Feet Meet Street

YakTrax for Two!

2012-02-01T12:59:00.003-05:00

The free YakTrax contest is over. Deb, Mindy, and KMR, you can stop entering now. I’m glad you three – though special commendation to Deb and Mindy in particular for their dogged determination – understood that each entry only increased your odds of winning. This is something you other pinheads didn’t seem to understand. It’s a real testament to these folks lack of employment, hobbies, family, and general interest in ‘other things’ that they could continue to enter so often. I don’t make judgments around here. Feel free to spend your time however you choose…even if it is through the pursuit of a not-very-expensive free item.

I once had a couple spend 15 minutes trying to talk me down from 50 cents to a quarter for a Jell-o mold at a garage sale. I wouldn’t budge…on principle. I would have just given it to them if they asked nicely but they came at me so obviously intent on “winning” a price bickering contest that I dug my heels in and refused to budge. They walked. I believe I ended up throwing the Jell-o mold in the garbage afterwards and felt incredibly good about that. So, as you can see, there is within me a sick, twisted part that would find it absolutely hilarious if, after all the time commenting, Deb, Mindy, or KMR didn’t win.

But I had to be fair. I used Random.org’s random number generator. I’m afraid I couldn’t capture the results photo. I know it can be done – seen it before – but I wasn’t able to do it before I lost the result. You’ll just have to trust me on this one. I know you expect high moral standards around here so you’ll take me at my word. The random generator pronounced the winner as comment #48 (range 1-59), which was actually a response to someone else’s comment but still counts:

Deb said...
Xenia,You ROCK!!!! And for the record, I would never shank you...hamstring you, maybe, to rip the Yak Trax off of you in a more benign manner, but NEVER shank you. You once gave me a map to find the tastiest gelato in all of Rome, therefore you are NOT on my shank list!!!!
Wed Feb 01, 06:58:00 AM

DEB, YOU WIN!! Your total lack of ambition or any other hobbies paid off!! Email me your shipping info and I’ll get you hooked up with the YakTrax folk. See sidebar for email address.

But, I promised TWO YakTraks to giveaway and two it shall be. For the second one, I vowed to select the most creative answer to the following question:

If you could embezzle money from a charity and never get caught, which charity would it be and why?

What I didn’t tell you (though hinted at in yesterday’s post) is that there was actually a correct answer that would have guaranteed you the win if you entered it. Sarah McLachlan’s television campaign for the ASPCA (American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) features a rotating bunch of animals - dogs mainly – that have been abused to a background of sad music. It’s a real heartstrings tugger. One dog seems to have a messed up eye. All you had to do was say something along the lines of “I would steal from the ASPCA, use the money to buy a stick, and use that stick to beat the dog in the other eye.”* =WINNER!

Though no one entered that, there were quite a few solid suggestions as well as a little socio-political brouhaha that started up, apologies, and general drama. Exactly what I was hoping for. I would have liked to have seen even more clever ways to screw a charity but I understand most of you aren’t like me. Every community of assholes needs a chief. I’m Chief Asshole…you are all just little taints.

Despite that, there was one terrific entry. It combined mean-spiritedness and humor to make a cocktail of snark which fit perfectly with the theme:

Xenia said...
I'm going to hell for even thinking this. I'd embezzle from an alzheimer's
charity because god knows they wouldn't remember it afterward.

Ticket to hell in hand!

XENIA, YOU WIN! I think you even discouraged others from trying. There’s truly nothing funnier than poking fun at someone’s life-threatening and seriously debilitating disease. Way to go! You should be proud of yourself. Better use them on mortal coil because you ain't gonna find much use for them where you're going afterwards. Email me your shipping address.

If only I had more YakTrax to give away…Oh, well, until next time!

Happy Yaking.

*I don’t condone animal abuse except in cases of rape or incest…wait, what are we talking about? In other words, don’t kick your dogs. That's mean. Kick your cat.

Running is Better than NASCAR because...

2012-01-31T10:06:00.016-05:00

Running and NASCAR racing: Two events that both involve going from Start to Finish in the fastest time possible. Besides that, there is very little similarity between the two. Running has a large number of participants but a very small nationally interested audience, very little television coverage, and barely gets a mention on ESPN. NASCAR, on the other hand, has very few participants but a huge national and television audience and is featured regularly on ESPN.

Like many of you, I was slightly peeved that the U.S. Olympic Marathon trials held in Houston earlier this month was broadcast – tape delayed – in a condensed two hour format. The top men finished in two hours and nine minutes and the women in two hours ad twenty-five minutes. It would have been just too much to add a extra half hour to this ONCE EVERY FOUR YEAR event just to provide full coverage, wouldn’t it?! I mean, I realize that distance running is not really a spectator sport but, sheesh, have you ever watched NASCAR? Or, excuse me, have you ever watched mobile flying billboards circle a motor home dealership, like some demented rings of Saturn, for 400 LAPS (not tape delayed, not condensed into two hours even though it desperately cries out for some editing before broadcast)!?!

To ease my disturbed psyche, I decided to turn my snarky derision to the proper target. To the executives who make television decisions? No… to NASCAR. It’s official F.M.S. policy that the quickest way to get to the top is by standing on the throats of others.

So – running and NASCAR -who’s to say which is better?

Me. Running is better. Here’s why:

1. In NASCAR, “rubbing is racing”. In running, it’s a subtle form of time passing, socially acceptable groping. Think Japanese men on a subway.

2. Midriffs.

GOOD

BAD

3. Distance runners like to throw in a right turn every now and then to break up the monotony.

4. If there is a collision between runners, the rest of the field doesn’t bunch back together and restart once the blood and skin has been cleaned up. I didn’t realize this while watching the 2011 NYC Marathon. As Meb drifted further behind, I was cheering for a collision between a few runners on the course that would collapse the leader’s lead back down to one second…because that’s the fair way to do it, right NASCAR, RIGHT??

5. Race bib numbers are not shaved into back hair.

6. Enlarged, healthy hearts, hamstrings and lung capacity vs. enlarged livers. You choose.

7. Celebrating a win:

CLASSY

SERIOUSLY?

8. Bumper stickers:

9. What’s the worst that could happen?

FIRE!

Okay, so maybe this is a draw.

10. Sport origins:

Ol' bootleggers

Heroic, albeit mythical, messengers

Despite that fact that we enjoy this sport in relative media anonymity, rest assured that running is indeed better than NASCAR. Just as it was Charlie Sheen before that. So continue to enjoy those right turns, continue to run free of gas fires, continue to swig a post-race non-Budweiser refreshment! Just watch out for this guy and his pick-up at the next intersection.

Happy trails.
_________________________________

Don’t forget to enter the random drawing for the free YakTrax. You have until noon ET tomorrow. As I mentioned, you may enter as often as you would like. It seems that Deb is the only one who has taken me up on this. I don’t want to hear any crying if she wins. You all had your chance. And, as of now, Xenia is the runway winner of the ‘screw a charity’ hand picked winner…unless someone has any other ideas. C’mon, Sarah McLachlan and those sad face puppies on TV? Who wouldn’t want to screw them over?

You Get Some YakTrax, You Get Some YakTrax!

2012-01-26T09:50:00.003-05:00

It’s giveaway time, Oprah style! Everyone look under their seat for their prize! What? No prize…just chewing gum and the Ghosts of Farts Past? Shame. I guess we’ll do it the old fashioned way: Random number generator.

YakTrax Pro

But I have MULTIPLE YakTrax to give away! So…

YOU get some YakTrax!
And YOU get some YakTrax!
And…

And that’s all. Two. Two YakTrax to giveaway. That is “multiple” according to Webster. Fortunately, that should cover half the F.M.S. audience so your odds are quite good. And two out of the four of you may live in warm climates anyhow. I guess I could split the pairs apart and give four INDIVIDUAL YakTrax (YakTrack?) away so everybody gets a little something. Sure, you would have only one for one foot but you’d still be covered against slip n’fall every other step. That’s 50% better than you had it before. That’s not half bad.

Haven’t heard of/used YakTrax? Well, this is a product I don’t mind pimping.* Unlike the laundry detergent I once struggled mightily to review– two separate times! – I actually use YakTrax and love them. You should go to the company website to get all of the specifics but, basically, it’s like having a few dozen tiny claws attached to the bottom of your feet to help you stay upright on those icy and snowy runs. Remember those little jagged follicles Spider-Man would use to climb a wall? Just like that but a touch bigger, coils instead of jagged follicles, and without the impossibly large codpiece. (Yeah, right, Tobey, in your dreams.)

