RICHARD NIXON WAS RIGHT

“Defeat doesn’t finish a man—quit does. A man is not finished when he’s defeated. He’s finished when he quits.”
—RICHARD M. NIXON

Man, I love Tricky Dick. What a great quote. What a great man. Did that guy EVER make a mistake? Oh, yeah, Watergate. But come on, everyone is entitled to ONE mistake. And you have to admit, those words are pretty powerful. Although they do lose some of their potency when you consider that Nixon is one of the biggest quitters of all-time, having resigned as President in 1974. Man, I have to start picking better mentors.

Well, I can’t be too hard on the Dick (no jokes, please), because I’m a hypocrite, too. I am guilty of being a pharisee, a phony, a liar and a prevaricator and fabricator of the highest order. As you can probably guess by now, I have NOT quit the marathon, nor have I quit my blog. The reason is simple: After posting that September 9 would be my last blog, I received 198,523 responses from people begging, pleading and demanding that I continue, that I brave the storm, that I never stop writing this all-so-important blog of immeasurable consequence. OK, I DIDN’T receive 198,523 responses. I didn’t even receive one. But, like I said earlier, I’m a liar.

The real reason for my triumphant return is simple: After writing my last post, all I wanted to do was crawl back into bed, pull the sheets over my head, feel sorry for myself and retreat from the world. There were several motivations for that, which I’ll discuss in my next post, but basically, a lot of bad things hit me at once, and I simply wanted to quit everything: my training, the marathon, the blog, my job, heroin (just joking—I’d NEVER quit heroin; that shit’s the bomb!). But a funny thing happened on the way to the forum: After writing that post, I didn’t go back to bed or sleep the day away, but rather went for a run and thought things over. And then I had an epiphany of sorts: I finally admitted to myself that the STAR WARS prequels suck. Freed of the burden of having to defend those mediocre movies, I began to feel a new lease on life…

OK, another lie. Get used to it, suckas. The REAL epiphany was that I finally figured out that 1) I’ve worked too hard and long and run too many painful miles to quit when the end was in sight, and 2) Getting the suicide-attempt monkey off my back and just throwing it out there for anyone to see rid me of what I felt was my Scarlet Letter, my secret stain and shame that couldn’t be spoken of because people would think I was a freak, or a mental case, or some seriously disturbed person.

Yes, I am a freak, a mental case and seriously disturbed—but in a GOOD way, and not because I tried to kill myself. And of the handful of people who knew what I did, some, indeed, treated me differently, or stopped being my friend or simply tried to pretend that it never happened. But the thing is, it happened. I did it. Guilty as charged. Big-whoop-de-f**king-doo! One mistake does not make a man (just ask Nixon!), and I am now more comfortable in my own skin, and with who I am, than ever before. I am content with who I am as a person (and trust me, I realize that there’s plenty of room for improvement), and trying to kill myself is part of who I am, but it’s a part of my past, and it helped make me who I am in the present. I’m not going to dwell on it, but I’m not going to ignore it or treat it like Sloth from the GOONIES and keep it locked up in my mind’s basement, feeding it Baby Ruths until a fat kid named Chunk finally frees it and… Sorry, I’m kind of pushing it with the GOONIES/Sloth metaphor, ain’t I? But I digress.

So if people know that about me and can’t deal with it, or deal with me, or look down or oddly at me, I’ll politely go to www.mapquest.com and give them directions to my ass, so they can kiss it. Actually, I understand why most people aren’t comfortable with those who have attempted suicide, or have mental health problems, or suffer from severe depression. But, again, the thing is, I AM comfortable with those issues, and the people who have them, and I’m comfortable with myself.

