The Hopkinton Hop, which has been the willing lighting rod drawing well-deserved and sought-after criticism is indeed the sort of race one could classify as "Smartass."  But it also was drawn up very specifically to follow the rules of good conduct and etiquette so as to cause no physical damage, but only emotional angst by its holding of a mirror up to big, serious races.

Who among you has run the course at 4:30 a.m.?

If you have, then you will know that for the first couple of hours you'll have no company but turkeys gobbling in the wood.  But later on there will be plenty of people running the course backward (and a few forward).  Shorter-distance runners will be jogging with strollers.  Others will be out walking dogs.  Some will be firing up barbecue grills.  Only one or two Wellesley girls will be up, and they will be fumbling with a sound system.  The ice delivery trucks will keep up with a runner keeping about an 8:30 pace, allowing for a nice long (albeit halting) conversation with the driver.  Baseball fans will be filling their trunks with beer.  Scouts will be raising the flag.

In short, it's just an average street with average people doing average things, and we're average people out there with them.

None of these other average people has to apply for the BAA for a permit to run on the shoulder of an open road or upon the sidewalks that are shared with every other citizen out there celebrating a holiday commemorating the opening shots of the American Revolutionary War.  The very idea of applying for a permit to walk or run in a public area would offend the soldiers at Concord and Lexington.

So how is it inappropriate to celebrate this day of freedom by exercising what the Swedes call "allemansrätt" – the freedom every person has to roam about freely, providing they do no harm to others?

Not only are too many races far too big, but too many people take too many things far too seriously.  My actions could not possibly diminish the accomplishments of others - others who can manage to achieve the standards of entry to the Boston Marathon.

I have tried, and I have failed.  I have tried repeatedly and I have failed repeatedly. 

Perhaps some might think I fail as a lark, but it hurts every damn time.

I'm going to keep trying.

But in the meantime, what really does it matter if a bunch of slow, fat, too-busy-to-train louts warm up the course for their faster wives and husbands who wear the jackets we covet?

Are you kidding?  We do not matter, for we are as nothing to you.  If offense has been taken, look in the mirror.

Registration's still open, of course.