Besides libraries, I like running. I picked up this nasty habit about 10 years ago. Coincidentally this was about the same time my metabolism applied for early retirement. It was also at this time that I bid farewell to three important women in my life, Little Debbie, Betty Crocker and my college lunch mate, Suzy Q. Sweet girls.

I am now in the last four weeks of marathon training. More hills, more speed work, more hills. It all sounds rather monotonous if not masochistic. It’s both. However I find comfort in the link between libraries and running, that being they are both “cerebral”. Though many may posit that walking to a refrigerator for another piece of pie constitutes a cerebral activity too. Speaking from experience I agree, giving credence to the argument that “real intelligence” is manifested by those smart enough to stay out of a cold rain on a Sunday morning.

A marathon is an interesting spectacle. It is worth the $65 entry fee just to hobnob. (and eat all the free orange slices you want) Before the race, everyone is anxious. And chatty. “Where are you from?”, “Have you run this course before?”, “What do you do for a living?” All very polite and friendly, though distracting as your head nods a perpetual “yes” chatting with these incessant pre-race hoppers. I imagine the reaction of my four year old daughter if this human peleton was wearing 2000 white bunny suits with floppy ears. A genuine Easter Bunny tsunami.

Where was I?

Well the horn finally, better thankfully, blows and we are off. More pleasantries are exchanged for the next three or four miles until folks find their pace. “Good luck and see you at the finish”. Now to enjoy the experience.

Roughly thirty minutes in, one will begin to see both males and females dropping their spandex running tights behind any standing object. Big Buicks and sundry scrub give new meaning to the term "squatters rights". Extrication is just a part of the game and candidly speaking, it is refreshing to see modesty thrown to the wind of competition. Hopefully it is blowing the other direction. No one gives a second glance. Onward.

Ten miles in and whatever chatter there was has now ceased. Panting, some creatively rhythmic, is now the choice for communication. As is deep, snot snorting. Any preconceived notion that hocking loogies is strictly a male forte is quickly dispelled. Again, no big deal, just watch your step.

Between 15 and 20 miles, a sense of bodily exodus begins. Muscles tighten and the mind wanders, only to be beckoned by cheering volunteers offering sports drinks and a disgustingly sweet elixir that can only be described as maple syrup with chocolate frosting. Sucking this chocolate glucose from a ketchup pack, you take your drink and go. Unfortunately most is spilled giving one the feeling of not only being dehydrated, but a complete slob.

At 25+ miles everyone is unhappy. And cranky. I wonder if those interested in my profession just a few hours ago would care to discuss it now. Hardly. I wouldn’t suggest asking for the time of day either. A quick glance of mounting casualties and walkers off the road gives pause to wonder if the pain in my foot is just a twinge or something serious. I traipse on contemplating the difference between cerebral and intelligence.

What fun!