Monday, April 16th, was the 116th running of the Boston Marathon. One day a year thousands of runners from around the world gather in Hopkinton, Massachusetts to make the trek 26.2 miles to Boston, in an organized, symbolic flipping of the bird to the driving public who need to get places because they work for a living. Why do they do this? Do these people not know that they can ride the MBTA commuter train into town? Maybe not, since there are a lot of out of towners/staters/countriers who might not be familiar with the area. Do they just run it because they enjoy running? No, nobody enjoys running. Forrest Gump enjoyed it ,but, well, you know.
Who likes getting all sweaty and out of breath and shit? Sweating is the body’s way of saying, “Whoa, reel it in douchebag, you’re messing up my delicate pheromone levels. I don’t know about you, but I’m trying to get laid here. What the fuck?” Now, every bodies body’s are different. Maybe yours doesn’t swear at you and treat you like a two-bit whore when you displease it. I’m just talking in generalities.
Listen, I have friends that have run the marathon. I’m not bragging, I’m just telling truths. They always say to me, “Bill, you look like you want to run a really long way non-stop without the police trying to arrest you or zombies trying to catch you and eat your delicious brains. You should go buy a sharp outfit and come run the Boston Marathon with us. It’ll be wicked fun” in my head…..To which I reply, “Huh?”
Hey, I’m not knocking it. Well actually I am, but it’s all in good fun sucka. I understand that people enjoy the physical activity. Get the blood pumping, elevate the heartbeat. I get the whole “runners high” effect, when endorphins course through your veins. smacking your medulla oblongata with dopamine. But I’m kind of lazy. Well I wouldn’t call it lazy, but my doctor would, and does.
See, I have a driver’s license and a car. Once again, I’m not bragging. But it’s hard to justify running 26.2 miles away from where my car’s parked, when I’m just going to need to get a ride back to it. So I like to partake in a different, albeit just as prestigious, athletic endeavour.
I call it The Boston Marijuanathon. Once a year (on a day pre-selected by a highly qualified panel of judges, including but not limited to me) I take a 26.2 mile bone cruise along the marathon route. Not on Marathon Monday though, because you will definitely be pulled over and arrested on a litany of charges. The least of which will be marijuana possession, because they’ve decriminalized fun in Massachusetts.
It was tough going the first time, I was all worried about fueling up the car before the marijuanathon.Am I properly hydrated? What cd’s are in the car? Should I go to the bathroom now, or can I hold it for 20 minutes? The trick is to work yourself into shape by taking shorter bone cruises throughout the year. Start off with a 5K and a one hitter and work yourself into peak physical shape for the ultimate challenge, The Boston Marijuanathon
It’s a thrilling time and quite an incredible achievement. You not only work out your gas foot and steering hands, but you work out your mind as well. Constantly thinking ahead. Am I gonna make this light? Can I turn on red here? What the fuck is this shitstick in the Hummer doing? Gas is four bucks a gallon, is this guy going to the mall or going to liberate Fallujah? Sure there’s no fanfare when I cross the finish line, except for the ceremonial lighting of a fresh fatty. Just completing The Boston Marijuanathon is its own reward. I still get to experience a runners high, although it’s more of a drivers high.
Plus, Heartbreak Hill isn’t so heartbreaky in a car.
And at least I don’t have to ride the fucking T home.