While I can still run it crossed my mind to complete a marathon. Reasonably fit, for my age, with a bit of training the 26 miles would be a walk in the park for me. My feat would evoke envy in those runners that have the marathon on their bucket list. With the goal of outbucketing the bucketeers I prepared. I got as far as buying comfortable training shoes but after a few jogs I got phed up with dese and chucked them in the bin.
There’s no point in a marathon. Going pell-mell with the hoi polloi in the peloton, all those miles of torture just to fleetingly pass El Diablo and then there’s the side stiches. Do it for charity not the glory, opined some. I do charity, I never pass a bucket in the street or shops without throwing in some loose drachma. You can do it in a chicken suit, opined others. οικόσιτα πτηνά, my left caruncle. Don’t spartan something you can’t finish, opined the do ‘ave ’ems. They were right, that’s what got this silly run going in the first place.
I blame the Persians. If only those ancient sons of Zoroaster could fight.