... but I'm going to heaven. This morning someone asked me about the New York City Marathon. I could tell by the line of questioning that he was interested in running it. I can always tell. The look in the eye is faraway. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the soft strains of the theme song from “Rocky.” Doves appear. The runner is suddenly taller and more square-shouldered. There is spittle. I wanted to tell him it was already filled so that he wouldn’t run to his computer and apply for the lottery. I planned to be consoling when he deflated and the doves landed. I would purr that he would hate that marathon anyway. I might pat him on the shoulder … maybe even whip out brochures from other marathons that I carry for a moment such as this. I would be so noble.
Gotta be honest. I don’t want him or anyone else to apply for my New York City Marathon until I’m accepted. Getting through that lottery is already going to be impossible. I don’t want to make it worse by adding even one more runner.
But at heart, I’m a good guy. I very casually gave him the Web site for the New York Road Runners, which I am NOT posting here.
Let us picture the moment together: He gets in and I don't. Will he be able to run the marathon with Bev duct taped to his leg?
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