|
Volume CXXXIII, Number 8 |
 |
If P.Diddy can do it, so can I
TODD WILLIAMS
CONTRIBUTOR
If you ever decide to run a marathon, make sure you choose one with someone famous in it; it takes your mind off the task at hand...running that is.
The fact that there's someone famous on the streets ahead of you makes your mind wander to questions like: What kind of shoes is he wearing? Did his entourage train with him? How did he convince a 300-pound bodyguard, Bubba, to run a marathon? And most importantly, can I beat HIM?
With all these questions floating through your head, you almost forget that you're running at all.
The idea to run a marathon presented itself to me innocently enough one afternoon this summer. I was at work in D.C. and one of my co-workers needed someone to fill in for her friend. I signed up, downloaded the training plan and started running, thinking, "Hey, this will be fun. How hard can this really be? Old people do this!"
By week four of the training, I realized that what I had gotten myself into was a lot more than just a fitness plan. I had shin splints, a sore hip, and worst of all, I couldn't go out to the bar with my buddies after work because I had to run. By this time, though, it was too late; I had committed myself to the race.
As the summer wore on, I got into a rhythm and my body adjusted to the mileage. I sweated through the worst of the D.C. summer, doing laps around the Mall, and was grateful for the cool Maine weather once school began. The training turned into a sort of ritual, one where I could escape from the day and think without distraction. I almost began to enjoy running. It was at this point that I realized I had signed up, unknowingly, against one of my pop anti-idols, the artist formerly known as Puff Daddy. I was determined to beat him.
Now, four months and countless miles of training later, I was on my way to the Big Apple. Nervous, yes. Scared, no. All I had to tell myself when those little twinges of doubt start creeping in was: HEY, IF P.DIDDY CAN DO THIS THEN SO CAN I!!
At the starting line my friend and I caught a glimpse of him, surrounded by ten guards, clad with expensive Nike sweats and sporting huge diamond earrings. Who runs in diamond earrings? He's so going down. I had visions of me passing him, yelling, "T.Willy's taking over your city!"
Alas, P.Diddy got to start before the rest of us peons. Apparently, he had special arrangements and needed to be isolated from the masses, so they let him get a head start. I disagreed with this but no one seemed to care.
The first seven miles were a blur. Way too many people, both running and cheering. It was all I could do to keep from running into 83-year-old Grandma on my right and a smelly guy on my left.
Miles seven through 15 were spent trying to weave through the pack. Just before leaving Brooklyn we passed a pub where the fans were handing out beer instead of water. Thinking "carbos!" I chugged a small glass as I ran and half of it went down my shirt.
The beer kicked in at mile 16 and I realized that it probably wasn't the smartest idea. I began burping and my legs felt like jello. I decided to take it easy on the booze for the rest of the race.
We got to the Power Gel station at mile 18. I ripped open two and squeezed them down my throat. If you've never had Power Gel, imagine something with the consistency of caulking putty and the taste of epoxy...not the most tasteful or appealing of products. But they seemed to work better than beer and I got a burst of energy by mile 20.
Reports from fans indicated that P.Diddy was just ahead. My friend and I broke from our trot into a wobbly, weaving run in an attempt to get to him before the finish line. Back in Manhattan we pushed up Fifth Avenue, past the people puking on the side of the road, towards the park entrance. All of the sudden this guy next to us blurts out "Mother F#$%@er!" as if that would assuage the pain. I thought to myself, "I know how you feel brother."
Fixated on my goal of beating P.Diddy in a photo finish, we picked up the pace with two miles to go. I knew in my heart that P.Diddy was just ahead and the screaming fans seemed to confirm my belief.
I can't remember the last mile entirely. My mind, in an attempt to block out trauma, has erased that part. I do remember looking beside me as I crossed the finish line, hands in the air, and seeing not P.Diddy, but 83-year-old Grandma instead. I guess we can't all beat P.Diddy, but then again, he did get a head start. He's going down next time.
|
FastCounter by bCentral |