Today the I-Man reaches a milestone: three consecutive years of daily runs on the treadmill. Three years, without missing a single day. That’s 1,095 days, 1,096 if you count “leap day,” and you should, because he ran on that day too. Why? Because he is nothing if not committed. Some people might say that he should be committed, but they don’t understand. This is the very reason why he’s so successful. He gets an idea in his head, and he doesn’t just obsess over it, he becomes a full-on, Unabomber-like enthusiast.
For those of us who have been fans of his since he first came to New York, we already know Imus never does ANYTHING in a small way. When he wanted to get into photography in the 70’s, he didn’t just buy a little Instamatic camera and take snapshots: he spent $385,000 on equipment; turned an entire wing of his penthouse into a state-of-the-art darkroom; got a couple of eight balls; and spent the weekend teaching himself how to be a photographer.
How can anyone ever forget the Whittaker Chamber years, when Imus’s fixation on the minutiae of the Alger Hiss trial had him poring over transcripts with a zeal that would’ve put Joe McCarthy to shame? He almost used the same exact antique Woodstock typewriter as had been used in the famous case (an anniversary gift from Deirdre) to write his own conspiracy manifesto about it.
And now, it’s running that has tickled his fancy, and turned him into a Southwestern Jim Fixx. Imus has run, every day, without fail, for three years. Averaging around 6 miles a day, that's damn near 6000 miles. He essentially ran to Seattle and back, with a 1,000 mile cool down. He ran the length of the Great Wall of China, and then part of the way back. If he’d only gone west, and kept going, he’d…well, he’d be in the middle of the Pacific ocean, which probably would prevent him from continuing to run the following day. But he’s not. He’s here, in the Fox Studios, still doing his radio show, with a vow that he is going to continue running in the same spirit he maintains his sobriety: one day at a time.
Which, hopefully, would prevent him from the same fate as Jim Fixx, who, ironically, died on a run.
But if he did, at least we know Deirdre would be able to take a photograph of it. And then use the Woodstock typewriter to compose a letter to the probate lawyer.