Since the dawn of man–since that time when humans migrated across the continents in their quest for food, shelter, and gold or other wordly treasure–man has been running. Man has run against man, and man has run against time –from Phippides’ pyrrhic peregrination to declare the victory on the bloody fields of Marathon to Pre’s pushing the pace on the second-to-last lap in those fateful 1972 Munich Olympics. (Now put in a bunch of big ass, out of place, pictures showing Shorter looking back, Pre in full 1970s hairy blossom, Bekele with large quads and #1 sign, and RitznWebb doing various RitznWebb things). (Continue on to write about cavemen and mammoths or sabre-tooth cats, ancient Greeks–lots of ancient Greek shit–and then migrate, ever so gingerly and delicately, to Arthur Newton then to Paavo Nurmi and the walking Finns of the 1920, slowly now to Lydiard with Snell, then Bowerman with hairy, inexorable Pre, then Shorter on his own with poofy hair and aquiline nose and then boom…RitznWebb, Gen-Y-altitude house-X-box360 breakroom fandango.) Finally, end with a tear about the lost boys. Boom. Pulitzer stuff baby. 

Chapter 2: Running History…..blah blah blah .

Chapter 3: The influence of running in the Movies. (put in Chariots of Fire picture as well as a picture of the movie Running Man– take up 2 pages with that) 

Chapter 4: The History of the Vermont City Marathon — a Tradition of Tolerance, Justice, and Multiculturalism.

For nearly 17 years, the Vermont City Marathon has been the crown jewel of Vermont marathons. Year after year, glorious weather and a happy, tolerant crowd have set the backdrop for the race which has been nothing but a vivid example of fierce, tolerating competition. One need look no further than the fine list of overall winners and top ten male finishers through the years to conclude that the Vermont City Marathon is one exciting race: Bob Hodge, Wejo, Mike Slinskey, Byrne Decker, Mike Wardian, Casey Moulton, Kevin Beck, a smattering of Skirack*FOOTNOTE elites, and Duncan “donut skip did dee doo dah” Larkin. (blah blah blah…go into the history of Vermont with some references to: Calvin Coolidge, Ben n’ Jerry, General Ethan Allen, Michael J. Fox’s palatial estate in Woodstock, and the filming of Me, Myself and Irene.)

Chapter 5, THE DAY BEFORE — Getting Ready for the VCM the Right Way. 

On the morning of April 14th, 1861, the streets of Vermont’s Queen City, Burlington, were awash in crazed people running everywhere, anxious to get the news out– some perhaps doing 6:00/miles on the very streets that you will be running down. The nation had been torn in two: Fort Sumter had been fired upon and Major Anderson had surrendered his tiny Union garrison to the newly formed Confederate Army under General Beauregard–rumored himself to have been a 16:00-5K man. When you arrive to Burlington in May of 20XX, you may very well see the streets awash in a similar hubub of activity, but this time it will be a celebratory, peaceful, multicultural one. This town doesn’t hold back. The first stop on your list the day before should be for a dainty lunch at one of Burlington’s finest eating establishments — Smokejacks! After a lunch of cheese and after experiencing a bit of a Chardonnary wine buzz, get in your car and drive up the hill to the Vermont City Marathon Sports and Fitness Expo. Located at the Sheraton Hotel on Williston Road, the Vermont City Marathon Expo is your place to pick up your bib as well as take in the fine vendors selling various running essentials. But before you go inside, you have to experience two things: 1. The kettle corn! Just outside the door, to your right is a booth for the best kettle corn west of the Winooski River. Stop for a quick bag; it’s good carb loading for that big race coming up. 2. The EMS kick ass vanagon. Located somewhere in the parking lot will be a huge, EMS green machine. This thing is the fruits of at least one year’s worth of marked up, overpriced revenues for Patagonia fleece (in ‘Save the Seals’ red and turbulent, ‘Magellan Strait’ dark blue). You have to climb the wall and high-five one of the EMS sales associates who, without a doubt will either be a very attractive woman in Chuck Taylors with Heidi hair, a bandanna, and a black tank top or a skinny, flying Tomato-type man with a red soulpatch who will be quick to use the word whisker, “stoked.” Once you’ve got your ‘corn and your shot of adrenaline porn, it’s time to step foot into the expo. For your convenience, I am providing you a map of the expo. My team of VCM researchers have went to great lengths to compile this map and I wish to thank them here (Joe R., Ron, and chim-chim). Peace out homies.

