Runners have no modesty, Robbie says.
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On the shuttle bus to the race’s starting point, the guy sitting next to me gets me really pumped about the Marathon, assuaging my fears about Heartbreak Hill and telling me how great it is to have the spectators rooting for you all along the way. I’m raring to go—all of me, that is, except my left calf, which had been bothering me since the day before, is still really tight.
11:30 a.m. After chilling out for a bit, I head toward the bandits’ starting point—and suddenly see a woman’s bare buttocks in all their unobstructed glory!
I quickly turn away, feeling puritanically ashamed. Geez, no one cares about even making an effort to take cover at all.
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