In this week’s Premature Exasperations Bryan goes for a slow ride but does NOT take it easy.
Marathon Cab Ride
By Bryan
I generally don’t agree with organized foot races. People pay money to run on public roads to be timed and possibly qualify for the privilege to run other races on public roads. Seems like a front for the mob, or at least a good idea for one.
“Hey let’s bury the bodies by the old running trail”
“Yeah and get a bunch of runners to pack the dirt!”
“Poi-fect! And we’ll launder the money in that way we are accustomed to laundering money, the details of which I will leave out since we all know how to launder money making the details frivolous at this juncture”
I rode in a cab on the day of the shady New York Marathon dealings. In the old days marathons were run to pass messages of war or dirty medieval stories involving geese, frocks and Wenchtaurs (half wench, half horse…or as I like to say…my wife! Just kidding, I’m not married…to her…yet). For example, Phidippides, a pro runner from Greece, ran the epic route from Marathon to Athens to relay news of an Athenian victory and to warn of the approaching Persian ships. He died of exhaustion and rumor has it the Persians were only thinking about amassing ships but didn’t have the supplies to make them so the panic seemed to be for naught.
With absolutely no exaggeration, my cab ride was on par with Phidippides journey. On Sunday, I boarded the cab and took off with a blue toothed cabbie. He talked in some zany Persian language. Riding with the enemy as Phidippides would have felt. I sat back and pounded the ground as the cab kept starting and stopping. I started to get shin splints from all of the stomping.
The cabbie kept racking up the fare by criss-crossing the same streets. Not unlike the Persians who excised heavy taxes on Phidippides, which may or may not be true. I had to get home fast to stop this oppression.
But I couldn’t. The marathoners ran a route cutting off main roads, and the Persian had no idea where to go. He just drove all around. I told him to finally ask a cop where a proper detour could be/if he could run over the racers like an epileptic octogenarian. Phidippides had to ask a wood nymph for directions back to Athens, which may or may not be true. Greeks were always talking to imaginary things.
I persisted, like Phidippides, and the policeman gave him the proper route.
The Persian tried to blame the debacle on the runners, but I knew he was trying to pass the buck. He told me he didn’t know how to read a map. Interestingly, the Persians of Phidippides day thought they were attacking Norway when they invaded Athens. That may not be true.
To wrap this up, we made it back to my place. The marathoners buried countless bodies for the mob, the Persian cabbie seemed to have enough of the marathon runners and retreated. And like Phidippides I ended up dying from exhaustion and laid on my couch the rest of the day.
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