I appear to be living with a crazy man. At least that’s how I calculate the desire to run 26.2 miles.

M. ran his first marathon today. Thank god for the end of Dayligh Saving Time, which I hate. It gave us an extra hour’s sleep before the marathon start time of 7 a.m. Wonderful trooper girlfriend, partner, whatever that I am, I was right there at dawn heading into downtown San Jose with him.

We were off at sunrise and came home right at sunset, once we had a late lunch or early dinner. Since I had a whole lot of time to kill, while himself trotted throught the miles, I walked the 5K course. I listened to an audiobook and basically made little effort to strain myself. Nothing but time was my mantra.

I did not make the ultimate personal goal for which I was aiming. I half-heartedly strove to be last. I failed. There were others behind me, because, after all, we all dig running with a pack. If I couldn’t actually bring up the rear, I wanted to be last in my age group. Nope, failed that too. Overall for women (listed as “females,” which I hate when women and girls might do), I was 54 out of 57. For women of my vintage, I was 6 out of 8. You can look it up.

Since my time was directly proportional to my effort, or lack there of, speedwise, I felt quite douchey at the finish line. An event photographer took my picture while several young woman from a couple of local colleges cheered out, “Come on, you’re almost there, you can make it!” and other words of encouragement.

Um, yeah, I hope I can fucking make it. I was strolling. And, 3.1 miles isn’t that far. (Pretty often, M. and I walk up the street to the local mall-ish area for dinner. It’s about 2.5 miles up and 2.5 back.)

Not knowing this fact, the girls went wild cheering on my apparent first step away from a completely sedentary life.

With one hour (almost) down, I walked around a good chunk of downtown San Jose, peed at a couple of fine hotels, hit one Starbucks that had a mysterious shortage of chai latte, hit another to succeed in my chai quest, moved my car closer to the finish line and still had several hours to go. Back at the finish line, I made another spin around the vendors and sponsors with free samples and talked a good while to a buddy on the phone.

By then, marathoners were trickling in, but not my baby.

He did make it, though, and I kind of like the fact he’s looking a little mortal after the run. Until now, I have only seen him sweat, but never hurt. His knees took a pounding, and he’s resting in front of the TV with Ben-Gay.

Mortal, but successful. Now, in his weakened state, I stand a chance to bend him to my will.