The Kindness of Strangers

by

Mark Jimenez

A while back I had a goal. I wanted to run the 130th Boston Marathon. I had run Boston twice before, and I told myself I was done. Then something happened. I’m not sure what. I just started to feel like I needed to be in Boston in April.

But there was a problem: I didn’t have a qualifying time.

So I went out and found a race with some friends. On a great day, all of us qualified and all of us made the trip to Boston.

I wanted to leave it all on the table in Boston. I wanted one last great race. Marathons are hard, and I’m not getting any younger. Training for these things puts a load on my body. I wanted to have one last great race, then finish out running the world majors and probably be done with marathons. In order for that to happen, I knew I had to train hard.

I had what I thought was a very good training block. I ran more miles than in any training block I’ve done, with the exception of Chicago—and Chicago was a great race for me.

I came with a lot of confidence. I thought a PR might even be in the cards.

I was well rested, tapered, and ready to go. I really felt like I had done everything right. I couldn’t wait to get going.

Then the race started.

Sometimes things just don’t go like you want them to. I’ll spare you the mile-by-mile recap. Let’s just say I knew early on it was going to be a bad day. I tried to stay in control, but by mile 7.5 I thought I was in trouble, and by mile 10 I knew it. That was only confirmed at mile 14.

Knowing you have 16.2 miles to go—and knowing it’s going to take you quite a few hours—is really tough. I was hurting physically and mentally. Every step started to feel heavier, every mile longer.

I don’t know exactly when The Stranger found me, but it had to be after Heartbreak Hill. That was one of my small wins on the day. I swore I wouldn’t walk up those damn hills, and I didn’t. But I did have to walk after the hills, and that’s when The Stranger first appeared.

I walked with my hand on my belly, head down, just trying to get through it. That’s when his head came into my peripheral vision, almost comically. He had a look of concern on his face. The last thing I wanted was a conversation. I muttered out, “I’m ok,” and kind of waved him on. He kept going.

I must have passed him again. Miles 21 and 22 were very hard on me mentally. They seemed to stretch on forever. After I stopped to walk a second time, The Stranger appeared next to me again. He walked with me.

I took a better look at him and noticed his red bib. He was having an even worse day than I was. Red bibs started before me. If I caught him, he was hurting too. I also somehow knew he was European. I would have guessed German, but he was Italian.

“You ok?” I asked.

He shook his head no and grabbed his hamstring. Then he looked at me, almost asking the same question back.

I looked down at my hand on my belly (no, I didn’t poop myself if that’s what you were wondering—but I did throw up twice during the race).

“Ok, let’s go,” he said in a thick Italian accent, waving me forward.

I didn’t want to run with anybody. They say misery loves company, but when I’m miserable, I want to be by myself. Nobody can kick Mark Jimenez better than Mark Jimenez, and when I feel down, I don’t want company—I want solitude.

I ran with him a little bit more, then stopped and hoped he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed.

He stopped and walked with me.

We did this again one or two more times. That’s when I realized The Stranger wasn’t going anywhere.

He looked at me one more time—his eyes said everything. He was going to get me through this race.

That’s when I remembered something my youngest daughter told me once when she was little: “Brave bears don’t quit.” It won’t make sense to you. There’s a story behind it. But in that story, I was the brave bear—and I wouldn’t quit.

It’s a good thing I was wearing sunglasses, because I started crying.

Tears running down my face, I said quietly to The Stranger, “Ok… I won’t let you down.”

So around mile 22.8, we started running together. We didn’t run fast. We just hobbled along, step by step. At times he would speed up just a little to give kids on the side of the road a high five. Every single time, he’d glance back to make sure I was still there.

We spoke very few words. He spoke a little English, and I don’t speak any Italian.

I was able to ask where he was from.

When he told me Italy, I asked, “Milan, Inter, Juventus?”

“Napoli!” he said, with a little spark.

We kept moving.

We got to mile 24.

“Two miles only,” the stranger said.

“I won’t let you down,” I said again.

We passed the Citgo sign at mile 25.2.

One mile to go.

“I won’t let you down.”

The last thing I said to him during the race was, “Right on Hereford, left on Boylston.” The famous last two turns. He just grunted. I don’t know if he even heard me.

We ran down Boylston together.

When we finished, I took a picture of his bib so I could find his name later. Silly me—I didn’t realize we would be in so many pictures together.

I also took a picture with him. After we got our medals, he said, “Now this is the picture,” and we took another one.

The Stranger didn’t have to run with me that day. He was clearly stronger than me. He could have run ahead. He could have chosen anyone. He could have done a million different things.

Instead, he chose me.

I don’t know if he’ll ever know how much his kindness meant in that moment. I don’t know if he knew what a dark place I was in, and how his kindness brought me out of it and helped me finish on the day. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to pay him back.

I hope he finds his way to this blog. I hope that one day, when he’s having a bad day, a stranger shows up for him the way he showed up for me.

Boston 2026 was far from the race I wanted. I had a good perspective when I finished… but then I didn’t, and I’ve kind of been in a funk ever since.

I’m 0–3 in Boston.

But I’ve also run the Boston Marathon three times. Not a lot of people can say that, right?

And the 0–3 thing… that’s something I put on myself. Not something anyone else does. See my earlier comment about nobody kicking Mark Jimenez better than Mark Jimenez.

What I did come away with was something bigger than a time.

I came away thankful—for someone I had never met.

The Stranger found me when I needed him. And he didn’t leave when he could have.

In a world that can feel a little upside down, I’m reminded that there is still so much good in it.

I hope that in some part of my life, I can show the same kindness to someone else that he showed to me. I hope we all can.

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Every Run is a Good Run