Why does the one Sunday that you want to go out for Sunday breakfast always coincide with the same morning as the L.A. Marathon? I can't believe that it is that time once again for the thrill of victory and the agony of people that secrete. Thoughts of waffles subside; as you are barricaded within your neighborhood streets against your will. I am convinced that one of my Constitutional rights has been violated. Where is the Republican party when you need them?
The Sunday L.A. Times is useless. The editors have combined all of the sections into one. Laker scores and obits are right next to each other. Rick Santorum is on Meet The Press espousing the value of chastity belts. There is no football to watch. My a.d.d. is on overdrive. I am a prisoner in my own home because some skinny Ethiopian is running down Sunset Boulevard.
I decide to watch the race on tv. For some unknown reason I get excited when they pass by a landmark that I recognize. It is the same dry cleaners that I drove by yesterday. But today, "FAROUK'S EXTRA DRY CLEANERS", takes on a new luster.
Right away African men and women take to the lead. Marathon experts start spouting that training in high altitudes is the reason for the athletes' superiority. I surmise that if I had my ass being chased by Joseph Kony I'd be hauling it too.
Before changing the course a few years ago, the marathon used to run right by our house. Which was fun for the first few hours. We waved at the cyclists. Tried to find an ounce of fat on the elite women runners. Recognized a few "B" celebrities. "Oh look, there goes Scott Bakula." Cheered on a few of the locals that were competing. Especially the one that made a pit stop at his own house to relieve himself and turn off his sprinklers.
After the first three hours in front of your house you have no more, "keep it goings" left in you. The freak show section of the marathon now parades up your street. You no longer wonder where the ounces of fat from the elite female runners had disappeared to. A team of expanding spandex approaches. The third gay guy dressed as Ellen DeGeneres looked like he was having a heart attack as he jogged by. A collie jumped from a carriage being pushed by its running owner and begged me for asylum.
It is almost dusk. My car still remains parked in my driveway as stragglers pass by endlessly. Some make snarky comments about my neighborhood. "I bet most of these homeowners are underwater." These pathetic joggers form the underbelly of the marathon. You can't really call them runners. They are mostly amblers. These aren't the folks that are running for their friend that might have leukemia. They are never interviewed by the local tv stations. They are mostly relatives of telemarketers that never had much of a significant social life. I'm glad that the marathon changed course a few years back and no longer passes by my house. Really glad.
The week following the marathon usually brings out the bragging fools. The minions that claim to have just run in Sunday's marathon. Office workers, idiots in grocery check out lanes, assisted living residents. Most of their stories are simply that - stories. The numbers never add up. It's like the many old hippies that always say that they were at Woodstock. "Man, I slid in the mud with Santana." Sure you did.
I am not here to disparage the true participants in the marathon. My friend's fiance ran this year. Very proud of her achievement. I'd like to have on my resume that I just completed that run. However; it's been awhile since I ran a 10k. A 5k. Or even eaten Special K. Maybe next year's marathon. I can do it, I say out loud. Start training tomorrow. I can already envision myself running down San Vicente Blvd. with a Tanzanian hottie. Actually what I can see myself doing is simply telling people that I ran in last weekend's marathon. If you don't believe me - ask Scott Bakula.
You always make me laugh, Simon!!!
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