Last weekend marked the second annual SLO Marathon. As someone who doesn’t exactly get excited about running, it seemed like just the thing to go spectate on a Sunday morning.

So I trudged out of bed at about 7:30 and walked the 3/4 mile or so to go watch the finishers of the races that had started in the wee hours of the morning.

The event was a big one – about 3,000 participants on Sunday all battling their inner monologue, willing themselves to suffer a little more than they thought possible. At least that’s what I thought. More on why that may not have been true later.

This Giants fan might have been my nemesis. Respect goes to him for finishing the half-marathon in a respectable time and (presumably) running the whole way. By Owen Main

As most of the half-marathon runners were pushing toward the finish, the winner of the Marathon itself came through, looking like a spring chicken. This guy was like one of the crazies described in Born to Run (a great book, by the way). Just by watching him run the half-mile I saw down the stretch, it was clear that this guy really loved what he was doing. It’s one of the things, I’m sure, that helped him go wire-to-wire and win the race by a wide margin.

There were others that passed, and my people-watching intensified. Many people had a team shirt/jersey they were running with. Some of the runners had people’s names inscribed across their chests. Others showed off their professional, college, or high school sports colors.

My favorite accessory, other than the variety of iPhones, was the water-bottle hip holsters. As if they would somehow get overheated or dehydrated in the 2 miles between available water-stations, people loved to wear the hip water.

Here’s a great account of how it was to RUN the Marathon by J.J. Jenkins of The Mustang Daily.

More interesting than the hip water or the boob-sweat soaked gel that Jenkins described, were the looks on people’s faces as they finished. Some were smiling. Others grimaced. Some had what I’m sure was tunnel vision, just trying to get across that finish line. Their respective gait was as interesting as the looks on their faces. People of every shape, size, disposition, iPhone case color, ear-bud type, and running-shoe type and color passed by. So many people who set a goal and finished with a resounding sprint were inspiring to a big lug like me. They made me want to get on my bike… to get out and about… to get moving.

Still trying to figure out whose team he’s on. By Owen Main

Smash-cut to me, four hours later,

An angry, bitter look on my face. It is now 1:15 in the afternoon. The Marathon started at 6:00 AM, so seven hours and fifteen minutes later, I figured even those people who had to walk some of the way must have finished the marathon by now. Downtown, which had its street closed in the early-morning hours must be bustling by now, I thought. My friend, who ran all the way (albeit super slowly) finished in 5:30. So give someone almost two additional hours, and we should be good to go, right?

Wrong.

I should tell you why my fat, non-running self was in the car — it was to get a milkshake. Foster’s Freeze has wonderful milkshakes. And after the mile or so walk to and from Madonna Inn from my house, I was feeling like some sugar was a good thing. So, in the spirit of the Marathon, I got in my car and tried to drive the 1.5 miles to Foster’s Freeze in downtown SLO.

I started down South Higuera. The blinking signs told me the roads would be closed until 3:00, but I thought they couldn’t possibly be closed still at 1:00 PM, five hours after the race winner had crossed the finish line, right? Wrong again. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Traffic was a nightmare, cars with nowhere to go on Higuera, turning around or spilling onto streets adjacent to High Street.

After getting turned around and realizing I was on the “wrong side” of the closed-off route, I decided to park and walk once again. About 3/4 of a mile from Foster’s Freeze, I left my car at the curb and started my second walk of the day. That’s when I noticed some other walkers, walking slower than me.

They had numbers on their chests and smiles on their faces. They walked in groups and alone, but they walked nonetheless. They were participants in the Marathon, and they didn’t look like they’d been running at all. Could you take over 7 hours to go 24 miles if you had been running?

Is 8:30 too early to have a beer? Apparently not. By Owen Main

I got to Foster’s Freeze. It was dead. I walked straight across Marsh St since there was no traffic. Hardly any cars graced that part of downtown. While they said they were busy the night before, the employees also said it had been really slow on Sunday because of the Marathon. I procured my shake in no time and headed back to the car.

As I crossed back over the race route back to my car I saw more walkers. No more runners. Just walkers.

So allow me to be the grumpy guy here:

Marathons are for running. To have streets closed-off through an afternoon to allow some walkers to finish doesn’t make a ton of sense to me. I know we’re talking a few hours to allow for a few more people to enter the “race,” but is it really the same if they are walking? It seems to me they could be walking on the sidewalk just as easily.

I know, I’m the bad guy here. I assume that part of their entry fee went toward closing the streets down. Lots of people who finished the Marathon-walk probably felt great. They surely burned a ton of calories and should feel accomplished to have got themselves that far. Being active is a really great thing. I rode my bicycle 2,000 miles last year. It was good times.

That being said, there are walks — the Avon Walk or the Susan Komen 3-day  — that allow people who won’t be running to walk. They walk similar distances to Marathons over a few days. People who sign up know they’re walking, so they join a walk. And they don’t prevent me from getting to Foster’s Freeze.

