Boston is a Pie, not a Sport

goals, originally uploaded by gopre_gome.

I will never run in the Boston Marathon. I don’t want to. I don’t even want to qualify. A runner my age, my gender, would have to run 26.2 miles an average of 7 minutes 56 seconds to qualify.

No. Thank. You.

I do, however, like the idea of being in an elite “club”. Of the idea that I wear a jacket or something that says, “I’m tough. Go me.”

Oh, yeah. I’ve worn the same wedding ring for almost 11 years and I have 3 of the most wonderful children on the planet. …screw the bright yellow of the BAA’s jackets. 🙂 My trip from Hopkinton to Bean Town happened thrice: each time I delivered a healthy baby without an epidural. …talk about a HeartBreak Hill…

Marathoning (a word which here means: to voluntarily subject oneself to pain, bad food, and no toilet paper for 26.2 miles) is not fun. There are Great Races. There are Awesome Moments. There really isn’t any Fun until some (glorious! kind! amazing!) volunteer hangs a cheese-ball medal around your neck. I’ve only finished one marathon. That one Finish, though…that one Fun time…

…it’s like my tattoos. Yes, I underwent the pain, the glory once and forever. Yes, it was cool at the time. Yes, I want more. I want more ink, I want more medals.

Inkwise, I want beautiful wings in black and white nuances on the top/sides of my feet. Medalwise, I want Marine Corps.

It’s more likely that Chef Boyardee will go on a hunger strike than I’ll get more ink. The USMC26.2, though…there’s some pain I can achieve. USMC26.2 is my Boston, my nemesis, my…my trip to Tiffany &Co.

…someday, after I’ve trained hard enough, been motived enough, gotten mad enough, I’ll toe the line with 36,000 other people again. I’ll be insulted along the way, but it won’t matter. I’ll be stepped on and made to bleed again, but it won’t matter. I’ll Beat the Bridge and I’ll finish, weeping openly at the base of the Iwo Jima memorial. …someday…

So for now, I simply offer my congratulations to today’s finishers and starters of the Boston Marathon. My advice to them: after the race, go have some pie. Because Boston is dessert. Not a race.

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