I’ve used YakTrax for years. In the depressing snow swept wasteland that is mid-Michigan in winter, they’ve sure come in handy to keep my pace from a labored fast walk to an actual running stride. I can return home quicker to my modest dwelling to again yearn for the re-appearance of the sun…or suicide, whatever comes first. Of course, once I received a free pair, there’s been almost no snow to speak of around here. Right now I can see my lawn. My dead, brown, bird pecked lawn. I can see the poop my dog pooped back in the beginning of December. It’s whiter and fuzzier than the rest, that’s how I know. It’s just not the same when the kids make snowmen out of rotting dog feces.

I haven’t been able to use the new YakTrax outside yet but, soon, I will. Michigan won’t let a winter go by without at least a few donkey punches to the back of the head by way of 15 inch storms. Until then, I can only use them on the treadmill. But that’s not making Mrs. Nitmos too happy. Her belt is now “ventilated” (as I call it). There’s only so many times I can “tease” the dog by stepping on her ears with them. And, try this when you receive a pair, see how your friends react as you walk across their wood floors in them. Oh, it’s funny…some people just don’t like to laugh.

If you would like a pair, there are of course a few hoops for you to jump through.

1) Like YakTrax on Facebook.
2) Leave a comment here for the random number generator to select you.
3) If you win, be willing to provide me your name/mailing address/shoe size (sock size for you barefooters). If you’re concerned about giving that info away, don’t worry, a restraining order can be filed at any future time.

I guarantee that ONE pair will be given away randomly. The second pair may also…or I may choose to give it to the person with the most creative answer to the following question:

If you could embezzle money from a charity and never get caught, which charity would it be and why?

So, Good Luck! We are all counting on you.

You know what…I can’t have folks coming here and leaving empty handed. I recognize that some of you have no regional interest in running snow shoes because the very idea of snow confuses you. Here’s what I’m going to do…those of you that don’t win – or want - the YakTrak get a consolation prize: Free barefoot running shoes! That’s right…

YOU get some barefoot shoes.
And YOU get some barefoot shoes.
And YOU get some barefoot shoes…

The drawing will be done on Wednesday, February 1st at noon. Comment/Enter as often as you would like. What do I care?

Happy Yaking.

*Usual disclaimers apply: A pair given to me free in exchange for a mention on this blog. The use of the word “pimping” and, later, “codpiece” are all my doing, however. Also, in case any other companies are reading this, here's a short list of other products I don't mind pimping: treasury notes, non-Schlitz beer, mace (both medieval and modern), iPads, and codpieces.

The Devil Inside Us

2012-01-20T11:11:00.002-05:00

It’s in the house. That demonic whirring noise is coming from somewhere INSIDE THE HOUSE….

That’s right, We Bought A Treadmill!* I’m not one of those husbands that blames everything on his spouse but…it was Mrs. Nitmos’ idea. Really. I only passively resisted at first. The fact is that I don’t like running on a treadmill. Who does, right? But then I realized that I could avoid some of those ankle twisting, knee torquing winter ice runs so I didn’t put up much of a fight. Besides, Mrs. Nitmos is more apt to get in some miles on the thing and, if that works better for her, than great! Plus, while she’s on the mill and dealing with kid noises all around her, I can still run outside in relative peace and quiet.

I’ve been on it twice so far. It’s positioned in our finished basement directly at the TV. I was quite the sight to behold yesterday – as I am normally- but more so flinging sweat all over the futon couch nearby and my daughter’s Barbie house in front while holding a remote control channel surfing between miles 4 and 5. I watched part of a Dane Cook movie. It was 15 degrees and blowing snow outside. I was on a treadmill, in my basement, watching a Dane Cook movie. I believe a baseball player in an Iowa corn field hit the nail on the head with the appropriate question, “Is this heaven?” You’re goddamn right.

I vowed to only use the thing for one run a week during the winter months. The other runs must be completed outside in full on Sherpa gear, if necessary. I don’t want to go all soft and treadmilly. Treadmill legs are the worst kind to go into a race with. It’s fool’s gold…false confidence…a mirage. Running on a treadmill is to actual running like Michelob Ultra is to beer. It’s nearly the same. Nearly…except for that key component: substance.

A buddy of mine once trained for a 5k with me…except he did his runs on a treadmill while I was out on the sidewalks. He excitedly told me all about the speeds he was obtaining in the weeks leading up to race day while I nodded and smiled skeptically. On race day, he ran a full minute per mile slower than expected. Treadmill legs! I don’t know what the mathematical conversion is for a predominantly treadmill oriented runner but I believe it is something like this:

Finish time = (Expected pace*miles) * 1.15% (treadmill penalty) + one minute (Dane Cook movie penalty, if applicable)

Since I work out of my basement, I can see the big ugly thing looming out of the corner of my eye as I type this. It’s weird to have this thing you loathe to a visceral level - but acquiesce on occasion - sitting right in my home. I feel the house needs an exorcism to expel it but, now that it is inside, it’ll be tough to remove. I find myself looking at it a muttering “my precioussss” over and over again. I want it to go…but then I don’t want it to leave either. In other words, KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MY PRECIOUSSSSS!

So, until late March, I’ll continue to hit one run per week on the ~~precious~~ treadmill. By then, I’ll have viewed all of the Dane Cook movies Comedy Central has to offer. My futon will be a Slip N’ Slide and the two story Barbie house will have appeared to have been overwhelmed by a hurricane. (Don’t worry, honey, you can still rip the comb through Barbie’s matted hair.) After that, the treadmill will become what it really should be: a coat rack.

If you no longer see me on the sidewalks…if my race times suddenly decrease…if I’m found sleeping on the padded mill surface afraid someone is going to take it…you can place the blame directly where it belongs.

Not on Precious.

Not on me.

On Mrs. Nitmos, of course.

Happy milling.

*Incidentally, this was the name of a screenplay I’d written and pitched to Matt Damon. He declined…then, months later, out comes We Bought A Zoo. Have you seen it? You tell me which had the better premise.
_________________________________

Officially Official: As I suspected, I wasn’t virtually mugged, I’m in for NYC Marathon! They even provided a cute littel "badge" for me to display...which says nothing about New York...a marathon...well, anything, really. So, wait, was I mugged?

The Olympic Trials According to a Ten Year Old

2012-01-17T11:14:00.003-05:00

Much like her Dad, my daughter likes to offer unsolicited commentary on the Things Going On around her. She’ll have a blog one day and it’ll be equal parts hilarious, sarcastic, and bitter. I can’t wait to read it. She looks at life with a cocked eyebrow and a sharp quip. Yes, she’s a chip off the ole Handsome.

So as I settled in Saturday evening to view my DVR’ed Olympic Trials for the men’s and women’s marathon from Houston, I expected a few choice remarks. Never to disappoint:

“We’re going to watch a show about running? Don’t you do that all the time…can’t you just watch yourself?”

The majesty of the event was lost on her. The summer Olympics? Last time those were on, she still had an interest in Dora the Explorer and backpacks for some reason. Backpack, backpack….backpack, backpack…all over the house.

She likes sports too. She plays tons of soccer, likes gymnastics and is pretty darn fast when she cares to run a mile, or shorter, race. Despite this, she still doesn’t respect the endurance part of the marathon. To her, it’s a bunch of people jogging. What’s a five minute mile pace anyway?

“Why aren’t they running fast? They are just jogging.”

I tried to explain that a five minute per mile pace is hardly “jogging”. I tried to explain that the word “jogging”, in some circles, is even considered derisive. I tried to explain about endurance and discipline and perseverance and all of the things that it takes to build a successful marathoner. And then Ryan Hall started blowing snot rockets and she forgot about all of that and just crinkled her face and said, “Gross.” I briefly considered explaining the usefulness of a snot rocket but quickly realized that I’d already attempted an overly complicated explanation regarding abdomen blockage and pain to explain my constant farting so I figured she wouldn’t buy this argument either.

I clearly remember my daughter’s reaction when I first qualified for Boston at a marathon back in 2007. My family was at the finish line waiting for my triumphant completion and qualification. While I was elated and Mrs. Nitmos congratulated me, I could tell by the look on her face that she was either confused or unimpressed. A short while later, I found out which:

“You were barely running. I can run faster than that.”

Ever try to explain endurance and 26.2 miles worth of exhaustion to a six year old? It’s like trying to explain to Ashton Kutcher that there is a thing called being “too hip”. You can talk and talk and it just won’t register. My then six year old didn’t get the fact that I simply couldn’t sprint to the finish; Ashton Kutcher will still wear reggae hats in public. It’s no use.

And then she took notice of the tight running bikini pants worn by the female marathoners.

“Why are the girls wearing swimming suits?”

