It’s a cool, gray Patriot’s Day morning on Hayden Rowe Street in Hopkinton, Mass. Nancy McKay is smiling, reflecting and introducing herself to everybody who walks through the door in search of temporary refuge.

Some of McKay’s actions probably stem from her effusive nature. Others are undoubtedly a result of nervous energy.

But a lot of what’s going on is due to one simple fact: It’s marathon Monday and, though the finish line is 26.2 miles away, Nancy McKay has already made it to Boston.

If you’re the kind of person who quantifies exercise output in minutes per year instead of miles per week, you might not understand. But McKay can explain it to you.

“This is it,” she said. “This is the king of all of them all. It’s true.”

This is the Boston Marathon. And McKay said even nonmarathoners seem to realize that there’s something different about this venerable New England tradition.

To some, it’s an event. To others, it’s a party. But to the runners, it’s something special.

“When you say you’ve run a marathon, the first thing people will say is, ‘Oh. Did you run Boston?”‘ she explained. “When you say, ‘No’ they act disappointed.”

This isn’t McKay’s house. She lives in Bangor, about 260 miles north. But for the past five or so years, runners with ties to the Pine Tree State have found a marathon-day home here thanks to the kindness of Hermon’s Curt and Denise Kimball, and Denise’s mom, Rose (who actually owns the house on Hayden Rowe).

McKay is thankful to have a place to sit. To think. To meet and greet. To get some last-minute advice.

“You have to put your number on now,” friend Rene Collins of Brewer said an hour before the noon race – and three hours after McKay arrived on Hayden Rowe.

Collins is a veteran of the Boston race. She made her 14th appearance Monday. And she knows how things work … how the body reacts when the race nears.

“The closer you get to the race, the

more your fingers shake,” Collins said. “And the more apt you are to get punctured.”

McKay shook her head, smiled and shared the word of the day.

“Overwhelming,” she said. “Just overwhelming.”

McKay began running 20 years ago, and worried about finishing the annual Brewer-to-Bangor July Fourth race, which is only 1.8 miles long.

But after Monday, McKay will be a Boston veteran. She’ll know what it’s like. And she’ll have an answer for everybody’s favorite question.

Did you ever run Boston?

“Now I’m gonna say, ‘Yep,”‘ she said, grinning widely. “‘I did.”‘

Special place, special memories

Not all the people who come to this “Maine House,” as it’s called, are Mainers. Some have no links to the state at all. Others do, but arrive at the cozy home quite by accident and learn they have plenty of friends they hadn’t met yet.

But they all have tales to tell. About running and life. And how those two things are related.

Like Paul Ruckel.

Ruckel is from Phoenix, and if the race had remained the way it was when he first ran it back in 1977, he probably never would have ambled over to Hayden Rowe.

But a few years ago, he showed up at Hopkinton High School (not even a legitimate warm-up jog from here) and found out his customary pre-race hideout had been roped off by officials.

“I decided I was going to walk down Hayden Rowe and knock on the first door I saw, and see if I could go in,” he said.

At the top of Hayden Rowe is a Gulf station. Rose lives two doors down. Ruckel quickly found out that the house had a reputation linked to Maine.

“My wife went to Bates,” he told the crowd of runners with a grin. They welcomed him. And he’s been coming back ever since.

Monday’s race marked Ruckel’s 13th trip to the marathon he has qualified for each year since 1976. It was his 75th marathon.

But it was different.

“This is a special one for me,” he said, softly, looking at the letters he’d written on the back of one hand.

“My dad just passed away three weeks ago,” he explained. “He took me to my first Boston in ’77 when I was a senior at Rutgers.”

Ruckels looked back at his hand, tears filling his eyes. He was done talking. But the word said it all. Three letters. One race. A lifetime of memories. DAD.

Collins runs another

A year ago, Rene Collins ran Boston figuring she’d never be back. She was healthy, and willing. But the qualifying standards each runner must reach were out of reach.

On Monday, there was Collins, hugging, chatting and enjoying the company of other runners.

“I got in through the back door,” she said.

That’s not entirely true. Collins never did run the 4:10 marathon Boston officials require of 60-year-old women. She ran a 4:25, and sent in her application anyway. With a message.

“I did some research,” Collins said.

What she found was this: At large marathons in Chicago and Houston, Florida and Hartford, only one woman her age had met the standard. Collins herself finished third in her age group in Chicago, and fifth in Houston. She tried to qualify. But the standard was just too tough, just like women in that age group had been pointing out for some time.

“I sent them that as my argument, along with my third-place finish,” she said. “[They replied with a letter that said] one year only. One year only, but you can come.”

She did.

A world-class environment

Because of the qualification standards, runners who race their way into the Boston Marathon arrive in Beantown with a sense of accomplishment. Even people who have kept yearly appointments in Boston understand that.

Jim Newett of Ellsworth has been to nine Boston Marathons, including seven in a row. This year’s edition was sweet for the 44-year-old because it came after a winter of doubt.

