THE MARATHON MYSTERY... WHY???

Mark Richardson's actual foot. It's a foot, but not as we know it.

In this life, there are many things I don't understand. Women. Children. Animals. Reality TV. Australian Rules Football. The meaning of the Australian national anthem. Australians generally.

I don't understand why they make reporters stand in storms when everyone else has been evacuated. I don't understand why suddenly men's pants suddenly have short legs with cuffs. I don't understand why an internet provider would use a turtle to demonstrate the benefits of superfast broadband.

But the thing I don't understand more than anything else this week is why people run marathons.

The reason this is top of mind for me is the Auckland Marathon happened on Sunday, and inexplicably, many of my colleagues took part. In fact, it appears many of EVERYBODY's colleagues took part. 16,500 competitors turned up and I still have no idea why.

Oh, sure I get a few of them probably fancied they were in with a shot of winning the thing. That in itself would be an interesting statistic; exactly how many WERE in it to win it? 50? 100? I mean, it IS a race right? If I'm not mistaken, isn't the point of a race to get to the end of it faster than anyone else? It's not the school cross-country - the Auckland Marathon isn't compulsory - so why the hell would you enter, knowing you'll be pipped at the post before you even start? And when I say, "pipped at the post," in most cases I mean absolutely humiliated by many minutes if not for most, beaten by hours. HOURS!

If the vast majority aren't trying to win, what other reason could there be? One I've heard before is something like that old mountain climbing adage, "because it's there." I almost understand the logic of this. You've never run a marathon before. Other people have. You'd like to cross it off your list. Let's get it over and done with. Why it got onto your list in the first place is still in question, but if it did, I get that.

However...

Many, if not most of these idiots weren't first-timers. They'd punished themselves this way before. They'd crossed "marathon" off the list, only to add it back on at the bottom again. What's that about? Subjecting yourself to hour after hour of aerobic torture barely made sense the first time, but achieving something you've already achieved? Isn't that like playing a video game you've already clocked just to beat your previous high score - ie: a thoroughly pointless accomplishment nobody else cares about?

Make no mistake, even a HALF-marathon is no picnic. We're talking blisters. Joint pain. Bleeding nipples. Yep, bleeding nipples! Come on people? What reasonable, sane person embarks on any kind of endeavor that requires you to TAPE YOUR NIPPLES to avoid a loss of blood?

Presumably there are records to be broken. The most marathons run. The most Auckland Marathons run. The most marathons run in a calendar year. The most blood lost from a pair of nipples. Although again, of the 16,500, how many of those have a bona fide record in their sights?

I asked one of these weirdos straight out, "WHY?" 

"Gets you in shape," she said. Then she added, "Stops you from drinking so much."

She's partly right of course. The training (assuming you've been training and haven't just turned up for a 42km jog on a whim) will probably get you fit. But so will the gym. Or Zumba. Or business-house touch. The problem here is, the race itself will just about kill you and you won't actually be able to walk properly for days afterwards.

As for the not-drinking, I don't remember anything about nipple-bleeding being part of the 12 Steps. Maybe it should be. Just the threat of it would probably keep ME on the wagon.

It's obviously some freak pack-hysteria thing. Masochism on grand scale. MASS-masochism if you will. In every population there's bound to be a seedy underbelly of those who get off on causing themselves pain. In Auckland, that underbelly is apparently 16,500 strong. The marathon is like their own gay-pride parade, the one time they can come out and mutilate themselves in the open. I can't believe the council grants consent to this kind of sick public deviance. I wonder how these perverts get their kicks the rest of the year?

Just look at these sickos. They should be ashamed of themselves

MY FRIEND MIKE AND HIS MATE LANCE

Don't know who took this picture, but it sure made me giggle

We've all done it. We've all said stupid things. Things we shouldn't have said. Things that even as they were exiting our mouths, part of us was instantly regretting saying them.

Things about politics. Things about sport. Things about your wife's mother. You know, things you should have thought through and discarded and forgotten you ever thought through them in the first place. But sometimes, and god only knows why, we say these things anyway.

At that point, there are two ways you can go. You can immediately recant your verbal idiocy, blaming the lateness of the hour, too much drink or a minor brain explosion. Or, and this is a bloody stupid option, but it's an option, you can defend what you've just said to the death.

The trouble with this second option, the defending what you've said to the death option, once you go down that track, there's really no turning back. Well, at least not until after your dead anyway, and by then it's usually pretty difficult to get any kind of point across. You can't really half-heartedly defend what you've said to the death - it's kind of an all or nothing scenario.

