Shades of Yellow

Some see the world in black or white and some see shades of gray. Some of you annoyingly chipper folk see the world in rainbow swaths like a bag of Skittles. You, of course, can screw off and take your glowing personality to a commune, hippie.

I see shades of yellow. I’m officially out of winter maintenance mode and looking to regain lost speed created from a few months of fudge stripe cookies and remote control molestation.* This means that my workouts have gotten harder, more sweat is produced, and my urine has become a deeper, more electrifying shade of yellow. It’d be nice to look into the toilet bowl and enjoy the water show without judging the level of my hydration but, for over-analyzers like me, that’s just a way of life.

Oh, look at that, I need more water.

My bizarro coach, that devilishly handsome brute, has been on my case recently to get rid of my winter baby fat. It might be fun to poke at and giggle, like the Pillsbury Dough boy, but it sure doesn’t help me get around a track any faster. I feel every fudge stripe by the third 800. Maybe playing Ring the Large Intestine with a Delicious Chocolate and Graham Treat wasn’t such a good off season hobby. My coach reminded me of this after my 4th interval yesterday as I cooled off with heavy breaths and a few dry heaves. He poked me in the belly, whispered “How’d that feel, chubs?” and sarcastically giggled. Cheeky bastard.

Wow, it looks like liquid gold!

My speed is nowhere near where I want it to be at this point in the season. I’m suddenly thinking a PR in the half-marathon this May probably isn’t going to happen. I’m still about five pounds over fighting weight. I’ve really tried to clean-up my eating habits. Mrs. Nitmos and I ditched the kids this past weekend and, thus, ditched the horrific corporate restaurant chains, for a nice little local dinner. I bypassed the steak and baked potato and enjoyed a delicious grilled salmon with green beans as part of my quest to eat better. Of course, the salmon was resting against a hunk of prime rib and what was there to do but eat that too? I wasn’t raised as a prime ribist.**

I need an eclipse pinhole viewer to look into the bowl. I may need an IV.

I had a hard go last week. I turned every planned tempo and easy long run into a game of beat the clock. I tried to force feed some speed back into my system through culture shock. Eight planned-tempo-turned-hard miles one day then eleven “easy” miles became two easy, nine hard. Voices were telling me to Take it easy and Back off. I did this all under the watchful gaze of my coach – what does he know anyway – and now, I think, he’s laughing at me.

Coach, my urine has been dark yellow lately. I don’t think I’m hydrating properly.

Or maybe you’re just a wimp, he responded. You gotta want it! Yig-wee, damrite. By now 4 x 800 (400 meter recoveries) under 2:50 pace should be as easy as consuming five finger ring fudge stripes one by one. Instead, my legs were heavy, my mouth dry, and there was a bit too much wiggle in the abdomen. I finished up in the low 2:50’s for each but did not meet my plan. Even though we’ve moved from the Joy of Sixes to High Fives, my coach was displeased.

As I trotted out my final easy 400, I could feel his harsh judgmental gaze following me around the track. I self-consciously pulled my flopping shirt down over my exposed gut like a teenage girl with a muffin top and skinny jeans at the mall. By the time I completed the intervals, my coach wore a self-righteous smirk that mirrored my self-loathing grimace.

What shade do you think your urine will be now, boy? He barked.
I dunno but I bet a dark yellow.
Then we better keep running you until it turns up red.

He’s really starting to get pissy with me.

Happy trails.

*The “2” button has rubbed off and I’m told the remote, between sobs, has accurately shown a local detective how it has been touched on a little stuffed remote dummy in the police station. Sketch of my thumb pending.
**being discriminatory to prime rib.