Let’s talk about marathon runners, shall we? I don’t have anything against them personally, in fact when they’re not busy posting Facebook pictures of their race bibs, I like them. But entire albums of those wrinkly, sweat-stained squares of paper? They’re almost as bad ultrasound photos.
I mean that’s great that you’re into fitness, and that after six or so months of neglecting everyone and everything else in your life you can now the run the same distance that the Greek soldier Pheidippides ran to Athens in 490 B.C….
But you do know that Pheidippides is said to have collapsed and died afterwards, right?
You do know that running that far just isn’t natural?
Also, while we’re on the subject, I’m pretty sure that if poor old Pheidippides had had access to an iPhone like you do, he would have used it. For communication purposes. Not to track his heart rate. And certainly not to post his latest time to Facebook.
I wouldn’t mind marathon runners, you see, if they weren’t so public about their habits.
A while back, when I was
stalking the cute guy who worked at the gym going to yoga regularly, a fellow yogi walked into class and announced, “I got into Broad Street!”
“Broad Street what?” I thought. Broad Street parking garage? Broad Street Coffee Shop? Was there a new nightclub I didn’t know about?
But she wasn’t talking about a parking garage or a swanky new nightclub. She was talking about the Broad Street Run.
Obviously this was the only worthwhile event to ever occur on Broad Street, which is why it’s acceptable to drop the “run” part entirely and just assume that those in the know know.
I recently bought the soundtrack to the film Chef on iTunes. It’s great. So great that I had to text the man I went out with two Sundays ago to tell him all about it.
“It almost makes me want to go running again,” I exclaimed.
“In this heat?”
“Lord no! I don’t want to become one of those crazy people who runs every day, or every week, or every month. It’s tough but I try to restrict myself to 3 or 4 times a year.”
I was a bit worried that he might not appreciate my dedication to mediocre physical fitness so you can imagine my delight when he mentioned “Crossfit” and “annoying” in the same sentence.
“Don’t get me started!” I replied. “I lost of one my favorite guy friends to Crossfit!” (Yes, I’m talking to you, Date #6).
We proceeded to list all the annoying traits of marathon runners. I relayed the story of the girl from my yoga class.
“I bet she has the stickers,” he commiserated. “13.1”
“Wait. 13.1 is a running thing? Like the stickers people put on their cars?”
“Yes, 13.1 is a half marathon.”
I’d always just assumed it was some sort of shorthand biblical reference.
One time I ran three miles.
I know this because my iPod has some sort of Nike tracker thing on it and after I’d run three miles, Tiger Woods came on and offered me his personal congratulations.
It was through my earbuds granted, and pre-recorded, but he sounded very genuine and just knowing Tiger had my back inspired me to run more. I got really excited about the possibility of four miles, and spent my entire cool-down walk back to the house wondering who would congratulate me when I made it to four miles. Would it be Tiger again? Or somebody even better? I struggled to think of someone better (I struggled to think of anyone sporty aside from David Beckham actually, which is why I’ll never be able to go on Jeopardy) but I was pretty sure it would be worth it.
As such, a few weeks ago, I set out for a run. I had the BEST playlist put together: Mackelmore, Pitbull, Don Omar, One Republic and Pharrell of course. (Where would we be without Pharrell?) I had my official running shorts on, my official running sneakers on and my hair in a very athletic-looking ponytail.
Except I got a little too pumped up thanks to the awesomeness of my playlist. So pumped up that I was running way faster than usual. I could feel Tiger telling me to slow down, at least I’m pretty sure that’s what he would have said if he’d actually been there with me, but without his guidance, I couldn’t help myself.
After a mile and a half I got a cramp.
A minute later I was crouched beneath a tree in the shade convinced I was going to throw up or die or both.
I have not been running since.
Then again, it’s summer now, and who runs in the summer?
Marathon runners, that’s who.
Ergo, they are crazy.