That Lady Boston, she's one tough cookie. Just when you think you've got the old gal figured out, she reaches deep into her bag of tricks and turns up the heat.

"Enjoyed your winter playing in the snow, boys?" I'm sure I heard her coo. "Well, welcome to summer in April."

She cranked up the thermostat to mid-July levels, just in time for the high noon start at Hopkinton, Mass. By the time she was done, the temperature peaked at 86 degrees American. Third-hottest Boston Marathon ever.

All the training in the world won't prepare you to run in a blast furnace. When conditions hit the extremes they did this year, you go into survival mode early and hope your mental preparation can get you through it.

Just under 18,000 runners started this race. At the end of the day, 16,753 crossed the finish line. More than 1,100 runners required medical attention – twice as many as in a normal year.

When I trudged past the medical tent in the finishing area – and it is a huge area, one I visited last year – it was jammed. There was a long line of people in wheelchairs waiting to get in. In the couple hundred yards past the finish line, runners were leaning over just about every garbage can, throwing up.

The winner of the women's race – Catherine Ndereba of Kenya – was in a wheelchair by the time race officials placed the champion's laurel wreath on her head. She passed on the traditional bowl of beef stew that's offered to the winner.

In baseball, the home crowd is sometimes called the tenth player on the field – that extra edge that can help your team win a tough game. In Boston, when the course has you wondering what the hell you're doing this for and vowing never to pin on another bib number, the crowd provides that extra boost of energy that can get you through.

On one of the Heartbreak Hills, when I wanted to peel up a chunk asphalt and crawl under it – I heard someone yelling out my bib number. Why out of all the runners around me, did he call out mine? Why was this stranger urging me to keep going? Why was he pushing me up this monstrosity? I couldn't let him down.

A little further along that series of hills, I passed a previous Boston winner. Bib number 1953 – Keizo Yamada. He wears that number because it's the year he won. At 76, he continues to come back to this magical course.

I may have passed him here, but over the final seven miles, he returned the favour and finished 13 minutes ahead of me.

I'm not sure how I got through the next few miles. I not only hit the wall early, hard and often, but had to drag it with me. But with just over a mile left – in the shadow of Fenway Park - a spectator again singled me out.

"Way to go 5849!" she yelled. "Look at him - he doesn't even look tired!"

I felt like a $10 million a year superstar who had just hit the game winning home run in the bottom of the ninth. It was the kick I needed to finish the last mile stronger than any of the previous 20.

I tried to pick out my wife, Dianne, in the crowd in those final few hundred yards. I needed to make eye contact, just to reassure her that I was all right and was finishing this thing on my feet. Later, she told me I never looked so strong at the end of a marathon.

Looks are deceiving. Still, despite the conditions, I had no major problems at the end. And none of the injuries I worked through over the past few months was a factor in this race, thanks to Russell, Lisa and Ming.

What made this race was the incredible effort of the volunteers and spectators. The volunteers could barely keep up with the demand for water and sports drinks at the refreshment tables. They were going non-stop filling the needs of people out to prove to themselves that they can defy the aging process. Kids were handing out orange slices, bananas, freezies, licorice and jelly beans.

Two and a half miles from the finish line, I remember a guy yelling encouragement to the crowds of runners. It was around the corner from our hotel, a point when I thought a cool shower and a lie down would feel better than finishing this race. More than two hours later, after I picked up my post-race beer at a local grocery store, there were still dozens of runners passing that point. Almost all the spectators had left, but he was still there, yelling as enthusiastically as if these stragglers were leading the pack.

The men's winner – Timothy Cherigat of Kenya – finished in 2:10:37. Only seven people have run Boston faster than that. And Cherigat didn't even make Kenya's Olympic marathon team.

Two days later, my quads are a little cranky – they're refusing to co-operate as I negotiate staircases. And they put the brakes on this morning when I tried to run for the train.

Lady Boston, your cruelty knows no bounds.

Can't wait to see what else you've got in your bag of tricks!

LETTERS   [Email Peter here]