Famous Last Words

More Slo-Mo Than Flo-Jo

Check this link for an interesting perspective on marathon running from Don Allison at Active.com. I found the following paragraphs the most interesting.

"Despite all of the setbacks, there were more marathon finishers than ever before in the U.S. last year, more than 400,000 in all, the first time that number has been reached in history, and up more than 100,000 from the beginning of the decade. This, despite the cancellation of the Chicago Marathon in midstream and the missing thousands from Honolulu. Can anything stop the marathon mania? Will the upward growth, which is now taken for granted as an annual occurrence, ever come to an end? From all appearances, it does not seem so.

Marathoners continue to get faster—but mostly among those who are already fast. Haile Gebrselassie set a world record of 2:04:26 in the Berlin Marathon last fall, and followed that up just this month with a 2:04:53 in Dubai. Friends, those times equate to a pace of better than 4:45 per mile. The diminutive Ethiopian had good reason to run so quickly: the victory in Dubai was worth $250,000, and he would have collected a cool million had he improved upon his world record time from Berlin. The rest of the marathon world has not improved as the elite have, however. The average time among all male marathoners in 2007 was 4:29:52; among women, 4:59:28. So for all you men and women out there seeking bragging rights, sub 4:30 and sub five hours, respectively, will place you in the top half of all marathoners."

Alas, my full marathon times are almost an hour slower than the "average" marathoner. But considering I'm now 50, I give myself points for just showing up. As a friend of mine is fond of saying: Finishing slow is better than not finishing at all. And not finishing is better than not starting. I know it's more impressive to focus on improving your finishing times, but there is something to be said for enjoying the journey. So let's hear it for all the back-of-the-packers.

Love When You Can, Cry When You Hafta

In 1973, I was 16 and besotted with Dan Fogelberg. A DJ at our local rock station WZZQ had somehow discovered him in his early years and managed to create a fan base for the little-known musician in Mississippi.

My friends and I would lay on the floor and listen over and over to his first album. "Be on Your Way" was the soundtrack to our break-ups and "To the Morning" was an anthem for our expectations for a brighter day. When he finally came to Mississippi for a concert in the city auditorium, no one was more suprised than he that it sold out. (I know this because I got to interview him later as a reporter for the local newspaper.)

The night of the concert I could barely contain my excitement as I got ready to join two friends. We ate at McDonald's beforehand, and arrived early so we could be first in line for the unassigned seating. Right before it was time to go in, I discovered I didn't have my ticket. To this day, I'm not sure where I lost it. But I was in tears as I called my dad to come get me. As I headed down the sidewalk to wait for my ride, I passed a guy from my high school. As I shared with him my sad tale, he handed me his extra ticket. His date had stood him up! I wish I could say that I invited him to sit with me -- I realize now that is what I should have done. Instead, I thanked him profusely and rejoined my friends at the auditorium doors.

Once inside we dashed down to wonderful seats in the front section. And I remember it was an altogether magical night. It was just Fogelberg and his acoustic guitar and I don't think I've been to a concert I've enjoyed more. I felt so grown-up watching the college kids in front of us sneaking sips of wine. And I can still remember that feeling you get from music and lyrics that speak to your soul.

When I heard of Fogelberg's passing, it was if I had lost an old friend. He was a great storyteller and a wonderful musician. When I interviewed him years later, I told him about that night. I suppose I came across as some lovesick fan, but I hope it meant something to him. Sappy, I know. But that evening is a moment in time that transports me back to that 16-year-old who thought "to love was not so strange."