I feel like I think I’m just cool enough to get away with saying “sans” a lot. I know you are all snorting and snarkily declaring that I am “sans cool.” But I am sans a fuck about what you all think.
We are in the middle of another snow dump today but prior to that I had managed to get three consecutive runs off the treadmill and back out on the cold, hard ground in the past week. Whenever I’ve spent too much time on the mill (which, prior to this winter, was rarely), I usually hit the ground going way too fast because it just feels too damn good. Sans proper pacing, I end up limbo running what was meant to be an easy pace, maintenance run. Yesterday’s five miler culminated in a last mile of 6:11. Considering I had started around a 7:15 pace and had planned an even tempo run, you can see I was sans discipline.
Screw it. It’s so nice to be back on the road in (relatively) firm footing where a forward tilt actually means something other than that I might hit the front of a treadmill, slide backwards into the wall, and miss the end of Cougar Town in an unconscious haze while the whirring belt scrapes uninterruptedly across my drooling cheek...
As nice as it was to be back on the road, as Beardsley gives, he also takes away. My beloved stretchy bands – that I just waxed poetic about in the last post – snapped in my hands Wednesday night. When stretchy bands fail – and they always eventually fail – they can’t just tear unassumingly. No, they got to make a BIG production out of it. Always during butterfly curls…when your fists are up near your throat like JFK after the first shot…SNAP!...you punch yourself in the nose and the detached end whiplashes out and strikes your dog in the hind quarters where she lets out a yelp and scampers across the room into a table, knocking over orange pop onto the carpet.
So now I am sans stretchy bands. Dusting iron is becoming even more imperative.
Tonight is soccer night. We’ll see how that speedy last mile feels on the hamstring when I slide across synthetic turf in a few hours. I’d hate to be sans hamstring.
This weekend’s long run may or may not be on the mill. We’ll see how the snow plows do their job and Mother Beardsley conspires to make things difficult. If I have to go back on the mill, I’ll do it like I always do: Sans balls.
Why don’t you all settle a little dispute around the Nitmos home? I have very strong feeling on this matter. It is a source of conflict between Mrs. Nitmos and I. It usually involves one of us turning the roll around to “fix” the proper direction of the roll dispensary. Tell me in the comments which photo below – left or right – is the proper way to put on your toilet paper. I don’t want to overemphasize but…you may be responsible for the happiness of our marriage based on your response. There's a correct way and then there's a way animals do it.