Some five years ago, I had a thought. It was a stray, errant thought, more of a throwaway comment, really. It came at a time of what you might call tumult. I had just accomplished something big - and I mean truly epic, by most standards anyway - and I suddenly felt... well, I guess you could call it unanchored. I didn't know what to do with myself. I needed a goal, something to strive towards. And as I was tossing up options and just vomiting them on paper (well, on screen, in actual fact, on another blog much like this one), this thought was included. And the thought was, maybe I could train to run a marathon. To raise money for some foundation or other. Only, I didn't actually mean it at the time. It was there just for the count. You know, as in, I might do this, that, or how about this one. That kind of thing. And here's why I didn't mean it: I have always hated running. Okay, not all running. At high school, I was sort of athletic, within limits, and even repres