The Cincinnati Enquirer

Nobody cheers the bike riders. Along the Flying Pig Marathon route, no spectators yell way-ta-go as you ride past them, dripping like a rain forest. No smiles, no waves. Riding a bike is ignoble. You are cheating. No orange slices for you, 21-Gear Man. It's 7 Sunday morning. It's 40 degrees. Occasionally, the rain does a little, headwind-aided horizontal mambo. I'm on a bike, riding the race, wishing I had some windshield wipers for my glasses. Do you know how it feels to ride a bike downhill at 30 miles per, when it's raining biblically and cold enough to freeze a toe? Do you? I need a doughnut.

The cool thing about doing the Pig is all the neighborhoods you see, the people you meet who cheer the runners and the camaraderie between marathoners. That, and the sheer number of quality establishments serving great fried dough.

I fuel up immediately. Carbo-loading is critical. A large coffee and a honey-glazed at the start-finish line.

At eight miles, near the corner of McMillan and Victory, Jimi Hendrix blares from the back of a truck. "There must be some kinda way outta here."

There is no way out. But there are places to doughnut-up. Convenience store on the corner. One large coffee, one chocolate doughnut. At 9.5 miles, I refuel again, at Bob Roncker's Running Spot on Madison and Cohoon in O'Bryonville. One large coffee, one raisin bagel. No doughnuts. Ten-mile total: Three large coffees, two doughnuts, one bagel. I am on an eight-coffee, five-doughnut pace. When attempting a marathon, it is important to train properly.

At Erie and Stettinius in Hyde Park, 11 miles or so, a glob of Vaseline the size of a football hangs from a poster affixed to a telephone poll. Only along a marathon route do you see this, and its companion message: "Vaseline and Telephone: 50 Feet''.

At 13 miles, Erie and Wasson, I stop for a large coffee at Starbucks. Since I refuse to hear myself utter something ridiculous, such as anything ending in "-ccino'', I ask for "coffee.'' Amazingly, they know what I mean.

No doughnuts, though. Doughnuts are so un-Starbucks. And you and I both know what they can do with their "biscotti.''

Thirteen miles, four large coffees, two doughnuts.

At 14 miles, give or take, I pass Hyde Park Nails. It's raining elephants and mobile homes. I can no longer feel my extremities, so what I'm thinking is, "I sure could use a nail right about now, straight through my forehead.'' I mention this to a traffic cop, who tells me it's a fingernail place. Oh.

Hap's Irish Pub is right down the block, so instead of a nail, I get an ale. It goes down like a spring breeze in Killarney.

Fourteen miles, three coffees, two doughnuts, one bagel, one ale.

At 14.5 miles, a little old lady is holding a sign. "There Is No Wall'' it says. Uh-huh, granny. Hop up here on my handlebars, OK? Feel some Siberia in your face.

At this point, it occurs to me that another cool thing about the Pig is, you don't have to stop at red lights! Not one time!

At 16 miles, members of the Mariemont High School marching band shelter beneath the Mariemont Theatre marquee, serenading the runners with "Louie, Louie.'' Me gotta go now . . .

. . . across the street, to the National Exemplar, where I'm hoping for a large coffee and a couple jelly doughnuts. No luck.

Through Mariemont, which is so cute, it ought to have dimples, to Eastern Avenue, which is so long, it ought to have its own country. Running miles 19 to 25 along Eastern, through Linwood and Columbia Tusculum and the East End, makes you feel like Forrest Gump.

Boys in Walnut Hills High jerseys cheer the runners. They scoff at me. A guy plays acoustic guitar beneath an underpass. I tool past, looking like an otter. He seems startled.

No coffee on Eastern Avenue. Six miles, not a cup. I'm shaking like a leaf on a tree.

"Seen any grumpy people?'' I ask a volunteer named Kris Miller

"Nope,'' she says. "Happy, smiling people. I've gotten a hundred thank-yous.''

"Thank you,'' I said. "Got any coffee?''

When the going gets tough, the tough turn pro. Hunter Thompson said that. After riding a bike 26.2 miles in the freezing rain, probably.

E-mail pdaugherty@enquirer.com