All it took was a drive down the highway today to witness a sea of pained expressions on the faces of visitors to paradise. Nothing brings out closet bipolar personalities by the thousands than the Honolulu Marathon.
The marathon journey always begins with thousands of shouts of joy, tens of thousands of exuberant smiles, and millions of footsteps which knowingly and inevitably lead to tears, pain, agony with a veneer of accomplishment, mixed with a chocolaty center of wonder, as in, ‘it’s a wonder I didn’t die along the road.’
So ends another Honolulu Marathon, won yet again by a member of that small cadre of professional marathon runners, who proved once again that no matter what you do, and how well you do it, there’s always somebody better at it than you.
Tolossa Ambesse made it look easy, ripping through the 26.whatever miles faster than I could find parking at Ala Moana Center the day after Thanksgiving. Disgustingly, Ambesse showed no pain in his smile as he crossed the finish line ahead of the other 27,891 marathoners.
Did he even break a sweat? His was not the face of pain in paradise. That right was reserved for the 27,891 losers who take consolation in merely competing and finishing.
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