(Alt headline: Stupidity Runs in My Jeans)
Running a marathon is one of those things you have to do before you die. And if feels exactly like that’s what’s next. The dying, I mean. So here’s my trip log from my first full marathon. (And there are more to come, because apparently I’m seeking death’s sweet embrace.)
For years, I’d been telling people I had run the Dallas White Rock Marathon. And it wasn’t exactly a lie. Many a time I had been among those 12,000-plus masochists who get up before dawn on the second Sunday in December to run the race. Like any self-respecting fetishists (or exotic dancers, now that I think of it), we had our form-fitting costumes and ridiculously expensive shoes. We gathered downtown at American Airlines Center, shivering in the morning cold and waiting for the starter gun.