Probably the first thing you need to do at the expo is pick up your bib #. The bib, or race number as us elite runners like to refer to it as, dates back to the Pelopponesian Wars when Alcibiades, a disciple of Socrates and a brilliant orator and satirist in his own right, recommended that each member of the Athenian army wear numbers to mark their imminent death before their failed attack on the Sicilian city states. So go get yours and as you grab it, imagine yourself as Athenian private on an assault boat, on your way to lactic immorality under the onslaught of countless Sicilian arrows similar to Dog Red Beach, under MG-42 spray in that classic movie, “Saving Private Ryan.” Imagine the door to the ancient boat opening as you race, heart beating fast, head-on, into glory! You are an Athenian, you detest Sparta; down with Sparta and 4:00 marathons! Victory or death!

Now, open your eyes and take in the spectacle. Test your chip on the mat and while you are at it, shake Bart Yasso’s hand over on the right. Bart’s not there to shake your hand, but rather, in full temple worm, emaciated form, to hand out bibs to the secret elites.

The secret elites are a Templar group of sub 2:40 runners who think they are billy bad asses out to prove something to the world. One of them may very well be a satirical man who makes people cry and raise their pitchforks; he usually has nothing good to say. Avoid him.

But still look for the Templars. They will receive their bib, free dinner tickets, a genuine handshake from Yasso, and will be led down a secret staircase to a secret room where they are sequestered and given free Gatorade and a course run-down on butcher block paper before being led back upstairs for the symposium on how to be a billy bad ass sub 2:30 marathoner.

You should make an effort to attend the symposium. There you will see people like Peter Flemming show up late, and then complain to the elite coordinator, in Baby Huey fashion, about not being placed up on the dais next to Wardian. Trumped by Wardian! For shame, for bloody shame! He may even offer his hand like a dead fish. You never know! Go for it. Try to shake Flemming’s hand. Are you an Athenian or a Spartan?

After the symposium, make your way back into the main hall and visit some of the vendors. Be sure to purchase this book by Duncan ‘donut skip did dee doo dah’ Larkin, as well as some of da Clif Shot Blokz ™ and a ‘Stick.’™

Don’t forget as well to stop by Skirack’s booth. It’s on the left as you face Yasso. Say hi to the elite team as they stretch and drink water and be sure to check out their tents and John Masters limited edition Himalayan climbing boots ™.

Your last stop at the expo will probably be to check your chip one last time. I can’t state enough the need to check your chip! You don’t want this adventure to be for not. You gotta be counted, you gotta be remembered!

You should then head back down to Church Street for your evening. The street will be full of Burlington’s finest on a Saturday night and the whole wondrous scene cannot be missed! Look for the UVM dandies in their top hats and frock coats as they walk arm and arm with their fickle lovers singing beautiful ballads about crewing on the Winooski. You may even find the adorable UVM barbershop quartet, slicked back and clean cut, crooning that lovely UVM fight song, “Verdant Fields! Hear Ye my Glorious Mountains!”

Chapter 6. The Course — Ben n’ Jerry, Peace, Love, Justice, Taiko drums and that Bitch called Battery Hill at 16.

Note to self: tone down the satire. Ease up on the cynicism. Stick to the facts and pour on the Rick Steve ‘back door’ emotion. Put the readers on the course. By the time the sun rises over the hulking shoulders of Mount Mansfield, you will be standing on the starting line down in Battery Park. You will be surrounded by thousands of your peers most likely clad in garbage bags and disposable Hazmat suits. Off to your right, you will see grandstands where the announcer will attempt to rally the crowd into a frenzy. About ten minutes before start, a veritable who’s who of Vermont notables will grace you with their presence. Sure to appear will be the mayor of Burlington, Peter Clavelle. He’s got one hand on the hammer and the other on the sickle. He drives a Volvo and he saves the fucking whales. Brian Dubie will follow Pete. He’s the anti-Clavelle. He rallies the old guard of Vermonters –a flannel-clad cantankerous group of flag-waving, ‘good ole’ day’ curmudgeons who stoke wood stoves while bitching about the exodus of New York commies led by Comrade Representative Bernie “Ilyich” Sanders, their Moses. Dubie flies fighter jets and wears a Top Gun jacket. He crisply salutes the flag by the dawn’s early light. Everyone else on the podium looks around hoping that the independent, avante-garde newspaper paper, Seven Days doesn’t catch them in their moment of embarrassing patriotic vulnerability. The start commences promptly at 8:05am and you are off! Mike Wardian and Byrne Decker move to the front taking the early lead… Flemming gets pissed at the second dis…. (serious race strategy advice to follow) 

