Awesome
Awesome is running 26.2 miles dressed as a rhinoceros. Or running 26.2 miles at the age of 77. Or, come to think of it, running 26.2 miles at all.
I love watching the marathon just to see the variety of people who think a Sunday well spent involves getting up at 5 AM to force one’s body through all sorts of unnatural contortions for the sheer pleasure of running 26.2 miles.
Due to sheer sloth, I had a rough time dragging my sorry corpus out of bed by 10:32 on Sunday. I clicked on the TV so see what was what for the progress of the nutbags who were making their way up 4th Avenue in Brooklyn.
And there it was . . . LanceCam. Lance Armstrong, hero, yellow-bracelet wearer, one-testicled cyclist extraordinaire, was running his first marathon surrounded by a phalanx of past marathon stars, and preceded by two dudes on a motorcycle; one steering and one seated backwards to catch Lance’s every stride with his camera.
Lance was at 36th Street! Oh, Jesus! If I wanted to see Lance, public decency was going to have to wait. ‘Bra be damned,’ I thought, as I zipped up my hoodie over bare skin (shirt be damned. Too) and hoofed it out the door, hair uncombed, sleep still crusting my eyes, hoping to get a glimpse of the man as he went past my block.
Apparently, Lance, in mile 8 of the marathon, is significantly faster than me, boobs a-jiggle, trotting down the hill for an avenue and a half to try to make it to 4th Avenue and 15th before he flits past.
I traipsed back home to apply undergarments to myself and then hopped on my bike to head to Reba’s house to watch Johnny’s cousin Allie go by. Which she did, looking like she was out for a refreshing stroll in the country, instead of a third of the way a trip through hell. I think it was those endorphins – she was freakin’ high.
Reba, Keshia, and I stayed at 4th Ave and Butler to cheer on more runners. Apparently, the entire country of France was required to participate, but I can’t tell you how much pleasure I had screaming “Vive la France!” at the top of my lungs and having weary French types brighten up at my English pig-dog accent.
The Italians were also out in force, and while they represent a large portion of my ancestry, I was only marginally confident yelling out “Viva l’Italia!” That very well may be Spanish, for all I know.
I screamed until I was hoarse and clapped until my hands stung. Then, humbled by this awesome parade of running humanity, I had two beers and a glass of wine before noon, toasting my running brethren with each gulp.
I love watching the marathon just to see the variety of people who think a Sunday well spent involves getting up at 5 AM to force one’s body through all sorts of unnatural contortions for the sheer pleasure of running 26.2 miles.
Due to sheer sloth, I had a rough time dragging my sorry corpus out of bed by 10:32 on Sunday. I clicked on the TV so see what was what for the progress of the nutbags who were making their way up 4th Avenue in Brooklyn.
And there it was . . . LanceCam. Lance Armstrong, hero, yellow-bracelet wearer, one-testicled cyclist extraordinaire, was running his first marathon surrounded by a phalanx of past marathon stars, and preceded by two dudes on a motorcycle; one steering and one seated backwards to catch Lance’s every stride with his camera.
Lance was at 36th Street! Oh, Jesus! If I wanted to see Lance, public decency was going to have to wait. ‘Bra be damned,’ I thought, as I zipped up my hoodie over bare skin (shirt be damned. Too) and hoofed it out the door, hair uncombed, sleep still crusting my eyes, hoping to get a glimpse of the man as he went past my block.
Apparently, Lance, in mile 8 of the marathon, is significantly faster than me, boobs a-jiggle, trotting down the hill for an avenue and a half to try to make it to 4th Avenue and 15th before he flits past.
I traipsed back home to apply undergarments to myself and then hopped on my bike to head to Reba’s house to watch Johnny’s cousin Allie go by. Which she did, looking like she was out for a refreshing stroll in the country, instead of a third of the way a trip through hell. I think it was those endorphins – she was freakin’ high.
Reba, Keshia, and I stayed at 4th Ave and Butler to cheer on more runners. Apparently, the entire country of France was required to participate, but I can’t tell you how much pleasure I had screaming “Vive la France!” at the top of my lungs and having weary French types brighten up at my English pig-dog accent.
The Italians were also out in force, and while they represent a large portion of my ancestry, I was only marginally confident yelling out “Viva l’Italia!” That very well may be Spanish, for all I know.
I screamed until I was hoarse and clapped until my hands stung. Then, humbled by this awesome parade of running humanity, I had two beers and a glass of wine before noon, toasting my running brethren with each gulp.
posted by Liz at 11:13 AM
5 Comments:
'boobs a-jiggle' - classic.
I thought it was classier than 'tits shaking . . . '
I'm impressed, I wouldn't run to see Lance if you paid me.
There was definitely no lack of imagination in marathon attire, but it was the girl wearing a t-shirt with two simple words who got the most cheers. 'Impeach Bush' gets the NY crowd hootin' & hollerin' every time.
gurl, thanks for adding my blog link - but its the wrong one!
www.squindia.blogspot.com
:)
Post a Comment
<< Home