Sometimes you run the race you trained for. Sometimes you run the race you wish you’d trained for. The latter will get you into trouble.
Last weekend, I ran the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, D.C. All season long, I’d harbored hopes of another PR (that’s personal record for you non-sporty types; for the Brits, yes, it’s the same as Personal Best).
A PR would have meant completing the race in under 3:59:39.
So you’re not only doing something as foolish as running 26.2 miles on your day off, you’re going out of town to do it. Since your already-addled brain has probably been made worse by a combination of Taper Crazies, race anxiety and stress over that one stupid thing at work, I thought I’d help you with this packing list for your out-of-town marathon.
I’ll cut to the chase. I want to end cancer. And to do that, I want you to donate some of your hard-earned money. If you’ve got another cancer or charity you like to give to, give to them. But if you’re here and have five bucks or a hundred or whatever, let’s do this thing. I’ll be chipping in my own money. And I’ll be running a marathon.
Fact: A kid diagnosed with blood cancer in the 1960s had a 4% chance of survival. A kid today has a 90% chance. And that’s thanks to scientific advances made possible by the money you donate.
Like most dudes, I don’t go to the doctor. Not unless something is literally falling off. That something could be a leg or even dry scaly spots. True. I’m vain. And if I start getting visual blemishes on the temple that is my body, I might consider the dermatologist.
Then again, that first dermatologist may have been good at doling out prescriptions for dry scalp, but he sort of missed the more important stuff. Like the fucking skin cancer growing on my nose. That little bump had been there for so long, I didn’t give it much thought and never would have gone to the doctor to check that out had it not been for the OTHER reason dudes go to the doctor. Incessant nagging by a woman. Thankfully, that all worked out okay and now I have nothing but a cool scar to show for it. Continue reading “Hypochondria and Cancer and Me”→