The first 3 miles — Turns and Tempered Times

Think of the first three miles as an urban adrenaline rush. You will be bolting down Pearl Street and then Willard Street carried on by the throng. If you aren’t careful, you’re first miles will be 10-30 seconds per mile faster than goal pace. Ease up here. Tell yourself to run slow and you will run probably your first mile about 5 seconds faster. In these first miles, you get a quaint tour of the nice houses around Burlington and will for sure see cute, enlightened kids sitting in Radio Flyers next to their liberal parents; they’ll all wave to you.

Ignore them.

Miles 4-8. Poop zone.

At mile 4 you leave the enlightened comfort of the scions of the Sierra Clubbers and head out into a vast mess that Burlingtonians refer to as the ‘Beltline.’ These miles are hard pavement out on a lonely road that borders putrid swamp and the “Intervale.” You get no cheers and will be lucky to see one or two stalwart supporters out there. General Ethan Allen put his house out here a long time ago, and since then, everyone else has decided to stay the hell away from it. You’ll intersect some underpasses where people play bongo drums but that’s pretty much about it. The highlight of this section is seeing the elite Templars as they clip along going the opposite direction. Flip them off. You turn around up a slight hill at 6 and usually turn around into the wind; be ready for this. 

Miles 9- 15.

Fast running past Dean’s house Mile 9 brings you back into the crowds. You’ll swing down Church Street hauling ass. A garage band with kids and zits is always right by the Old Navy store on your right. Wave to them. 

Miles 10 to 13 are all South of town. You’ll run down by Oakledge Park and past Howard Dean’s house. He likes to show up for the marathon and he will probably put on a puppet show for you–pretending that he is a common man from Vermont instead of that silver-spooned scion of a New York banker. He’ll probably have a wheelbarrow out and a LL Bean flannel shirt caked in fake garden mud for you too. Give him your best presidential bid-ending scream. The ½ marathon point is in Oakledge Park and get ready to smile for the camera, because as you come around the turn, the photo company will be there to take your visage. 

Mile 15-16, Taiko drums, Jean Luc Picard, and the Hill. 

As you get closer to mile 15, you’ll hear the hill. Battery Park Hill is about 300 meters at about 13%. Get ready for it. Hopefully you have saved some tokens for it. If all else fails, and you are dying, look for Jean Luc Picard. He’s this guy and is like the mac daddy kingpin of the Taiko gang that roams the streets of Burlington late at night; those bastards, always looking for someone or something to beat. 

Miles 17-22, The Death Zone. Without a doubt, this part of the marathon is the worst. All marathons begin to suck in these miles, and leave it to the VCM to lay in the most boring parts of the course during these miles. I don’t even know how to describe the course here. You weave in and out of housing areas; the tolerant, Caillou-watching Sierra Club kids from downtown devolve into blue collar, Cartoon Network ingrates who spit watermelon seeds at you. NASCAR stickers appear; you have left the green zone. Weave in and out…turn…turn…turn back…turn again…SUCK. Save it all for here. 

Miles 23-26.2 Cruise control. By mile 23, you are on the bike path that parallels Lake Champlain. Now is the time to cruise. Your legs are toast, but realize that it’s rolling, shaded downhill from here on out. The Queen City has returned and she is caressing your sweaty forehead telling you that all will be ok. She tolerates you. As a word of advice, you can run off the asphalt on a small gravel path to the right of the path — do this. Just at the finish, you will have to double back for the dreaded .2 mile slog. Get ready for this, because the inexperienced will think that they are done when they hear the crowd. You run a gauntlet of a crowd for this .2 and they will carry you into the finish. There you have it. The rest is predictable post marathon playbook — tin foil Zorro capes, disinterested teenagers snipping your chip off your shoe, and landfilling bottle after landfilling, petroleum-wasting bottle of fresh spring water. Oh, I forgot the landfilling hunk that is a finisher’s medal.

