The Marathon Man

I have a friend who is obsessed with jogging. I mean it. Obsessed. He runs all the time. Sometimes twice a day. And I'm not talking about just around the block. I'm talking about thirteen miles or more at a time. And when he's not jogging, he's talking about jogging, or online chatting with his jogging friends. He recently qualified for the Boston Marathon.

He attributes his success in jogging to me. Apparently one time, long ago, he told me he was going to start jogging. Now, you must understand, he was a pudgy little fella. Not built like a jogger at all. More like a baker. Maybe a butcher. Even a candlestick maker. But definitely not a jogger. So I did what any good friend would do. I laughed at him. I told him there was no way he was going to run. He'd never make it twenty yards.

Well, that made him mad. He called me a big poo-poo head. (He has quite the potty mouth, believe me.) So he bought a jogging book, an expensive pair of running shoes, some exercise outfits, and off he went. He hasn't stopped since. And he said it all started when I told him he couldn't do it. It was just the fuel to the fire he needed. Now I'm his biggest cheerleader, except I don't wear the costumes.

Well, not very much.