PipesDreams

I was a little wound up last night so I went to the gym with a vigorous run in mind. 53 minutes and 5 miles later, I felt much better, so I cooled down to a walk and pondered this crazy idea I’ve been having. It’s about doing a Marathon. I should give the background on this first, and it starts with a comic book.

has taken me to task for not writing enough lately about graphic novels, and I have to say, much like his big sister, he’s always right. My love of comics started well before my love of guys who love comics, but somehow the two got entangled (possibly from dating a comic book artist and then a comic book store owner in immediate succession… just a theory). As a consequence, I’ve kept my mind away from a subject that has brought me as much grief as it has joy. Enough. Time to let go of the bad associations, and just enjoy the good.

Frank Miller’s ‘300’ is something you’ll all be hearing plenty about in the next year or so, as a film adaptation will be released around March 2007, following up on the success of ‘Frank Miller’s Sin City’.

300 is an incredible graphic novel that tells a loose interpretation of the Battle of Thermopylae in 480 BC. I won’t give too much away – history buffs will already know the outcome – but the basic plot revolves around the 300 Spartan warriors led by King Leonidas who were sent to a narrow mountain pass to buy time for the Greeks to amass a defence against the invading Persian armies of King Xerxes. Vastly outnumbered, the Spartans make a magnificent last stand in a three-day battle of epic proportions.

As usual, Miller plays to his strengths, with graphic depictions of violence and aggression, but he tells this story beautifully, with bold lines and strong writing, and his (now ex) wife, Lynn Varley, a master colorist, brings life and death to every page. Varley’s palette of blood, bronze and earth coax warlike overtones out of every shield, bare chest and smoking skyline.

What I’m saying is, you should all go out and buy and read this book RIGHT NOW.

Go on, I’ll wait.

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There now, wasn’t that fantastic?

Anyhow, to bring this back to my original statement, I’ve had this crazy idea. Although I don’t generally do New Year’s Resolutions, on the prinicple that it’s too much like saying you’ll start a diet on Friday so then you binge eat from Monday until Thursday, I have been trying to build some goals around turning 30. And since I love running and except for a brief flirtation with parallel bar gymnastics, have never had any kind of aptitude for athletics, I thought it might be nice to see how far I can push it. Thus, the marathon idea.

42.195 kilometers or 26.21875 miles is, for a steady runner, about 4.5 hours of punishing forward motion. The bad news is that the body runs out of glycogen after about 30km or 20 miles, and then has to start consuming its own stores of fat and muscle, basically eating itself. It also fucks up your feet something fierce. It takes weeks to recover from this. It’s not healthy. But the origin story for this bizarre test of will against pain is what made me mention Frank Miller and his Greeks vs. Persians story.

The name “marathon” comes from the legend of Pheidippides, a Greek soldier who, according to legend, was sent from the town of Marathon to Athens to announce that the Persians had been miraculously defeated in the Battle of Marathon. It is said that he ran the entire distance without stopping, but moments after proclaiming his message to the city, he collapsed dead tired. Herodotus also mentions Pheidippides as the messenger who ran from Athens to Sparta asking for help. Browning wrote a poem about P-dog (as I shall henceforth refer to him) in 1876, sparking an interest in the idea of reenacting this long-ass run just in time for the first modern Olympic Games in 1896 in Athens. My favorite story about that first race is that Spiridon “Spiros” Louis, a Greek water-carrier, finished fifth, despite stopping on the way for a glass of wine. Wine! Spiros, my hero!

Don’t worry: I promise I won’t write about training, since I can just imagine everyone on my f-list other than perhaps groaning in agony at my thoughtful, Tolstoy-length ruminations on how my legs perform daily… “So, let’s see, first I lifted up my right foot and moved it forward, and then I put it down. Meanwhile, my left foot had already started its launch into a tight, graceful arc. Then, when it landed, my right foot began the cycle anew.” A few days of that sort of thing, and I probably wouldn’t have any kneecaps left to run with. So this is the last time I’ll write about this until I do my next race.

This morning on the train I finished the Vinyl Café book I mentioned a few days ago. I could have torn that thing apart in about an hour, but I was pacing myself, because the stories made perfect transit reading, and I didn’t really want them to end. At lunch I’ll probably march over to the bookstore and buy the next two in the series.

The best thing about Stewart McLean’s writing is that it’s not fussy. It’s conversational and relaxing. He gives a marginal and hilarious insight into the neuroses of his characters without tripping off into Woody Allen territory. Sometimes they’re purposefully uncomfortable, but thanks to his chosen genre – the short story – it’s just a pinprick of awkwardness and then you’re on to the next character, the next tale.

After completing a McLean story, my brain has this buoyant, minty-fresh feeling. It’s a lot like the sensation I get when I’ve read a book by Garrison Keillor or Stephen Leacock, or a poem by Ogden Nash or Heinrich Heine. No fuss, no muss, just a nice clean finish. Not like that sticky, gummy, tongue-fur-from-a-month-long-bourbon-binge sensation I get after taking another shot at Joyce’s ‘Finnegan’s Wake’.

So I guess what I’m saying is that, if he hasn’t already, should probably go read some Vinyl Café.