26.2 Ways To Kill Myself

26.2 Ways To Kill Myself

By

Sal Rodriguez

I'm in training to run my fifth Marathon. I've also run five half Marathons, five team relay Marathons, and numerous 10Ks and 5Ks. But now I'm just bragging. For the benefit of the layperson, a Marathon is 26.2 miles in length. Where they got the .2 from is beyond me. As though 26 miles weren't enough. I suppose they wanted to add insult to injury.

In 490 BC the first known Marathon was run by a man named Pheidippides. That was his full name. It seems that no one who lived over 1,000 years ago had a last name. Examples being Jesus, Socrates, Plato, and Nefertiti. And of course, who can forget about Lucy, whose fossilized remains boggle the minds of anthropologists to this day? But what about that Homo Erectus guy? Now he had a last name. I wouldn't want my first name to be Homo, but I wouldn't mind my last name being Erectus. I think that would impress the ladies.

Anyway, Pheidippides was a Greek, who ran from Marathon, a village in Eastern Attica, to Athens to announce the victory over the Persians, thus ending a great war (I would have just sent an email).

Unbeknownst to most historians, a Persian man by the name of Nadir (again no last name) ran to tell his compatriots about their losing the war. Nadir, however, only ran two blocks. And rumor has it, he actually walked one of those two blocks. Therefore, no athletic shoe stores are named after Nadir. (But there is a great restaurant in Glendale California, named in his honor, which serves a great kabob, orange rice, and that sour yogurt drink!)

The most amazing thing is, upon reaching his destination and announcing his news, Pheidippides keeled over and died. This is attributed to his improper running attire. He wore the Nike® Zeus© running sandal. Everyone knows he should have worn the Adidas® Limited Edition Narcissus©, which was a much higher quality sandal - better looking too.

I can't imagine the crowd of witnesses, after viewing the death of the first Marathoner, turning to one another and saying, "Oh yeah! See that right there? That's what I'm talking about," but that is precisely what happened! Now, thousands of years later, a popular Marathon will attract over 20,000 runners. I'm a member of this masochistic sub-culture.

The first thing I would say to anyone who wishes to run a Marathon is, "Are you @#$!&*% crazy? Why would anyone in his or her right mind want to run 26.2 miles? Most of us don't even like driving 26.2 miles!"

My reasons for doing so are as follows:

1. I am crazy.

2. I dislike nice feet, and much prefer blistered toes with blackened toenails.

3. I enjoy my inner thighs rubbing together, thus creating the freshly "power-sanded" look.

4. I normally smear Vaseline™ on my nipples, even when I'm not trying to prevent chaffing from my T-shirt.

5. I believe grimacing, sweating, and panting are best done outside of the bedroom.

6. I have absolutely nothing better to do on Sunday mornings at 7AM.

And let's not forget the things you get to do that would have gotten you sent to the principal's office. Activities such as:

7. Spitting. Lots and lots of spitting.

8. Launching nose rockets.

9. Continuously pulling out wedgies.

10. Littering. In fact, the street on a Marathon course has more cups than a Beverly Hills cosmetic surgeon!

The first Marathon I ever saw was a televised Los Angeles Marathon about 18 years ago. I had no idea how long it was, or what was involved. I just saw thousands of people running and thought to myself, "Wow, that is so cool!" My mother should have thrown her shoe at my head, but now, I admit I'm addicted. After all, every time I cross the finish line I say to myself, "I am never doing that again!" For me that feeling lasts about 90 days, once I've grown tired of having fun-filled Saturday nights, sleeping 'til 10 on Sunday mornings, and dinners consisting of anything other than pasta. That "normal" life gets old real quick.

By the way, I didn't know this 18 years ago, but the numbers worn by the runners are in place so they can identify your lifeless body lying beside the curb. In fact, it took about four weeks for the township of Athens to identify Pheidippides, having left his wallet in his other toga!

So I run, whether tired or energized, whether gloomy or sunny, whether determined or indifferent - I run. And when I die and go to heaven I will run up to Pheidippides, punch him square in the mouth, then turn and walk up to Nadir. And together he and I will enjoy a nice kabob with the orange rice. No sour yogurt drink for me though. That stuff gives me the runs.