Here was an opportunity to get into a whole host of issues. I could have launched into a discussion about our male dominated culture and how women are often objectified by impossible standards of “beauty”. I could have explained that, though Daddy enjoys the bikini bottomed marathoners as he’s a helpless slave to his base male urges , there is no place for sexism in sport or society and that I’ll trust her to never fall victim to body image issues. She should love herself – and her body – how it is and that everyone else can kiss her bikini clad or non-bikini clad – her choice - behind. I could have pointed out that the men are wearing horribly offensive side split running shorts but that it was better than running in a Speed-o, which would force the event onto HBO or Showtime late at night with an NC-17 rating, and wasn’t that just a double standard? If I was a better man, I would have said all of these things. Instead, I said:

“Wind resistance.”

She did seem at least mildly interested as Meb, Ryan and Abdi finished amid great elation while Dathan collapsed in utter disappointment. Then Shalane, Desiree and Kara crossed and I hoped she’d feel pride and respect for her fellow females. She watched them embrace and the announcers explain that they were off to the Olympics for Team U.S.A.!

“So…they have to go to the Olympics? What if they don’t want to?”

I explained that they wanted to which is why they put in all of those hours of work and ran this race. She shrugged her shoulders unimpressed and went upstairs to look up funny clips on YouTube. I could only hope that something from the event made an impression with her. The spirit. The determination. The pride. But as I gazed at the now empty staircase, I wasn’t sure.

I sighed that sigh that parents know well. The one that expresses exasperation at a teaching moment lost. And then I settled back in my chair and hoped that the cameraman would give me a money shot on those bikini clad, celebrating female marathoners.

But that's a story for another day....the Olympic Trials According to a Man.

Happy trails.

Back to the Core

2012-01-13T10:05:00.003-05:00

It’s that time of year again. No, it’s not time to check back into rehab, smart asses. If last year taught us anything, it’s that nothing can solve a significant substance abuse problem quite like two hookers, mounds of blow, a twitter account, tiger blood, a bad publicist, and a hastily arranged “World Tour”. All of those things = Problem Solved and a new TV show!

It’s time to work on my beach muscles, the glamour muscles, the vanity muscles…whatever you want to call them. It’s time to hit the core. I’m talking abs, quads, biceps. Hell, I may even do a trapezius (but not both – they don’t deserve it* – and I’m fully aware that may leave me with an awkward hunchback look). Glutes, you ask? Of course. Where others see a runner with little to no ass – possibly even concavely bending towards the anus – I see a rigid, structurally aesthetic** set of twin man butt mounds shamefully hidden from full public appreciation. My most surprising choice may be the decision to include the sphincter amongst my glamour muscles. But homeboy here isn’t satisfied unless he can jettison waste with a sharp pit-tooie! sound like a B.B. pellet rocketing against a paint can. Take this ass canon into a standard issue piece of Applebee’s porcelain and see how many looks you get around the common sink.

It’s not like my core goes neglected all year though. Long time F.M.S. readers know all about my affection for stretchy banding and crunching. Certainly my family is well aware of my penchant for expelling farts with an ab tearing primal grunt, forcing them out two minutes before they are “due”. I work the core. I work it all year, baby. It helps my running. And my farting. But, mostly, my running.

But things get a little ragged during the holiday. I may be crunching with a plate of cookies balanced on my belly. I rehydrate during stretchy banding with swigs of rum and eggnog. Okay, maybe rum and Coke. Truthfully, rum with a Coke chaser. Okay, okay, it’s just the rum. Mixed with Wild Turkey whiskey. I still stretchy band but, instead of looong, slooow satisfying strokes, it’s more conjugal prison style, if you know what I mean. There’s no time to waste during the holidays. My pleasure centers need engaging. My gluttony needs gluttoned. There isn’t something tasty and/or intoxicating touching my lips and/or body so things must change.

Sometime after the first of the year, I wake up with cookie crumbs around my mouth, a gradually decreasing B.A.C., 6-7 extra pounds around my belly, and a hideously flabby sphincter. My eyes are groggy, hair unkempt…What. The. Hell. Just. Happened???

So every new year, I rededicate myself to the core…where 11 months of discipline will undoubtedly peter out again in an orgy of chocolate, alcohol, chocolate alcohol, and nougat – whatever the hell that is. Let the rededication begin!

Every runner knows – or should know by now – that a strong core is crucial. It controls your body positioning, your gait, your turnover, your breathing, and keeps the jiggle to a minimum. There are all sorts of studies out there that analyze just how much a strong core can help you go faster and longer (and, apparently, litter your blog post with double entendres) so I’m not going to repeat the science here. This is not a science blog if you weren’t aware. Witness how much time I’ve spent already making sphincter jokes. Suffice to say, the core is important and, if you aren’t already working it, you should be. Here’s my normal Monday through Thursday routine (I save the weekends for my gluttony addiction):

- 20 minutes stretchy banding (I have 5 workouts without multiple reps that work the arms, shoulders, one trapezius and the core)
- 500-600 crunches/ab exercises (I have various “stations” of my leg positioning to work different areas)
- 1-2 controlled, quality farts (I have two different intonations I prefer to disgust the family)

All of these are done nightly during the week days while watching various sporting events or ridiculous television shows. It’s amazing how TV can help you with your core. Ever try planking for the duration of a commercial break? Not as easy as it sounds - especially if you get one of those long 4 minute breaks that A&E’s Intervention specializes in.

I can’t say for sure that it helps my running. But I know I prefer not to have my belly jiggling so much when I’m huffing and puffing my way down a sidewalk shirtless on a warm summer’s day. I figure I’ll work the core until I can either wash my clothes on my abs, play the xylophone on them, or race Fisher Price Little People mogul style down the ole treasure trail. Pick your metaphor.

At least for the next eleven months, then it’s a month long Sheen fest again. But that’s a long way off…a lot of blow, hookers and World Tours.

Happy trails.

* Long story but they know what they did
** Or, “ass”-thetic, as the case may be.
_______________________________________

NYC Update: I see in the last few days that the NYC Marathon has charged the FULL amount of the race to my credit card - not just the application fee. So....either I'M IN...or I just got mugged. Virtually.

Randumbery Hearts NY

2012-01-10T10:19:00.002-05:00

I used to run this semi regular feature called "Randumbness" about, as you would guess, various random and dumb things going on. It was nice page filler. You thought you were getting actual carefully constructed content. Instead, you were getting fluff, filler, time wasters. I'm not saying this to foreshadow this post. I'm just saying the post title is Randumbery and if you can put 2 and 2 together....well, we'll both be pleasantly surprised at your cognitive skills.

How ‘bout we start the New Year off with another lame round of Randumbery?!

New Year’s Eve and Lazy Eyes

When you have kids, you find yourself doing things you’d otherwise never do. First among those is wiping someone else’s ass. Second among those is trying to convince a six year old that the bowl hair cut they just received – and Daddy got for $4.95! – looks GREAT! Even when the kids grow up a bit, as mine have, and the ass wiping and $4.95 bowl cuts are no longer possible, there are still compromises along life’s Road of Coolness you thought you’d be traveling.

All of this carefully worded pre-explanation is to try to justify why we spent New Year’s Eve in a bowling alley. But there we were on the evening of the 31st of December. Sure, we had accomplices: Another couple and their two kids also took the off ramp from Cool Highway into the Cherry ~~Hell~~Hill Lanes in Southeastern Michigan. The eight off us spent the evening wearing clown shoes, throwing polished rocks at bright white immobile penguins, and counting the lazy eyes amongst the other patrons. I’m convinced that the ratio of lazy eyes to normal eyes at a bowling alley is 1:3. I believe we stumbled upon the Midwest’s largest collection of bowling alley lazy eyes this side of Super Walmart. But it does pass the time speculating on the degree of the lazy….I think I saw a full fledged 90 degreer two lanes down!

Of course, this whole evening was made easier by bowling alley beer. They still serve Blatz on tap? Who knew? And, yes, I finally broke 100 by the third game. And, yes, I’m on antibiotics for my foot herpes.

Who Has Two Thumbs and Hearts the New York City Marathon?

This guy!

Who has two thumbs and sat at his computer on January 2nd at noon to be among the first people to register even though he’s supposed to have an automatic qualification?

This guy!

Who has two thumbs and is entirely too eager to fork over $250 to slowly kill myself across 5 Burroughs?

This guy!

Who has two thumbs and made room reservations two months ago in anticipation of his race?

This guy!

Who has one finger and an angry disposition vented frequently on this lightly read blog if, for some reason, he doesn’t gain entry?

NY, you don’t want to find out. Do the right thing.

41,667%

That’s the percentage of your daily vitamin B12 amount inside a single serving of a product called Zipfizz sent to me for a product review. 41,667%? Yeah, that seems about right, I guess. Anything less than 40,000% and I’m sluggish.

I haven’t had a chance to use and review it yet. That 41,667 number keeps bouncing around my brain. The Zipfizz folks claim that there’s no toxicity in taking that much B12. I confirmed that you can’t “overdose” on B12 through a few other medical websites so….I guess I’ll try it sometime.

