Marathon Weekends

As a DJ and lover of the nightlife experience, nothing makes me feel more worthless than marathons.

I don't mean "party marathons" or "marathon weekends" or "marathon DJ sets" or anything like that. I mean actual jogging-for-26-miles-straight marathons.

I don't have anything against them as far as the good health and wellness aspect. They also usually support some positive cause. It isn't the 26 miles running that bother me either. It shouldn't, because I have never even participated in a marathon and don't plan on it anytime soon. Or ever.

It just so happens that when I hear the word "marathon" or even think about it, an overwhelming barfy feeling wells up inside of me. It's the kind of feeling you get after accidentally catching a glimpse of your parents having sex. I thought I slammed the front door hard enough and announced that I was home while tromping loudly throughout the house, but apparently not loud enough. What I saw will forever be burned into my retina. Even though the wounds have healed, the scars remain, and I have actually become a little ill just writing about this. On a side note, that is why I forever open the door and slam it shut at least three times before entering my parents home.

Now you are probably thinking "What the dingus do DJing and marathons have to do with each other?" In the grand scheme of things I would think that there would never be any connection between these two aspects of our society in any way whatsoever. The strange truth in my DJing experience has proven otherwise. The accounts I am about to discuss are the reason for my ill aversion to these 26 mile sweat fests.

When I Was Young & Had The World By The Ass, I Walked Into a Marathon.

My first ill fated marathon incident dates back to one of my first summers as a touring DJ. At that time I was young, ambitious, and thought I had the world by the ass. I was ready to get up, stay up, and rock out with no clock out. I guess I was on some kind of marathon DJ training of my own device, as those weekends were frequent, scheduled, and seriously ass kicking. It was routine to work all day on a Friday, catch a flight to whatever city, do dinner, hit the club, DJ, and then hit the afterparty straight away. After that it was either back to the hotel for a couple hours of sleep, or straight from the after party to the airport to blast off to the next city to do it all over again Saturday night. They were real marathon weekends, so to speak.

From left to right as far as I could see in my inebriated state were people stretching and doing calisthenics. It was like Richard Simmons was waiting to jump out of a cab with a megaphone and start leading Cincinnati in a city-wide aerobic circle jerk.

On this particular marathon weekend I cannot recall what happened Friday night or even what city I was in, but I do know it left me half broken and in need of great moral repair.

Saturday night was no different other than the fact that I do remember I was in Cincinnati, OH. The happenings in the club and the after party that night are still a blur, but I recall arriving back at the downtown hotel just as the sun was rising in complete disrepair. I remember kicking open the vehicle door and pathetically trying to hoist myself out of the car with both hands while my record bag was strung around my shoulder. Once up, I quickly slammed the door and started moving. My only ambition was getting to a bed, couch, or cozy spot face down on the floor. To my aggravation I attempted to walk forward with great gusto while making absolutely no progress. This pissed me off as I thought my partner John was playing a prank on me. While MFing him up and down I turned around to realize my record bag was shut inside the car with the strap still on my shoulder, and John was actually standing in front of me laughing at my winning situation.

I turned around to laugh at myself along with him and it was then that I noticed we were standing amongst a sea of people wearing air thin shorts cut off just below the danglies, and they all had numbers pinned to their shirts.

From left to right as far as I could see in my inebriated state were people stretching and doing calisthenics. All of them had the most chipper looks on their faces and pep in their voices. It was like Richard Simmons was waiting to jump out of a cab with a megaphone and start leading Cincinnati in a city-wide aerobic circle jerk.

It was surreal and I was not feeling it. What I did feel at that moment was the deepest most excruciating feeling of loathing I have ever experienced. My eyes burned with resentment and disgust as I glared at these people. I felt as if I was some deranged super villain who could shoot laser beams of loathing out of my eyeballs and disintegrate all those who looked upon me.

Then the fear kicked in. I think I said something to John like, "We gotta get outta here man... They know." In a flash I made for my daring escape by more or less staggering into the hotel lobby toward the elevators. The elevator door opened and I pushed inside as other people were trying to get out. Safety at last, until I heard "Hold that elevator for me, buddy!" in a voice that to me sounded like Satan, but was actually most cheerful and happy-go-lucky.

