Watching some whoozit from Central Europe win the women’s marathon, I cried.  Whoever does this every four years, it’s an incredible achievement.

About half way into the race, the lady got out in front and she stayed there, pounding along like a running machine. Then, she ran into a full arena to a sustained roar from the crowd that had been watching her progress on giant TV. Twenty three miles, but she ran on.  Around and around the arena, listening to a thunder of congratulation for her wonderful race.

I always get emotional over a marathon win. On the other hand, I couldn’t care less about short distance running. That stuff isn’t even entertaining.  They line up, the gun goes off, and in about a minute it’s over.  Woohoo.  Who cares?  The part that makes it ridiculous is that those people seem to make a career out of running short distances.  Last night Lydia reminded me of FloJo and others who’ve managed to stay in the news, professional short-distance runners.

I sat there, looking at the TV screen, telling myself that these characters need to get jobs. The lowliest grocery store bagger makes more of a contribution to humanity that do these individuals who scamper a short distance again and again over their years 18-35.

Marathon, in contrast, is a soap opera. All kinds of things happen during the race. Little tragedies, little triumphs, little crimes, little acts of kindness.   It’s interesting.  It’s drama.

For example at the 20-mile mark, the Chinese front-runner drank some of her Gator-Aid and then handed the bottle over her shoulder to the team member behind her who also got a drink…no bottle had been prepared for the second-runner. At a long race the other day, this didn’t happen.  The first Chinese runner drank and then threw away his partly-full bottle, ignoring the thirsty person just behind him. “Hm,” quoth the commentator,  “Seems that today, this tiny segment of the Communist world has chosen to make like every-man-for-himself.”

Shortly into the race, just after commentators speculated that the American runner would get gold, that woman quit.  She stopped running, hobbled to the edge of the road, crying.

The runner from England finished this time. Four years ago, halfway through the race, she sat at the side of the road crying, and gave up.

The marathon, it has thousands of years of honorable tradition behind it beginning with a guy who ran to Athens with the good news, “You’re safe.  We beat the Persians.”

Short distances…eh.  All you can say for sprinting is that when the runners arrive home from Beijing, if chased by a Chihuahua, they have a sporting chance of escaping unbitten.

ADVISORY: Users are solely responsible for opinions they post here and for following agreed-upon rules. Comments do not reflect the views or approval of The Virginian-Pilot or this Web site. Comments are automatically checked for inappropriate language, but readers might find some comments offensive or inaccurate. If you believe a comment violates our rules, click the "Report Violation" link below the comment to alert an editor. Repeat offenders will be denied automatic posting privileges.