This is getting a little too preachy and didactic for my sermonizing ass, so I think it’s time to hit the stop button. But come on, did you really think I would quit? Hell, my idol is Brett Favre. If good old #4 can change his mind and come out of retirement, why can’t I? Hey, wait, Brett Favre… Screw Tricky Dick, that corrupt, Watergate-scandal son of a bitch. And screw his quote. In Brett I trust. And in Brett I quote:

“Life deals you a lot lessons, some people learn from it, some people don't. Once again I am not perfect, but I thought there was one time when Brett Favre would always drink and be this crazy guy, I thought I would never change.”
—BRETT FAVRE

Well, Brett, I’m probably always going to drink and be crazy. But I’m cool with that. I’ll always be a drunken reprobate. But I’ve been dealt a lot of lessons this past year, and I’ve learned from a lot of them. And while I’m far from perfect, I have changed…for the better. I ain’t no Nixon. I ain’t resigning. I ain’t quitting. I gotta run, folks—literally and figuratively. I have a marathon I have to prepare for, and it’s time for me to get my ass in gear…

I QUIT

You win. Whoever you are. You win. I lose. I concede, abandon, relinquish, surrender.

I am quitting this blog. I am quitting my training. I am quitting the marathon.

I, Dartman, the Drunken Reprobate, ignoble and abject, ignominiously give up this fustian on-line melodrama and marathon attempt. I am cutting the cord on this flapdoodle. This blog balderdash has reached its conclusion. And while these postings have, for the most part, been a potpourri of nonsensical, self-contradictory, frivolous and facetious poppycock, my story, and this blog, does not end as a comedy, but, as it must, a tragedy. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM was never my cup of tea, anyway. I’ve always been more of a HAMLET man myself. Perhaps because I can relate to a man of no action. But I digress.

My training started back in October with 5-mile Monday runs with Team Tiger, and it got serious around 19 weeks ago, when I began my marathon training. During the last 4-plus months, I’ve easily run over 500 miles, maybe 600. I’ve averaged 40-50 beers a week (12 and 16 oz., depending on the ABV). I’ve survived on a diet of coffee, burritos, pizza, ice cream, pasta and beef. And on the snooze front, I’ve done all this on around 4.5 hours sleep a night.

When people heard about my marathon routine, they told me I wouldn’t make it. They said I was crazy. They were concerned about my health. They told me there was no way I should drink beer BEFORE and DURING my training runs, and especially during the actual race. They assured me there was no way I could complete the marathon.

I tried to defy them. And I almost made it. Yes, I’m an imprudent crackpot. But I never got injured. Actually, I’ve never been healthier. I am a strong runner. I am reasonably fast. And, on Sunday, I did the longest leg of my training. I ran 23 miles in 3:20. I was actually sort of proud of myself. I was ready as could be for the big race October 12. But I was wrong. I won’t be running the marathon. YOU were right. I won’t be seeing the finish line in Chicago. I’ve wasted an entire summer running. That’s what these four-plus months have been: constant, never-ending running. I put in the time, the miles, the effort and gave my heart and soul. I truly did. But I won’t be running or finishing the Chicago Marathon, and there’s one, simple reason for that:

I quit.

And although it may not be fair, I’m not gonna tell you why. And not because I’m afraid of disclosure, but because it wasn’t any ONE thing. Yeah, something hurtful happened last night, but that was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. Basically, this past year has been like LEMONY SNICKET: one big SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS. To give you an idea of where I’m coming from (and so I don’t sound like an egocentric whiner), I will divulge the biggest secret of my life, something only a handful of people know, and which might explain why I chose to run a marathon and write this blog, and why I’ve now decided to quit both.

On July 17, 2007 I tried to kill myself. In fact, I should be dead. My alcohol level alone should have done me in. And the 50 or so pain killers I swallowed should have sealed the deal. But they didn’t. I lived. And I’m glad I did. I spent the first 32 years of my life hating myself, and spent this last year trying to learn to look in the mirror and not see some failure and horrible being, but a good person with faults who tries to do the right thing, who aims to be the best son, brother and friend he can be, and maybe finally believes enough in himself to act on his potential, to see what he has left in the tank, to see what he has to offer and can achieve.

So I have a history of quitting. I quit on life on July 17. Today, a little over a year later, I’m only quitting a marathon and a blog. That’s an improvement, right? (Come on, there has to be SOME humor in this post.) Coincidentally, the other day, I was watching Akira Kurosawa’s brilliant IKURU (which, I think, means TO LIVE in English), in which Takashi Shimura plays Kanji Watanabe, a man dying of cancer who has wasted his life and finally figures out how to live—a life of passion and dedication and worth—as he faces his own impending death. The film made a huge impact on me. I’m not dying. And I’m certainly not planning on a repeat performance of July 17. But I almost died. I should be dead. And I’ve spent this year, like Watanabe, realizing how to live, to search and reach for that passion and dedication and worth. In the movie, Watanabe beautifully, plaintively sings the song “Life is Brief.” It sounds corny, but, man, it hit home with me. So is it that surprising that I threw myself into running a marathon? I hate trite metaphors and analogies. Here are the facts: I tried to kill myself. I lived. I decided to commit myself to running a 26.3 mile race. Read into that what you want. But I changed my life.

