INVISIBLE Bermudians are the Major Irritant of the Week.

Bermudians, I have one thing to say to you. Where the heck were you on Monday?

We waited three hours on Beacon Street, but you were a no-show. Maybe you were there and we didn't recognise you. Next time, wear something obvious, so we can yell, "Go Bermuda" at the right people. As it was, we had to yell it at random passers-by in the hope that one of them might be a fellow islander.

I am, of course, referring to the Boston Marathon held last Monday. The marathon route, coincidentally, runs right past my sister's apartment.

Our interest started in a small way. We weren't even going to watch, but hide out indoors until the whole crazy thing was over. We're not exactly into sports or cheerleading. In school, running was a source of humiliation for me. Then my husband thought he spotted some Bermudians in the mall the night before.

"Maybe as we're walking up the street we might see one of them in the race," my husband suggested tentatively.

"When they get close, we'll go outside and watch. That's all, a few seconds, then back to our ordinary lives."

He was, of course, completely oblivious to the fact that 17,000 people were going to run, jog, limp, whiz, careen, crawl and walk past the apartment. There's no way you can just pop outside and see your fellow countrymen running by and then go back to your normal routine.

What started as a few minutes on the sidewalk turned into a staked-out spot, with deck chairs, soda, potato chips and sunburn.

The best part of the race was watching the wheelchair racers go by ages ahead of the runners. Wow, now that looked like fun. It's not every day you can say that about wheelchairs, but those things were flying.

The wheelchair winner, Ernst Van Dyke from South Africa, made it from Hopkington to Boston in one hour, 28 minutes and 32 seconds. What a feeling to be the very first person across that line, more than 40 minutes ahead of the winning runner, Kenyan Robert Kipkoech Cheruiyot (2 hours, 10 minutes, 11 seconds). But people are always condescending. "All that really matters is the runners."

What we discovered sitting out there, watching the Boston Marathon, was not so much how great running was, but the joy of yelling at strangers. It's the same exhilaration you get from speeding past tourists on mopeds and yelling: "Speed it up! Get a move on!"

We stayed out there until 3.45 and didn't see anyone who was obviously Bermudian. When we saw a maple leaf we cheered for the Canadians, when we saw someone in green, we yelled, 'Go Ireland', when we saw someone with a television on their head we yelled for TV-turn-off week. The smart people wrote their names on their chests or wore shorts made out of their home flag. When a guy ran by with "Go Fockett" written on his T-shirt, we were wisely silent.

We tried to spot our Bermudians, we really did, but did I mention the number of runners? Finally, we gave up and went home. By that time our hands were raw from clapping. We were all dizzy. "I see people running," my husband said hoarsely with his eyes closed. "They won't stop. Make them go away."

As it turned out, there was at least one Bermudian runner that we missed. Calvin Steede placed 3,647th in three hours, 29 minutes and 54 seconds, which is pretty damn good considering there were more than 17,000 runners.

We were probably still outside when he ran by. Next time we're going to take a big old Bermuda flag, hire some gombeys, maybe get a loudspeaker to play God Save The Queen. I'm sure the Americans will understand.