I did it. I did it. I beat the marathon. I won. I crossed the finished line. I wore a salmon colored shirt that said, ‘100% organic.’ I passed by two audience members on the west side highway and 26th who shouted “Organic!” as I passed. Thank you two unknown bystanders. Believe me, that helped. I would also like to thank you Mr. Camera Person working for the NYRR (New York Road Runners Association). If it weren’t for my pride and your constant appearance every third mile, I would have walked most of the way, but alas, how humiliating to look at my pictures on your website and see me hailing a cab. This was gruelling. An absolute gruelling affair. I am in terrible shape. Right now my left knee is wrapped up in an ace bandage holding a gel ice pack. I don’t know what happened. My normal desire to dig in, progress, and challenge myself was replaced with feeling fat, tired, and uncomfortable. My usual, pick someone ahead and get in front of them was exchanged with, “i can’t believe everyone is passing me.” Everytime another person passed I hoped that they were not overweight. I hoped that they did not have one leg. i hoped that they were not children accompanied by a parent. Once I talked myself out of quitting the race and sleeping in sheeps meadow, it dawned on me…I’m going to finish last. In the corral there was talk of a pace maker running 15 minute miles (which is so slow i think you can walk it) and if this guy passed you, your race would not be scored, meaning you would not get your time for each lap nor the entire race. Maybe they’d even erase the pictures Mr. Camera man took of you. Why not? He’s using digital. I had to pee before the race began, then stopped to pee just before mile 3. Stopping to pee takes valuable seconds off your time. At that point I was already going through all the people I know and thinking what they’d say to me when they found out I quit. I started out too fast because the 6:52 pace maker was behind me. I don’t know what i was thinking running that fast. I still smoke cigarettes on occasion. Just last week i drank two glasses of whiskey. Around mile 9 I was surrounded by a completely different crowd. The kind of people that go to the gym to stare at ass. And they passed me. People were passing me the whole way. It was embarrassing. My leg is done. I’ll probably never walk again. I was so tired throught the whole race. In mile 2, I started thinking, how am I going to run 11 more of these?” At mile 3 I thought, “I can’t believe I didn’t bring any money. How am I going to get home after I hop this gate and head onto fifth Avenue. At mile 4, “Why didn’t I drink coffee? Why do I feel so heavy?” Mile 5, I hopped over a wooden fence, ran into a port-o-potty and took a shit. My legs were shaking the whole time while I breathed in the day old stench of other people’s dropping. Still the sanitary man, I put tissue covering every square inch of that infested curved plastic seat. I sat there thinking, “Thank god for this. Thank God. I wish I had a running magazine to flip through.” I got out, there’s no such thing as flushing in a port-o-potty, or washing your hands so the next water station I took one cup of water; drank. Then one cup of gatorade; washed. I honestly don’t know how I finished the race. I don’t remember enjoying a single part of it. Next time, if there is one, I will definitely train.