I finished today’s Chicago Marathon in one hour and ten minutes, which was far better than my previous effort forty-one years ago, and which would have been a new, unbeatable, world record if not for the fact that my time was somewhat unofficial, given that I didn’t register for the race, never approached the starting line, or the first few miles of the course for that matter, and turned around on my course-adjacent path at the five-mile mark. I did however, carbo-load last night.

In any case, there I was, just like Rosie Ruiz, among the pack of leaders for at least a tenth of a second, glowing in the cheers of the crowd lining the street, so many of them ringing cow bells that even Christopher Walken might have been satisfied.

Even though I hadn’t yet had breakfast, I resisted, because of my questionable status, the urge to partake of the snacks, like doughnut holes, being offered runners along the way by people who obviously have never experienced exercise-related transient abdominal pain (a side stitch). I may go back out later, however, and look for leftovers.