Miles From Nowhere

Zoinks!

And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids!
Villain, Scooby Doo

Look, I’m the first one to admit that I have issues.  I mean forgodsakes I’m in love with a race, how weird is that?

But even I occasionally concede that there exists a generally agreed upon version of reality that does not always mesh with my own customized model of the universe.  Even I occasionally bow to the gods of this communally defined reality, if for no other reason than that I need to maintain employment in order to keep myself in running shoes, and sane people are usually paid more money than crazy people.

But the clown? I don’t mind saying, I’m a little worried about him.  Of course he was there. How could he not be?

I first became aware of his presence at Mile 8. How long he had been trailing me prior to that I really can’t say, though I suspect he had been planning his move for a while. I had been driving along with the Black Eyed Peas at a perfect 10:40 pace on a perfect day, not a care in the world other than having to decide between a vanilla gel at the next water stop or the caffeinated raspberry gel I usually reserved for Mile 10.  I was pondering this very decision (vanilla or raspberry, raspberry or vanilla) when I heard a ruckus behind me and to the left.  The unmistakable sound of a cheering crowd, right smack dab in the middle of Imma Be.

Imma what?

Even as I registered this auditory anomaly and turned my head to seek out its cause, even before my head had fully executed its automatic swivel, even as my CNS struggled to make some sense of all the sites and sounds around me at that moment, even then I knew. Only the clown could get a crowd going like that.

Sure enough, there he was in all his glory, right off my rear quarter and gaining on me fast:  green page-boy wig, unshaven visage, Hannah Montana sunglasses, geometric print mini-dress.  Peacing the crowd and hamming it up.

I brought my pace up briefly in order to get a good look at the guy. My first thought was:  “Looks like somebody’s been hittin’ the gym, and we all know it ain’t been me.” Clearly the clown was not taking this contest lightly. The previous bulk that I had mistaken for fat was in fact muscle, lots and lots of muscle. Mini-dresses don’t lie, and this guy is no joke.

Then came the most shocking revelation of all.  It happened as I drew in front of him briefly, hoping to get a look at his number so that I could finally unmask this villain in true Scooby Doo style. I was initially bewildered by what I saw, or should I say, what I failed to see.

No number. A nefarious bandit!  I should have known. Just another freaking narcissist making a mockery of this time honored and revered tradition that is the Boston Marathon. A cheat.

I quickly reviewed my options. No police officers anywhere in site, no water table for another half mile, no official race personnel anywhere.  Just a bunch of clowns in running shoes, all of them far too busy thinking about the remaining 18 miles to care much about someone else’s battle.  As I say, he timed his advance pretty carefully. There was little I could do other than text my pit crew with the details. “Cln ahead at 8. Grn wig geo prnt dress.  BANDIT!”  The immediate response came back:  “Run your own race.”  Wise words.

I let him go. The unmasking would have to wait for another day, as I had other battles to fight.  I  ended up finishing with my best time ever on Monday.  An awesome day to end all awesome days.

And the clown?  Let’s review what we know about the him at this point in time.

1)   he is a cheat and a liar
2)   he enjoys dressing in woman’s clothing in public
3)   he is ashamed to show his face

Pretty big issues here.

And without a number, the contest with the clown has taken on all the validity of a card game of War with my deck stacking 7 year old daughter. At this point we don’t know if the clown started in Hopkinton or Framingham.  Was he really running the marathon, or was he running his own little 10k?  There are times when the generally agreed upon version of reality must be acknowledged, and road races are one of the few remaining bastions of this group-think model.

Get a grip Mr. Clown.  Then maybe we’ll have a contest.

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