I ran the first eight miles today with Greg. We took the river trail which was a Congo expedition of sorts: we forded flooded, knee-deep sections of the trail and scattered clusters of newly hatched mosquitoes. The absolute worst sections of the trail went to waist-deep water; anytime I am moving through turbid, waist-deep water on a humid day, I am reminded of the swamp phase of Ranger School when I half expected to kick up a water moccasin’s nest at any moment. Brown water hides things; it hides those creatures that cause little bubbles to rise within arms reach of your quickly churning legs.
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Those black, rubbery, mean-as-hell snakes are nearby; keep going, move on, move on, lift the legs, lift the legs, got to set up a patrol base…..it’s getting dark….HALT! Take a knee! YOU Ranger…take a fucking knee. (whisper chain reaction started) Whispers catch up to me as Ranger buddy whispers in my ear, “SEND UP RANGER LARKIN.” I turn to tell the next guy to send up Ranger Larkin and then realize that I’m fucked. It’s my turn…. I churn up turbid water; I don’t care about water moccasins anymore. In fact, water moccasins, please swarm on me now? I’m more scared about what’s coming to me. 

I walk through the water and pass all the tired men taking a knee in the middle of the pond. A Ranger instructor(RI) sits under a tree Indian-style; it’s his Bodhi tree in the middle of Florida. He spits a torrent of brown tobacco liquid out of the side of his mouth. It’s the South, it’s the Army and so he squawks in a Georgia accent at me: “Rangea Larkin…the patrol leader has been relieved. You are in chaaarge now. You got one zero minutes to get your shit togetha. Undastand?” Spit. 

He pulls out a map. He spits again and licks the bits of tobacco up that didn’t make it to the ground–the bits that stick to the edge of his mouth–with his tongue. He’s got a small pine needle in his hand and thrusts it at me, “Where we at, Rangea Larkin? What is yo position?” 

I look around. I see tired men–hulking shadows–with green rucksacks and M-16s still taking a knee in the pools of water. It’s getting dark. I don’t know where the hell we are. When I’m under that kind of pressure, my mind races. The contour lines all come together: the draws become spurs: the valleys are the peaks; east becomes west, north down, south up. I wave the pine needle in a circle, almost trying to make magic and divine our location. I settle on a swamp near the RI’s thumb. 

The RI spits fast this time; no pieces of tobacco stick to his mouth, “Wrong! Holy SHIT! Congratulations Rangea Larkin, you were about five clicks off our actual location! Maybe someone else knows where we are?” The instructor pushes the map into my chest and stands up, wiping up the bits of the forest off of his camouflage pants. His Army issue soft cap is tight down on his head; the brim is folded neatly into a perfect U around his chiseled face; the Ranger tab on his hat and on his shoulder stand out in the setting sun. He looks disinterested off into the woods and sends me on my way without any eye contact, “I can tell this is going to be a very long fuckin’ patrol. You already on the verge of failing this here patrol, Rangea Larkin. You now got exactly five minutes to get yo shit together, else I’m going to call in an enemy artillery barrage and relieve yo ass!” It’s my turn to spit a little amount of tobacco now. It’s my only hope to salvage this abortion. I don’t chew tobacco, but I have to look the part; I have to be a Southern man in the Army to check this mysterious block in my life. It’s my response to his manliness; it’s my refusal to admit my own complete incompetence and to persevere and win, to suck it up and be an actor. 

So I look at the RI and tell him, “Roger, Sergeant.” I grab my rifle–chunks of Florida mud protrude out of its muzzle which is usually how I cared for all my equipment in the Army–and slog my way back through the murky water, kicking up swarms of mosquitoes and causing the strange things under the water to send up brown bubbles. I reach the point man and start the whispering chain reaction, “Send up the Platoon Sergeant. Pass the word that I’m in charge now.” The whispering starts, as the men start to move again: the metal clanking of the M-60 crew machine gun’s 50-pound cast iron tripods against their 10-pound traversing mechanisms resonate through the woods. 

More noises can be heard: the creaking of arthritic knees trying to stand up, the coughs of tired men–swigging water here, spitting tobacco there. Mosquitoes buzz up close; frogs croak all around us, and whippoorwills call out far away in the darkening forest signaling the coming night. Nature’s curtain hangs down over us, now. With darkness in this school comes uncertainty and ambivalence. Tired men want to lay their heads down on soft, dry sand and sleep. They don’t give a shit about what you did for them a week ago or that you gave them a piece of your oatmeal cookie bar because they were getting delirious. The moment is now, and the moment is man at his most exposed, raw, selfish state. 

