Realizing the LA Marathon ran one block from my apartment, I couldn’t resist watching. Soon, the spectacle of sirens, flashing lights, police and security clearing the way emerged. Spotting the leader, the world’s second most famous Kenyan – the first being our current President (wink-wink) – Wesley Korir, the eventual winner, I simply could not resist. I leaped off the curb, more or less dancing like a cocky Ali, waving my arms like the lunatic my conservative friends deem me to be. “You think you’re fast, my man?” I yelled. “Let’s see who’s fast. I’ll race you to that street light half a block down.” I was even with him – side by side – as I hurled what I still feel was a fair challenge, one that garnered only a look of perturbation on his part.
Sprinting as fast as my legs could carry me, I beat him by a good ten feet. Maybe more.
“Yeah, I’m bad!” I called out, arms raised in triumph. Embarrassed by defeat, I glimpsed only a sarcastic roll of his eyes, one that, in any language, said “Dude’s crazy.”
Yeah, I’m bad.
BILL
PS – My court date is Thursday.
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