How's this for motivation? At mile 6 of the New York Marathon you round the corner and see a 'bookish but attractive woman' holding a big sign. Its message is as unambiguous as it is enticing.
MARK!
[photo of Mark, a bookish but attractive man]
4 hrs = SEX!
Watch Mike go! To translate: if he can get home in 4 hours or less, those little town blues will be melting away, no doubt about it.
In a few days my brother - who has been my training partner of the past few weeks - will pack his running shoes and singlet and make the long flight to New York to join the 37,000 other people who will be pouring through the streets of the five boroughs.
I envy him.
The official web site says you'll run through 'dozens of culturally and ethnically diverse neighborhoods', pass over bridges, dodge a few potholes, and two, three, four, or nine hours later find yourself coming across the line at Tavern on the Green in Central Park, urged on by two million spectators.
It's quite the day out.
That makes our Auckland marathon sound tame by comparison, but you couldn't keep me away from it if Annette Presley herself was in it.
Loyal readers will know that I have tackled previous half marathons with the various encumbrances of a broken rib, shin splints and strained hamstrings. Four days out from this one, I am unscathed and well exercised. The clock is taunting me. Three minutes stand between the 1 hour 30 mark and my best effort so far. I am motivated. I have incentives.
The world record of one minute short of an hour would be nice too, but it would need to be a tailwind of the sort that lifts pleasure craft out of the water.
The thing about a time of 1.30 is that, at my age, that's fast enough to get you guaranteed entry into the New York marathon. I would rather like to do it.
There are risks to consider. There may be hazards on the course. Should I win it, for instance, I might meet the same misfortune as the winner of this week's Chicago marathon. Look at this Reuters clip. He scorches through the course, comes striding powerfully home, and then in his final stride hits something slippery underfoot, and takes a mighty dive.
The fall is spectacular. He has the title, but now he also has bleeding beneath the skull.
And what brought him down? Advertising! Someone's freaking logo, set out like a welcome mat; arranged, no doubt, for optimum televisual effect.
It would take a big man to step up to the podium and "thank the sponsors" after they'd done that to him. And that's assuming he has retained the faculty of speech.
But the piper must be paid. Look again at the description that accompanies the Reuters clip. They're so busy getting the sponsor's name in, they don't have room to mention the cause of the accident.
Robert Cheruiyot, the winner of the LaSalle Bank Chicago Marathon, struck his head after slipping as he reached the finish line.
Sponsors and marketers. Can't shoot them, can't have a marathon without them.
The real stars of the show are the people, though. Magnum Photo has the proof here in a marvellous photo exhibition.
It's a wonderful occasion, and that's not even counting the promise of sex.