The American Spectator

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Pretty soon I was in the homestretch. I didn't weary until the final mile, which unlike the last five or so, seemed to go on forever. I was still moving quickly. I brought my time per mile down almost another dozen seconds. But that last bit was tough. When I geared up for my final push across that glorious finish line, I barely got up any extra speed. I thought "sprint." My body disagreed. Wasn't anything left.

Finish time: Two hours, 44 minutes, and 28 seconds. After crossing the line, I got my medal and a bottle of water. For some reason, I was more excited about the water just then. Then they clipped my chip and sent me through a gauntlet of folks waiting for family and friends.

Right in front of me was a full-marathon runner whose legs were taking off the rest of the day. His family held him by the arms.

I FINALLY MADE my way to the Nelson tent in the parking lot and lit up a cigar. My friend Jamey arrived a few minutes later with a cooler of beer and began dispensing. "Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish," he said, quoting Proverbs.

There were already plenty of runners assembled there. Some were so fast, they finished, recouped, and were already off to the next thing. Others came in over the next several minutes -- every one bright-eyed, sweaty, and grinning like a tired Cheshire cat.

Our team leader asked us to indicate if we would run it again next year. Ha! I felt half-crippled, like I should get on the phone and apply for disability tomorrow morning. On the other foot, I thought, I just might be able to get my right arch into marital counseling before next year...

"Raise your hand," she said. That seemed a bit much. I raised an elbow.

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