Readers, do I have a story for you. It all started last Tuesday, when I went to the Goergen Athletic Center for my monthly ritual attempt to convince myself that I enjoy running. As per usual, the self-persuasion failed, but unlike usual, after the distance meter ticked up to one, an apparition appeared in front of me, screaming at the top of its spectral lungs. Initially, given my preoccupation and the fact that no one else twitched, I assumed the apparition was a trick by my brain to try and convince me to stop, so I ignored it. But upon making eye contact with it, the apparition stopped screaming, and asked me if I could see it.
I, not being well-versed in the genre conventions of a horror movie, did what any sane person would do and decided to finish my run outside by sprinting straight back to my dorm as fast as I could. Unfortunately, as anyone who has seen a horror movie could guess, that plan was a bust — my bed covers could not protect me.
I spent the next day trying to get through classes despite a nagging spirit constantly yelling at me. I hoped I could have held out longer, but it turns out I’m more horrified by the prospect of failing a calculus exam than I am of potentially murderous spirits, so I told the spirit I’d do whatever he wanted if only he would allow me to suffer through class in silence.
Once I was released from the depths of Lattimore 201, I considered running again, but it had been less than a month since my last attempt so I couldn’t force my brain to entertain the idea. Instead, I sat outside with the spirit hovering in front of me, nervously waiting for him to tell me what he wanted.
Look, readers, please don’t take this next comment to mean I wanted to be assigned a quest to the underworld where I would have to sacrifice my future first born, but I was expecting something better than becoming a ghost’s therapist for his complaints against modern-day marathoners.
That’s right, my big YA protagonist-esque moment was here, and all I got was a thousand-year-old-dweeb who wanted to whine about people who weren’t respecting his glorious moment.
My ghostly stalker was the one and only Pheidippides – the guy who ran that famous 26.2 mile trek from the battlefield of Marathon to the city of Athens, promptly died, and inspired millions of people to attempt the same. Running 26.2 miles, that is, not the dying part. In fact, that was one of Phil’s (I’m gonna call him Phil to annoy him) recurring complaints. I guess the guy doesn’t appreciate the fact that thousands of people each year complete his only notable accomplishment way more successfully than he did.
And that was another thing, apparently they aren’t exactly doing what he did. I was subject to a 30 minute rant about how Phil over here actually ran way more than those 26.2 miles, it was actually more like 150.
Against my will, I was starting to feel a little bad for Phil. He died in service of his nation and has been flexed on about it for two millennia — and they aren’t even doing it right! Now that my journalist senses were (reluctantly) tingling, I figured I’d give old Phil here a google, see if things were as bad as he said. Well let me tell you readers, the first six links at least (I stopped looking after six) were about how Phil actually ran more than 26.2 miles, and how his real journey is reflected by the 153-mile Spartathlon, which hundreds of people also run every year.
I got excited; I could help Phil! Maybe if he knew that his real feat was also acknowledged, he could be satisfied (and leave me alone. We were approaching three days of near-continuous complaining). When Phil popped up again a few minutes later, I excitedly showed him the screen.
“Look, Phil,” I said, “People do run what you ran.”
Readers. Readers. He knew! He knew and he was still mad and bothering me about it. What could his unfinished business be if not this? (I knew ghosts had to have unfinished business because of “Ghosts’” which you can catch Thursdays on CBS at 8:30/7:30c.)
Instead of (somewhat respectably) wanting people to know of his accomplishments, his undying wish appeared to be bothering generations of future runners. Thankfully, I was starting to notice that old Phil was growing fainter the longer I went without running anywhere. It appeared that I would have to make a choice: give up running forever, or live with Phil for the rest of my life.
Readers, it was a tough choice. It really was. I spent a whole five milliseconds on it. I’m sure this will come as a shock to you all, but I will be living a walking based life going forward. It’s a tough sacrifice to make. I shed a few tears during the decision making process, but I’m doing this for all of us.
As for Phil, I’m sure he’s still hovering over marathons (and apparently Spartathlons), yelling at modern runners for their disrespect. Sucks for them I guess.
