On I went, out of the wood, passing the man leading without knowing I was going to do so. Flip-flap, flip-flap, jog-trot, jog-trot, curnchslap-crunchslap, across the middle of a broad field again, rhythmically running in my greyhound effortless fashion, knowing I had won the race though it wasn't half over, won it if I wanted it, could go on for ten or fifteen or twenty miles if I had to and drop dead at the finish of it, which would be the same, in the end, as living an honest life like the governor wanted me to. -Alan Sillitoe, "Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner"

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

An epic battle brews...

I got this from a friend the other day, via email:

Here's the bet: Me versus Ian, Flying Monkey Marathon.  Here's the gag: the winner of the bet will be the last person to cross the finish line.  Can I do it?  Can I win the bet?


  1. Umm. No you can't.


    Monkey Boy

  2. Let's see... one of us is doing speedwork as part of training, and the other one is going to physical therapy. Advantage: ME.