THE MARCHAMALO NOHTARAM.

My internal aggression tank was approaching “full” this afternoon, and I decided that a three-mile jog was both prudent and necessary. So I donned my Nikes and—despite the 35ºC heat—embarked on a trot around town.

As I jogged along our downtown’s main street, I noticed that it had been closed-off to traffic and was lined with red pylons. There were policemen standing along the sidewalks, and they were looking at me in an odd way.

Further down the street was a group of men wearing red nylon vests. As I approached, one of them began waving his arms at me. The following conversation ensued:

Man in red: “You’re going the wrong way!”

Sal [angrily ripping the headphones from his ears]: “What?!”

Man in red [louder]: “You’re going the wrong way!!”

Sal: “What the fricky-frack-ferris-wheel are you talking about?!!!”

Man in red: “The Marchamalo Marathon! You’re supposed to be running in the other direction!”

Can you believe it?! The neighboring town of Marchamalo sponsored a marathon this afternoon, the course cut through the center of my town, and I was unknowingly running it…but in the opposite direction!

Between this incident, the cigarette moocher, and the unending stream of lost drivers in need of directions…I must be the Inspector Clouseau of the jogging world.

I’m beginning to understand why people buy treadmills.