Fifty million people ran the Chicago Marathon last Sunday morning, a glorious, perfect fall day in the city. Our home is smack at the end of the racecourse—the last mile starts literally at the front door of our building—and our balcony provides a pretty good view of those people who willingly chose to spend upwards of four or five hours running around the city chasing after friends and family who run the race, hoping to catch a glimpse of their sweaty kin at mile 17 or mile 23 or whatever spot was designated pre-race when racers and fans were still sane. And most likely not sweating.
See, this is the glorious thing about living on the marathon racecourse, and why I recommend buying property on the nearest marathon course near you: If you are a friend or family member of someone who enjoys spending an entire Sunday morning, and perhaps part of the afternoon if they’ve stopped here and there along the racecourse to take a breather (nothing wrong with that in my book), running, you can save yourself the L fare and/or the distress of creating your own marathon course while runner-stalking by telling your runner you’ll see him or her at the 25 mile mark, and then you just have mimosas and bagels and maybe watch some Wild Kratts with your nephews until the magical interweb marathon app tells you your runner is scheduled to run by your front door in approximately 20 minutes.
Feel free, of course, to swap mimosas for a bloody Mary if you’re allergic to citrus.
And when the magical interweb marathon app pings, you just gather up the signs you lovingly and painstakingly made for your runner that read, “THE END IS NEAR!” on one side and, “NO, REALLY! ONLY A MILE LEFT!” on the other, and head outside to clap wildly at every passing runner who even remotely looks like your runner because you think it’s your runner despite the fact that it’s really, really not, including that woman in the green-and-white-striped socks and bumblebee shirt, even though you know your runner was not wearing that when you left him or her at the starting corral. And then clap and yell and shout even more wildly when you finally see your actual runner.
When your hands are blistered from clapping, and you’ve gone hoarse from cheering, that’s the time you go back inside your house and have another bagel, or maybe a goo and a banana, because marathon day is not over yet. The hard part is over, yes, but you still need to be prepared to recover that afternoon with your runner. The couch is not going to sit on itself, you know. Thankfully, since you live so close to the end of the race, your runner doesn’t have far to double back to meet you at the Reunite Area, also known now as Your Home, after her or she crosses the finish line.
So it’s probably best if you go call your realtor right now, and look into finding a marathon course home for yourself. I imagine after I post this, marathon course real estate is going to be snapped up like wildfire. So if you get a good deal, be sure to thank me.