A cool breeze swept through the streets of Boston as people gathered at the starting line. The Boston Marathon, one of the most famous races in the world, was about to begin. Among the thousands of athletes stood a girl named Maya Johnson, a 13-year-old who wasn’t racing today but dreaming. She wore her running shoes anyway, because running wasn’t just a sport to her; it was a way to feel alive.
Maya had grown up hearing stories about the great marathons: the New York City marathon that twisted through five boroughs, the Chicago marathon with its flat, fast course, and even the Berlin marathon where world records were broken. She knew the names of legends like Katherine Switzer, who courageously ran the Boston marathon when women weren’t allowed, and Eliud Kipchoge, the man who ran a marathon in under 2 hours. To Maya, these people were superheroes without capes.
She leaned against a fence, watching as runners adjusted their watches and stretched their legs. Her father was among them, lining up for his very first Boston marathon. He had trained for months. Waking up before sunrise, running in the rain, and pushing through tired legs just to be here. Maya had joined him on short runs, her ponytail bouncing as she tried to keep pace.
The announcer’s voice boomed. “Runners, take your mark!”
The crowd cheered as the race began. Maya’s heart leaped with excitement as a pack surged forward. She sprinted along the sidewalk, weaving through the cheering spectators to get a better view. Her father spotted her and gave her a quick wave before disappearing into the sea of runners.
Maya imagined herself in his place, crossing the finish line of not just one, but all the world’s greatest marathons. She pictured running through Central Park in New York, racing past Buckingham Palace in London, and gliding under the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin. Each finish line in her mind was another dream she promised herself she’d chase someday.
Hours later, as the race neared its end, Maya squeezed her way to the barricade on Boylston street. The roar of the crowd grew louder as the exhausted but determined runners streamed toward the finish line. And then she saw him, her dad, sweat dripping down his face, his steps heavy but unbroken.
“Go, dad!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the noise.
His eyes lit up, and with one final burst of energy, he crossed the finish line. Maya felt her own chest tighten with pride. In that moment, she wasn’t just a spectator; she was a future marathoner.
After the race, her dad wrapped her in a sweaty hug. “One day,” he said, catching his breath, “you’ll be out there too.”
Maya nodded. “Not just one day. Someday, I’ll run all of them, the majors. Boston, New York, Chicago, London, Berlin, Tokyo. Every single one.”
Her dad chuckled. “That’s six marathons, kiddo.”
She grinned. Six finish lines. Six dreams.”
And as the crowd’s cheers echoed in her ears, Maya knew she had just discovered her own starting line.
