I chose going out for drinks and sushi with a friend I haven't seen in a while last night over writing up a race report. So you'll have to wait until tomorrow for the stunning details of the Flying Monkey Marathon. My report tomorrow morning can be a Thanksgiving weekend gift to you. Until then...
One of the (many) post-marathon "congratulations now buy some stuff" emails I've gotten from the NYRR since the marathon ended:
While it's true that my riesling has to suffer the indignity of being served in a tumbler I borrowed from a monastery (instead of fine, Tiffany China), I think I'm good.
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"