Yesterday was the 52nd New York City Marathon, where throngs of people touch all five boroughs with varying levels of intense movement. I stood safely on the sidelines, watching with the aid of a small, novelty telescope. While it is always a disturbing and quite confounding sight seeing people running for their lives for no apparent reason (I can understand the motivation to run amid a volcanic eruption or another environmental cataclysm). But that was not the most bizarre thing I saw. Although it did involve running.
As I approached the course, hearing encouraging words and off-key renditions of Queen’s most familiar and finest songs, I felt the heavy breeze of a panting interloper. It was a man in tight shorts running by me. He had no number on his chest, no cheering section rooting him on, and no reason to run. I’m not exactly calling for more laws to ban this obnoxious display of self-aggrandizement, but I think there should be some serious reputational cost for those who run apart from the marathon on Marathon Sunday.
It’s like bringing a ball, bat, glove and jersey to a baseball game, playing a little pepper in the outfield bleachers while the professionals get to work. There is a vetting process for the marathon and while I can’t imagine a single reason to run for 26.2 miles, if the city gives you the green light, I say, God bless.
But if they don’t? Change your routine. Sleep in. Go for a walk. Grab a bite. And take the L.
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