Last weekend three of us cruised out to Chamonix to run in the Mont Blanc Marathon.
It was nextlevel gnarly. 26 miles like a normal marathon, but up and down mountain paths, through forests, over streams, climbing up 2,500 metres and back down again. Decked out in matching Look Mum No Hands Tour de France cycling caps, we looked the part. Turns out it took us dang nearly seven hours, and was pretty much the most brutal thing i've been stupid enough to undertake. Remember that scene from Blow when the guy takes the really strong uncut Columbian and says he can't feel his face.
For the last four hours of the marathon my legs felt exactly the same way. I could touch them, i just couldn't feel them. Inside. But the experience was unbelievable, and once i'm over the whole cripple vibe and can walk again, i'd consider signing up for next year.
Man's finest hour, the greatest fulfillment of all that he holds dear, is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle.
Victorious.
SALUD.
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