I always enjoy marathon weekend in Burlington. The event attracts a more, let's say, lucid crowd than the beer festival later in the summer. Or the Green Mountain Chew Chew food fest, for that matter. And, of course, I get to drag out my marathon joke for the occasion.

Sadly, my material is limited. I have not more than 10 jokes I recycle endlessly through my out-of-town customers. (For my regular fares, I try to limit the repertoire to once a year per joke, hoping that they forget year-to-year.) For instance, if, along the way, I'm forced to execute a hairy traffic maneuver and I sense some alarm in the vehicle, I say, "Don't worry, folks. I haven't had a head-on collision in, like, five months." Rim-shot!

So, on marathon eve, I use this one-two punch on the customers who appear the most clearly non-race-worthy (you know, 250-pound guys with a sausage in one hand and a kielbasa in the other): "So, I guess I'll be seeing you eight tomorrow morning at the starting line?" After the raucous laughter begins to subside, I hit them with, "I get tired driving 26 miles!"

It's just a gift to be so very hilarious.