5 reasons NOT to run a marathon

29 12 2007

Only a person who has slipped in some idiot juice and fallen face-first into a vat of “I’m off my tree” would even consider it. Insanity clean-up on aisle three!

Think about it: driving for 26.2 miles is a pain in the arse, viagra buy treat and you’re thinking about running it with 40, site 000 people in your car?

Here’s a suggestion. Slip a stone into your shoe and walk around for 6 hours. Then see how on top of Ol’ Smokey and covered in failure you feel. Oh, and don’t forget to surround yourself with other insane asylum escapees who will happily throw little paper cups of sticky liquid in your face and call it “aid”.

‘Cause that’s a marathon.

And if you’re still going to do it, you’re playing footsies with your own delusions. You’re slick with the idiot juice. Practically pickled in it after four months of training.


And you’ll know you’re insane at Mile 18 of your precious marathon. You’ll shake hands with Mile 18 and discover it has a cold, wet-fish handshake that lingers a little too long.

But there’s more. Over mile 18’s shoulder, you’ll spot something else. In the distance. Here comes Insanity Check, riding over the horizon on a ruddy great mare. This sinewy thoroughbred will pull up right in front of you and snort in your reddened face. At which point Insanity Check will dismount and stick a fork in your thigh to see if any juice comes out. And none will.

‘Cause that’s a marathon.

That’s why insane people scream.

Which brings us to the second reason NOT to run a marathon. Read the rest of this entry »

Run, Noodle. Run.

15 10 2007

Knees creaking, viagra buy malady popping, doctor whining and grinding, I reach the summit of Manhattan Bridge and spy three old Chinese women in the distance. They swing their arms in exaggerated Tai Chi mimes, seemingly parting then promptly re-joining an invisible Red Sea. Over and over and over again.

It’s 6am when we pass each other by. I’m in my running kit, they’re in their colorful blouses and simple, flat-soled shoes. We say a ‘hey’ of sorts, as has become our morning ritual, then clench our ears in solidarity as a subway train rumbles by. It is a yellow line train. The N. And it suffocates all other sound, including the rasp of my lungs and their sing-song patter.

I run on.

Past graffiti’d rooftops and down, down off the bridge and into the belly of Chinatown.

Hey, look at me! Street weaver, dustbin dancer prancer! I zig and zag. I high-step over a fish head and strewn garbage. A quick wink to the statue in Chatham Square. Love your pigeon poop coat and hat! Then I turn right and head towards City Hall. Feet pounding, heart thudding. Brain ignoring the hard-hatted construction Joes buying java from a street cart.

I run on. On to the scruffy welcome mat of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Hit Pause. Read the rest of this entry »

Clueless begets unafraid

9 10 2005

Jack: What are your legs?
Archy: Springs. Steel springs.
Jack: What are they going to do?
Archy: Hurl me down the track.
Inspirational running coach Uncle Jack, discount cialis pilule from the film “Gallipoli”

Here I am in a foreign land, cialis sale within a foreign land. I’m in the enigma state. Riddles and mysteries a’wrestlin’ on a Rubbermaid floor. Without the correct ear protection.

This state is called New Hampshire.

Here you live free or die.

The ‘free’ they speak of on their license plates is not related to nudism. The ‘die’ could be spelt differently and have something to do with textiles. But it doesn’t. This ‘die’ is 100%, prescription bona fide death, deadybones, doornail type stuff.

Mix the ‘die’ and ‘free’ with ‘live’ in a stainless steel cooking vat and it can be interpreted thusly:

“If you wear a Yankees baseball cap in our backyard on the day when that bunch of overpaid fat chats with manicures are playing the Red Sox, today is the day of your death. Oh, and if you try to drive normally here—you know, obey traffic rules and that malarkey—well, you might die too.”

I wish we’d known this before we went. Read the rest of this entry »

Nor the years condemn

22 07 2004

In the pantry of my brain, buy cialis mind Motivation is on the very top shelf. Waaay up the back, buy viagra decease right behind the dusty canisters of Go-gettedness and Rememberability. Now, while we’re cruising around the Noodle larder of behaviors, just bend your eye to the labels on the lower shelves. Check out the first things I encounter when trying to navigate through my day.

Ah, here we can see a pungent batch of Procrastination…one of those fancy re-generating jars that never needs refilling. And look there, it’s the mystical ‘Fall-down-at-the-drop-of-a-hat’ canopic jar! To its right, the ‘Vacant Looks’ urn. Supersized of course. The ‘Out-of-the-blue-weird-thoughts’ jar snuggles closely to the ‘Can’t-manage-to-keep-in-touch-with-friends’ tub. Yes, all these things come to hand quite easily when the brain reaches for my daily life ingredients.

So, the following story may come as some surprise.

In July—brace yourself—in July my brain got out the stepladder, reached a sweaty neuron way up high and back and a little to the left, grabbed the Motivation jar and blew dust off its puny, unused body. I flipped the lid and reactions were instantaneous. Motivation swiveled its shifty eyes and made a dash for my psyche, causing me to dash. Literally.

Still braced? Let’s just change course for a moment. Read the rest of this entry »

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