Now this won't cause too many issues in most situations - for example; claiming it wasn't you who farted when it was, or denying you ate the last afghan when nobody else was home. (No witnesses. You can't prove it was me.) However, claiming Lance Armstrong didn't cheat when everyone else says he did is a slightly different matter.

There are many reasons the Lance Armstrong story has exploded the way it has. For so long he has been the undisputed king of cycling. He's the world's most famous survivor of ball cancer. And for many of us, perhaps even the majority of us, Lance is probably the only cyclist we've ever heard of. So when people started making noises about him being on the dope, it was bound to stir things up a bit.

It was at this point Mike Hosking took "Option Two." Sure, he could have said something like, "Crikey, this is a bit of a worry. We'll have to see what happens here." But no, Mike went the defend him to the death route straight off the bat. "Lance is innocent. People have been making these wild allegations for years. I've read his book, and I'm sure he would have mentioned consistent and regular drug-taking somewhere along the way if he'd ever done it which he hasn't so shut the hell up about it." That kind of thing is hard to back down from once it's out there. And he kept putting it out there, to anyone who'd listen. (Which of course is about half a million people every weekday morning)

To begin with, he definitely had a point. Innocent until proven guilty; More than just a cliché, the very basis of most Western justice systems, not to mention the core plot to most episodes of Boston Legal.

Trouble is, the hits just kept on coming. Over a reasonably short space of time, virtually anybody who'd been beaten by, ridden with or had once met Armstrong at a party was labelling him a doper, in many cases dobbing themselves in in the process.

Of course, Hosking easily parried these minor setbacks away like Yoda versus a young Jedi in training. "Obviously these cheats want to take this shining legend down with them. Bloody tall poppy syndrome. They should be ashamed of themselves."

Next step, the hearings and the 1000 page report. That's 1000 pages of "Lance is guilty" mind you - not too many chapters on what a stand-up guy he is. What's more, the defendant stopped defending himself. He pulled himself out of the fight claiming it was all getting just a bit too hard. Harder than beating ball cancer? Give me a break.

At this point did Mike begin to waver? Well, he'd say no, but I detected... a softening. Suddenly he was calling for one of two things. Evidence of a positive blood test, or a confession from the man himself.

I imagine the Hosk was sweating just a little when Armstrong announced he was stepping down from his charity, although Lance stopped short of admitting any wrongdoing. As a result, neither did Mike. Sponsors abandoned Armstrong. Cycling officials stripped him of his titles and banned him for life. The media said this was the final, damning blow. Well, all except ONE media of course.

Is Mike now wishing he'd never trumped up Armstrong's impeccable character in the first place? Of course not. I've worked with the man for years and only his Mrs. can make him back up the truck.

However...

Today Hosking's line was, "They found David Bain not guilty. They found Ewan McGregor not guilty." But I can't help thinking associating his man with a couple of blokes who were actually tried for MURDER isn't quite showing Mr. Armstrong in that pure light of innocence Mike was shining on him to begin with.

I can see where Lance could have got confused. Can't you?

OUR FELIX FASCINATION

The potentially record-breaking foot-crusher in question

People do stupid things all the time. They cycle down mountains. They row across oceans. They go to the movies without a sweatshirt. (Madness. Everyone knows they always have the aircon too low at the movies)

Why, even I have taken my share of life-threatening risks. I've bungee-jumped. I've used the Wellington Street on-ramp. I've braved the aisles of Orewa New World with nothing to protect me from the hordes of Zimmer-frames and mobility scooters except my own shopping basket.

In fact, just the other day, I dropped a full-sized brick on my foot. Admittedly, this last one wasn't fully intentional... definitely stupid though.

But as acts of stupidity go, jumping from 102,800 feet is up there. Way up there.

When "Fearless" Felix Baumgartner made history on Monday morning our time, a lot of people were watching. Over 7 million streamed the YouTube feed alone. The event sponsor, Red Bull, had their own swanky website and for some reason TV One took the entire ascent live. Until 6 o'clock rolled around obviously, then they had to make that crucial call between watching a bloke in a spacesuit in a balloon rising slowly... and Breakfast. They went with Breakfast. I know, weird right?

I watched pretty much the whole thing, from the launch, to the ascent, to the jump, to the landing.

