I registered for the Mount Lemmon Marathon today. 9000 foot hill, Arizona desert. Fuck.
From the website:
“The Marathon Course is one of the toughest and most scenic courses in the world. The uphill course starts at 3100ft and finishes at 9147ft – from the cacti and desert landscape of the Sonoran Desert to the pine trees of the Catalina Mountains.”
“The Toughest Road Marathon in the World. The Only Uphill Marathon in the US. 6000+ ft Elevation Gain.”
Here is chart of the elevation:
That chart sort of sucks. The point is we (Ander Monson and 1248 others [The cap for the race] running) are going uphill the whole way, at elevation, in a fucking desert. I feel dread. How? I feel like a sack of dogs throw in a taffy machine . Oh, ragged life! My heart is a landlord with receding hair and a Hummer. There’s a mummy inside his pants. I am not unconcerned. I got a cloud over my head in the shape of a ruptured spleen. The spleen is bleeding red beetles. Their wings make a sound of razor blades being sharpened on one another. Time is involved here, so I am not immortal by definition. My thighs just called my calves a goddamn whore. My calves just called Lily Tomlin up and asked her out for Halloween, or a few days before Halloween. Doom. Doom like acid snow. Like the wings of tiny birds torn away and all fluttering to the earth as the wing-less bird bodies splat. I just broke my chromosome. I wish they wouldn’t close traffic, then I could be hit by…My teeth are grinding, grinding out organs and monkeys doing cartwheels. I have a bluish pile of skin sitting on my forehead, asking, “What exactly the fuck?” My arm just peeled away its own blanketing, then its vessels, then its bones, and I am holding here a tangled scrawl of raw, thin metal. Vomit on my desk–how? What did I eat? It’s all U.S. Post Office, I mean my stomach one of those ratchety machines in Cincinnati that shred and eat all the literary magazines. Where did the good go? I am sweating. Odd. My sweat tastes like sitting in a bed while everyone younger than me gathers around and whispers and stares. Sort of rabbit coat meets highway shoulder meets sickly orange punk girl hair, that taste. Oh, heavy, flat Sprite. My lungs are pissed. My lungs just said no more searching for keys. No more over-tipping. “It’s not fair,” my left lung lobe says. What pain? I will be dumb as a car. I will be dumb as very mountain, the individual boulders, the dust beneath the boulders once a boulder itself. My thoughts rush now like a true lover of beauty, as in death. I am scared, my friends. I am scared to climb the escarpment dumb. OK?
Who said anything about walking?