The Marathon Man

It's Sunday brunch, still 24 hours from race time, and senior North House resident Neil Clerk is already getting crap from the witty-guy table.

"I've got ten bucks that says that Neil won't make it past the 20-mile mark," one would-be dry humorist says, slapping the table to reinforce the wager.

"I'll bet 20 passes out from all the blue beer he is handed on the way to the finish line," another chirps.

"I'll bet 30 that he loses to that Olga Markova babe, "a third says, following the tactless comment with an appropriate post-sensitive male taunt: "Neil's gonna lose to a girl, Neil's gonna lose to a girl, Neil's gonna lose to a girl...."

It's Boston Marathon time again, the time when tens of thousands of locals (and not-so-locals) take to a 26-mile, 385-yard course from Hopkinton to the Boston Public Library and think about nothing but sex and water for two to five hours, while the rest of us cheer them on and feel about as good about our own physical conditions as whale caca on the bottom of the Dead Sea. Neil is going to be one of the twenty or thirty Harvard students joining the active masses tomorrow, and he is feeling the full force of our resentment.

He is taking it with unwelcomed grace.

"You know, you guys bet against me on my thesis, too, but I somehow came through," he says, making an impossible attempt to turn the tide of opprobrium.

"Yeah, but you had to stay sober for that one," one guy answers.

The table erupts.

Neil is not your typical marathon runner, which makes the whole thing worse. He's a runner, for sure, and even a pre-med, but he's not particularly intense--not by a long shot. He's normal--a guy who would rather take a Jagermeister at the Grill than go twenty in fluorescent running tights. Normal.

"I was training real hard--on a regular schedule," he says, trying--unsuccessfully--to show some intensity and passion for the endeavor, "but then came spring break and the Bahamas. I got rocked--I was puking my guts out."

He smiles.

"That was pretty much the end of it."

We sit and joke for about 30 minutes--all with the intent of psyching him out. We talk about his outfit, his planned pace and the prospect of having to hurl next to an attractive water girl. We discuss possible short cuts, we bring up that story about the first marathon guy dying and we even suggest that he wear a Cabot House t-shirt so that when he's lying in a puddle short of the finish line, people will attribute his misfortune to a life-long string of bad luck.

But he remains unperturbed.

"You guyzzzz," he says, doing his best Bo Duke and picking up his tray. "I gotta go--got work to do."

We sit at the table staring at each other.

"Boston Public Library, 12:00?", one guy asks.

We nod.

I take my tray up to the dishwashers, pivot and catch up to a friend in front of me.

"What do running tights go for these days?," I ask, slyly.

"23.95 at Brine's," he chirps, without breaking stride.