The launch was interesting. Does letting go of something from a crane even qualify as a launch? I couldn't help wondering if they'd used a taller crane, it could have sped everything up a bit, because what came next was excruciating.

Nobody told me it would take so long to travel 24 miles up by balloon. I mean anyone who's ever lost their grip on one at a school gala knows once that puppy's gone, it's gone - and no amount of hysterical screaming from your daughter will bring it back. Buying her a new balloon will probably stop the screaming though. Failing that, maybe some candyfloss will shut her up. I may be getting off topic. Back to Felix.

Over 2 hours to get it up. The balloon capsule, I mean. Our lift at work rises faster than that. Admittedly it only goes up 3 and a half floors and breaks down once every 2 months, but still.

In spite of the long wait, I was pretty spellbound the whole time, even though literally nothing happened for ages. Felix sat there. The control room guys sat there. The balloon went up. Slowly. But still we watched. We watched in our millions.

Was it the extraordinarily high level of stupidity that held us so transfixed? Or were there other, darker forces at work here?

If we're being perfectly honest with ourselves, we were kind of hoping it would go wrong, weren't we? We were all well aware of the risks - Felix could tear his pressure suit exiting the capsule, causing his blood to boil as he fell to Earth faster than the speed of sound. As horrific as that sounds, how awesome would it have been to watch on live TV?

Unfortunately for us (but really fortunately for Felix) it turns out falling out of the sky isn't actually all that complicated. It's really just a matter of waiting for the balloon to rise, getting the door open, then jumping out without snagging the suit on the way past the doorway. Next time I'd wear a slightly more tear-resistant suit, but that's just me.

We did have a couple of nervous moments to whet our evil-sides' appetites. At one point there was talk of a malfunctioning face-heater - only one thing worse than boiling blood, and that's a frozen face. They seemed to fix this though, either that or Felix was worrying about something that didn't really matter. As it happens, Felix is not that fearless. He reportedly suffers from claustrophobia. This explains why he then went on to complain about the door not opening fast enough when he reached his target altitude. Once again, mission control assured him this was perfectly normal as they were still equalising the air pressure. Surely Felix had been through all this with them previously? But claustrophobia's grip is vicelike when you're trapped in a balloon capsule on the edge of space.

The ultimate moment of nervousness happened during freefall itself; Felix leaped and then came the DEATH Spin. (Cue dramatic sting - "dum, dum, dah") It was at this point the little devil on our collective shoulders started rubbing his hoofs together. Would the records still count even if he hit the ground without opening his chute? Come on, admit it, if you were watching you were wondering the same thing.

Happily, or sadly (depending on whether you were listening to the devil or the angel) Felix converted the DEATH Spin into just a Spin and lived to tell the tale. Many records were broken. Felix was not. Did it matter we'd never even heard of these records? Of course not. A record is a record and we love watching people do stupid things.

I wonder what the record is for heaviest brick dropped on a foot? More to the point, could I get Red Bull to sponsor it?

Okay, so it's not that high... But I still wouldn't want to jump from it

HOW A SIMPLE ON-RAMP MADE A LITTLE BOY VERY HAPPY

Nothing but green lights all the way...

Ah the freedom. The liberty. The simple time-saving. Life is so much better now the Wellington Street On-Ramp has re-opened.

It was the ultimate first-world problem; my usual on-ramp had been closed for the construction of a new tunnel. I could understand that. I'm a reasonable man. Everyone loves a tunnel. I was prepared to forgo my usual easy access to the Northern Motorway for a few months if it meant I got to whiz through a tunnel once a day at the end of it.

Not that it was easy mind you. Overnight I'd gone from a one-light zip around the corner for my motorway access, to a five-light bumbling weave through Auckland City's North Western CBD. In terms of time, we're talking one minute's drive compared to ten.

Nine more minutes makes you late for things. Like my 10:15 Body Balance class. You can't arrive late to Balance - you miss the Tai Chi  warm-up and disrupt everyone's positive energy flow during Standing Strength. Try striking a half-decent Swan Pose after that lot. You're dreaming. There goes my flexibility. Not to mention my core.

Nine more minutes ads up. That's three quarters of an hour every week... For weeks... Months... It'd all be worth it though. Hour after hour of my life literally wasting away at Victoria Park traffic lights, but with the ultimate reward in sight; a faster drive home. (Through a tunnel)

Then the tunnel opened. Then my on-ramp didn't. And after a while, it still didn't. What was going on here? I started to get a whiff of something. The pong of conspiracy was in the air.

