Marathon Monday

Marathon Monday is often considered, among Bostonians, as the greatest day of each year. Falling on the third Monday of April, which is also a little known holiday called Patriots’ Day the marathon provides a race as a backdrop to the biggest day of drinking and legalized hookie-playing found anywhere in the country. The holiday itself is a non-event, most people don’t even know that it exists; the real holiday is the fact that if you work anywhere in downtown Boston you have the day off because you can’t get to work due to road closures and as a result you should start drinking at 9:00 AM.

Over at BC the day takes on even more epic proportions. First of all classes are cancelled as the race runs right past campus making it impossible for teachers and commuter students to get there. Second, the best party neighborhood off campus, Cleveland Circle (also along the race route) is an unofficial hot spot for marathon fans and heavy drinkers alike. Finally, it’s just a huge excuse to get wasted…really wasted…like blacked out by 1:00 PM wasted. The stringent community and campus official restrictions on drinking are relaxed for the day and an anything goes mentality pervades. In short it’s a total shit show and every college student’s dream.

This year, sadly I missed the greatest day of the year in Boston as I was in transit back from Chicago so I thought as homage to the enormity of Marathon Monday I would present a fictional live-diary of what would have happened if I had been here.

8:00 AM: The alarm goes off at a ridiculously ambitious hour. Last night I really thought I was going to leap out of bed with Christmas morning exuberance at this insane time? Why the hell did I drink so much last night when I knew I had to get up this early? Ughhh.

8:30 AM: I finally drag myself out of bed and into the shower. Someone in my house is pestering me to drink a mimosa which turns my stomach and makes me smile at the same time.

9:00 AM: I succumb to peer-pressure and chug a mimosa to take the edge off. Nearly vomit, but then immediately feel better.

9:30 AM: We depart from my house to head towards Fenway Park to catch some of the annual 11:00 AM Red Sox game at the newly renovated Cask and Flagon. Our stench offends those forced to work on this glorious day and the marathon unawares, as does the volume of our half drunk / half hung-over slurring.

10:15 AM: Arrive at Fenway after a miserable 45 minutes on the T which can make you nauseous even when you haven’t just gunned down half a bottle of champagne and a half gallon of orange juice before 10:00 AM. We stumble out of the station looking green and wondering what the hell we are doing with our lives. The mob-scene we encounter wakes us up and gives us life again. Here is the great crossroads of marathon day. Families taking in the race line the streets where Commonwealth Ave and Beacon Street meet. Late arriving Sox fans lucky enough to have the elusive tickets scurry towards the stadium followed by the tag-alongs like us just there for the spectacle and the plethora of bars. There are some that have clearly been drinking since 7:00, and some that look vaguely afraid of them. A guy is already being kicked out of Copperfield’s for puking. Ahh the marathon…

10:45: Enter the Cask after waiting in an offensively slow moving line. Immediately we head to the bar for life sustaining alcohol. Ridiculous over consumption follows as we try to drown our headaches and the little voice inside our head telling us that maybe eating would be a good idea.

11:00 AM – 2:00 PM: Watch the Sox win a thriller over the Mariners on a Mark Loretta walk off. The excitement emboldens us, we take shots. We immediately regret the shots. Finally we order a burger and our stomachs remind us what a bad idea it is to have 8 beers before breakfast.

2:15 PM: We stumble out in bright daylight which always shocks you when you’ve been inside a bar for four hours. Is it really still light out and am I really this drunk? Why are all those skinny people running down the middle of the road, don’t they know how dangerous that is? In an unsuccessful attempt to legitimize ourselves with the rest of the world we wander over to Comm. Ave to watch some of the race. After a few moments I realize that we’re standing next to a family of 5 who are shooting cautious glances at us every few seconds as though they’re afraid that one of us might whip it out and start peeing in the road. Their fears are legitimate, we move on.

2:25 PM: We find our way back to the Kenmore T station and jump on a C line train heading towards Cleveland Circle with intentions of stopping by a couple of BC parties and our old college haunt Mary Ann’s. The ride is pure hell as sitting down and riding on a bumpy train is a perfect catalyst for a nauseous booze filled stomach and a premature hangover.

2:55 PM: Arrive in Cleveland Circle only to find a massive line outside of Mary Ann’s. This is no surprise. Our backup plan is a party at a buddy’s place who is on the extended BC five-year plan. We enter, and as alumni are immediately regarded by every girl in the place as a sketchy presence worthy of a trip to the opposite side of the room to avoid. We all shed a small tear for our lost collegiate status and then proceed to own the Beirut table for an hour. Our conversation is pure alumni, the only topics being how much we miss college and how much bigger and better our Marathon Monday party was when we lived in Cleveland Circle. Around us is debauchery at its best. It’s not Cancun flashing lights and boobs insanity; it’s more like the last few hours of the wedding reception for your first buddy to get married. Everyone’s loaded and friendly but don’t necessarily know each other that well and the cross section of people makes for high quality entertainment…if you could remember it.

5:00 PM: The college kids who started drinking at 7:00 are passed out and those of us who started a few hours later aren’t feeling so hot either. We cross the street back to Mary Ann’s where the line has disappeared and the energy is dissipating. The only runners still going by are the old men with more determination and guts than I’ll ever have who just hope to finish before the course is closed. Cars are starting to reappear on the roads. I can’t even imagine how these men watch the crowd cheering them on slowly evaporate and yet they continue on knowing that there will be just a smattering of people there to congratulate them at the finish line. It’s more mental toughness than your average person could dream of. Anyway, we enter Mary Ann’s in a daze, hoping to find revitalization within. Our hopes are met initially as we recall the time we spent here just a few years ago, but that fades quickly. We’re tired and old and can’t quite hack the all day drunk-fest like we used to. It’s a sad reality.

6:00 PM: We pack it in. Fearing another ride on the T would kill me I encourage taking a taxi back home and it is readily agreed upon.

6:30 PM: Stop by Anna’s Taqueria for much needed grease and cheese so that we can lift our heads tomorrow. Few burritos have ever tasted so good or been so necessary.

7:00 PM: Home and dead.

Sigh...if only it were true. Maybe next year.