“That son of a bitch took my pants”
If I could compare my marathon training to a movie it would be James Cameron’s 1984 robot-chases-human spectacular The Terminator.
Very much like the muscle clad Arnie was persuing his goal (in his case killing Sarah Conner to wipe out her son’s influential presence in a future Robot versus Man conflict) I was persuing mine – making shed loads of cash for a diabetes charity.
Arnie had his set backs – he lost half his face, he was caught in a petrol lorry explosion, he was split in half by a pipe bomb. I had mine – a shin splint, a sprained ankle, more shin pain and finally a calf strain. But what makes me and that big brute so alike is that just when we think there’s a small flicker of hope that we might be able to reach our goal, someone goes and crushes it. In his case a hydraulic press. In my case a stinking cold. Okay, so I’ve never arrived in a new city stark bollock naked or taken down a whole police station single handed. But me and Arnie we’re pretty much the same.