However, there are certain things you CAN’T change. I understand that you can’t expect life to give you any breaks, but, boy, I’ve taken a lot of punches to the bread basket this past year. And not just personally, but my family and friends. It has been a truly sh*tty year. But I’ve rolled with the punches all the while. I’m no cry baby. My worst day is some poor sap’s best day. I realize everybody has their trials and tribulations, and there are TONS of people who are going through much worse crap than I am. Don’t break out a tissue for me. But there’s a line in ROCKY BALBOA (yes, I’m referencing Shakespeare and Sylvester Stallone in the same post) where the Italian Stallion says, “You, me or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard you’re hit, it’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward, how much you can take and keep moving forward.”

Well, I’m not moving forward. Not in a marathon, not in anything. I can’t take the hits anymore. And there have been plenty of them this last year. And there’s only one person to blame. Me. I’ve run a lot of miles this past year, literally and figuratively, and while my legs aren’t tired, I am. All those miles, all that time, all that effort, and I always ended my runs right where I started them. All that, and for what? To end up in the same place I began. You don’t have to be Freud to read into that. At least if I had completed the marathon, I would have been 26 miles ahead. Ouroboros is not broken. My life has been one big, endless, repetitive cycle. The end is the beginning is the end. The serpent swallows its tail. But I’m not quitting on life. Just this blog and the marathon. Still, something in the back of my mind tells me they’re one and the same thing.


So I guess a Drunken Reprobate can’t be a marathoner. I guess you and everyone else was right. But you have to admit, I came awfully close and give it a hell of shot, didn’t I?

Adios.

Dartman (a.k.a. The Drunken Reprobate)

WHY SO SERIOUS?

I am chaos. I am anarchy. Lawlessness. Mobocracy. I incite riots. Encourage disorder. Give me tumult and turmoil. Bring on rebellion and revolution. I am a crazed malcontent whose brain has been warped by too much beer and marathon training. I am a rabble-rousing drunken reprobate. I am no longer Dartman. There was an accident… A terrible accident. And my face is now hideously deformed. My grin is a craggy slash, a razor-blade frightening, demented smile. My skin a pasty, tallow-faced, sickly white. My hair a dirty, sewer-green, greasy and grimy, filthy like a stringy, worn-out mop. Don’t call me the Dartman. Don’t call me the Batman. Call me…

The Joker.

HA! HA! HA! HA!
HA! HA! HA! HA!
HA! HA! HA! HA!

Why so serious?

OK, I’m NOT the Joker. I just saw THE DARK KNIGHT one too many times. Same thing happened a few years ago when I saw that Chris Kattan film and thought I was CORKY ROMANO for three months. Still, there is a method to madness, and my proclamation that I am now a subversive agent of chaos. (And no, I’m not referring to GET SMART).

You see, what happened was… This is hard to admit… And it’s why I haven’t posted in some time. I also went into my third coma in five years after drunkenly smashing my head against a lamp. That doesn’t sound so bad, but it was actually a LAMP POST. And I smashed my noggin against it while I was sticking my head out of a Corvette doing 80 mph. I was brain dead for three days, but luckily my brother was a perfect match and unselfishly donated his brain. My benevolent sibling gave up his life for me, and all I can say is… SUCKA! I would have NEVER given my brother my brain. I wouldn’t have even given him a pint of blood if it would have saved his life. If I came across him dying of dehydration in a desert, I would have guzzled a 5-gallon water bottle of Poland Spring in front of him, stuffed his mouth full of dry Saltines and watched him die. That asshole thought he was so… Sorry, getting off track. That’s another post. But, bro, if you’re reading this, and this comes from the heart: Now, I’M THE BRAINS OF THE FAMILY, DOUCHE BAG!!! Yeah, that’s what I said, tough guy. You are, were and always will be a douche bag! Vaginal irrigation is even above you. You’re a friggin’ enema nozzle, butt munch. Mom WAS right. You were smarter than me. But now you’re topsoil and I’ve got your brain. HA! HA! HA! HA!

