ready, set, go. The sound of an alarm clock at 7:45 a.m. was my starter pistol. The sun was already hot, beating through my window, mocking me and my long journey to come. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I had miles and miles to cover. I had places to go and appearances to make — after all, I do have somewhat of a celebrity status. No, really, it’s legitimate. I’m a Daily Free Press columnist. I’d have more eyes on my moves than Lance Armstrong had men in his entourage.
It was Marathon Monday — the one Monday we look forward to, even yearn for, all year. It is a break from reality coming at the heels of what has been a pretty rough semester. We purposefully wake up earlier than we have to, trekking to South Campus to share in turning a really boring sport into one giant outdoor love fest.
As the marathon is to the athletes, Marathon Monday is the penultimate college experience for us Boston University students. It tests our stamina and endurance. It gives us a taste of what it’s like to be the infamous Lucille Bluth — intoxicated 15 minutes before we get out of bed. It tests our ability to hold our liquor under extenuating circumstances in the least pleasurable conditions. On Marathon Monday, we blur the line between alcoholism and college student stupidity.
I dragged myself out of bed and put on my apparel for the day. My traditional red BU T-shirt would keep me cool in the sun. I chose a pair of dark jeans to sustain the inevitable damage of beer stains. Shorts would have been apropos if the conditions were better, but I made the right choice. I donned my New Balance kicks, known for their incredible speed when running from cops, and my North Face windbreaker – appropriate for the day’s mild conditions without slowing me down.
My first obstacle was class. Yes, class at 9 a.m. — thanks, professor. As much as I like to wake up early to discuss examples of liberal communalism and its implications on the Disney-created city of Celebration, Fla., with a class full of underclassmen and hockey players, it was not exactly what I had in mind for the morning. It was OK — just a bump in the road. My very own Heartbreak Hill, if you will.
I sat in the College of Arts and Sciences building staring at the clock in the upper-right hand corner of my MacBook, checking my pace. Would this guy ever stop talking? It was getting hot, and I was definitely getting thirsty. I filed through my Facebook invitations, strategically planning my route through the rest of the morning and afternoon. I didn’t want to peak too quickly. I had an entire day ahead of me.
By 9:30, he let us go. I had survived. There’s something to be said about prepping for a rough patch in the course by lining your stomach with beer. I hightailed it to South Campus to catch the end of my first party. When I got there, it was clear that the festivities had started a while back. I was not about to allow my 9 a.m. heartbreak set the tone for my entire expedition. I decided to catch up.
The next leg of the race could only be described as a “classy” affair — mimosas, homemade breakfast and “intellectual conversation.” The orange juice in my mimosa was calcium-fortified with lots of pulp for fiber. I needed enough Vitamin C to make it though the day and make sure to grab a banana for potassium.
By 11:30, the screams of drunken college students from the street informed us it was time for the next leg of the race. I made my way out to Beacon Street to join another group — they say never stick with a pack that will slow you down. We moved down the street giving high-fives to strangers who encourage our rowdy behavior. Cops were all over making students dump their beer cans and red solo cups. The “cleverer” among us decided to hide our solo cups in our jackets, sipping only when law enforcement was busy with some other moron. The brave revelers offered officers their drinks, and the cops obliged only after slipping their wrists into those plastic zip-tie handcuffs.
After a few hours watching fellow students wonder why they ended up in a paddywagon after dancing naked on the planter near Audubon Circle, we made our way down Beacon Street, stopping at random apartments every few minutes for some refueling. It was getting hotter, and I was becoming more and more tired. Rather than let the dehydration get to me, I decided to make one last stop at 7-Eleven to grab some water and take on the rest of the course on my own.
I reached the Student Village, where I received by a hero’s welcome. People were sitting out in the courtyard with solo cups and Poland Spring bottles filled with non-clear substances, listening to music and generally enjoying life. I had trouble swiping my ID card, but I pulled together that last bit of adrenaline to make it through the gate. I headed up to the 12th floor, where I hit my bed hard.
Overall, it was a good day. I paced myself well — didn’t put everything into the first half and tire out too quickly. Looking back, there were a few things I could have handled better, but this is definitely a marked increase from last year. I’ve got at least one more marathon in me, and I plan to blow this one away next year. Now I’m busy recovering from the dehydration and exhaustion.
Brandon Epstein, a junior in the School of Management, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. He can be reached at [email protected].