With so much B12, after one serving, by my calculation, that means I won’t have to take more B12 for 416 days – or until about March 1st, 2013 if I took some today. So I’d have that going for me…which is nice. But by March of 2013, ho boy look out, I’ll be jonesing for some B12.

Stay tuned for a Zipfizz review. I’ll post one with or without my liver.

Running, Sans Pants

I’m not knocking the weather around here. It’s been a weird mid-winter Goreian 40 degrees here lately. No snow and sunny in spots for two weeks and for the coming few days. In January. In Michigan. I haven’t picked up my shovel since mid-December.

I’ve been running without pants!*

I’m not knocking the weather but I’m sure as shit knocking on wood.

Happy trails.

* No pants but shorts. It’s still too cold for my flippety flop to be left exposed. Ever hear of a “blue helmet”? No, and there’s a reason for that.

2012 Presents...

2011-12-29T11:05:00.005-05:00

Did we all survive Christmas? How many bottles did it take? For me, it was four…but I’m not going to tell you what size they were or what A.P.V. You’ll just have to guess. In fact, I’ll have to guess too. They don’t put that kind of information on ethanol jugs.

You can read my title line either way you wish: 2012 Presents, as in what Alfred Hitchcock used to do, or 2012 Presents, as in little sparkly wrapped treats I’ll be giving you in the next year. Again, I’m not going to decide for you. Ever try to write a blog post with a corn booze hangover? Decisions aren’t easily made.

But first, a look back: 2011 was a casual running year for me. I ran only two half marathons (or one full marathon depending on if you are a pessimist or an optimist). No 5ks. No 10ks. No relays. No jingle runs. No costume runs. No runs with friends where we mug for the camera and make an over excited WOOOO! sound that annoys everyone but the people involved with the photo. Nothing. Two wonely wittle waces. As formal events go, it’s my lightest year since the death of Kim Jung Il. If I was grading my race preparation and effort, they’d go like this:

Bayshore Half Marathon (May – 1:26:37): A-
Capital City River Run Half (September – 1:27:27): B+

Certainly decent scores. Those kinds of scores would get me in to the local community college and Michigan State University. However, not enough to get me into the state’s big enchilada, the University of Michigan. In other words, I definitely phoned a few interval runs in this year. I realized this when I started deciding how tired I was before I even started the first interval of a set. That is some serious half empty stuff right there. Or is it half phone? There I go mixing metaphors again. I mean to say, if a bear shits in the woods, it’s worth a bird in the hand.

ONWARD 2012!

Unless the Mayans are right, this should be a fantastic year! If they are correct, then it’ll at least still be very memorable. That’s called a win-win. I have a list of vows for the coming year. A statement of intents. As you would expect from this blog, there is a mix of running intents, non-running intents, surreal intents, disgusting intents, and very few purposes. We should all set goals in life. Goals are what we use to determine our level of failure and measure our disappointment in ourselves. They are very important.

Here are my 12 goals for 2012:

· Run the New York Marathon
· Eat at Chili’s less.
· Finally set a respectable 10k PR (i.e. run a second 10k!?!)
· Come to terms with fireworks: moderately fun or a colossal waste of time?
· Explore barefoot running (i.e. become a hippie). Immediately reject barefootism in favor of a hot shower.
· Fewer "arraignments".
· Use less profanity on this blog, around my kids, your kids, the neighbor kids, and the elderly. In addition, stop using profanity as a verb, as in I was motherfucked by that scowling mom because I called her hyper kid a ‘shit stain’. Also, celebrities are not verbs. I was not Sheened when I drank too much. I was not Tresseled by the cable company when they lied to me. I’ve never been Sanduskyed.
· Set another new half marathon PR. How ‘bout we get under 1:26 this coming year?
· Eat more carrots, less Tootsie Rolls.
· Use the word “veiny” less. I can see it’s really starting to turn people away from me.
· Decrease the amount of double entendres I use in daily conversation. I’ve thought about this long and hard.
· Run a relay (or two) with Mrs. Nitmos.

There you go, that’s my 12 for 12! Have you made your 12 for 12 list? Better get on that. Unless you provide the measuring tool, we’ll never be able to judge your failures in the coming year.

Now, back to that grain alcohol…

Have a Safe and Merry ~~Christmas~~ New Year.*

Happy New Year.

*Is “New Year” okay? I can’t remember what is offensive and what’s not these days…

A Minimalist Christmas

2011-12-23T10:47:00.004-05:00

I had this high concept post all set to put together. It was going to be a takeoff of A Christmas Carol (i.e. A Minimalist Christmas Carol) in which a non-minimalist like myself is taught the error of his ways. It was going to be SPECTACULAR. But it was also going to be EXHAUSTING. You can tell by the larger font – and Trebuchet script – that exhausting won out. No Christmas Carol. Not this year. I don’t get paid enough to overcome my exhaustion.

But let me tell you about what I learned while visiting Chicago over the last few days: Minimalism lives in our hearts and minds whether we know it or not. It’s simply that our definitions differ as to what constitutes “minimalism”. Your minimalism may be my cheapskatism; my Nitmos level hedonism – which I call minimalism - may be your maximalism. Who’s the judge?

This struck me as we were making our way up Ontario St. Tuesday afternoon for a day of decadent shopping on Chicago's ritzy Michigan Ave. A bum sat on the sidewalk wrapped in a holey blanket with tattered gloves extending a Styrofoam cup as if offering us free hot coffee. The bum, a housing minimalist, seemed quite content – even eerily detached – from the rest of the throngs of shoppers whose bags from Macys, American Girl and Bloomingdales bounced off his patchwork knees on their way to their suburban homes and stabilized 401ks.

Did the hobo seem upset that, as a homeowner minimalist, he was being attention minimalized by the masses? No, as I said, he was offering free coffee. Or, at least, I thought it was free coffee until I took a cup, raised it to my lips, and tasted the disgusting metallic tang of hobo fondled coins and the ghosts of vomits past. Looking in the cup at the bonanza of pennies and dimes, I realized he was also apparently a dollar bill minimalist (as well as a bath minimalist, fruits and vegetables minimalist, enunciation minimalist, front teeth minimalist, but, oddly, alcohol maximalist – until I flipped that upside down and realized he wasn’t an alcohol maximalist but a sobriety minimalist. See? There’s always a different angle at which to view the same thing to make it minimalist).

There were home minimalists all around the city but they never bothered anyone. In fact, after a while, it seemed that their shaking coins in the cup were playing a little song. I thought I detected O Christmas Tree amongst the rattle of nickels and sloshing vomit. I took their anguished faces as a perfected form of minimalist joy. Really, it is truly a matter of perspective.

I almost took pity – misplaced pity – while walking out of American Girl with my daughter’s ridiculously expensive doll, ice skating outfit and winter doll clothes. I reached back for my wallet – something I’d already done a dozen times that day at various stores around the city – and felt a muscle twang in my neck. The housing minimalist eagerly shook his cup harder as O Christmas Tree turned into a frantic Jingle Bells. But, damn that neck pain hurt, so I held up my hand and said “No, not today, I’m sore from paying for too much stuff already. Merry Christmas!” I couldn’t understand the mangle of words that came back at me but I’m pretty sure it was something to the order of, “Thank you anyway and you have an attractive family and your shoulders are very broad.” Yes, it’s true, in shoulders I’m a maximalist. Bums are perceptive, you must give them that!

We dropped money on Chicago like we are disciples of the Mayan calendar. Perhaps we’ll be housing minimalists by this time next year (when the world ends anyhow). I was going to get my colt some minimalist shoes (i.e. a box filled with air) but instead sprung $85 on a pair of new ones at Adidas. We could have gone all the way to $220 for a new pair but, keeping in the minimalist spirit, we opted for the cheaper pair. He got back to the hotel and decided he didn’t really like them after all so we ended up tossing them in the garbage as a hobo pressed his face and hands to the outside window glass and warbled something at us that sounded an awful lot like “I love my dishwasher box house.”

In the end, after two days of shopping, museuming, gorging, ice skating and spending as if money was something the city needed but something I could do without, we loaded up our boxes and bags to the roof of the trunk and started the three and a half hour drive home. I believe we learned something about minimalism those days. Something we can take with us as a life lesson. It’s not about the size of your home. It’s not whether your home is water soluble. It’s not whether your breath smells like a cross between onions and a week old diaper. It’s not whether you use toilet paper versus the side of your hand. And it’s certainly not about whether or not you can make two minimalists fight by waving a $20 bill under Wacker Dr.* It’s about being thankful for what you have. It’s about true minimalism…and the perspective from which you define it. I believe that fits nicely with the Christmas spirit.

The Nitmos family didn’t want to offend the sense of minimalism on display on the streets of Chicago. That would have been an affront to the lifestyle. And, though we spent an obscene amount of money on things that barely interest us, the truth is, we could have spent so much more. So, in a way, we are minimalists at heart as well. It’s truly a Christmas miracle!