In the end, the Marathon and the city gave everyone notice that the roads would be closed. I should have picked a different route and it would have been easier to get where I wanted to go. The organizers probably ran a pretty great event and it seemed like everyone, even the walkers, were succeeding in their goal of moving through 26.2 miles in a day.

Just don’t get between me and my chocolate shake.

Find more pictures from the race at www.facebook.com/fansmanship or click here.

She is simple: bran cereal, TV, nap, sandwich, nap, garden gallivant, piss off grandpa, sleep.

Her life reminds me of a famous ecclesiastical quote, “Vanity!Vanity! Everything is chasing after the wind.” You see, my Nana’s cotton candy face froze like ice with an eternal half-cracked smirk, is the emblem of what it means to live a long and happy life. In 2001, my aunt took her then peppy seventy-four year old body on a three week excursion into the motherland–France.

Seeing the land of her heritage completed my Nana’s short bucket list. À bientôt. Her life is now one gossip mag after another, a bag of low-fat Orville Redenbacher popcorn, and a fizzy off-brand diet coke.

Last she joked of sexual intimacy, it was followed with such a far and away sense of self, that she spoke of it in third person and in the past-tense.  Life is a game of remembering–finding the story within the story–laughing at the detail she missed oh so long ago.

Like a story about my grandfather, her first husband. We sat at the Madonna Inn in 2005, re-establishing a familiar tradition of hot cocoa.  It was there my Nana’s world turned to momentary magic, as then alive owner, Alex Madonna, greeted us with his icy cool lingua. Before you knew it, a quick hello turned into a fifteen minute conversation. Upon arrival, my Nana asked Mr. Madonna whether he remembered talking business with Walter Lerette. His face lit like birthday candles. “Why yes, of course I remember Walt.” Seeing her partly foggy eyes turn crystal clear for a half-hour or so could turn any pessimistic thinker into a Jesus believing optimist.

The story line? Find the details. Pay attention to the best supporting, supporting actresses. Step back a bit. Take life less serious. View all things like a layered Picasso painting: disjointed till proven otherwise. When stepping back, find the hidden brushstroke between the larger ones. Pause. Document. Revel wildly.

My new game is called name-that-animal. It came to fruition on my twenty-fifth birthday, when I decided it was best to have personal, moral, and worldly responsibilities. Perhaps more focus on starvation in Africa, or the poor educational institutions in the under-funded inner city should take precedence over ultimately, meaningless sporting events.

Which is why comedy is the way in which I watch sports now.

For instance, Michael Jordan is no longer the king of the world–but a prostitute and money is his pimp. Bret Favre is no longer an award winning good-ol’-boy, but an artistic genital exhibitionist.

I think David Stern and Kobe Bryant have been having a gay affair since the split from Michael in 2001. On the other hand, Dennis Rodman is not a crazed lunatic, but a traveling art convention, and a man who Lady GaGa robbed.

Through this abnormal lens,  a new normal is founded: folly. Yes, folly. The grandfather to stupidity. Everything is dumb.  The sporting apocalypse has come through an NBA of montage- twas. Excitement, done. Donzo. Buh Bye.

The game is simple, and makes your world far more fun. Watch any sporting event with me, myself and I, and one up each other comparing each athlete to their animal relative. I thought of selling this game to Mattel, but since I am full of folly, free became the new price tag.

Kurt Rambis is….(give it your best shot)

If a fraggle rock made passionate love to the literary character Waldo, a new breed would be born: a fragaldo. Kurt Rambis is the genetic mutation of such a beast as this.

Most of us ogle over former Laker great, Magic Johnson. But what about the mid-90’s Laker point guard Sedale Threatt?

Threatt had that sloping back neck with a beautifully round and bald scalp. He is clearly a Desert Sand Boa.

A teammate of Threatt’s, and part of a dangerous duo with Shaq in the nineties, Elden Campbell was better known for this animal.

A giraffe. Yep, the long and thin Campbell with those drooping eyes, and a slothful looking face, ambles like a giraffe.

Kobe Bryant may be better known as the black mamba, but homie resembles something way different than that, with his thin face, and extended lower jaw when he gets angry and pouty…

If he baptized D-How, it was with the claws on his wings. Kobe looks just like a carniverous Pterodactyl.

It seems the older I get, the more disappointed I become with humanity. I assumed that every person had a revelation as I did on their twenty-fifth birthdays about life and the importance of worldly things. Boy was I wrong. Does my revelation regarding the ultimate meaningless nature of sports make me a fair weather fan? Maybe, if it means I don’t cry or breakdown when my beloved Angels fall. I oblige all of you to take it easy. Chill on the n0-care pill when it comes to sports, and play a round of name-that-animal. Laugh a little more about things. Brush your shoulders off. Purposely sit in-between a crowd of immature Laker fans and root for the opposite team all night. Promise, by night-end, you will be chuckling with a real kind of story to go to the grave with.