“No one who works a forty-hour week will ever beat me.”

— william henry rodgers

—

I can remember back when this event seemed like a good idea.

Not really.

But that’s the best part about bad ideas. If they’re far enough away, they don’t seem so bad.

And now this one is just around the corner, a metaphorical left turn onto Boylston Street.

So in trying times, we turn to the Gospel of Bill Rodgers.

I’m slow, but I have all day, every day, in October. There are a bunch of fast people. But don’t they have lives?

I have no job, no competing interests, no other activities, no distractions. I can go out all day, or possibly 3 miles, whichever comes first.

I’m resigned to the fact that I’m old. I’m beginning to fall apart. But I drive an ’87 Toyota pickup that has no particular reason to still be running, so why shouldn’t I follow its example? Sure, I leak a little, but it’s probably just a gasket.

Run, walk, eat, sleep, repeat. 31 days. Don’t stop until the trick-or-treaters go to bed and November arrives. Avoid candy corn. Remember the words of Mr. Rodgers: “If you feel bad at 10 miles, you’re in trouble. If you feel bad at 20 miles, you’re normal.” I plan on feeling normal a lot.

Mostly, it will be fun. Isn’t running supposed to be fun? I think I read that somewhere once. Just four days until we find out.

I know it’s all just the pipe dream of an old guy looking for one last glimmer of glory. A lot of people who work a 40-hour week surely will leave me far behind.

But they’re going to feel bad doing it.

“I want to run until I can’t run,” Mr. Rodgers said.

Me too.