Whooooaaaaaa.... Halfway theeee-er.....

Whoa-ho!

(Livin' on a prayer...)

Cuttin' through the wind like a greased-up spacemonkey, rumblin' through the streets of Manhattan like a K-Yed Hulk(amaniac), cruising down the coastline with raccoonish ferocity...

Comin' atcha' at 6.8 miles per hour... It's a meandering flightless bird! It's a plane(t)!

It's MAM2K8INGNYCMTB!

Allow me to break with the normal pre-statistical rant about nothing in particular and recount this past Thanksgiving, now nearly ten months gone. A moderately inebriated portly fellow, 1+ years removed from a smashingly... eventful entry into amateur boxing, begins spouting off at the dinner table about how he plans to run the NYC Marathon in 2008. Upon further questioning, it becomes apparent he's done some research into the subject, even detailing a then-underway workout regimen that is probably at least 50% accurate. His relatives gathered around the dinner table, while supportive, are understandably skeptical. After all, this fellow was a college football player (sort of), high school wrestler, and of course had recently pretended to be a pugilist. Never before, even as an extraordinarily bored senior-year member of the Gilmour Academy track squad (as a shot-putter), had he been a runner. Sure, he had run the mile as a larf at one meet that year, finishing 7th (out of 8) with a sub-spectacular time of 6:32. This, however, was seriously strange talk coming from the 230-pound linebacker out of Willoughby Hills, OH.

Skip to Christmas at the Matuska household. The younger generation cousins of this clan typically engage in a randomly-drawn gift exchange in which everyone receives a gift from a non-immediate family member. The delusional fellow's cousin and contemporary Tim and his wife Jamie draw his name and deliver the goods via USPS from their abode in DC. What follows is a detailing of the gift sent to Ohio from Tim, Jamie, and their newborn son Hank to...

You know who that guy was, Danny?

Mitch Cumstein. My roommate. Good guy.

The gifts came enclosed in a plastic container, with a photograph of a paramedic and a marathon crowd taped to the lid. The caption to the cover reads: "*Marathon Response Kit Not Responsible for Injury or Death Resulting from Running 26.2 Miles for No Good Reason." Additionally, a note was attached. It reads (w/ recipient's commentary in italics, like now):

Your Marathon Response Kit (MRK) contains the following items to assist in your bitter undertaking:

1. One 1 pound box of pasta for carbohydrate loading before the Marathon

This should be helpful in combating my ammonia-sweat problem, which persists, despite my best efforts to have ample supplies of Brawndo (it's got what plants crave!) coursing through my veins while running. It's somewhat disconcerting, taking a shower smelling like a combination of gym socks and gym mop.

2. Two Guinness draft beers to avoid "pussying out syndrome" before the Marathon, and carbohydrate loading (Not pictured)

Yeah, these lasted about 26.2 minutes.

3. Safety pins for attaching your race number

Also useful in puncturing blisters, boils, and nipples. Speaking of...

4. Nip Protectors; let's face it, no one likes to sandpaper any body parts-especially those ones- over the course of 26.2 miles

I've already detailed the joys of cotton shirts and sensitive nipples. Here's a link to the NipGuard website- you should click on it, the frontpage photo is borderline hilarious. I'm still not convinced I'm going to run this thing with Janet Jackson-style pasties on my man-boobs, but I do appreciate the thought.

5. One pair double-lined running socks; who needs blister treatments if you never get any?

Yes, these have certainly proven useful, hence the fact that they're not pictured in the above photograph. Now what I need is a girlfriend and/or cleaning lady to do my laundry. Remember my snark about smelling like gym socks and gym mop? Remove the mop bit, and you have the general funk that is my 118th St. studio.

6. One tube chap stick; so the girl of the week doesn't have to kiss the Sahara desert after you cross the finish line; alternatively, so the paramedics can get a good seal while applying mouth to mouth after a collapse at Mile 11

Now holding auditions for "girl of the week" for November 2nd. Any takers? My lips will be moist as a towelette. Don't make me fake those convulsions in hopes of a hot female paramedic.

7. One jar Vaseline; MRK Tester "Henry" insists nothing prevents chafing between the legs better; apply liberally

Hank uses Vaseline? Man, he's started early.

8. Five electrolyte/carbohydrate gel shots to get you past miles 5, 10 15, 20 and 25*

*used effectively by some for miles 2,3,4,5, and 6

These have become my go-to mid-run carboreloader. They have the taste and consistency of chocolate-flavored toothpaste. They remind me of that instant brownie mix before it's microwaved- like raw cookie dough, except 3000X less appetizing. The fruit ones swallow like strawberry-banana-flavored snot. The Clif Shots advertise 90% organic- from what organ they were produced I don't wish to know, but I can certainly guess.

9. Immodium caplets; MRK Tester "Henry" claims moving in soiled pants is no fun and nothing spoils a victory party more than uncontrollable diarrhea - probably best to take his word for it

Unfortunately, I've already decided to take the day off after the Marathon. Explosive diarrhea is usually my typical "I'm not sick but I'm skipping work" excuse. Works as a symptom-specific explanation that the boss never wants to hear about. Try it- take a day off on me.

10. One .44 caliber pistol, loaded,** for the pain

Saweeet! Oh...

**removed due to cross-state transportation of your MRK, replaced with one vial Aleve pain medication

Hmph. This would be useful, were not two of the more prominent commandments in the Matuska translation of the Bible "Pain Don't Hurt" and "Pain is Weakness Leaving the Body." You hear that, Chuck Norris? When I run, the Earth spins!

Well, that about wraps 'er up. I'll be posting briefly tomorrow to recount Week 8. Thanks are due to Tim, Jamie, and little Henry Charles (Hank Chuck) for the fantastic care package. And thanks to the smartasses that are going to write me to tell me that the Earth spins even when I'm not running. Don't taunt me. I'm getting faster.