In strolled a middle-aged guy, limber, lengthy, and dressed in his runner shorts and with a number pinned to his shirt. I don't think he really caught a glimpse of the sorry sight before him as he pushed his floor number and asked "So, are you here for the marathon?"

Without thinking I replied with "Oh yeah, we've been training all weekend, and we're gonna do it again next weekend too." The guy smiled but then I could tell he started to notice the overwhelming odor of hours of sweat and booze that were emanating from the pores of our skin. The man turned, looked at us with a very concerned almost disappointed look on his face, and that was the end of our conversation.

Strike one for marathons.

"I'm An Asshole, It's Cool."

On a more recent DJing excursion to Toronto I came in contact with another marathon and actually participated in it quite unconventionally. As it was, I woke up on Sunday in my hotel room after a whole weekend of house music mayhem. I was actually feeling pretty good, well rested, and hailed a cab in plenty of time to catch my flight. The airport was a 15 minute drive plus a 2 minute ferry ride away.

Life was good and everything was going great until the cab hit dead stopped traffic one block away from the hotel. Life was bad. It was marathon traffic. We sat there for 20 minutes watching jerk-off after jerk-off trot by to a soundtrack of honking horns and profanity.

The cabbie then cruised an alternate route to try and evade the marathon. We sailed for 15 minutes and life was good until we hit a dead stop again.

I ran straight into the race and ran that shit for about two or three city blocks passing herds of these sweaty contestants while slinging my rolling luggage.

My animal instincts kicked in. I couldn't handle sitting still for one more minute, so I paid the cabbie and broke north at a sprint straight for the marathon. I ran straight into the race and ran that shit for about two or three city blocks passing herds of these sweaty contestants while slinging my rolling luggage.

I felt like a total jackass running in my jeans and hoody, but the crowd still cheered me on. The clock was ticking and it was soon to be last call for the ferry to the airport to catch my flight before I had finally ran past the traffic jam.

Once I had hoofed it past the traffic jammed intersections, I jumped in another cab and said, "I heard you Toronto cabbies make New York cabbies look like little girls. I need to get to the island airport ASAP!"

So we were off in a blaze and 5 minutes later dead stopped at the intersection to the ferry entrance. I could see the damn ferry from the cab and sat there listening to the ferry loudspeaker announcements for a few moments. I was fuming with anger as traffic stopped right before we were going to get to cross the intersection.

Apparently this cross street was the last leg of the marathon. I didn't see why we were stopped because there were no runners in sight. Then way down the street in the distance I saw one disheveled old man on a victory trot that must have lasted well over 7 hours of complete misery. The dude must have been 1,000 years old, and it would be another year before he passed this intersection and we could move again.

My animal instincts kicked in again. I paid the cabbie and made another break for it. This time I could see the traffic cops and race coordinators trying to flag me down by waving their arms frantically in the direction that I should be running the race. As I ran full speed past them I shouted, "I'm an asshole, it's cool!" and kept trucking. Luckily I made it just in time, as it was the last ferry leaving before my flight, which I was able to catch. Strike two for marathons.

That's Some Cold Shit Right There.

To end this rant about marathon weekends I just want to give the short and skinny on the tradition. The marathon is actually a commemoration of the run that a Greek soldier named Pheidippides did from a battlefield at the site of the town of Marathon, Greece, to Athens in 490 B.C. The journey was a little less than 26 miles and he did it to bring news of a Greek victory over the Persians. Legend has it that the dude Pheidippides ran all that way, said one word of victory, and then croaked right there on the spot.

Fuck marathons. That's some cold shit. Strike three for marathons.

In regards to marathon weekends, the one word that often comes to mind at the culmination is "wicked". That word brilliantly sums up the unique brand of fun that ensues during a weekend that may or may not be remembered to any specific detail. It is why we go the great lengths to make them happen and survive through them. They push the limits of our existence in a physical and musical sense. Long live the marathon weekends, but seriously, fuck marathons.