I pounded the pavement with Dizzy for the first time in 1996 (when the 17th Street track was known to lace-uppers as O'Leary's). Volunteers along the path that evening served Guinness Stout drawn from sophisticated spigots. After seven or eight pints of the dark recharge, more parts of me than Lever soap's estimate ached like an old Replacements rocker. Ff the Memorex to Two/Double-Zero/Two: The six years that have passed so fuckin' fast since my initial Meyerathon couldn't help me from wondering 'bout future steps. In the third part of this Sabado Spectacular, a strange girl gave jOhn and me two tips for our buddy system: 1)Stop before you start and 2)Take advice from no one else. Questions answered, we two alone waited for the invitation to resume pacing towards our trifecta. The party was almost over, but the Papa "Kool" Bell celebration hadn't even started. C'Mon...Singing songs that neither one of us could sing, jOhn and I were "bop bop bop bop bop bop bop"-ing at the heels of Dizzy's new shoes. "When She Comes Around" clipped us like a barefooted Zola Budd to Mary Decker Slaney. "Too Shy To Dance" left titular Skids-marks on hangin'-behind hearts with its sub-4:30-mile movement. "Looking For Sputnik" was instrumental in giving Dizzy an other-worldly challenge (they were too far ahead of the mortals at Malloy's). With the lead comfortably in hand (or should that be "on foot?"), "One Emotion" (Buddy Holly jogged with those who were feeling sad), "Entertainment" (For those who'd thought this would be a fun-run, they found out casual strollers didn't belong) and "Seventeen" (Funny how, even during a hiccup with 9.2 miles remaining, things would turn out like they used to be) were interesting reverts back to los zapatos de old. Apparently, those well-worn sneaks contained no holes or duct-tape fasteners. Declan MacManus, Andy Gill, Joe Strummer, Paul Weller and Joe Jackson had won foot wars in scruffy (yet angelic) red shoes during the fitness craze of the seventies; Dizzy plowed through stretched line easily in Oh-Two's sedentary daze.
Doused from the equine kick of mucho Dos Equises, I held my bottle aloft in toast to Rip Dizzy's triumph. Time and time again, they have proven to be slightly better than the ever-increasing competition. After those glass clangings, I clutched another cerveza for our efforts. jOhn and I had handled the tribandathlon under the allotted cut-off with six minutes to spare (1:54 AM). It had felt so sweet to compete. The rest of the time was so sour.
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