Running around Table Mountain, Cape Town, 2010
How many bridges connect the island of Manhattan to Long Island, mainland New York (otherwise known as The Bronx) and Jersey?
Don't know. But Vincent ran past ten of them on Saturday.
He didn't tell me he was going to run a marathon. He just did. On his own.
26 miles. 42 kms.
He also didn't tell me until well into dinner that night about what happened afterwards. In this he reminds me of my father, who turns 80 this year, who sat down to lunch one day (this was a year or two ago) with my mother and me, under the tree in Cape Town, sipped some bubbly, cut his little chipolata sausages methodically, the way he does, chewed a bit and then told us, with some satisfaction, it seemed, that he'd just crashed his big BMW roadbike, and had come off, and would we like to see the bruise? That was the year after he was hit by a car (a slow Volkswagen beetle, thank god) on the freeway while training for the Argus Cycle tour. He likes showing off his wounds. And his bruises are spectacular.
Don't worry, Vince is fine. But I did stop eating. Takes a lot to make me stop eating.
But first, here is the first half of his story about running a solo marathan up and down the length of Manhattan.
I married him to exercise vicariously.