Most normal people think that running a marathon is bizarre. Imagine what they thought if they tuned in this past Monday and saw 30,000 people running the Boston Marathon in the worst weather since the Mesozoic Ice Age.

The Boston Marathon is the Super Bowl, the World Series, the Olympics…well, you get the point, of marathon running. Thousands of young Ethiopians wake up every morning hoping to one day get that call from the Boston Athletic Association inviting them to compete against the best in the world. Those who got the call this year, regardless of their country of origin, will go back with a story for the ages. It won’t be how they out kicked their countryman for a photo finish, but how God in all Her fury released a torrential downpour of Noah-like proportions upon the scantily clad harriers lined up in Hopkinton, Mass..

This April 16th will be remembered as the marathon you could barely see on TV because the rain was so torrential and the wind was blowing flags upside down. These crazed runners faced head winds, side winds, back winds, winds that blew up their nether regions, and winds that were colder than Hillary after she lost the election. Luckily I was watching the live stream and not trying to swim upstream on the course this year as even a hard core loony tune like me didn’t want to cross the finish on Boylston St. on this day.

And what a day it was. Desi Linden, the first American female to win in 33 years, kicked butt from Framingham to downtown Boston with a show of guts tantamount to old Teddy Roosevelt lurching up San Juan Hill. She was invincible in spite of temperatures in the thirties, monsoon rain, and a contingent of Ethiopians and Kenyans all gunning for the title. In fact, the U.S.of A. put on a show that would’ve made even Donald J. Trump proud taking seven of the top ten female spots. That’s like the Jamaican bobsled team winning four consecutive Olympic golds. What was also great was that nobody had heard of the other US women who placed, even the second pace winner Sarah Sellers. You may be saying, “Sarah who?” You wouldn’t be alone because when she crossed the finish line Monday about 5000 journalists around the world were frantically Googling her name. The elements made the African contingent a non factor and allowed talent, pain, persistence, and hutzpah to reign.

On the men’s side, a Japanese runner by the distinctly Japanese sounding name of Yuki Kawauchi took the win, followed by — get this — six American men in the top ten! The last time that happened was…never! If this is the trend, I think all future marathons should be run in tornados or blizzards so the Americans can dominate.

The real story for me lies in the determination of the other 29,975 runners who, having no chance to win, braved apocalyptic conditions to complete their dream. The back story for these folks is equally amazing. I have been fortunate to run Boston five times, so I know what they endured even before the race. Remember, it was cold (39 at race start) and a persistent torrential downpour and most of the rank and file had to be bussed in four hours before the start. You amass on the playground and ball fields of Hopkinton High and Middle school, with nary a shelter. The B.A.A. places a tent in the middle of the field, generally to provide shade from the normal heat, but even if everybody was inappropriately touching everyone else, if would only fit maybe a couple of thousand. The rest of the hoard is exposed to the elements, regardless of what that consists of. I have been frozen, sweaty, and comfortable depending on the year, but nothing like I imagine it was last Monday.

So here’s to both champions and chumps, the elite and the elated, my hat goes off to all those who finished the 130 running of the Boston Marathon. Like the Jews are fond of saying, “Next year Jerusalem,” well, I say maybe “Next year Boston.” But then again, I’m old and crotchety so maybe I’ll just run in warm Boca Raton.

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I suspect that you realize this is a rhetorical question as I am not in possession of a uterus myself.  I guess I could have titled this, “If I exercise, would my scrotum burst?” but I don’t think it would have the same impact.  

Back in the Victorian age, when men were men and women were objectified, patronized and ignored there was a prevailing belief that vigorous exercise on the part of the fairer sex would result in terrible physical maladies.  This largely led to ivory skin (they never went outside without a parasol), 65% body fat, and vitamin D deficient females who were really good at drinking tea and embroidery.  I suspect this misappropriation of energy was largely due to the misogynistic belief that women were incapable of vigorous activity and for them to perspire was tantamount to social isolation.  In reality, it was probably related to sex in some fashion, as most everything was.  Those poor women who did suffer from uterine prolapse (most likely from having 10 children) could no longer satisfy their Cro-Magnon companion, so they had to come up with a theory as to why.  Obviously, it was the “wandering uterus” (hysteria for those Latin scholars) that was to blame, and anything that made you bounce (i.e. exercise) was an obvious culprit.

That reminds me of an interesting aside.  The term hysteria today means an uncontrollable emotion or excitement.  It is derived from the Latin word for womb (see above).  There was a general belief by old white men like Plato (pay close attention, you will start to see a pattern here) that many of a woman’s ills, ranging from physical diseases to mental conditions were due to the uterus literally migrating around the body, the wandering uterus, as it was.  To quote a modern paraphrase of an ancient medical text, “The uterus could move upwards, downwards, left or right. It could even collide with the liver or spleen. Depending on its direction, a wandering womb could cause all kinds of hell. One that traveled upwards might cause sluggishness, lack of strength, and vertigo in a patient; while a womb that moved downwards could cause a person to feel as if she were choking. So worrisome was the prospect of a wandering womb during this period, that some women wore amulets to protect themselves against it.”  That was the modern medicine of ancient times.

So this hysterical womb has figured as a prominent facilitator of a variety of problems through the ages, so it’s not surprising that many old white men thought, well into the mid 20th century, that vigorous exercise, like distance running, would result in the uterus hitting the pavement at about mile 20.  Granted, if you did 50 squats a day with 100-pound weights, you might initiate some organ laxity, but even then, your womb will not stick out of your vajaja.  Believe it or not, in our enlightened modern age, some old white men didn’t even let women run marathons in the Olympics until 1984.  They felt that they were doing women a favor by not allowing them to train for such an event because surly the highways and byways of the country would be littered with dropped uteruses if they did so.

Needless to say, Joan Benoit Samuelson, the winner of the first women’s Olympic Marathon, still has all her parts, as far as I know, so it became clear to most old white guys that their apprehension of women and extensive training was bunk.  Today, in fact, some of the best ultramarathoners (those masochistic souls who run 100 or so miles at a time) are women, and I have yet to see any YouTube videos of ultramarathoners resting at a water stop, refueling and dropping off their uterus. 

There is no reason a woman should fear physical damage from vigorous training as long as they are doing it wisely.  Chances are they will quickly surpass most old white guys in both physical prowess and mental capability.

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