Central Park

I've tried to avoid quoting Sly Stallone throughout the course of this blog-narrative, for fairly obvious reasons- his excessively sentimental cheesiness, coupled with his unabashed exultation of the cliche, demands resistance. It's a difficult task, though- the Rocky movies, I think, with the semi-triumphant return to semi-respectability that came with the only semi-cheesy Rocky Balboa in 2006, do a nice job of identifying athletic struggle and the athlete's will to succeed, even if it's all hackneyed and hyperbolized. Sly takes a lot of crap from Hollywood circles these days, I think mostly because he's not pretty enough to fit in to that crowd, having recently mutated into a grotesque caricature of the little guy fighting Apollo Creed in 1976. Maybe his time is past, but when you recap the life and career of the man who created and starred in two signature American film franchises- the Rocky series and the Rambo series (not to mention Stop or My Mom Will Shoot)- I think you start with a guy coming to Hollywood with a script and a dream. That, more than any invented storyline in the Rocky films, is an inspirational script.

Without further ado: The last three-plus miles of my 2008 NYC Marathon, as narrated by the pen of Sylvester Stallone.

Rocky IV

Adrian (speaking to Rocky from the top of the staircase after he scheduled a Christmas Day fight in Moscow against an invincible opponent who had just a few days prior killed his best friend in an exhibition bout without really mentioning the idea to her first): You can't win!

As I passed the Mile 23 marker a bit before we entered the Park, I guesstimated that I had 35 minutes to run the final 3.2 miles in order to come in under my new, five-hour, last-ditch, better make-it-or-else goal. Given that I'd been running 12 minute miles for the prior ten or so (which in itself is mind-numbing, considering I can walk a mile in sixteen minutes at a brisk pace) I began to feel a sense of urgency. If there was anything left in those legs, Mile 23 was the moment I decided I had to try and pull it out.

Dammit, Adrian. I can win. (Figuratively, anyway.) Take your wet blanket someplace else. 'Cause I'm a fighter. That's how I roll.

Rocky I

Mick (As the Rock has just been floored by a barrage of Apollo Creed shots to his terminally-undefended skull and is crawling about on the mat, grasping for the ropes, bleeding out of his face in the 14th Round): Down! Down! Stay Down!

My legs revolted one last time, as I mentioned in my prior entry, just as we entered the park. This one felt like it might be the last one. The burning sensation in my hamstring that had surfaced on Fifth now shifted to my groin muscle (there's a burning-sensation-groin-joke in here, but I'll leave it to the reader) and I again contemplated my race future (or lack thereof). There were no inspirational signs, or people, or landmarks to push me forward. Just the thought that I wasn't done yet.

One more round, Mick. You stop this fight, I'll kill you.

Rocky Balboa

Rocky (after he takes a massive knee-buckling hook from Mason " The Line" Dixon and drops to a knee, running through a 30-second inner monologue as an effort to regain his bearings during the longest ten-count in the history of fictional boxing): Whadidjoo tell de kid... It ain't about how hard you can hit. It's about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward. How much you can take... (breathes) and keep... (breathes) moving... (breathes)... forward.

I would walk twice more in the park- at Miles 24 and 25, the fluid stations. But only for a few steps. I was making good time. Better time, anyway.

Rocky I

Mick (as he holds the heavy bag for Rocky, telling him how he's going to eat lightnin' and crap thunda, and become a vewy dangewous poirson): Lay off the pet shop dame! Women weaken the legs!

I saw some friends of mine on the south side of the park, just for a moment, as I ran past. Blair and Cassie and Aileen and probably others shouted in unison "Matuska!" as I smiled and waved back.

I put my head down and started digging for the finish.

Right, Mick. Women weaken the legs.

Rocky IV

Rocky (after getting pummelled mercilessly by the towering Russian Ivan Drago in the first round of their zero-payday Christmas Day 1985 bout to ostensibly determine a victor of the Cold War): I see three of him out there!

Paulie (as the most useless corner man in the history of real or fictional boxing): Hit the one in the middle!

Ah, Paulie. He's my favorite. If I could, I'd reprint every line from every movie attributed to Adrian's surly meat-packing brother-turned trainer. I fear that would be an exercise that would only be entertaining to the writer, unfortunately.

Why do I recite this only moderately-amusing exchange? Well, mostly because I think I went blind briefly during Mile 26. It's my only explanation for not really remembering much. We turned north on Central Park West and I could sense the finish. I was running faster than I had in 13 miles. As in Brooklyn, I was again looking down at myself from above, detached, disembodied. The crowd lining the left side of the road seemed awfully quiet, so I took a cue from some Italian Stallions I saw earlier in the race and shouted "Make some noise!" as I high-fived some people for the first time since First Ave.

Duke (after Rocky has taken 11 rounds of punishment, been knocked down roughly 74 times, and won over the hostile Russian crowd and perhaps some members of the Soviet politburo): All your strength, all your power, all your love. Everything you've got. Right now!

We turned back into the Park off of CPW. I began to see signs in the distance- 300 yards to go.

Paulie (as he inexplicably rubs Duke's bald head as Rocky inexplicably turns the tide of the fight in the 12th Round) : Rocco, knock his head off!

200 yards...

Rocky III

Rocky (as he willingly accepts Clubber Lang's onslaught in their rematch after Rocky predictably lost the first fight while his lifelong trainer Mick died offscreen due to (in my opinion) zero medical attention): You ain't so bad, you ain't so bad, you ain't nothin'. C'mon, champ, hit me in the face! My mom hits harder than you!

100 yards...

Rocky IV

Adrian (as Rocky is about to knock out the Russian, she chooses to shed her prior doomgloom wet-blanket character and expose herself as the frontrunning golddigger she really is): You're gonna do it!

Hey, you're right. Yo Adrian...

I did it.

(Note: I actually DID do it. The time of 5:16:41 in this photograph indicates official race time from the first Staten Island departures. I didn't cross the start line until (apparently) 21 minutes later than the privileged elite at the front of the line. For those keeping score, my race time was 4:55:13, giving me nearly 5 more minutes I could have wasted and still made the NY Times. Next time, I'll try and cut it a little closer.)

Wait... Next time?

Rocky

Apollo: Ain't gonna be no rematch.

Rocky: Don't want one.

Of course, there was a rematch. And five more movies. Tell you what- stop by one more time next week, and I'll lay down some final thoughts for you to chew on. Until then- I hope you had a lovely Christmas, and have a splendid New Year.