Newett underwent foot surgery in December and didn’t hit the roads again until Feb. 5. Before that, he ran in a pool and rode a stationary bike. But there he was on Monday, getting ready for another trot from Hopkinton to the city.

“I’ll keep coming as long as I can. That’s why I’m so thankful to be here. I just always enjoy coming to Boston,” he said. “The people are great from beginning to end. The support is fantastic. The fans along the course support you.”

Newett said the one thing that Boston does best is this: It seems to recognize that the people who participate in the race are a bit different, and treats them that way.

“It’s a world-class event, so for one day of the year, you get to be part of a world-class event,” he said. “It makes you feel really special. Even though you never see the front-runners, they make you feel like a front-runner.”

Got the big city blues

Not everybody involved in the race really wants the VIP treatment, though. Like Kip Nelson of Hampden.

Nelson got interested in running after he got married and began to experience some side effects.

“I got a gut,” he said. “I found out that married life was agreeing with me.”

But even after he started running and racing, he didn’t view Boston with the same reverence as some runners. He viewed it as more of a nuisance.

“I always said, ‘You know, I’d love to qualify for Boston, but I’m just not gonna run with that many people,”‘ he said.

“I didn’t want to deal with all the headaches and hotels and all that. I’m just not a big-crowd kind of guy.”

But after qualifying at last year’s Sugarloaf Marathon, he changed his mind. A friend offered a bed. And Nelson and his wife headed for Boston.

On Sunday, they headed into the city to pick up Nelson’s registration packet, and even headed over to the finish line to look around. They didn’t take the traditional pre-race picture, though.

“My wife forgot the camera,” he said. “But I don’t know if we would have anyway. There were all kinds of people there.”

One person’s crowd is another person’s party. Many runners revel in the fact that more than 16,000 others will be joining them on the course.

First-timers Jan Pilotte of Bangor and Dan Milan of Brewer fit in the latter category.

Pilotte smiled broadly all morning as the race approached. Only one topic changed her mood: the weather.

“I don’t do well in the heat,” she said, before dwelling on something more enjoyable.

“[But] it’s great. It’s just the people,” she said. “I’m already [qualified] for next year, so for this year, it’s a fun run. I want to get to know Boston a little bit, know the course.”

Milan felt the same way. He entered the race with modest goals, and a positive outlook, almost.

“The main thing today is to finish. To finish and not feel too bad,” he said, admitting that he was nervous. “It’s been great. I’ll let you know in about 26.2 miles how great it is.”

A story for the road

Not everyone has warm and fuzzy memories of Boston. Judson Esty-Kendall of Glenburn, for instance, had a little bit of a problem the last time he ran here.

When he competed in 2000, just like he had four other years, he got tripped by another runner at the 16-mile mark and fell. Hard.

The fall broke the computer chip which runners insert in their shoelaces, and which race officials use to both track progress and issue final results.

So, when Esty-Kendall got to the finish, a volunteer reached down to collect the device and came up chipless. He was unofficial.

“I’ve had two good Bostons. Two bad Bostons. And one really weird Boston when I lost the chip,” he summed up.

The punch line: Esty-Kendall has a photo of himself crossing the finish line, but officials say that never happened. And they sent him two letters trying to bill him for the missing computer chip.

But don’t think he doesn’t still have a sense of humor, especially where his fellow runners are concerned.

Like Chris Almy of Charleston, for instance.

Almy wandered the streets of Hopkinton for much of Monday morning, looking for the house on Hayden Rowe. And when he arrived, he found friends who didn’t mind winding him up a bit.

Not that he needed much winding.

Call him nervous. Call him worked up. Heck, Almy will tell you himself.

“I am just so scared,” he said, watching as runners stream from Hopkinton High School toward the starting line.

About every 10 seconds, Almy whispered one word.

“Unbelievable … unbelievable … unbelievable.

“What’s your pulse rate?” Esty-Kendall asked, preying on an endurance athlete’s Achilles’ heel.

Almy glanced at his watch, which, among other things, can tell him exactly what his ticker’s up to.

“Fifty,” he said. “Not bad.”

But Esty-Kendall’s not done. Not yet.

“There’s a good number of people here,” Almy pointed out. “A few more than that Fourth of July deal.”

Esty-Kendall agreed, and the conversation turned to other matters. Not for long.

Looking over Almy’s shoulder and gaping as if Bill Rogers and Frank Shorter had just teleported onto Hayden Rowe, Esty-Kendall got Almy’s attention.

“Wowwwww,” he said in mock awe. “Loooook at all these people.”

Almy’s eyes bugged out. He spun on his heels and looked. Then he snapped back around.

“Don’t do that!” he scolded.

Esty-Kendall laughed. He knew he’d succeeded.

A quick check of Almy’s watch confirmed his suspicion.

Pulse rate: 89, and climbing.

“I just need some security blankets,” Almy said, chuckling, knowing that he’d found just that at a house on Hayden Rowe.

“That’s all I need.”