Comic Strip

You're a good distance passed the 2-mile mark at this point. That was a piece of cake. You see a flash of red ahead of you, as Ricky Lader takes the left turn on 32nd Street. It looks like you'll have to run an Olympic qualifier to beat Slick Rick today. On the plus side, Kareem is in the dust and you've long passed all of the old women and fat people who realized today wasn't the day for a miracle. Their arrogance will take its toll in the form of screaming thighs and vomit.

At the end of the Liberty stretch, you make a left and take another quick left on Penn. As if running a fucking marathon isn't hard enough, the race directors somehow decided it was a good idea to make you run counter-parallel to the street you were just on. This is mind-numbingly boring. To break up the monotony, you recite Yeats in your head.

Thankfully, the infamous Strip District is upon you to mix things up. What was once a shipping and manufacturing hub filled with the city's blue collar residents (i.e. poor people) is now a haven for young drunks (i.e. Ross). Since Ben Roethlisberger won Pittsburgh its third Superbowl in recent years, it's been bye-bye laying low and hello Strip District. With his returned sense of entitlement, Ben has worked up the nerve to rape people right there on the street in broad daylight. This year, he's volunteered to do so at the 3-mile mark as a steel drum band plays "Informer." Sweet Baby Jesus. Only 23.2 miles to go.



Experiencing a sudden onset hunger pang, Ross can't help himself from making a one-block detour up to Primanti Bros. for a mid-race sub. "I'll catch up," yells Ross, as he fades from view. Sam and Gordon cross the first bridge, making it to the first relay exchange in a blistering 35 minutes.

Game on.