The Sound of the Finish Line

Passing the baton

Derek Nolan had been chasing one dream since he was sixteen: to run the Boston Marathon and finish in under three hours. Not to win. Not to be famous. Just to break that wall and prove to himself that all those early mornings, ice baths, shin splints, and lonely miles were worth something.

Now 37, with two knee braces and a playlist filled with motivational speeches instead of music, Derek stood at the finish line. 2:58:42.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t shout or raise his hands in victory. He just stood there, hands on his hips, and felt everything hit at once; the ache in his thighs, the sweat drying on his skin, the small sting of a blister forming on his right toe. But under all that, there was this quiet. Not silence. Just peace. The kind he hadn’t felt in years.

He had done it.

For a second, he didn’t know what came next. For more than two decades, his life had revolved around this; eating right, sleeping early, planning vacations around races. Now that the goal was checked off, something scary bubbled up.

“Now what?” he whispered.

He found the answer that same evening, not in some life changing revelation, but in a coffee shop near Boylston Street. Derek was sitting at a small table, medal still around his neck, sipping black coffee when a young guy asked if the seat across from him was taken.

“You ran?” the guy asked, eyeing the medal.

“Yeah,” Derek said. “Finished under three.”

“No way,” the kid said. “That’s my dream time.”

Derek smiled. “Used to be mine too.”

They talked for a bit. The kid, Luis, was just starting out. Hadn’t broken four hours yet. Didn’t know the difference between a tempo run and a fartlek. But he had that look Derek remembered from his own younger years. Hungry. Determined. A little unsure, but stubborn enough to push through.

That night, Derek emailed his old high school coach. “You still need help with the track team?” he typed. “I’ve got some time now. Think I’d like to coach.”

Because it turns out, when you cross one finish line, it doesn’t mean the race is over. Sometimes, it just means you’re ready to pass the baton.

And maybe that was the real reward. Not the medal, not the time, but the quiet gift of realizing he had more to give.

So he laced up his shoes the next morning, this time not to chase something, but to guide someone else toward their own finish line. And for the first time in years, the run felt brand new.