You've probably noticed that the title and picture of this post has no tangible connection to Crispin Hellion Glover. That is because today's post is a special guest post by one the Right Reverend Booker T. Kilimanjaro, formerly Gent Nicely. Throughout it's illustrious past, whenever Forty Minutes of Hell has needed someone to give their perspective on the world(s) of middle and long distance running, we have turned to the Reverend K.* At other times, he e-mails someone out of the blue demanding that we post this or that nigh - incomprehensible rant. This is one of those times.

Oh hello. Didn't see you there, how've you been? Good, good. Good to hear, glad you're taking up a hobby. You're only young once right? What's that you say? My weekend? Funny you should ask.


"*sob* I need a hug!"
"Get the fucking shoes off, get 'em off!"
"Thank you sir, and a race well run to you as well. No I would not like to massage your legs. No I would not like you to massage mine."
"My number? 4-0-7-gimmememyfugginbagalready!"
"Please don't come near me Bigclowns. Please Please Please. Don't make me deal with you."

The following are things I either said or muttered under my breath just after finishing the Dong-a Marathon in Seoul, over twice as long as the longest race I've ever run, and I'm struck by how it was almost exactly like, if not a little better than, getting date-raped. Indulge me whilst I explain.

One day the Marathon's in town, you've never run one, you've just heard things that make it sound mysterious, exciting, maybe a little... dangerous? Intrigued, you give it a shot, and it starts out as a blast, all this pomp and fanfare, (just for you!) and before you know it you've run further than you ever have, and feel like you're soaring on the wings of the Titanic, with Leonardo DiCaprio holding your waist. But then, at about the midpoint, the Marathon goes too far. "This isn't cool anymore," you think to yourself "I want to go home now." But it's too late, too much has happened, and it's buy the ticket, take the ride.

You begin to panic. Meanwhile androgynous Asians in powder blue cowboy outfits shout "Fighting!" at you. As it progresses you find yourself retreating into yourself, trying to deny what's happening to you, block it out, make it be over, but it just keeps getting worse. Also women in tiger costumes throw frozen treats at your head. Eventually it's over, and the only thing you can think is how much you need a hug, a shower and a good cry.

So you limp away, sore, sticky, confused and so full of self loathing that when strange old men offer to massage your legs without so much as buying you a drink, you actually have to think hard for a reason why not. But it doesn't end there, oh no. A short while later, along comes a hateful little souvenir, a little forget-me-not from your friend the marathon, that perhaps, with time and patience, you can learn to love. There was no handwriting or speaking involved in my registration by the way. Signed up on the 'net. Koreans raise misspelling to an art form.

And that was my weekend. How was yours?

This is for certain friends of mine, and you know who you are. Only the second two titles are references. The first one is all Byrne, so you can give wikipedia a break.

* - This has never happened.

Editor's Note: I have neglected to edit any of this, minus the fact that it was originally one long paragraph.