Once upon a time, I ran marathons — six Boston Marathons, to be exact. You wouldn’t know it looking at me today. In fact, I wouldn’t believe it looking in the mirror. But it’s true.

In 1991, when Tina and I lived in Boxborough, Massachusetts, we decided to go see the Boston Marathon. So we went to Wellesley, the 13-mile halfway point, to take in this historic event. I was most impressed, not just with the fleet runners at the front, but with the various sizes and shapes of the plodders towards the rear. “I’m going to do that next year,” I thought to myself, as a way to celebrate my 50th birthday. So, I dutifully followed the schedule of a marathon training book and went to work.

Back then, the race allowed “bandits,” runners who’d neither met the qualifying time nor signed up to raise money for a charity. The bandits lined up at the back, nearly a mile from the start. The runner on my right was smoking a cigarette. The one on my left seemed antsy, and I feared he might relieve himself on my shoe. Fortunately, he raced to a tree in front of a house beside the street and did his business, much to the chagrin of the person who came charging out of the house and shooed him away.

It took nearly 20 minutes after the gun went off to reach the start, at which point I started my stopwatch. The weather was perfect, low 50s and no wind, and my time was most respectable: 3 hours and 52 minutes. High fiving the Wellesley College students who loudly cheer on all runners, no matter their speed or sex, was the highlight. After the race, Tina said, “it’s harder to watch a marathon than to run it!” Apparently, my 80-year-old dad lingered so long in the Dunkin Donuts that she was afraid they’d miss seeing me at the agreed upon points on the course. But it all worked out.

I ran again the next year, trying to beat 3:52, but I ran 4 minutes slower and then again, the following year, which was a disaster because of the heat. That’s it, I thought, I’m done.

In 2003, my younger brother Tony was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. I proved to be the right match, so I gave him some bone marrow, which added a few years to his life.

The bone marrow procedure was a family affair. I had had Bone Marrow Brothers t-shirts made for each of us, which we wore in the hospital room. Tony’s wife Nancy and Tina looked on while he got my marrow. My dad, then in his 90’s, shared in the festivities by joking with the nurses. He asked one of them, “Say, do you file your nails?” When she replied, “Yes,” he said, “That’s funny, I throw mine away.” When the procedure was over he said to the nurses, “As the surgeon said, glad to have sawn you.” (You had to know my dad.)

In 2008, I decided to honor Tony by raising money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society and thereby qualify to run the Boston Marathon. Son David, from Seattle, wanted to join me. He had met the qualifying time for his age group and set a goal of three hours. I hoped to break five hours. He agreed to match every dollar that I raised, so we combined to raise nearly $25,000, a feat which earned me a t-shirt autographed by Bill Rodgers, a marathon legend. We enjoyed sending back-and-forth emails regarding our training runs.

David and I took the bus from Boston Common out to Hopkinton, where the race starts, and chatted about our racing strategies, such as they were.

I was doing fine until about the 18-mile mark, but then my calves cramped up. I’d built up a time cushion to break five hours, but that evaporated with each painful step. I finished in 5:01 Son David finished in 3:01, one minute short of his goal, delayed by a mid-race porta-potty break.

I ran the Boston Marathon again the next year, at a slower pace, and then again in 2014, the year after the Boston Marathon bomber stopped the race. That last year was a total madhouse, given all the security people lining the racecourse.

My marathon days are over, because of age and health issues. But I retain many fond memories of completing long training runs and bonding with David and the excitement of the crowds and running down Boylston Street towards the end and then crossing the finish line knowing that I’d finally made it. You can’t take that away from me. No, you can’t take that away from me.

David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns. dtreadw575@aol.com.