My worst fears were confirmed in a short Campbell Live article one evening. A man from Auckland Transport was interviewed and admitted not only had they not decided WHEN to re-open Wellington Street, they hadn't even decided IF they would re-open it. At this I did an actual double take - well, the digital TV version of a double take - I rewound my MySky to make sure I'd heard him correctly. I had. Surely this couldn't be right. Could it be I'd never get my nine minutes back?

Not on my watch.

For the first time ever, I decided to make a difference. I actually made a submission on the Auckland Transport website. That's right, unbelievably, they thought there might be some people out there who didn't want the on-ramp re-opened. It's not like it wasn't already there. They'd spent millions reconstructing it to feed into the tunnel, now they were just a bit worried people might start using it. Some idiot seemed to have a theory about the risk of congestion at peak times, although it was a theory that didn't seem to be founded on any actual facts.

This was a farce, plain and simple. So I took action. Drastic action. I started a hashtag discussion on Twitter.

I don't know if I can take all the credit, (obviously I can't, but I can try) but our voices were finally heard. The oppressed masses of Auckland's North Shore, egged on by @glennzb demanded action and amazingly, against the odds, for once, we got it. We submitters were notified the Wellington Street On-Ramp would indeed re-open after all. Why we then had to wait months after that, god only knows.

The point is, I feel like I did something. Like I had an opinion, and for once it mattered. Common sense never wins out over suffocating bureaucracy, except this time it did, and I'm reminded of that every time I drive home from work. I got my nine minutes back... Can't wait to waste it watching DVDs and melting cheese on stuff.

Behold the beauty of a fresh new on-ramp

BEING ON MY BEST BEHAVIOUR

I'm sure she's a very nice lady... under the suit, cape and mask

This morning I had the CEO breathing down my neck. Literally. She stood directly behind my chair while I operated New Zealand's highest rating radio show, asking me insightful questions about every single thing I was doing.

She's new and for some reason she seems to think spending a few hours with each department will give her a good, first-hand overview of the entire company. She's right of course, it will, but it was still a bit creepy having your own personal overlord scrutinising your every move for 2 and 1/2 hours. I felt a bit like one of those dudes in the grey uniforms who work on the Death Star, constantly terrified of cocking something up in case Darth Vader walks round the corner, sees what you've done and crushes your larynx using only the Force.

Is comparing the new CEO to Darth Vader a somewhat career-limiting manoeuvre? The mere fact I'm even posing that question shows my major failing in any situation like this; I simply can't keep my big trap shut. It's a reflex thing. When I'm nervous, or I feel like I have to impress someone, I instantly morph into a teenager out on a first date. I've always been like that... at job interviews, socialising in strange groups... out on first dates... the smart-arse remarks just start coming and I can't stop them. A bit like diarrhoea.

They're usually not even good jokes, it's literally just me running off at the mouth. Here's a classic example...

CEO: "So what's supposed to be happening now?"

ME: "I was supposed to fire off an ad break, but I didn't because I was too busy answering your questions."

See? Not only not funny, but also a very accurate depiction of how mediocre I am at my job. Nice work, glennzb. By now she's probably wondering why they hired you in the first place.

It'd be different if this executive neck-breathing thing was an everyday occurrence. I mean, I  see my boss every day and HE doesn't make me nervous. (Doesn't stop me making stupid jokes around him, or indeed ABOUT him - again, potentially career-limiting, but I think this is more of a challenging-authority-thing than a nerves-thing. When I stop and think about it, I seem to have a lot of "things" going on)

Sadly, the more determined I am to make a good impression, the less likely that becomes. At one point I actually called her a "blonde lady" and asked her if she wanted to host the show. I say, "at one point", but it was pretty much the very first thing I said to her. It was all downhill from there.

I find some consolation in the fact I have made it past the first date before. Once or twice I've even successfully navigated job interviews and ended up with an actual job. Presumably the girls and interviewers in question saw past my initial dickishness, to some of my less annoying qualities concealed beneath. A miracle really because they're quite well concealed and an extremely long way beneath. Talk about defying the odds.

So now my only hope is our new CEO can do the same... and I don't mean go out on a date with me. God, imagine how ridiculous my behaviour would be then! No, for now I'll just settle for her letting me keep my job. Oh, and not crushing my larynx would be nice too.

The neck in question, as breathed down by our new CEO