I recently had a birthday and, while running that evening, I experienced a few revelations that I’ll share with you for no other reason than I can. And you know you want it.
It dawned on me that, since I’ll be running Boston next year just after my 39th birthday, if I want to qualify again I’ll only need to meet the 40+ year old age standard. All future attempts to meet the Boston qualifying time will be against sub 3:21 instead of sub 3:16. Yay for five extra minutes to slack off! This certainly balances the coming need for Viagra (double entendre!)
Then the next thing that occurred to me is that I can’t seem to shake the 5 pounds of winter blubber I picked up while ass massaging the couch over the last few months. I can feel it jiggling around when running. It’s like I’m perpetually stuck in the late first trimester of my man pregnancy. I’m pretty sure though that, if my abdomen was sliced open, a cute little under developed Nitmos Jr. wouldn’t come tumbling out. Based on my diet, I’d expect it to be some Cheetos. And possibly a few stale farts.* Normally, I develop a manageable winter Cheeto Layer for extra warmth but this particularly one is being a little persnickety about leaving. And it’s not too happy about those 12 plus mile training runs either.
And then I was thinking about this weird Age-Race Goal Paradox I seem to suffer. The older I get, the lower I seem to set my race time goals. Now I’m not exactly an old man but I’m no spring chicken either. If I was Michael Jackson’s music career, I’d be in the post-Thriller Bad years. I’m still looking to set new PR’s in all distances but I realize, at some point in the future, this will probably be unrealistic. Setting lower race goals will be Dangerous and, eventually, HIStory. I’m not Invincible.
The final thing I realized is that I really hate talking on the telephone. Everybody wants to call and chat with you on your birthday. I hate that. I spent three years as a customer service rep for a major American automobile manufacturer where, every time the phone rang, I knew that I was just about to have an argument. It’s led to a Pavlovian response to a ringing telephone that has never quite gone away. The birthday well wishers are unintentionally triggering annoyance and a snarling of my lip with every call. Happy f*%$ing birthday to me.
Flying Pig Marathon training is progressing at Cheeto Layer pace. Two 20 milers in the weeks ahead.
Each 6 mile segment got progressively faster. Negative splits!
* I think my couch opened an OHSA case against me, by the way.
Five Peas in a Pod
Edit 3/20/09: Nothing to see - or hear - here. Instead, let me tell you about things I like:
Puppy dogs, rainbows, balloons, clouds, lollipops, daffodils, full length skirts, unicorns, lederhosen, cotton candy, pastel colors, sensible slacks, trampolines, parades, Steel Magnolias, things that rhyme with "run", giggling babies, cinnamon, ranch houses, Nickelback, twice yearly dental appointments, bunnies sitting in an Easter basket and sentences ending in prepositions. Of.
That is all. Go about your business.
There is light at the end of the tunnel. I’m getting glimpses of my True Self. My sabbatical is approaching an end though I’m not quite there yet. In the meantime, I hope to have a special guest post from someone running the Boston Marathon next month in the days ahead. He better not leave me hanging now. It’s advertised.