Takes a Licking and Keeps on Ticking
Wayne, my friend,
I have made a career, and a not inconsiderable amount of money, I might add, wagering on my ability to pull off what seems on the surface to be the improbable, the unimaginable and the seemingly impossible.
I have long demonstrated a rather unique life-long ability to absorb what would be otherwise considered debilitating amounts of physical discomfort, abuse and pain, and that if otherwise than self-inflicted, would fall under the pervue of the Geneva Convention for the "something or other" - damn, it's too early in the morning - Treatment of Prisoners of War. "Compassionate", that's it!
I have an ex-love of my life (almost wife) who says to this day (and with no small amount of begrudging admiration) , that she has never met a man with the ability to absorb punishment quite like me - physical, emotional, pyschological, and spiritual. At the point when any other sane, sentient being would have given up, called it quits, given in to reason and gone home, I will give it one more try.
I have a natural tendency to obey Newton's Laws of Physics, a Vince in Motion, tends to stay in motion. Until my fat ass gets in gear, I am an imovable object, once moving, the irrestistible force.
Like the old Timex Commercial, I can take a licking - nudge, nudge, wink, wink, know what I mean, know what I mean - and keep on ticking. I've been one of those dim-witted boys who played hurt, not having the good sense to get x-rayed and finding out several days later that yes, I actually did break that bone. Huge gasp! I have run for ten hours on blisters that when I have pulled my socks off, have made seasoned health-care professionals look away. I have poured blood out of my boots on more than one occasion, leeches off my ass, and fish hooks out of my scalp.
Frankly, I think it because of my gene for red-hair - and I get it from both sides of my stunted family shrub. I think it's what kept those Highlanders pouring out of the glens and the Vikings out of the fjords. Red hair, it's nature's pain killer gene.
All that blather being said, 185 is still to big to be fast for so long.
Respect the race, respect the distance.
Like Bill Rodgers says, "The marathon can humble you."
Anything under 3:30 - requires me to be under 180.
The numbers don't lie.
My porridge is waiting.
I am 184 this morning. On the nose.
I have made a career, and a not inconsiderable amount of money, I might add, wagering on my ability to pull off what seems on the surface to be the improbable, the unimaginable and the seemingly impossible.
I have long demonstrated a rather unique life-long ability to absorb what would be otherwise considered debilitating amounts of physical discomfort, abuse and pain, and that if otherwise than self-inflicted, would fall under the pervue of the Geneva Convention for the "something or other" - damn, it's too early in the morning - Treatment of Prisoners of War. "Compassionate", that's it!
I have an ex-love of my life (almost wife) who says to this day (and with no small amount of begrudging admiration) , that she has never met a man with the ability to absorb punishment quite like me - physical, emotional, pyschological, and spiritual. At the point when any other sane, sentient being would have given up, called it quits, given in to reason and gone home, I will give it one more try.
I have a natural tendency to obey Newton's Laws of Physics, a Vince in Motion, tends to stay in motion. Until my fat ass gets in gear, I am an imovable object, once moving, the irrestistible force.
Like the old Timex Commercial, I can take a licking - nudge, nudge, wink, wink, know what I mean, know what I mean - and keep on ticking. I've been one of those dim-witted boys who played hurt, not having the good sense to get x-rayed and finding out several days later that yes, I actually did break that bone. Huge gasp! I have run for ten hours on blisters that when I have pulled my socks off, have made seasoned health-care professionals look away. I have poured blood out of my boots on more than one occasion, leeches off my ass, and fish hooks out of my scalp.
Frankly, I think it because of my gene for red-hair - and I get it from both sides of my stunted family shrub. I think it's what kept those Highlanders pouring out of the glens and the Vikings out of the fjords. Red hair, it's nature's pain killer gene.
All that blather being said, 185 is still to big to be fast for so long.
Respect the race, respect the distance.
Like Bill Rodgers says, "The marathon can humble you."
Anything under 3:30 - requires me to be under 180.
The numbers don't lie.
My porridge is waiting.
I am 184 this morning. On the nose.
posted by Vince Hemingson at 7:07 AM
2 Comments:
You should be a writer. I like your stuff.
Great, Vince, just what I needed, a transcontinental lecture! Keep striving towards the goal! My point wasn't that 184.5 was acceptable, rather that 182 or so represents at most a VERY modest handicap. I'm confident that (assuming you don't do anything stupid {my forte}, that that 3:30 should be yours.
Naturally, anything further you do between now and the marathon is insurance against the vagaries of weather, minor illness, etc. and does have value.
On to Boston!
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