By the time most of you read this I’ll be running the half marathon at the 32nd annual Kiawah Island Golf Resort Marathon. And by doing so I will be ruining the sport of marathon running.
I don’t have anything against marathon running, but this is heady stuff. I can’t get my dogs to listen to me, so to be told I’m wrecking an event of such athletic significance tells me I don’t know my own strength.
I base this on a recent editorial in The New York Times. The author, an accomplished marathoner, said people like me were ruining the sport. He was referring to those of us who are not fleet of foot. And, boy howdy, I am slow.
In spite of my lack of speed, I’ve done three marathons and four half marathons — all to raise money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society through its Team in Training program. I should say that some of my TNT buddies are pretty quick. By the time I finish my marathon they are back at the hotel, showered and dressed, sipping a cold one.
But whether one finishes in two hours or six, at virtually all events they hand out the same medal and T-shirt. So the fast are lumped in with the slow. Or the other way around. And this, as the Times person wrote, takes the bloom off the marathon rose.
Which, of course, is a steaming pile of fertilizer but a not-uncommon way we live our lives. We reach a lofty summit of personal achievement and then presume to qualify anyone who comes after us.
The 30328 ZIP code is used by an appreciable number of Sandy Springsteens. Some live in tiny apartments that have not been painted since Ronald Reagan’s first term. Others park their carcass in a home with five bedrooms, a four-car garage and a seven-figure price tag. Three guesses which of the two groups believe the other is “ruining” their city.
I remember when a cellphone was social plumage. Having one meant you could afford such a then-unique device. When I got mine I thought I was in high cotton — until the day I saw a teenage kid ambling down Roswell Road with two hanging off the belt barely keeping his jeans above his knees. At moments like that one is likely to be either indignant or humbled. On that day I was both, in that order.
Once upon a time we wanted to keep up with the Joneses. Now we want to pass the Joneses like they were standing still and then pray they don’t get the same cool stuff we have. Because if they have the same cool stuff, our stuff loses its cool. It doesn’t really, but if you want to go down that road I’m not going abuse my powers to stand in your way.
Then again — on the off chance I do have the kind of power that could ruin a sport that goes back to ancient Greece — I’ll be using that power to make some serious coin so I can get a bigger house and fancier car than you losers. I’m just sayin’ ...
Jim Osterman has lived in Sandy Springs since 1962.
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