Philly Marathon. 19th overall. 2:34:01. Can I get credit for a 1/2 marathon PR before the wheels fell off? 1/2 marathon = 1:14:49 (48 second PR) Onward, to the lesson on why distance runners make really bad team players. Saturday: Josie accompanied me to the pre-race expo which, I am starting to see, resembles more and more a carnival sideshow with the hawkers and the 'stick man,' and the Cliff Bar team of 45 year old, balding men who upturn their thinning hair with gel and peer down at you behind black-rimmed, cool-guy glasses and push $5 chocolate 'scientifically-researched' candy bars made in the same vat as the Snickers stirred by the fat, Lunchlady-looking employee in the cinderblock building with the corrugated roof across from the pig farm in North Carolina. Josie thoroughly enjoyed herself stopping at every booth to receive the running bauble that either ends up discarded by the Gen-X, childless couple, or cherished by the 7 year old girl on the way home from the race expo to be eventually discarded into a garage sale, 'misc' 5 cent pile. Bib secured. All official race business is very straight-forward when it come to the Philly Marathon. In fact, there's no hoopla or grandeur in anything with this marathon as evidenced by the woman, who, upon seeing my low bib #, congratulated me for signing up early for the marathon. I love it. -Corpus Immodicus- We duck out of the tent with the money changers and walk down to the Franklin Institute for an afternoon of science -- pushing, pulling, blowing up, and throwing-down innumerable hands-on exhibits to educate you about things like the body, flight, and space exploration. My daughter loves this place and I had to pry her out of it after three hours. My only complaint is that the corpse-chic exhibit with the Hans-and-Frans name created by a modern day 'artistic' Dr. Mengele, BODYWORLDS, is on tour -- we don't go to it. The progeny of the voyeurs at the Roman amphitheater and the Tower of London gawk and gaze open-mouthed in the gift store at the 'amazing, shocking, and ground-breaking' human corpse display techniques perfected by Dr.Hasselhof. Too much for me. I like my tensor fasciae latae on the inside. Thank you. Yeah, the body is amazing, now go back to that camp on the outskirts of Munich. Sunday - Yo La Tengo is good running music. I woke up at 4 am in the middle of a dream that I was conducting static discharge of my platoon's C-47 with my bare hand and turning into an electro-charged freak while my platoon sergeant, SSG Swan was mockingly telling me that I was weak. So with that, I rushed into the city to find a spot, and within 2 minutes of searching, I cowered into a paying lot, and hunkered down in my car depleting the ozone layer and warming myself to Yo La Tengo's, "Last Days of Disco." I got to really like this recent music purchase based on the recommendations of this fine and respected man. This song is chill and the lyrics speak to me. It's good at 6am; it's bong music used to take a toke of lactic infusion spread over 26 miles --it's no Reznor or Pantera. We don't need them right now; go back to your angry hole in the ground. I take several breaks to water the wheel of my car and at 7:00, I'm walking down the street to the circus. I stop into a convenience store and get the blank stare from the overworked woman who doesn't give 2 shits that I'm buying a small coffee or that I'm a runner or that I got disposable income to buy the watermelon-favored Halls mentol for my hypochrondia while wearning the $20 New Balance cap. She's got 2 kids at home and daddy better fucking deliver on his child support check. Here's your coffee. Next. I stroll down to Eakin's Oval past all the wonderful facades that represent my Bohemian dream. Chai-Latte dot-comers sleep peacefully in their hard-earned lofts while listening to Rainforest sounds to remind them of their native-guided honeymoon in Brazil; their VW bugs are parked outside. I reach the big top circus tent and rest inside the' massage' tent. West Point cadets from the 'Army Marathon team' enter and sit beside me. They are all 'sirs and ma'ams' and I'm Peter when the cock crows. I didn't go to West Point. Barely heard of the place. Wow. You guys actually have to wear uniforms in college? Man, now THAT SUCKS! When does this fucking thing start? '0800 hours, sir.' 7:55 and I'm at the start. A picket line of midlife-crisis women and their children hold back the salmon trying to jump the fence to the '5 minute' mile placards. My