Cornball Runner Admits All

Biking is going extremely well--I used my truck just a bit yesterday to get Max to his soccer game and then pick him up at a friend's house. We then had a "bike adventure" later where I packed up binoculars, a tupperware container full of fresh strawberries, a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips, and about fifteen Hotwheels. We then rode along Minnehaha Parkway from Minnehaha Park to where he and his mom live in South Minneapolis, stopping at Mel-O-Glaze Donuts to get a cookie. He ended up playing with his cars on Cottontail on the Trail, the 11 foot bronze bunny at Portland and the Parkway. By the way, if you want to be serenaded by thousands of Northern Cricket Frogs, ride along the Minnehaha Parkway trail between the light rail station and 34th Street.

Earlier, I fit in a run as part of my training for the marathon. OK, I'm a complete cornball runner. Not my gait or stride, but how I motivate myself to run, and this is something I hardly ever discuss because it reveals how profoundly American and dreamily dumb I can be. First, let's take the music, which I need in the early part of training. Songs motivating me right now range from Sonic Youth's Kool Thing to Enigma's Eyes of Truth. Also in the mix is Peter Gabriel's In Your Eyes, Seal's Crazy, and Moby's Alone. It's the rhythm that primarily counts. And the songs get me imagining what I typically always imagine: winning some prestigious marathon, usually the Boston Marathon, sometimes the Twin Cities Marathon. Here's a typical script from my head, and seriously folks, this is what I think about at some point on each long run, usually while listening to Enigma, all timed to various dramatic points in the song:

It's late in the marathon, about mile 19 or 20. The camera is low to the ground and at the top of a hill. Heat waves are coming off the pavement. Bobbing heads start to come into focus: two Kenyan runners, obviously on a record pace, their bodies rising as they come over the crest of the hill. Suddenly, I appear just behind the Kenyans, then move to the side, and the announcers go crazy. Who is that guy? My God, he's keeping up with the Kenyans. He can't last, he can't last. Even other regular runners on the course stop to listen to radios or watch the race on big screen televisions. No one can believe this unknown American kid is competing with the Kenyans. I'm just behind them, actually talking to them, sort of trash talking in Swahili, saying they can't beat me. We come down Beacon and into Kenmore Square in Boston, the huge crowds ecstatic. We race down Comm Ave and turn first at Dartmouth and then left for the final stretch down Boylston Street. The announcers have finally identified me and people from my hometown have now turned on their televisions because, somehow, they heard I was about to win. People who never believed in me suddenly see me in a new light, every person who ever slighted me is, remarkably, watching it on television. And then I pass the Kenyans and blaze down the final 385 yards to win the race, usually setting a new world record. I then collapse and sob.

That's the general vision, though there are lots of variations. Like it's the Olympic Marathon and I make my move in the tunnel into the stadium, with the crowd going crazy as me and a Tanzanian runner come out of the dark and onto the track. Or, in the late 1980's, I would beat Rob de Castella, the Australian marathoner. Yes, I always win. And sometimes I get a call from the President, which I refuse. I then fade into history, never winning another race, never to be heard from again.