For two minutes in the fall of 2000, I thought about running a marathon. Not me actually running it, mind you, just the act of it being run by a person. A crazy, masochistic person. Oh, I was also in a Greek diner, the Spartan Diner to be specific, which I suppose may have been the inspiration behind the subject of my contemplation.
So I’m in this diner, eating an avocado stuffed with shrimp salad thinking silently to myself about the loonies running marathons and how they claim that it actually stimulates their brains to produce endorphins, thereby fooling them into believe they are having a good time. I had almost finished fitting it into a Darwinian paradigm when a, well, um, let’s say an interesting looking personish-type thingy, um, sidled?, ok, sidled, sidled up to me and spoke. Ish.
I instinctively ignored the, hm, entity, assuming it was going to ask me for money, try to sell me a bootleg copy of the Pam and Tommy Lee video, or push some religion on me. Upon longer peripheral scrutiny, I was rather sure this was a religious type. It didn’t have, ah, borders, quite. And I usually find religious types to be rather formless, yet rigid. This dude was fluid. He flowed. I decided to give him a brief audience. I knew I’d need comedy fodder one day.
“Mind if I-?” he asked and gestured towards the seat opposite mine. I made no attempt at an answer, yet he, well, ok, he-, he manipulated his ectoplasm in a manner to suggest sitting. There. The cat’s out now. He’s a ghost. Happy? Great, let’s move on.
Anyway, this ghost sits down. I am not alarmed (I live in New York). I am rather curious. A ghost come back to preach religion! Well, at the very least he’d have a more empirical basis for his beliefs. After all, he was in the afterlife. One would assume he’d know something about it. I was a bit surprised at the smell. This ghost smelled sweaty, which was contrary to my expectations. I’d have though dirt or decay or that unique “nothing” smell. But this one, perspiration. The being continued, “I am the ghost of Pheidippedes.”
“Sure, I see that. Makes sense.”
“Aren’t you, well, aren’t you going to ask me who I am,” he asked, somewhat disappointedly.
“Well, you already told me. You are the shade of Pheidippedes. And here we are in the Spartan diner, which I suppose is a bit inappropriate for this situation, since you ran 26.4 miles from Marathon to Athens to inform the Athenians of their victory over the Persians. Although it is said you also ran to Sparta at one point to ask for assistance agai-.”
“Oh, well, you know then, hm. Ok, press on, man, press on. Um, so, yes! That’s right! The professional runner who ran first marathon, from Marathon to Athens, with a message of supreme import. I ran the entire distance, and when I arrived I gave my message-“
“‘Chairete nikomen (Greetings, we have won).’ Then you laid down and died. Right there on the spot.” I finished my avocado.
“Uhh, well. Yes. Yes, that’s pretty much it. Actually that’s it exactly. Zeus damn it all! But, but, but you don’t know what I’m doing here now! Eh!? Aha! HA!”
“Well, no. I don’t know per se, but I can surmise. Since the popularization of the marathon as a sporting event, you feel frustrated and a bit slighted. Here you, a professional runner (what kind of Drachmas are in running?) ran this retartedly long distance for good cause: to deliver a message of victory to the people of Athens. A nobler goal would be harder to drum up. Given. Then, upon completion of your task, your promptly expire. Right there on the ground, your last breath used to deliveer your message of triumph. No hubris on this guy. Not a trace. Yet now people are doing this for fun. Left and right they run for the individual glory, stuffing their pie-holes with pasta, numbered like cattle, destroying their bodies. Not only is it insulting to your memory and life, it’s downright stupid. Running that far, training that long, and putting oneself though that much torture for, let’s face it, two slices of pride and a t-shirt. It smarts. So you’ve become the Ghost of Marathon Past, appearing to Ebenezer New Balances for years, with little to no success. How’s that?”
“You are like Hephaestus. Your hammer strikes home on its intended thunderbolt.” Pheidippedes looked dejected. Well, his aura gave off the appearance of dejectedness-like emotion. I thought he might cry, and was excited prove once and for all if ghosts had lachrymal ducts. But my pesky conscience took over (it’s hard to keep it at bay all the time, even for me).”
“Well, I need no convincing. Whereas you appear as Cassandra to most, to me you’re a the Oracle at Delphi. I believe in your cause, and while my very busy schedule and desire to eat actual food enables me only to aid you only spiritually, perhaps where you come from that is sufficient. I would be happy to sign a petition or a pre-written letter of recommendation. If you are ever in need of these services, please do not hesitate to forge my signature.”
At this point I noticed his interest drifting from my compassionate words down towards the pickle still lingering on my plate. I offered it to him, explaining how I never eat the things as I have made a pact with a nymph never to eat anything soaked in brine. He took it and, well, uh, he more or less incorporated it into his being and drifted off without another word.
And here’s the kicker: I actually did want that pickle!
Oh, and don’t run marathons. They are asinine.
Good day to you.