bib #91 gets me upstream to go spawn 5:40 miles if I'm lucky. I see Bob, and we shake hands. I'm supposed to help lead Bob to a 2:30 marathon today and he tells me my first piece of instruction -- "First 3 miles, no faster than 5:45." "Got it." So I line up on the other side of the start and hit my first mile in 5:42. I'm the Rabbit in Alice and Wonderland's tale. I'm looking at my watch. I don't know what time it is. I ignore helping my friend and I get sucked into the self-absorbed quest to bank as much time as possible. Shame on me. The following 7 miles are grinding miles with no real memory other than seeing a guy that didn't seem to fit in with the pack of guys running 5:40s get knocked over at a water stop. We all turn around, look for him in worry, and keep on pressing on. Mile 9 and a hill approaches. Bob passes me and, with 0 shortness in his breath, tells me, "I guess you ignored the plan huh?" I feel horrible. I was supposed to run with him and he zips by me making me feel like Fred Flintstone when he did bad things. Mile 10 we crest the hill and pass under one of the largest memorials I've ever seen. I read the names. I know them. Meade and his PA Generals who saved the day at Gettysburg. Well, good for them. I'm dying over here. I'm John Bell Hood losing his arm charging according to Lee's botched plan on the right flank of the fishhook. I'm July 2nd, 1863. I'm the assault the day, or several miles before Pickett's charge. Mile 11 and the pack ahead of me including Bob make a wrong turn on an unmarked part of the course. They scramble to catch back up to us and run, what must be a 5:20 mile to take the lead again of us foolish people in the back of the bus. Not fair. Miles 12-13 are interesting. I'm in a huge pack of runners and we are all sharing thoughts like a Sunday run , clipping out 5:40 miles in a competitive marathon in a large American city. I recognize Gene Mitchell who is a stud. He passes me. We hit the 1/2 marathon mark. All I remember is that I just PR'd that distance by close to a minute, that I am on 2:29 pace, and that I ain't gonna make a 2:29 b/c I feel like shit. Fortune is flipping off the bold. I don't feel the come-and-go shit where you'll feel better in a couple miles. No. I feel that you're-fucked shit. At mile 14, I didn't know if I could make it. We were all staring down the barrel of an out-and-back and it was miserable. Mile 20 was the turnaround and I cheered on Bob who looked good into his 20th mile and hopefully into a 2:30. Miles 23-26 were a death march unlike death marches in some time. I have sparse memories of playing accordion with other runners and passing and being passed. My wind recon was correct; we had a headwind at the wrong time. The last mile was a footrace against other people and I defend from being passed. I toe the line and place my foot up on the beam for the kid with the iPOD listening to Eminem to remove my chip. I get handed a cell phone and I am asked who I want to call. Nobody. I get my chicken broth and massage, and then stare at my results listening to a kid on the hunt for gewgaw argue with his proud papa about whether or not he was 4th or 5th in his age. I silently wish him to evolve into the true, sub-elite, nobody-gives-a-shit-about-you, runner which is to go home without picking up that little piece of fake plastic with the press-on plate stuck on by a disgruntled city worker who secretly beats his wife and surfs S&M porn in his basement. So thus endeth the marathon experiment for the year. 9 marathons in 12 months. What did this teach me? Here goes: 1. Don't run 9 marathons in 12 months. 2. Train for peak events. Fall in love with racing but, for Godsakes don't stick your nose in the dime bag. At mile 16, my legs auditioned for Requiem for a Dream 3. Run your stupid little 'Magna Carta' next year and maybe you'll run that sub 2:30. 4. Find people and local clubs that will kick your ass up and down the track. 5. Next year, stop thinking you're some big-ass runner, because you ain't. 2:32 to Kenyans is failure. 6. Chill out on your little writing blog. This thing is vain and ice cream-truck-driver creepy. Post when you have real shit to talk about instead of how many crunches you did and how angry you are at the world. Splits 1. 5:42 2. 5:43 3. 5:34 4. 5:44 5. 5:37 6. 5:41 7. 5:42 8/9. 11:23 10. 5:56 11. 5:41 12. 5:35 13. 5:44 14. 5:52 15. 5:47 16. 5:52 17. 5:57 18. 6:00 19. 6:00 20. 5:59 21. 6:07 22. 6:11 ?? - I was eating dust by this point.