Humor by John Christmann
The Long Run
Pad. Pad. Pad. Pad. I can hear the faint echo reflect off the houses as my feet brush lightly over the asphalt. I am breathing methodically between strides; I am working comfortably. I can go on like this for another twenty-six. Easily.
I love watching the New York City Marathon on TV. Every year I am inspired by the lithe, carbo-loaded bodies that waste themselves heroically across the Central Park finish line. I am reminded how fortunate I am to be witnessing these great displays of human spirit from the comfort of my couch.
It is hard not to be roused watching The Marathon, and this year the broadcast was fueled with enough drama to make Charlie Sheen teary-eyed.
For example, Chilean miner Edison Pena, after training 69 days deep with a collapsed mine, painfully crossed the finish line thankful that it was located above ground. Not to be outdone, cystic fibrosis survivor Tim Sweeney huffed his way through the grueling race on two transplanted lungs that were generously preserved for the race by famed diver Jacques Cousteau. The complex surgical procedure was done in route as he passed New York Presbyterian Hospital.
And then there was the 75 year old lady from Las Vegas who ran the race in record time after spending 128 mind-numbing hours in Wall-Mart trying to find a matching pair of Adidas.
At some point during The Marathon—usually as the more portly runners wait their turn to start the arduous journey across the Verrazano bridge—guilt sets in. I feel compelled to lace up my running shoes, brace myself against the frosty chill, and start my cranky legs moving rhythmically down the street. Starting is the hardest part I tell myself, though finishing is pretty bad too.
Phapat. Phapat. Phapat. Phapat. My feet are getting a little heavier now. And it is really cold. My breath is painting the air and dissipating in rapid puffs behind me. I imagine myself running through Queens at mile 13. Maybe if they held a marathon in rural Connecticut I would consider entering.
My kids want to know how it is New Jersey hosts two New York football teams but doesn’t hold The Marathon. After all, they say, there are roads in New Jersey too.
I tell them that living is a marathon in New Jersey.
But I know the real reason New Jersey doesn’t hold a marathon is that runners would get lost following the road signs. After several days we would likely see Kenyan skeletons plodding across the Delaware Memorial Bridge or gaunt Ethiopians grimacing their way through the Poconos. The rest of the pack might be circling endlessly around Newark Airport.
Kerthoop. Kerthoop. Kerthoop. KerHOOOFFF. I think a lot when I run. Sometimes about how I need to pay attention to street curbs. I have a lot of pain in my knees right now; where I skinned them falling down. I find my thoughts stringing methodically from a philosophical examination of pain to the New York City Marathon and then to donuts.
I do my best thinking when I run. My wife says I need to run more.
Exactly 2500 years ago, in 490 B.C. (Before Converse), a fleet-footed messenger named Pheidippides sprinted from Marathon to Athens, a distance of 26 miles, to announce the Greek victory over the Persians. Legend has it Pheidippides collapsed and died after arriving in Athens with his message.
Why he didn’t text the results is beyond me, but so began the great mystique of athleticism and human drive that has surrounded the modern day marathon event ever since.
This year I was most inspired when the men’s favorite, Haile Gebrselassie, bowed out of the race at mile 16 with a knee injury and then retired all together from the sport he dominated.
“If Haile Gebrselassie can stop running, then so can I!” I said to myself with great fanfare. Out of respect for the heroic athlete, I decided to call myself Haile Unlikely hoping that I too, would be able to summon the courage from within to stop running. Maybe soon.
Flapoop. Flapoop. Flapoop. Flapoop. Just a half mile more. I can smell the finish line. It smells a lot like Dunkin Donuts. But I don’t know if I can break through the wall of pain that is eating my cream filled body with every plodding step. Now is the time to reach down deep into the core of my being.
Fortunately there are two quarters down there so I can call my wife and have her drive down the block and pick me up. With any luck at all I can watch the finish of The Marathon after I finish my donut.
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