Alright, man, I get it. We all get it. You’re running a marathon. It’s not that I truly disapprove of it or anything, either. More power to you. Glad you’re in shape and ambitious. It’s just that (and I don’t mean to speak for the collective group here or anything) we’re kind of tired of hearing about it, bro.
Running? It’s just not for me. In high school, my soccer coach would give me rides to the field while everyone else ran three miles before practice. I was more concerned with parking myself atop the line-up and putting the ball in the back of the net than I was being a long-distance runner. I’ve never considered myself much of an “endurance” guy, and that’s fine with me. I’m accepting of laziness.
Those progressively longer morning jogs based on that training calendar you have on your fridge? You can keep ’em. I like sleeping in and bottomless mimosa happy hour specials. I’ll take Eggs Benedict over endorphins ten times out of ten. Like, I don’t even remember the last time I walked 18 holes, let alone felt like running over 18 miles.
I just fundamentally don’t understand why you feel the need to spread the word about your training over every social media channel you’re on. Those photos of your feet on the pavement with your new fluorescent Nike Flyknits? Stop it. I care less about those than I care about your #RunnerProbs like rain, inconsiderate drivers, and chaffing nipples. No one’s making you do this.
Please, stop sharing your run times and distances with the Nike+ Running app to your Facebook. I don’t care about your Power Song. I don’t care about your route. I don’t care about the countdown to the “big day” or your pre-race pasta dinner.
On a scale of 1 to 10, how excited are you to slap that oval “26.2” sticker on your Toyota 4Runner next to those Patagonia fish and Apple stickers you’re rocking? Am I going to see you harshing my mellow at brunch while you’re wearing the capilene shirt they gave you upon crossing the finish line?
Are you going to upload post-marathon Instagrams of you holding your medal while pitting out, followed by a photo of that burger and beer you’ve been craving since you started training like everyone else? Please have some self-awareness and just don’t. Please.
I’m going to catfish the world and post fake photos of myself training just to see what type of gratification you get from this. I’ll hit up a merch booth at the race, ask some Kenyan if I can borrow his medal for a photo, and enjoy the hell out of that burger I talked about earlier. I just want to see what you’re so riled up about.
And even though I knew it was coming the second we started talking, it still made my blood boil a little bit when you started talking to me about how I should train for one of these things, too. Truth be told, I actually did train for a half-marathon once but ended up skipping it to drink a large quantity of mint juleps at the Kentucky Derby instead.
At the end of the day, I knew I could run that 13.1 miles but I had better ways to spend my time and money than on traveling to a metropolitan area to put myself through hell over a couple hours of running shoulder-to-shoulder with a bunch of overly-optimistic go-getters. Call me crazy, but I’d rather quadruple that cash on American Pharaoh while talking to some southern girls in printed dresses and big hats.
But hey man, do you. At least your blisters get you a t-shirt and a medal. All mine’ll give me is a ruined pair of new loafers and a vicious hangover. To each their own, though. If I ever clean up my act and need a training calendar, I’ll hit you up. .
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