I am training assiduously for the marathon, not as you might suppose, because I am determinedly focused on finishing, and certainly not because I am seeking to run a respectable time.
The main reason is the fear of embarrassment. Among the runners in this year’s race will be a 101 year old man and people dressed up in all sorts of weird and elaborate costumes, all of whom could heap ridicule on my efforts.
I have this recurring dream that as I near the finish line the TV cameras pan onto me. I start to raise my hand to acknowledge the fame and acclaim when a large hippopotamus moves effortlessly out of my slipstream and glides easily past me, filling the shot completely.
I was relaying my fears to someone the other day, who casually mentioned how a friend of his was milking the applause of the crowds at the finish when to his dismay he was passed at high speed by a large and definitely less than aero-dynamic canoe, instantly shattering all pride in his athletic achievement.
