big sur

Running reporters and bloggers Jon and Ken have been training for months to take on the Big Sur Marathon.

Sunday they take on their goal.

Before:

After:

G’luck guys.

I liked their final prerace columns, particularly Jon Segal’s:

[F]or now, the other stuff in my life is left playing second banana like Jan Brady to big sister Marcia. Like the Brady clan’s whiny middle child, everything else cries out for attention when faced with the same old refrain: marathon, marathon, marathon!

Maybe that’s the way it should be. The marathon demands it.

It’s been 577 miles and almost six months since I declared to myself that I would run Sunday’s Big Sur International Marathon. That’s almost from here to L.A. and back. It’s a one-way trip to Vegas. I’ve run on treadmill and trail, in the morning gloom and the dark of night, on 17-Mile Drive and Fremont Boulevard, in sun and rain. All to get myself ready to line up at the start Sunday.

A lot of the time, people express shock or admiration when told of my marathon quest.

“I couldn’t run 26 miles. I can’t even run three,” they say in the common reaction. “You’re awesome. (Crazy.)”

I enjoy adulation as much the next guy, maybe a little more. But the accolades are misplaced. I’m no athlete, but this is something I can do. Something I believe anyone can do.

I’m ready for the run. It’s not the shoes. It’s not because I’m talented or especially athletic. It’s because I got off my butt and ran the miles.

Kick some butt out there.