Darkness in this school brings out red lens flashlights and ponchos. Leaders hover, like red phantoms under ponchos, and shoot desperate azimuths into the caverns of forest, making educated guesses at the easiest route to the objective. Light discipline is required. No one should see your red light. The enemy is out there, watching. If you flash light, the RIs go nuts and throw artillery simulators into the woods causing the entire platoon to get up and run with all their equipment for 500 meters. If you keep fucking up, you keep getting ’shelled’ which means your people hate you even more and grow tired of your incompetence pretty damn fast. 

And so the men wait for the leaders to take them to war. The ammo bearers–human mules in this dark comedy– slug OD green metal cartons of blank M-60 rounds for the machine gunners who balance 70 pounds of cold death slung around their necks like a mutant baby. The weight of these weapons and their accoutrement leave red marks around their necks which increase in size after 20 miles of walking under the hot sun. Their exposed skin cracks and blood begins to run. It mixes with sweat and forms upside down matchsticks which drip downward onto their dark, salt-caked uniforms. This confluence calls the mosquitoes that hover in squadrons above it all and descend, in turn, onto the men like JU-87s in 1939 Poland. The men are nothing but tired animals now. They rest their eyes and begin to snore. They nod off while on one knee, falling forward, face first; they are the apostles in the Garden of Gesthemene waiting for direction and hope–for an end to this insanity. 

They wait for their leader to lead. They are frail humans gripped by the unrelenting pressures of stronger forces and so they give in to everything. They are hopeless creatures–nothing but needy babies at their very worst. But you depend on them. It happens to be daylight savings time tonight. Of all the fucking nights to have daylight savings time, it happens to fall on the night that I have to take these 30 sleep-deprived, starving, cantankerous, self-absorbed Ranger students miles across the swamps and go raid some enemy headquarters where Ranger Instructors in doo rags and inside-out uniforms pose as General Noriegas and Che Gueveras for our five minutes of O.K. Corral action, in-between looking at porn mags and discussing all the wonderful extramarital affairs back on the base. 

The sun’s now just about down to the branches closest to the ground. It draws my shadow long, sending me all the way across the water–wrapping me around my new patrol. I’m on a knee and putting in a handful of Red Man Golden Blend into my mouth. My M-16 is cradled under my arms . It’s those long minutes between being a nobody and being in charge; it’s the middle ground; it’s purgatory. I can’t fail this patrol. I already recycled this final phase and so if I fail this patrol, I fail the whole fucking school–all four months of it. I go to Fort Bragg ‘tabless;’ I get ostracized by my new unit. I become a pariah in front of those with the tab. I become the Army equivalent of a leper. I postpone my wedding, I call home and tell my parents to cancel their trip. 

I stare once more into the turbid water and at the strange bubbles…… Greg looks over to me now; just a couple more feet and we will be out of this morass. We clear the water and pick back up to 6:50 pace squishing out water with each footfall–shedding these memories at an ever-increasing cadence. So I leave my memories at the brown pool and swing my arms and legs again down the river trail.
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Back in civilization, back at the Audubon market, the Indian man standing behind the counter was wearing an unseasonal Woolrich flannel shirt. He rubbed his gold pinky ring and wrapped his fingers around the gaudy opal centered in the middle of the ring, working them back and forth around the shiny edges of the stone, rubbing it like one would rub a nipple’s erectile tissue. He stared down at me holding about $50 worth of food: apples and oranges, bananas and pretzels, hard-boiled eggs and beef jerky nuggets, Gatorade and Boo Koo energy drink. He smiled and blurted out something in Hindustani to his wife as he grabbed my first item and wanded it against the red laser light making a fake ‘DING!’ sound. ‘Ding!’ (Hindustani) ‘Ding!’ (More Hindustani…faster cadence) ‘Ding!’ (Wife now, back at him…) ‘Ding!’ (Staccato Hindustani…back and forth now) Apparently I just made their day and they appeared to be making plans to shut down the shop and go walk along the Betzwood Trail. Life was good at the Audubon market; a malnourished runner during his Caveman week had fallen into their overpriced web. The opal brought them good luck.