When I strap on my $100 pair of Asics 2160 running shoes for my next run, I’ll know that I could have spent twice that amount on shoes with thicker soles and better ergonomic comfort. But I’ve adopted the spirit of minimalism thanks to the contented mortgage minimalists on Michigan Ave. Whether they want it or not, I’ll shiver for them as I nudge up the thermostat on those cold winter days. I don’t know what it is, I’m an ole softy this time of year.

As Tiny Tim (and, coincidentally, Hobo Jim) would say, “God bless us one and all!”

Jim did belch out “motherfuckers” at the end but that was the malt liquor talking. The sentiment was the same.

Have a Merry, Magical, and Minimalist Christmas and, by contrast, a Decadent and Maximalist New Years!!

Happy Holidays. (That's right, I said "holidays". I'm not sorry if this offends as I'm an empathy minimalist.)

* You can. I didn’t see who won. We grew bored and wandered off before they finished.

Jorge Santini, Mayor of Christmastown

2011-12-16T09:36:00.007-05:00

I’m sure you’ve already seen this beautiful and festive Christmas card – who hasn’t? – but it’s worth another look, if only to fill up another notch on my bed post, er, post list.Jorge Santini, Mayor of San Juan, Puerto Rico, would like to wish you a Merry Christmas through the unique medium of taxidermy, murder, and fear! I have to admit, when I think of Christmas, I often think of Rudolph, Santa, leopard’s murdering antelopes, and Frosty the Snowman so this fits right in with a typical card I’d give and receive during the holiday* season. To be fair (and those of you who receive a card from yours truly know this already), I also try to incorporate a midget dressed as an elf flipping the bird while standing on stool sodomizing a reindeer (wearing a Santa hat – I try to keep it light-hearted) above the caption “I Hope Christmas Rips You a New One!” or “Here’s To Hoping You’re the Elf of 2012!” Really, what’s a holiday card without bestiality and/or antelope consumption?

Those of you that are lucky enough to receive a card from me will have to wait to see what I put together for you this year. But I suggest you keep the kids out of the room when you open it. Gasps, shrieks, and puffed out cheek vomit suppression expressions are just the kind of things that tickle a youngsters imagination. Those of you who don’t get a card from me should take a good hard look in the mirror. I sent one to Casey Anthony…just sayin’.

Instead, you can enjoy the following photo. Last year, I selected a “race photo of the year” like I was going to make it some sort of tradition. Now, it just seems like work. Fortunately, I can really choose any old race photo and you’d never know as my physique, hair cut, clothing, and rugged masculinity barely change over time. (Compare this year’s race photo selection below with last year’s at the bottom of this post. Notice the wardrobe! Fashion!) So, here’s “this year’s” race photo of the year:

That’s me studding the eventual 3rd place overall female half marathoner. If you read that race report, you’d know that scowl comes from the rampant sexism I was targeted with on that course. And that was a HUGE lesson for me in 2011: Be the one making the sexist comments, not receiving them.

So, who does that leave? Most of the world receives a personalized Christmas card from me delivered by postal service to your front door. Those that don’t get to enjoy my 2011 Race Photo of the Year above adorned with a festive holiday** spirit (it's those type of finer photoshopped touches I know you crave from F.M.S.). If you don’t want that hacked up picture, find yourself in the first group. Your fault, not mine. After that, there really should only be a few of you left. If you don’t fall into one of the other two groups, that basically means I either (a) don’t like you or (b) loathe you or (c) know you are already on Jorge Santini’s Christmas card list. Tough stuff for you. You may then deal with the following Christmas card because I hate llamas:

Fuck those filthy animals. Sucks to be you.

Happy Holidays.***

*Sorry particular cable news station, “Christmas” season.
**Sorry…”Christmas spirit”.
***Sorry…”Happy Christmas”.
_________________________________

P.S. Sorry, kids, looks like Christmas may be cancelled this year. This just appeared on the blotter:

Runners: Don't Drink the Water

2011-12-14T11:39:00.004-05:00

There’s disturbing news out of Sin City that may radically change the way a runner approaches a race or, at least, a marathon. Health officials are digging through runners’ post –race poo to get to the bottom of things. I’m not shitting you. And they are not just finding full corn kernels, undigested peanuts, and granola. BEWARE: There was something in the water at the Las Vegas Marathon:

LAS VEGAS -- Health officials are testing stool samples from runners in the Rock `n' Roll Marathon in Las Vegas who say water passed out during the race made them sick.

Southern Nevada Health District officials are testing for stomach flu and other diseases, and expect results later this week. An online survey they've posted has already drawn responses from more than 800 participants.

The Dec. 4 event drew about 44,000 participants, who paid up to $179 to run a half or full marathon. Dozens of runners posted stories on Facebook about nausea, vomiting and severe stomach pain after the race.

Race organizers had filled plastic-lined garbage cans with hydrant water, which was used to fill cups offered to racers along the course – a standard practice, marathon officials say. Volunteers wearing plastic gloves dipped cups into the garbage cans before passing the water to runners.

While some runners complained that the water tasted odd or unclean, Las Vegas Valley Water District officials say the hydrant water was tested and found to be safe days before the race.

Runner Charlene Ragsdale, 50, said she became violently ill during the half marathon and was treated for hypothermia and dehydration at a hospital.

"We've got to find an answer to keep this from happening again," Ragsdale told the Review-Journal. "I think (the health district) realizes they're looking for a needle in a haystack."source

As you know, I’m not one to overreact but it seems pretty clear to me: Don’t drink water when racing unless you want to vomit and shit yourself. And you can’t trust the Gatorade either. It might have been made with the same fire hydrant water mixed with powder. My best advice going forward? Either carry your own or don’t drink anything. Most of us can go 3-4 hours without any water. I do it all the time when I sleep. Next time a volunteer, aka “poisoner”, tries to give you a cup full of refreshing bacteria-filled shit water, I suggest you hold up your hand and say “No thanks, I’d rather not shit myself today.” I don't care how thirsty you are. Think you have a bad cramp and need water? Think how that cramp will feel with diarrhea running down your leg.

At least until this water fiasco is figured out, this is official F.M.S. policy and best advice: DO NOT DRINK ANYTHING WHEN RUNNING A MARATHON. You’re welcome, runners. Also, please note that I cannot be held accountable for my actions, your actions, dehydration, death, or dismemberment. Also, though I am smarter than most doctors, I am not a "doctor", at least officially, as I don’t have a fancy “degree” or a rubber “mallet” or a prescription pad for “legal” drugs.

No offense to Charlene “Violently Ill” Ragsdale, who thinks the mystery source of the Las Vegas shit water will be like finding a “needle in a haystack”, but maybe she should have looked two paragraphs above. Garbage cans, plastic lined (i.e. garbage bags in garbage cans), fire hydrant water, volunteers dipping hands and cups repeatedly in garbage can, handing cups to sweaty runners, hands undoubtedly rubbing against sweaty runner hands, repeat dipping motion into community pool of water in garbage can, sweat transferring to garbage can water. That’s a pretty BIG needle in that small haystack. For one, the repeated appearance of “garbage” is a tip off.

But until health officials solve this difficult conundrum, let’s not drink anymore water. The race organizer’s claim this method of water delivery is "standard practice" but I think they are full of shit. And now we are full of shit.

Or puke or stomach pain, what have you. I miss the days when I just had to worry about calve cramps and heart attacks.

Happy trails.
_______________________________

Apparently, something similar happened at the California International Marathon as well. It's an epidemic!

Jiggle Belly

2011-12-08T10:54:00.003-05:00

Jiggle belly, jiggle belly, jiggle belly rock
Jiggle belly swing and jiggle belly sway
Bouncing and wiggling up farts of fun
Now the jiggle burp has begun

Jiggle belly, jiggle belly, jiggle belly rock
Jiggle belly bulges as jiggle belly gorges
Wobble and gobble at the local buffet
In a chilled parfait

What a hungry time, it’s always dinner time
To snack the night away

Jiggle belly time is a swell time
To go chowing a horse from a sleigh
Giddy-up jiggle horse, ingest all but your feet
Jiggle around the clock

Mix and a-mingle in the jiggling belly
That’s the jiggle belly,
That’s the jiggle belly,
That’s the jiggle belly rock!
I’ve been paying for my sins lately. My sin? Gluttony. And an uncommonly strong, masculine jaw line. But gluttony, that’s the main one. Starting in the middle of October, I kicked off a feeding frenzy that is only now just subsiding. We have no more food in the house. No Tootsie Rolls. No cheeses of any denomination. No beets. The curtains are missing chunks. My formerly quadrupedal dog is now a tripod. Great for positioning a self timing camera for our same-sweater-wearing Christmas photo but not so good for Frisbee catching. Ever eat a carburetor? Not without syrup. And where did the TV remote go?

