Last year I ran the Rochester Half-Marathon. Naturally, progression would have me running the full marathon in September. I’ve been training for some weeks now and have decided…Rather than run the marathon, I shall ruin the marathon.

I mean, what’s easier? Running 26.2 miles on a Sunday morning, or practicing handing out cups of vinegar to the race front runners?

Don’t get me wrong, ruining a marathon will be hard work. Chipping potholes throughout the course with a pickax is labor intensive. But endurance ruining is all about pushing through the pain.

My training starts bright and early with a full breakfast of espresso, some diet pills, and a small bag of rock candy. It keeps me edgy and volatile when I’m in the thick of disrupting a tight race. Also—and I can’t stress this enough—it’s very important to stretch properly before and after yelling derogatory remarks at Kenyans. You don’t want your legs cramping up on the way to the escape route.

After you’ve been ruining a marathon for a couple hours, your body will just take over and you won’t even realize that you’re spoiling the day for everyone. I call that getting in the “ruiner’s zone.” It’s like my arms and legs could just keep dumping buckets of cooking oil off a 490 overpass forever. When you get there, more than ever, it’s important to keep focused and not let your mind wander. You’ve got a lot of race to wreck, and you’ve got to keep your mind sharp for what’s coming up ahead.

It’s good to make a checklist in my mind, so I don’t get distracted on race day. Are there any cables or streamers around that I can use as trip wires? Do I hip-check the guy in front of me or stop abruptly and trip up the three people behind?

If I make all the right decisions, and really push myself, I could ruin this marathon in record time.

I’ve been setting small, manageable goals for myself, starting with printing out “Marathon Continues to the Right” signs and pasting them up by the on-ramp to the interstate. Once I’m comfortable with that, I’ll work my way up to a larger goal, like loading up on carbs and dairy so I can vomit all over the finish line.

Race day is coming. No more excuses. No more letting my own fears, or Sandy’s sobbing pleas, or the combined efforts of city and state law enforcement agencies get in the way of me accomplishing my goal. No, sir. Not this time.

I’ve trained too hard for that.