Sorry. Like I said, I may not be the Joker, but I am mad as a hatter. Anyway, so there are two reasons why I haven’t blogged lately. One, as you can probably tell from my last few blogs, is that I’m having a ¾-life crisis. No, not a mid-life crisis. I had THAT when I was 20. So that means I’m a goner at 40. But at age 30, I’m having a ¾-life crisis, and I blame it on REASON #2. And REASON #2 is: I started taking running seriously. Why so serious you ask? I don’t know. Running is like a drug to me now. I love it. I need it. I abuse it. I snort it. I’ve sucked d**k for it. I’ve tossed the salad of a 1,324-pound shut-in amputee named LaSandra just to feel the rush of a 5-mile sprint. OK, that’s an exaggeration. I’ve never snorted running. But the rest is true.

Two Sundays ago, I ran 20 miles. Not biked or drove or flew. I RAN my first 20-miler. And I averaged 9-minute miles, and that’s with hills. I ran 40 or so miles that week, which was another new record for me. I also ran 9 miles at a 7:30 pace, my fastest ever. I can now sprint one mile in under 6:30. And I’m following it up this week with another 40 miles and my upcoming 23-mile run (the longest of the training).

Am I patting myself on the back? NO!!!!! These are all BAD things. That’s what SERIOUS runners do. I’m a joker, a toker, a midnight… Wait, I hate that song. But I’m becoming dedicated to this training and the marathon and, well, I don’t like it. I’m Dartman. I’m a Drunken Reprobate. I’m NOT a runner!

So that’s where the Joker comes in. The anarchy. The craziness. The madness. To make up for all the progression I’ve made as a runner, I went off the deep end and mutinied this past week. Yeah, I’m still gonna run 40 miles, but like Sinatra, I’m gonna do it MY WAY. Last Sunday, yeah, I ran my 13 miles. But I did it after drinking 10 strong-ass beers the night before, mainly Captain Lawrence Double IPAs. Last Tuesday, yeah, I did my speed run of 5 miles at a 7:30 pace. But I did it after drinking sangria, a margarita and three pints. I was sweaty and stunk of alcohol afterward, but I was still fast. I’ve increased my miles, my drinking and my lack of sleep. I live on coffee, fried foods, burritos and hot wings. And I LOVE it!!!

My name is Dartman. Not Batman. I am not on the side of good or order, lawfulness or compliance. I am a rogue runner. I am a good-for-naught. I am self-destructive. I am an unprincipled, scampish, frolicsome scapegrace. And if I fall on my face and don’t finish the marathon, you can wag your finger at me and say, “I told you so.” But if somehow I DO finish the marathon, while DRINKING BEER, and I get a decent time, well, then my puckish personality will have paid off. I won’t have compromised. Runners are a methodical, systematic, orderly and regulated lot. I am a stye in their eye. An irritant. I defy classification. I am chaos. And my goal is to watch the running world burn. Call me…

The Dartman.

Wait. I’m getting a little full of myself here. I admit, I AM crazy. But I’m insignificant, not super-serious-runner-fast and like 32 people have read this friggin blog. No one cares about my revolution. The real runners rule. During my 4-month training, I can almost guarantee that I will have had more beer, eaten unhealthier and gotten less sleep than anybody else in the Chicago Marathon. But who cares? I’m a delusional dork trying to pose himself as an unhinged firebrand and psychotic troublemaker who actually has a voice that is heard and listened to. But wasn’t the Joker delusional, too? Exaggerating his importance and impact on Gotham City? Batman saves the day, is the hero, gets the girl and represents righteousness. Oh, wait, that’s Spider-Man and Superman. Batman is actually pretty cracked, too. But the Joker will always be the cynosure of my eyes.

Why so serious?

HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!

8/16-9/4

DRINKING
8 beers (avg. ABV: 7%) (5 days a week)

RUNNING
40 miles total/week (and my first 20-miler)

SLEEP
5 hours/day