And If You Can't Keep Pace, They Pick You Up. Mickey Means Business, Son.

Devonna Devonna Devonna Devonna why oh why did you have to put the idea of the Disneyland Half Marathon into my head? What was it, Succubus, that made you sing your sweet song to me, thus tempting me into registering for 13 miles of grueling Southern California heat. A full marathon is too "Runners World" Magazine for our hero, though dividing the gauntlet neatly in half has proven to stimulate my quixotic tendencies.

Visions of animated former compatriots dancing in my head, I started to train* for said half-marathon this week. With 226 days, 22 hours, 49 minutes, 42 seconds (thanks Disney Half Marathon countdown clock!) left until this exercise in torture, I better get on the ball with this. Promises of a giant Disney medal await me should I finish. While Disney's lawyers have assured me that I, my family, co-workers, local Starbucks girl, and any future unborn children I may have will be sued should I post any pictures of said medal, let me assure you, dear reader, that it is appropriately blingy, and would be well complimented with a Flava Flav style grill.

Germán sporting his marathon medal.

Yes, kids, you too can look like this.

*By "train" one should read "jogged for one lap around the track, wheezed, and sputtered to a stop all the while gasping for precious, precious air and longing for death.