Today, two thousand supposedly smart people lined up to stagger at high speed through the streets of Rimini for 26 ball-busting miles. What drives these poor bastards to run a race that less than a handful of them have the slightest chance of winning? A t-shirt, a medal and a goodie bag charged with the latest toxic energy drink. For some, it's the sense of accomplishment. Something to brag to your friends about over dinner, 'I once ran a marathon. Yes, the whole 26 miles. No, it wasn't big deal, anyone can do it.' Others are simply certifiable, running one marathon after another, like drug fiends chasing the next high.
At least in Italy, they don't drag you out of bed at 4 am. Here marathons start at a more civilised hour, around 9.30 am. And Italians don't line the sidewalk grilling bacon and egg and gulping coffee laced with grappa and shouting, 'Lift those legs you lazy bastard'. Here the community gets behind its runners. Especially the older folk, who see no sense keeping their bicycles off the course. Instead, they slide up behind weary runners ringing their bells encouraging the poor bastards to run faster or get the fuck out the way.
High five! We'll see if you still have that smile in 26-miles time.
I'll wait for you over here, shall I? Where's the Champagne service then?
Learning to fly? Or does he think he's the Karate Kid?
Champions, all of them!
My feet never actually touch the ground.
Run for Fun? Probably not at this stage of the game.
Somebody needs to tell these poor bastards they don't have to run a marathon to get a massage.
Well done all the Rimini Marathon 2017 Runners! I would love to have joined you but I missed the memo.