I’ve hit most of my planned runs. Those that have been missed were wept over through salty Dorito tears. I even felt a little ashamed trying to catch the falling tears with my tongue. Gluttony, the most delicious of the Seven Deadly Sins…until it turns to LUST. That’s when you’ve got a problem. You know there’s a monkey on your back but you wonder how he’d taste lightly salted and deep fried. And then you wonder how that monkey would look in a little ensemble from Victoria’s Secret…while lightly salted and deep fried. Simians, so sexy -and low fat - with their progressively developed cerebral cortexes!

I knew I had put on a few pounds lately. One of the byproducts of being required to go to a doctor’s office every 8 weeks for a new supply of ridiculously expensive pharmaceuticals* is that I have a near constant update on my current weight and blood pressure. I’ve gained 6 pounds since the September half marathon. If pounds were like blog posts, that would be like 5 more funny ones than Ian has written this year. There’s some junk in my trunk. There’s some jiggle in my belly. I’m not ready to break out the elastic-banded wind pants – though, admittedly, I’m wearing them now – and flannel shirts but I have looked enviously at the motorized carts in my local grocery store. They may be primarily for the fatties and disabled but who says laziness isn’t a form of disability?

Really, it’s a sad state of affairs when my cholesterol is higher than my last two month’s mileage. Either I need to run more or eat less but neither seems appealing at the moment.

But press on I do. So it was no surprise at my track yesterday when I could physically feel my tiny little first trimester belly jiggling as I made my way around the track for some 800’s. It wiggled; I struggled. It wobbled; I stumbled. Sometime during the third interval I could feel that little fucking monkey biting me in the back of the neck. Ohhhh, the ~~fisting~~ beating he was going to receive!

After three meager intervals, I crossed the line, hit Stop on my Garmin and immediately, well, STOPPED. Usually, I slow up going into a turn, letting the heart rate ease gradually before coming to a complete stop. Not this time. Between the jiggle, the monkey, and the cold, biting wind that I had been gulping mouthfuls of over the last 8 laps, I needed to stop. Now. So I did. And then I came as close as I have all year to a nice puke. I heaved, my cheeks puffed out, and my neck convulsed but….I choked it back down. It didn’t come back up. It was like eating at McDonald’s. It’s mind over matter. But that matter almost splattered everywhere. Eight weeks worth of Halloween candy, cheap beer, pizza, and over indulgence nearly painted the track a vomitous brown.

Fuck that monkey. I need to get back in shape a bit. I hit the 800’s in my goal time but, damn, it shouldn’t have been that hard. And I shouldn’t have stood on the puke threshold to do it. The jiggle belly has got to go no matter how catchy of a tune it makes.

I ran home with a taste of vomit and peppermint candy canes in the back of my throat, grabbed some veggies for lunch, and manually switched on the TV. Then, I plopped down in a chair for some Yes, Dear reruns to console me. But the channels starting switching like crazy. So I got back up, returned Yes, Dear to my screen and flopped in the chair again. And the channels starting flipping. But only if I sat on my right ass cheek. I leaned left and Yes, Dear remained.

How many triglycerides in batteries?

Happy trails.

*Two grand a month to keep my joints from feasting on themselves. Plus, I get the fun of injecting myself. All the injections but none of the crystal meth! The least they could do would be to ring the medicine with a little meth, like salt on a margarita lip, to give it some kick. Damn, cut a fella a break. How 'bout a little taste?!?
_________________________________

Programming Note: I won’t be doing an elaborate Christmas themed series of posts like last year. If you’re disappointed, well, it’s a good lesson. You should get used to being disappointed here. It’s really the engine that drives this machine. Read December 2010 for old time sakes if you want a “theme”. Now, get outta here.

My Lonely Weider

2011-12-02T10:34:00.005-05:00

(Look, based on the title alone, you and I are both expecting a wave of double entendres in the text below. I’ve created this situation for myself and I’ll need to wallow in it. However, I’m going to defy the odds. I’ve gone through this post with a fine tooth lice comb and cleverly removed any that accidentally slipped in. I won't give in to cheap entendres. If you still see them, that’s your problem, man.)

Down here in my basement, I have this little secret trapped in a corner under a pile of basement rubble, lonely and scared. The last time I used it, my body got tight, erect, and veiny. Things bulged that normally don’t. I perspired. I grunted. In the end, I lost all respect for it by the time I headed upstairs. I haven’t used it in months.

I’m talking about my work out bench, sickos. (Everyone knows that a gimp goes in a trunk and not “under a pile of basement rubble”, sheesh.)

I have a Joe Weider work out bench in the corner of my basement. I may be the only person in America who still knows who Joe Weider is. He created the Mr. Olympia bodybuilding contest and, thus, unintentionally created the amateur Mr. Douchebag contest in gyms all across North America. We can also thank him for The Jersey Shore, I’m sure. I can’t say for sure but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s also responsible for baggy, multi-colored gym pants:

Ugly gym pants? Check. Tiger shirt? Check. Is that a fanny pack? Check. The trifecta! Congrats, dude.

Mrs. Nitmos bought me the Weider work out “system” nearly twenty years ago. In the early 90’s, it was fashionable to get all pumped up and veiny and wear these horrific multi-colored baggy pants. MOAR tiger stripes the better! Back then, Schwarzenegger was still a huge star. Stallone had already made Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot so his career was basically over but muscles were generally IN. Hilariously, I would pump some iron and then, in between reps, step outside for a Camel cigarette. Pathetic, really. I was one pair of tiger stripe gym pants away from being a complete douche. Thankfully, my needle stuck at ¾’s douche.

Until last spring, I’d still use it nearly every week though. You may have noticed lately that my blog posts have come in considerably less mass and definition. My fingers are looking downright anorexic lately. My knuckles are a bit paunchy. I’m hitting the QWERTY keys with less force and authority. Back in my weight lifting peak, the three most common questions I’d get were:

1) Dude, how did you get so ripped?
2) Is there a time when you don’t wear a tank top?
3) Why are you carrying a trident?

Over the years, I transitioned from weight lifting heavier things to lower weight but higher reps. This would also be the time I moved from playing basketball regularly to running. An extra ten pounds of muscle helps when taking elbows in the middle of the back from a 6’5” behemoth in the paint; it doesn’t do so well in a marathon. In fact, a few years back, I started moving from straight weight lifting to stretchy banding (memorialized here) and core strengthening. Combine that with the running and I certainly look scrawnier but feel much healthier. Oh, and I don’t smoke Camels anymore. That’s a good tip right there. Put that one in your back pocket.

My Weider sits over there in the corner all sad and lonely under a pile of marathon posters that I’ll probably never hang anywhere. (Why’d I even take them?) I’m quite content with the running, the stretchy bands and the endless core exercises on the living room floor while plowing through episodes of the TWO BEST SHOWS ON TV.* Things have changed a bit since the days of ugly gym pants. Now, the three most common questions I get are:

1) Can you pick my son up for the soccer game?
2) Where did you get those loafers? J.C. Penney?
3) Tell me again why you carry that trident?

With the cold, winter weather rolling in, I was thinking about whipping out my Weider and playing with it a bit. Why not get a little pumped, a little engorged, a little veiny? For purely nostalgic reasons, I may pump it until I’m drained but satisfied. In other words, this winter I may spend a lot more time playing with my Weider.

What?

Happy trails.

*Sons of Anarchy and Breaking Bad. If you ain’t watching them, you ain’t cool. You might as well buy yourself some tiger stripe gym pants and watch Jersey Shore.

Devil in the White Dress

2011-11-30T10:42:00.007-05:00

That giant depressed sigh you heard last evening came from the Midwest. Not any one place in particular…just kind of everywhere. Collectively, we all looked out the window at the innocent-looking, fluttering flakes accumulating in inches and heaved a gentle, defeated sigh. Last night, the Devil returned to mid-Michigan wearing his (her?) white dress.*

You would think that, having lived my entire life in this region, I’d dourly accept this fate. The Devil always sweeps in this time of year with a train of cold, wet ice and snow leaving a wake of downed power lines, ditched cars, and frustrated runners. Traditionally, white is the color of angels. Not in my book. It’s White Death, White Hate, and White Menace. White is the color your body parts turn when blood – liquid life - is removed. White is the face of a vampire. White is my face when threatened with watching another vampire Twilight movie.** What color do things turn when they die? Do they whither and turn red or black? No, they turn white. White is the color of death and it’s all over my running trails.

