All sweat and special shirts and shoes that cost more than any date I've ever personally paid for and pushing through the pain and more sweat and, I'd imagine, lots of blisters. I seriously don't know how you runners put up with all that nonesense. I mean, I'm sure having two percent body fat and living until you're a million helps mitigate the bullshitty physical agony and it probably even offsets the cost a little bit, at least in your mind, but still... yuck to running, I say, though I admire you greatly for your perseverance and general studliness.
I bring it up because, yesterday, I bore witness to what is quite possibly the pinnacle of achievement with regards to the sport of running: The New York City Marathon. I might be a little fuzzy on the facts, but if you're unfamiliar with the concept, the NYC Marathon is this race where nine million people all line up on a bridge and then, at the word "Go," they take off in a dead sprint for 7,339,281 miles until everyone has dropped dead, save for one. He or she is then crowned the winner and THAT'S how we pick who's going to be Mayor of New York every year.
I'm pretty sure that's how it all goes down. Truthfully, I was much more focused on drinking my weight in bloody marys yesterday, and then also drinking a lot of beer and eating a wide assortment of unhealthy foods and letting them all swirl around in my guts for twelve hours like all the twisters in Twister, but made of poo. That was basically my day and, if I do say so myself, I was entirely successful in my efforts.
See, there's this thing people have in New York called a "Marathon Party" and it's where you start drinking at 8am and you don't stop until you're tackled by police officers for trying to join the marathon mid-race fully nude and crying. In general, it's a wonderful concept, this Marathon Party; you get to celebrate a whole bunch of people achieving their goal and performing an incredible feat of human endurance, AND you get do it while obliterating brain cells with a delicate mixture of tomato juice, horseradish, and enough vodka to melt a penny. It's truly a magical time to be young and alive in this, the City of Apples (or whatever) and it's fast becoming one of my favorite pseudo-holidays. Beats the snot of St. Patrick's Day, anyway, because at least with the Marathon you don't have to watch frat guys puke green out their noses like gnarly Double Dare physical challenges.