With a belly full of Krispy Kremes and enough coffee to jumpstart the heart of a day-old corpse, I spent Sunday morning in Little Italy watching 40,000 insane people run the Chicago Marathon. To me, watching it was exhausting; running it is beyond comprehension.
I was on Taylor Street which I think was the 19th mile of the race and at this point, when you cheer people by name (some runners put their names on their shirts to encourage this) they’re either so out of it they look at you like, “how in the hell do you know me?” or they’re fighting the urge to strangle you, a person who swears she will run only if chased, sitting comfortably on a stoop eating a cold Italian sausage.
After the race some cronies and I held court at a bar to start our bloody Mary-thon. We’re weren’t able to drink 26.2, but it was a strong showing indeed. And with one pal demonstrating her ability to smoke a 6-minute cigarette (does anyone really need to run a 6 minute mile by the way?) we ended our day with a real sense of Sunday Bender accomplishment and a fear of Monday morning hangover.