Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda

Listen to me whine. I'm watching the coverage of the LaSalle Bank 2004 Chicago Marathon and live tracking the progress of my friend Kevin Bogatitus, and boy do I feel left out.

I should be out there.

I decided I would participate in the marathon back in early May, but didn't get around to training for it until June. But I figured, if P. Diddy could run the City after just 2 months of training, then why can't I with just 4? I wasn't the most diligent at training for the marathon, but I did peak at 12 miles in 100 minutes. That's about an 8:30 pace, which would get me past the finish line in a little over 3 and a half hours. That's an Oprah pace, dudes. Sigh. What could have been.

I had a lot against me though. Previously to this summer I had never jogged more than 3 miles, ever. And I'm flat-footed, so that's a problem too I think. Being a first-time runner and all, I risked heart-failure, dehydration, foot blisters, etc. Eating pizza every day in New York didn't exactly put me in tip-top shape either. However those obstacles only excited me more.

But my support group was very thin. My dad was pissed about it and said I have too much "egotism". Roy laughed and said I'd never make it. Frank suggested I do it next year. Dave commented that my body was becoming skinnier from all that running and less attractive. May forbade me to run it. My sister wasn't too keen on the idea either.

So I decided not to do it, and I've been kicking myself in the ass since. The fact that I could easily do it next year doesn't interest me at all, either. The risk of death just isn't imminent enough. You see, I looked at marathon running as the ultimate rush, my prolonged sky-diving experience. I wanted to be somewhere on the 19th mile, freaking out from hallucinations and stuff like that. I wanted to be somewhere on the 23rd mile with my head swaying back and forth with each step in intense pain. And then I wanted to be on the 26th mile, crossing the finish line, stumbling to the ground in agony with blood oozing out of my socks from blisters and my heart pounding in my head.

But no, I quit. It's all good though.