I grew up in Cincinnati, but have somewhat reluctantly and long since, left
for professional pursuit. This town has, nevertheless, held a special place
in my heart.
As a young boy growing up in the eastern suburbs, I never, ever, would have
guessed that I would one day, at an age one and a half times older than my
dad, at the time, be running 42 kilometers of the streets that I rode on my
bicycle. Every step of the way triggers memories.
The inaugural Pig was an odyssey of time for me. Every step of the way
pried loose memories that became as vivid as the experience that bore them.
The trip to my dentist on Gilbert Avenue, the Saturday morning shopping
trips to Shillito's with my mom, or, alternately, trips to Swallen's
hardware department on Red Bank Road with my dad, the crosstown trip from
Indian Hill to U.C during my college days, Friday nights at New Dilly's in
Mt. Adams, and other old friends from the past come to greet me with every
turn and glance. The marathon no longer was a race, but a delightfully
nostalgic, if not at times even melancholy, documentary of my past.
At the end of the marathon, I'm left with the revitalized memories that
remind me of how special a place Cincinnati was then and is to me now.
I will do the Pig again this year and probably more as a race than a trek
down memory lane. I'll still enjoy the serpentine route and challenging
hills, thankfully, all in the beginning. I'll still recall glimpses of
experiences of long ago, but nothing will ever equal the exhilarating three
and a half hour photo album of the inaugural Flying Pig Marathon last year.