Although it was a brisk, clear Midwestern Sunday morning, it was hardly a setting for much reflection.
Surrounded by a mass of emaciated human beings painfully lurching their way over the \wall"" of the 18th mile of the Chicago Marathon, I nonetheless experienced what would become a revelation.
Behind me, some poor soul brought to total dementia on account of the physical exertion muttered, ""This is the best thing I have ever tasted in my life.""
I happened to disagree with the runner's opinion. As the lukewarm gel, a high-carb shot of energy scientifically engineered to reduce fatigue, oozed its way out of a shiny foil packet and down my throat, I nearly gagged.
How could this gunk ever taste good? The texture reminded me of axle grease; the flavor was nowhere near the ""MMM! Chocolate!"" label that the cutesy packaging boasted. I was almost willing to take the bodily risk of not eating the stuff just so I didn't have to taste it.
But since I intended to finish the race, my first marathon ever, I thought it was in my best interest to swallow the slimy mess. Eight point two miles later, as I crossed the finish line, aching and sobbing (yes, I may be too sensitive, but I am comfortable enough to say so), I was glad I did.
While I appreciated the nutritional benefits that the ooze supplied, I could not forget the God-awful flavor of the stuff, which made my fellow ooze-eater's muddled enjoyment all the more memorable.
I thought about it for a while, but since I was overcome by metabolic and emotional shock, I was in no condition to reach any clear solution to the puzzling dilemma.
A few hours later, I emerged from the mental and physical doldrums long enough to enjoy a post-race meal with my family. We were in the middle of a calorie-rich feast at perhaps the best place in the world for such an undertaking: Ruffolo's Italian Restaurant, located at 11820 Sheridan Road in Kenosha.
I sipped on a fantastic beer, Hacker-Pschorr, served in a half-liter glass with a lemon, just as the gods would have intended it. I scarfed down the best pizza known to man, Ruffolo's own traditional thin-crust, topped with sausage, onions and mushrooms.
But the food was not the best part of the meal. What I enjoyed most was the setting: me, after a challenging ordeal, in the supportive company of my family, if only for a short while.
My father, a kindly man with the soft face of a 30-something and the slap-dash mind of an adolescent, cracked his usual potty-mouthed jokes and talked current events.
Although my stepbrother and stepmother have only been in the family a short while, their presence was still comforting and surprisingly familiar. And my grandmother, a wonderful soul, was kind enough to grace me with her warm matronly charms.
Although I was practically intoxicated by the toasty glow of food and drink and jovial conversation, a thought hit me as though I were in the lucid center of a mental hurricane: I was enjoying my meal, entirely independently of the food.
Don't get me wrong, Ruffolo's knows good food as well as any place I've been, but as long as I'm amongst people whom I know care about me and love me (still comfortable enough to say it), I would consider asbestos shards a delicacy.
It's the same sentiment that, as kids, makes us adore Chuck E. Cheese's even though the pizza tastes like warm cardboard and the booths smell like a hand-me-down car seats that have had one road trip too many.
This is the feeling that never lets us forget the restaurant where we spend our first date, even if all we had to eat was some bland, forgettable fast-food fare.
It is also the mixed-up emotion that, in the midst of some absurdly impossible physical endeavor, makes us love the taste of whatever putrid slop we eat that gives us the strength to carry on.
Four days after the race, with my family home again and me stuck in school, what I wouldn't give for one more meal together.
I'd even be willing to eat some more carbo-gel.
