Those Cheating Greek Bastards Halved the Marathon

How two dick-swinging twins from Athens invented relay racing and accidentally ruined jogging for everyone, forever. So get this. The year is 490 BC—give or take a decade, my subscription to the Official Historical Record is expired—and the Athenians have just pulled a major upset at the Battle of Marathon. The Persians, who were the undisputed heavyweight champions of invading places and being dicks about it, just got their asses handed to them. Huge news. The city of Athens is shitting itself, waiting to hear if they should celebrate or commit mass ritual suicide, which was basically the only two settings for ancient cities. Traditionally, the story goes that some heroic bastard named Pheidippides, a runner of legendary stamina and testicular fortitude, hoofed it the full 26-ish miles from the battlefield back to Athens without so much as a piss break. He bursts into the assembly, gasps out “Nike!” (“Victory!”), and then promptly dies, having heroically yeeted his last yeet. It’s a great story. It’s also, and I’m consulting the ghost of my nan here, a load of horseshit. Because Pheidippides had a twin brother. An identical, and according to recently discovered graffiti on a vase, “alarmingly well-hung” twin named Skeptippides. Pheidippides was a glory hound. A man whose ambition far outstripped his actual cardiovascular fitness. When the generals were like “Who wants to run to Athens for all the glory?” Pheidippides’s hand shot up. Then he immediately shit his toga, remembering he’d been up all night before the battle balls-deep in a flagon of wine and, allegedly, two shepherdesses. So he found his brother Skeptippides, the *actual* family athlete, who was probably doing pull-ups on an olive tree somewhere. “Bro,” he said (this is a direct quote I invented), “You run the first 13 miles, I’ll hide in the bushes, and then I’ll run the last bit into the city. I’ll get the glory, you’ll… uh… get my eternal gratitude?” Skeptippides, being a good brother and a world-class dumbass, agreed. So Skeptippides, the absolute fucking unit, blitzed the first half of the marathon. He met Pheidippides at a pre-arranged goat path, slapped the message-scroll into his hand like it was the world’s first-ever relay baton, and collapsed into the bushes, his lungs tasting like hot metal and regret. Pheidippides, fresh as a daisy after his 13-mile nap, sprinted the *easy* half into downtown Athens. He made sure to rough himself up a bit—smear some dirt on his face, get his loincloth askew—before dramatically bursting in, yelling “VICTORY,” and then faking his death for dramatic effect. (He didn’t die. He “died.” According to the lost diaries of Brother Publius the Moist, he was seen at an orgy two nights later, bragging about his “Herculean stamina.”) And so, the legend was born—a lie wrapped in sweat and brotherly fraud. Herodotus, the so-called “Father of History” (more like the “Father of Believing Any Old Crap as Long as It’s Spicy”), wrote it all down as fact. All subsequent marathon distances were based on this legendary—and famously halved—feat of endurance. Every half-marathon runner today is, technically, doing the full, original distance. They are the true heirs to Skeptippides, the unsung hero who got fuck-all for his troubles. Pheidippides got the statues and the glory. Which is why, to this day, all statues of Pheidippides have dicks that are, historically speaking, insultingly small.

Transcript

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From the historic desk. Those cheating Greek bastards halved the marathon. How two dick swinging twins from Athens invented relay racing and accidentally ruined jogging for everyone. Forever. So get this. The year is 490 BC, give or take a decade, my subscription to the official historical record is expired, and the Athenians have just pulled a major upset at the Battle of Marathon. The Persians, who were the undisputed heavyweight champions of invading places and being dicks about it, just got their asses handed to them. Huge news. The city of Athens is shitting itself, waiting to hear if they should celebrate or commit mass ritual suicide, which was basically the only two settings for ancient cities. Traditionally the story goes that some heroic bastard named Phippides, a runner of legendary stamina and testicular fortitude, hoofed it the full twenty-six-ish miles from the battlefield back to Athens without so much as a piss break. He bursts into the assembly, gasps out, Nike! Victory! And then promptly dies, having heroically yeeted his last yeet. It's a great story. It's also, and I'm consulting the ghost of my nan here, a load of horseshit, because Phidipides had a twin brother, an identical, and according to recently discovered graffiti on a vase, alarmingly well-hung twin named Skeptipodes. Phidippides was a gloryhound, a man whose ambition far outstripped his actual cardiovascular fitness. When the generals were like, Who wants to run to Athens for all the glory? Phaodipides' hand shot up. Then he immediately shit his toga, remembering he'd been up all night before the battle balls, deep in a flagon of wine, and allegedly two shepherdesses. So he found his brother, Skeptipodes, the actual family athlete, who was probably doing pull-ups on an olive tree somewhere. Bro, he said, this is a direct quote I invented. You run the first thirteen miles, I'll hide in the bushes, and then I'll run the last bit into the city. I'll get the glory. You'll uh get my eternal gratitude. Skeptipodes, being a good brother and a world-class dumbass, agreed. So Skeptipodes, the absolute fucking unit, blitzed the first half of the marathon. He met Phidipodes at a prearranged goat path, slapped the message scroll into his hand like it was the world's first ever relay baton, and collapsed into the bushes, his lungs tasting like hot metal and regret. Phidipodes, fresh as a daisy, after his 13-mile nap, sprinted the easy half into downtown Athens. He made sure to rough himself up a bit, smear some dirt on his face, get his loincloth askew, before dramatically bursting in, yelling victory and then faking his death for dramatic effect. He didn't die, he died. According to the lost diaries of Brother Publius the Moist, he was seen at an orgy two nights later, bragging about his Herculean stamina. And so, the legend was born, a lie wrapped in sweat and brotherly fraud. Herodotus, the so-called father of history, more like the father of believing any old crap as long as it's spicy, wrote it all down as fact. All subsequent marathon distances were based on this legendary and famously halved feat of endurance. Every half marathon runner today is technically doing the full original distance. They are the true heirs to Skeptipodes, the unsung hero who got fuckle for his troubles. Phi Dipides got the statues and the glory, which is why to this day all statues of Phi Dipides have dicks that are, historically speaking, insultingly small, filed by Jonderhan for Hystoric.