Perhaps I’m being over dramatic *** but I’m pretty sure this region is basically uninhabitable. On November 29th we received the first snow fall of the winter. There’s a decent chance that the last snow fall will occur on April 29th….FIVE MONTHS LATER. Of course, you’ll always get the contrarians among us who will loudly proclaim how Michigan enjoys ALL FOUR SEASONS – isn’t it great! – we have it so good here. The problem, of course, is that winter lasts 5 months, a typically cold spring another 2 months, summer just 2 months, and then right into fall for 3 months. Notice how many warm months are in there? We have all four seasons for sure but they sure aren’t equal partners.

Maybe I’m just being pissy as well as over dramatic. A new marathon was announced recently for its inaugural run next year. I was excited. There is currently no marathon in the local vicinity. I could sleep in my own warm little bed, eat my own little porridge out of my own little bowl, take my pre-race nervous crap in my own little crapper, and come home to my own little refrigerator for my own little post-race beer.

But then I found out the race is on April 22nd. Seriously?? That means the 20+ mile training runs need to be completed in February and March. In Michigan. Most likely, in several inches of snow and ice. What dented head set this up? No, thanks. I’ll continue driving elsewhere and sleep in a cold, unfamiliar bed, eat a stranger’s porridge (t.w.s.s.), crap into an unfriendly porcelain bowl. My excitement was quickly smothered. The devil was in the details.

On this blog, you never hear me complain about the heat. Not even when its 100 degrees and I’m doing 16 miles. But you sure as hell are going to hear me complain about the snow. For five months. Brace yourself. I spy 23 more f-bombs to describe the snow and cold ahead!

It is no good casting out devils. They belong to us, we must accept them and be at peace with them.
D. H. Lawrence

The dance with the devil has just begun. I'll submit because I need my miles so I’ll do the Two-Step; I’ll do the Fox Trot; I may even do some Dirty Dancing (because the Devil never puts me in the corner). Heck, I maaay even let him get away with a reach around – idle appendages are the devil’s playthings after all - but that’s as far as I’ll go.

Unless winter lasts longer than 5 months. A fella can only hold out for so long. Tee-hee.

Happy shoveling.

*Not making a slur here…just saying he dresses somewhat FAHBULOUS (snap snap) to not at least ask the question.
**For the record, I did see the first two Twilights as rentals. I have kids, don’t judge. But it does allow me to know that of which I speak. Those movies are horrible. Seriously, horrible. And I’ve watched a lot of dreck in my life. Those two Twilight movies rank right down there with the dreckiest of dreck right along with the Alvin and the Chipmunk movies (I have kids, don’t judge, again.)
***Hard to believe right? You’ll need to excuse the devlish imagery. I’m smack in the middle of The Master and the Margarita and the scene where Margarita, doused in blood, is drawn into Satan’s Ball. After you’ve enjoyed the descriptions of Woland and his retinue, you’ll never see the devil any other way…if you go about seeing the devil, that is.

Tips for a Pleasant Thanksgiving

2011-11-23T11:01:00.005-05:00

First, remember to cut left to right in one continuous motion with a sharp blade….

Proper drainage is important. Your family will appreciate the difference! If you don’t home slaughter, ask your local butcher or grocer for graphic details on how the turkey draining is handled.

Other tips:

· A turkey’s esophagus can be turned into a wonderful coke snorting straw to help you get through the family gathering. (Bonus tip: Eyeballs serve as corks for either end for easy transporting! And since its all natural, it won’t show on an airport rectum scanner.) I’m like the Martha Stewart of turning animal parts into handy drug paraphernalia crafts!

· As you know, there is a War on Thanksgiving.* Please confront anyone that says “Happy T-Day” or “Happy Turkey Day” with the proper “No, Happy THANKSGIVING!” with extra emphasis on the THANKS part. Also, be needlessly indignant and condescending as if their greeting was intended to be some sort of political message. You can’t take the THANKS out of Thanksgiving after all. It’s the reason for the season!

· Since the first Thanksgiving actually occurred in 1621 –well before the formation of the United States – this should actually be considered a British holiday. So feel free to get ridiculously drunk and repeatedly proclaim that you ain’t gonna celebrate no holiday for the Monarchy. While you’re doing it, you could toss in a horrible British accent and sprinkle in “old chap” into your diatribe.

· Make sure to run. A lot. It’s a great reason to get out of the house and away from the “beloved” relatives. Heck, even if you don’t feel like running, you could at least tell people you are going to do five miles, put on your running clothes, and then sit out in the woods behind the house with either a pack of cigarettes or the turkey esophagus for 45 minutes.

· Remember that, no matter how miserable you are, you still aren’t nearly as miserable as every character in a Twilight movie. Oh, and don’t go see a Twilight movie. They are horrible.

· Thanksgiving only lasts one day (or 2-3 days if the relatives insist on staying). You can survive it. And then you have at least three weeks to recharge before Xmas. You’ve run trail runs, half marathons, full marathons and/or ultra marathons. You can do this too! Thanksgiving is an endurance sport too.

· Drink terrible beer like Schiltz or Stroh’s or Pabst. You don’t want this awful family gathering to ruin your favorite beer. Think cognitive association here. Grueling holiday + favorite beer may associate your beer to something bad. No good. Go all in on the misery…drink Schlitz.

I hope you all have a Happy THANKSgiving! Also, Happy Holidays. Yeah, that’s right I said HOLIDAYS instead of Christmas. That means I’m making a political statement. I’m wishing you a Happy Holiday rather than a Merry Christmas, want to fight about it?**

Here's to hoping you don't want to cut your own neck, like the turkey above, by the time this is through! Game on.

Happy T-Day.

*Seriously, I watch cable news and they tell me this all the time so it must be true.
**Isn’t the derivative meaning of “holiday”, “holy day”? Am I missing something? I’m too exhausted to care.

How to Increase Blog Traffic Without Even Trying!

2011-11-22T10:38:00.004-05:00

Many of you may be wondering how, after five years of blogging, I’ve built such a pathetically meager audience. Obviously, I’m filthy-mouthed, sarcastic, have an unusual preoccupation with llamas, and insult you all on a regular basis. If I haven’t offended you yet, stick around, it’s coming.

Wait, what am I trying to communicate here? How to drive the rest of you leeches away? No, this about how you maintain a core audience of degenerates while never, ever expanding. If you would like to have similar crews of sycophantic reader monkeys – such as yourself - as your audience, follow these, er, following steps:

1) Insult people in their own blog comments.

If you aren’t making enemies, you aren’t trying. Call someone a sycophantic monkey in their own blog comments. If they come by and insult you back, game on! And then let the blog hits follow. People love a good sissy name-calling fight. Donald Trump tries to do it all the time with Rosie O’Donnell and look how popular they are. I may have even done it once or twice myself.

2) Pretend to Know Things

Many of you already employ the ‘here’s more running advice’ technique. Hell, I do it myself all the time. It’s great because (a) it makes you seem smart (b) it makes you seem compassionate to share this valuable information (c) you aren’t a professional so no one can call you on it and (d) provides cover for the real purpose of your blog: to insult people and hurt peoples’ feelings. Reader monkeys will keep coming back if they think what you’re saying sounds intelligent. Try deploying a few “listen to your body” references - love those! -when discussing a training technique. No one knows what that means but it sure sounds like solid, unassailable, No Shit Sherlockian advice. Give me more of that!

3) Take a Contrarian Position

When the whole brouhaha over the BAA changing the Boston Marathon qualification standards occurred last Spring, every bloghole with a blog decided to give their opinion that, basically, they didn’t like it. No shit, Sherlock. Some tried to sound all understanding and created thousands of words that ultimately could have been said with a shoulder shrug and a “well, that’s what they want to do sooooo…whaddya going to do?” I even took Boston to task by basically saying eff you and your race.*

I like to take the opposite approach. Want to get a running coach? You’re an idiot. When have you ever seen softball guy with a softball coach? C’mon, get off your high horse, amateur. See? That right there pissed off four dozen of my reader monkeys. They are deciding right now whether to leave a comment or quietly fume and click elsewhere, to a safer spot, so that they can be reminded to wear bright clothing when running in the dark. Either way, they’ll come back to laugh, cry, fume, or click away in an angry huff. No matter the emotion, it all counts as one hit. Notice how often I like to stoke this fire? Remember: Use your blog for Good (i.e. to anger people).

4) Porn.

Dirty porn (obvs.) The more ponies, the better (obvs).

5) Tie Your Blog to Already Popular Movies, Images, or Skeevy Searches

You want to know the most popular reason folks come here, besides pure animal attraction, on days when I don’t have a new post? That would be this post. There are apparently a ton of folks trying to find this image on Google and I, apparently, am near the top of that search list (search for ‘Shitter is full’ and good ole F.M.S. is near the top of the results!) In fact, I have a few images that I’ve “borrowed” that create traffic all by themselves. They are

1 Shitter is Full
2 Inbreds
3 Hello Kitty nipples

The Eastern Europeans (and one particular household in Happy Valley, PA!) seem to really love their "Hello Kitty nipple" searches. I don’t want to know what that’s all about but, it got so bad, that I actually went back and removed the words and images from the original post just to prevent Interpol from knocking on my door one day. See? Of course, now that I’ve relinked the words “Hello Kitty “ and “nipples” (as well as “dirty porn”) to my site, I can safely say WELCOME BACK, EASTERN EUROPEANS!

