Sometimes a simple picture can sum things up better than the spew of absurdities that spill from my sailor mouth. (Stop reading here if you want the short PG version of this post).
I stumbled upon this street art in my post-race wanderings along Abbot Kinney Boulevard in Venice, California. It caused me to stop, stoop down, pull out my camera, shoot, and then stare… all while stuck in this awkward half squat position on still-trembling post-marathon quadriceps…
After an incredibly long build-up and a seemingly longer race, from the smoke of the starting gun to the hazy finish line 26.2 miles later, the mystery and magic of the TCS New York City Marathon is now past.
It really was quite the show and spectacle many make it out to be. Bravo to all finishers, staff, volunteers, spectators, police officers and medical support, athletes, coaches, agents, sponsors, and everyone else involved in the getting the 50,000 human parade through the five boroughs of New York. (Hand clap.)
Do I wish I could have pulled a few magic rabbits out of my ass this past weekend along the streets of New York to pull off a miraculous show-stopping performance?
But it didn’t happen.
Instead my seeking hands were left empty, and I found myself in a state of bunny rabbit constipation.
I swear those damn rabbits were staying busy (getting busy) all marathon weekend, not using condoms, and making terrible choices to multiply and finally escape in a pesky form that no one gives a flying shit about now, with complete disregard to my prayers for their magical summoning on race day. Damnit, rabbits.
Now, two days too late, the rabbits have found a new hole to exit with explosive energy- straight out of my head in cloud-like thought bubbles of ”What-if’s?” and “What-now’s?”
Could I pull just one of you out my ass now to afford whatever it was I was shopping for on Abbot Kinney Boulevard?
No? Of course not. Goodbye to the $600 killer sexy boots with the fur and the chains.
Instead the fluffy little rabbits continue to cloud my head in swift, uncertain, and surreal motion, scurrying about only to disappear down deep into a scary rabbit hole, leaving only a slight trace of mysterious smoke behind. Is it worth following the cunning cottontails deeper into their covert place of hiding? Alice? Alice in Wonderland?
Oh shit. The smoke. The smoke! That’s just the smoke from the beach bum beside me puffing on something skunky. A whole different sort of animal, in some other sort of wonderland. Welcome to Venice Beach, California! Cough.
Deep (clean) breath.
Clarity. I know better than to rely on anything claiming to operate in the world of “Magic.” The answer is not magic, (nor drugs), Damn you too Rita Jeptoo! It takes practice, experience, resiliency, and an openness of learning to pull off the sort of stunts us athletes live, breathe, and train for.
Without question and even a notion to dispel the reality, I am disappointed in my own performance this past Sunday. Why? Because. Because!!!
No one signs up to perform on the grand stage of the New York City Marathon with intentions to humbly bow down and lay a big pile of… well, holy shit, those aren’t roses.
The first half of my 2014 racing year was a dream. Minutes were wondrously dissolving from my personal records, melting like a Salvador Dali clock. Did I just cut two minutes here? Shit balls! Let’s cut 13 minutes here too… And then, well, for shits and Copenhagen giggles, how about another two minutes?! Any doubts about my future capabilities were disappearing like Houdini, and I was confident enough to sign up and perform with the leading ladies of the sport in New York.
But like the gale force winds on the Verrazano Narrows Bridge this Sunday, reality whipped me straight across the face. I tried my best to relish the salty air of truth stinging fresh wounds…to run with it, spread my mythical gypsy wings and fly. We all face our own battles against untimely challenges and unfortunate circumstances. I had my own this day.
However, I will not wander and hang out too long in the rabbit hole to dwell on them. Nor am I going to bring them back out here on this blog to display, dissect, and let fester on the side of the road, with the rest of the overworked road-kill in the unforgiving traffic of the strange and sideways social media world.
Quite simply, I survived… in a race that I wanted to thrive.
With another deep clean breath, I will move on with healthy legs, mind, and heart… and wait till I get the next chance for a better start.
Speaking of the start… here it is, along with some other photographic evidence of all the New York magic.
The gun goes off… Poof. Smoke. Run.
And less than two miles in, Kleppin is off. (Off the pack.) No glitz, glamour, or magic about it.
Even before this all happened at glorious Mile 2, I was gifted this little thing from ASICS:
My very own personalized Voo-Doo Doll!
And then this happened…
“Oh No Mr. Bill!” Break a leg. Or two?
Till I blog again another day, I will try my best to summon up some better magic and healing forces, and hope for a stage full of better smelling roses. Thanks for the support either way!
Wishing the rest of you the best of luck in your own chase! And also a huge congrats to Des Linden on an amazing finish. She is small yet fierce and admirable, like the Monty Python Killer Bunny!
Run Rabbit, Run.