You untied it, you ran, jogged, walked, climbed over 26.2 miles of this beautiful city, and you might get some good toenails on the road during the run.

Well, congratulations, you completed the New York City marathon.

The whole Sunday, just like your two numb legs, we happily stood in the street. We thumbed you through the dining room and bought you a shot as we found the glittering trophy on your neck. You won and won the medal.

But we know very well that there is a limit to this medal. According to my reliable marathon handbook, it ends at midnight on Sunday. (For those who have weird stamina, there is a grace period that lasts until midnight.)

Well, that's right After midnight, you return from the superhero to the anonymous schlub.

This PSA was written for the many narcissists in the city and they seem to have missed the memo. Yesterday's subway was full of medal wearers. A lady has strategically fastened her coat to show off her hardware. Until last night, a lady not only made her medal, but also her official marathon shirt walked through the Rangers game and ignored me.

By Monday morning, your medal is not to be celebrated - it is an embarrassing compliment. Unless you intend to make the company's presentation as the next Carl Lewis, you now officially put the shining piece in the drawer of the souvenir.

After all, your painful, changing gait should be the only badge of honor you really need.
Maybe the medal is not something you end up thinking, but the medal represents an honor because the medal records the whole process of your winning