no.39 - Marathogger

Every year, just before the Boston Marathon, there are joggers out for their morning jog who just "happen" to stray onto the marathon route.

They seem surprised to find thousands of people lining the road. They keep jogging with a mild look of confusion on their glassy faces. Apparently they managed to forget that today was the biggest running event in Boston; an event so big the entire city shuts down; an event so well known and anticipated that villagers in Kenya and farmers in Russia train to participate for years.

It must be nice to roll out of bed, throw on your sweats and pretend to you are every bit as much an athlete as Robert Cheruiyot or Dire Tune (Dire Tune, by the way is the coolest name of all time - sorry Ute Pippig.)

I've seen this happen for several years now. But today I saw a new and more pathetic variation where joggers finished their joggings near the finish line so they could mill around Boston feeling awesome and basking the in the good will the spectators show towards anyone sweaty and tired.

Do you think Rosie Ruiz started her running career this way?

no.37 - The Speed of a Girl

For many years, I had a ritual on Saturday mornings of racing a two hundred yard dash. My competitors were Fourth, Fifth and Sixth Graders at the enrichment program where I teach. Our finish line was the gates of a distant playground. The race was not a formal affair, but rather a contest in which the last party to arrive was briefly considered to be a spoiled egg.

Before we would begin, I would often be told by a boy or two that I was going to lose - big time. Sometimes these boasts would be accompanied by a short resume of accomplishments like: "I'm the fastest kid on my soccer team," or "I have track shoes."

These pronouncements were irrelevant. I could easily beat them to the playground, often turning around to face them as I ran backwards across the designated finish line.

Perhaps I should not have taken pleasure in victory over kids a third of my age, but if they began to trash talk, all bets were off. Who can help but feel a little satisfaction in defeating someone who thinks they are entitled to victory?

Then, one morning, I remember seeing a tall fifth grade girl appear to my right during the race. She had not said a word in the brief moments leading up to the race. I looked at her, more than a little surprised that she was keeping up my pace.

"Now you're gonna have to try," she said casually, pouring on the speed. I pushed on as fast as I could, not wanting to admit that up to that point I had been trying. Her small feet flew across the grass at a rapid staccato pace I did not consider natural. She easily beat me by several yards.

As I tried to recover my breath and my dignity, the girl proudly informed me she was the fastest girl her age in the state — maybe the country — and that if I wished, one day I would be able to watch her run in the Olympics on television.

Behind us, the remaining pack of runners thundered in. The boys in the group were bewildered and dejected because boys almost always expect to defeat girls in athletics. This despite years of warnings by situation comedies. The girls were asking; "How'd you do that?" as if she possessed a secret trick that might allow them all to defeat boys and teachers everywhere.

The girl's accomplishment as an athlete made my defeat easier to justify, but obscured the fact that those grumbling boys weren't so very far behind me. Though I failed to notice it, I was slowing down and age was creeping up

no.36 - The Speed of a Boy

Last night, while archiving old tapes, I came across some video of myself running. The footage in question was not exciting sprints from my youth or analysis of my long distance form. No. It was ridiculous scenes of my friend Sean and I engaged in an absurd, poorly-acted chase with an improvised plot.

It all amused me until I remembered how fast I once had been. Through the grace of youth and genes I had once been given the gift of speed.

Looking at the footage I began to feel something akin to regret. It is hard not to long for a time when I was free to play in a field all day and to videotape the nonsense to boot.

But the beauty of that spring day and the ridiculous behavior captured on that videotape obscures the fact that 18 years ago I had no real job, few prospects and a lot of worry. I was thin and quick, yes, but I was taut with with a gnawing worry at my uncertain future.