For those of you who didn’t already know this, 10 miles is a very long way to run.
Not that I would know. I don’t run 10 miles in a month, much less a single setting.
But I trailed my girlfriend the other day in Naperville as she prepared for the Chicago Marathon, a delighful 26.2-mile event in which thousands upon thousands of people prove that masochism still exists in America, and not just among crazy people who let rattlesnakes bite them.
Needless to say, I didn’t trail her on foot during her 10-mile practice run. An ambulance would have picked me up a little bit after mile 3. Instead, I rode her sister’s bike, which happily was lacking tassles. I’m already riding a bike instead of running with my girlfiend. I don’t need tassles too.
It was quite fun for the first 10 minutes, despite feeling like the fat manager who bikes alongside the boker in “Mike Tyson’s Punchout” in between rounds. I kept expecting Glass Joe or King Hippo to pop out of one of the side streets. I just lost everyone who wasn’t addicted to Nintendo as a kid, didn’t I?
But it was lovely biking beside her minutes before the sun broke through the horizon. It was almost magical. Then my butt started to hurt. Magic gone. Unless David Blaine was going to show up and produce hemorroid cream out of thin air. Then by all means, magic it up.
How can I complain, though. Here she is, training her heart out to get ready for something she’s always wanted to be: a Naperville tour guide. I mean, marathon runner.
And I’m going to support her. Sore butt and all.