But maybe, for some reason, you don’t wanna be like me. Maybe you like llamas, you want to dispense fairly obvious advice in an innocuous setting, and you have something against image stealing and dirty porn. Whatev….you do what’s best for you and your blog, reader monkeys, because, at the very least, you should always listen to your body.

Follow these 5 steps and I have no doubt that your blog will also barely register as existing on the internet! However, you may trap a few unfortunate folks in your net. Look, just by the title alone, I’ll no doubt bring a few people here thinking they are actually going to get good advice about How to Increase Blog Traffic. Instead, they got references to pony sex so maybe they should have just LISTENED TO THEIR BODIES and not come here at all.

Suckers.

Happy saddling...and LISTEN TO YOUR BODY.

*But since I totally want to run Boston again, I didn’t mean any of that. Hugs and kisses. Did I ever mention that your new qualifying standards go great with your eyes?

Randumbery Reads the Fine Print

2011-11-18T09:43:00.005-05:00

Because the 2012 race qualifying period is already open, this new policy will take effect beginning with the 2013 race.

You know what that means right? NYQ! NYQ! NYQ! In other words, I don’t have to put my name into a lottery like some unwashed commoner. Nitmos deserves his special treatment and it appears that New York also desires to massage his shoulders and give him a manny/peddy!

Now, I need to be quick on the draw once the registration opens – usually not a problem for me. Have you booked your room yet? I have…just in case. I want to be as close as possible to those high class New York hookers.*

Speak of the Devil

Dick Beardsley was in my nape of the woods…neck of the wape…he was here the other day. The guy keeps coming by my local running store…which is only about 2 miles from my house. Yeah, he’s a bit of a creeper. Probably drives a panel van.

Actually, I saw him speak two years ago – you can find that little write-up here – and he was a fascinating speaker. If he’s in your area, don’t be afraid to go and give him a listen. Very entertaining. If you were ever wary of threshers before, you’ll be downright scairt after.

I couldn’t go this time, restraining orders being what they are and all. Besides, at this point, there’s really nothing more left to say. It’s long past time for Duel in the Sun II: Tears of Beardsley**.

Health Scare

It’s time to sign up for health insurance again through my company! This is annually one of my favorite times of the year. It’s always clever how those wacky insurance carriers find new and incredibly deceptive ways to hide their decreased coverage and increased costs. It’s like a little demented game…find the new loophole that’ll screw you if you’re not careful!

I’m not Viperian frugal but I like to save a buck as much as the next Viper. Thus I try to find that perfect balance between decent coverage and cheapest out of pocket costs. What results, typically, is partial coverage. Case in point: Mrs. Nitmos wears glasses (or contacts). She’s a candidate for Lasik. But my carrier will only cover half the costs of Lasik. Well, I’m not a rich heartless banker, like Ian, so I can only pay so much. We compromised: She had one eye Lasiked but not the other. There is no need for glasses in one eye now – and I’m not going to pay for something unneeded – so now she wears a monocle. You’d be surprised how cheap you can buy a monocle. A lot of time, it comes with a free Charlie McCarthy doll.

Compromise! It’s what the Nitmos family does…

And that’s Randumbery for today, folks. Hey, here’s a completely unnecessary photo of my colt schooling some poor bow-legged kid. Left defender, away!Happy trails.

*The kind with less herpes.
**I’m still writing it but waiting for the obvious conclusion to unfold. I’ve already gotten some interest from a publishing house. When I sent off my draft, one house replied, “This is the least interesting sequel in the history of sequels. We’d be more interested in a book about a snake slowly ingesting a panda for 300 pages. Might have broader appeal”, which, I think, is pretty promising because who wouldn’t read a snake/panda book?

Shadin' Away Again in Margaritaville

2011-11-17T09:28:00.004-05:00

Be sure to drink your Ovaltine! Yep, you’re reading the first line of another commercial.

Well, not so much a “commercial” as a “product review”. And not so much “Ovaltine” as “Jimmy Buffett sunglasses”. Seriously, I have no idea how this ended up in my Inbox. I was offered a free pair of shades from an obvious Jimmy Buffett affiliated sunglass company called Margaritaville. They must have caught wind that I like to drink lots of rum, swing in hammocks, wear flowered beachwear, waste away again (and again and again)* and hate to squint. Since they gave me my selection of eyewear, the least I could do is offer an unbiased product review right?

This was an interesting product to receive free in exchange for a review. First, it only vaguely has anything at all to do with running. There are sunglasses made and marketed specifically for athletes. These are not those. There are blogs devoted to Jimmy Buffett, island life, or general interest in cheeseburgers and/or paradise. This is not that. To my knowledge, I’ve never mentioned Buffett or created much discussion of sunglasses in any way. Yet, there it was…an email offering a free pair of $150+ sunglasses. Why? I don’t know but I know better than to - what’s the old saying? - look a gift Jimmy Buffett in the mouth.

Sunglasses and I generally don’t get along. We are a bad mix…like Jerry Sandusky and tickle fights.** My face, while initially sculpted by angels but finished rough-sawn by the Carpenter, is a tough match for most sunglasses. They are generally too wide, too round, too douchebaggy for my smallish, angular skull. In fact, one of my hobbies is trying on sunglasses at nearly every store we enter that sells them. Somewhere, the perfect match exists…if only I could find it! I usually leave as disappointed as Mrs. Nitmos after our own tickle fight. I knew right off that ordering online was going to be tricky. I selected the Cayman model as it looked to be one of the smaller lenses but had the highest potential to make me look like Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino. (I don’t care what Abercrombie and Fitch says about me either, Mike. Word.)

That’s the Cayman model I received above. You won’t find a picture of me wearing them. As usual, they are too big for my face. I look less like The Situation and more like Ponch from CHiPS. They came in a nice little dry textured case (which makes me lick my fingers every time I touch it). They are as light as Erik Estrada’s coiffed, feathery look. I could see where they would be very runnable if you wanted to do that. You can barely feel them on your face. Like The Situation himself, there’s almost nothing to them.

They wear well. They shade well. They smell, well, like nothing in particular but that’s hardly important. What’s important is that Jimmy Buffett can wear them, The Situation can wear them, Erik Estrada can wear them. Hell, even YOU can wear them and pull it off. Me? Not so much.

The sunglasses are obviously a quality product. I’m sure you can find something at Margaritaville that’ll work for you. At the very least, I found something myself…a newly ignited desire for another ChiPS reunion. (Duh Duh Da-Dat Daaaahhh.) But, seriously, light, high quality, a little palm tree outline on the frame…

But now I’m just repeating things like a trained parrot.

Happy shading.

*And again and again and again.
**too soon?

American Wins NYC Marathon!

2011-11-11T10:20:00.002-05:00

…if finishing 6th counts as “winning” (duh). But what was I suppose to announce: A Kenyan Wins A Marathon? Yeah, right, I guess I could bury that headline right below Sky is Blue, Tootsie Rolls Are Delicious Little Gobs of Fecally-Reminiscent Goodness, and Guy Fieri Annoys Mankind. That’s not “news”. “News” is something, you know, new. But with all of the sensationally awful news coming from Penn State these days, it’s hard to get an eye-grabbing headline out there.*

Meb Keflezighi finished 6th in New York last Sunday with a time of 2:09:13. That’s pretty good. Not Dick Beardsley good. He ran a 2:08:53 at 1982 Boston (aka “Duel in the Sun”) however, as I’ve established, he’s a Gu shooting Runzilla that patrols Heartbreak Hill shredding runners’ calf muscles. As far as I know, Meb does not have a Godzilla lower body nor shoot lasers and Gu from his eye sockets so, considering his disadvantages, that’s a pretty solid effort.

What will it take for an American – heck, a Canadian (don’t snicker) or a European – to win a marathon major? Do we need a Rob Sloan kind of effort?

Maybe New York is just waiting for…ME.** A natural born American hasn’t won New York since 1979 (Bill Rodgers). Meb (2009) and Alberto Salazar (3 times) won it since but, like Obama***, they were born elsewhere and later became Americans. I was born in Michigan. I have all of my teeth, never played Spin the Bottle with an unattractive relative, and, during two winters of my youth, spent an inordinate amount of time on a snowmobile. I’m as American as excessive flag waving and an inflated sense of entitlement. So, why not me? I feel like I’m entitled. U-S-A, U-S-A!

One little problem. You see, after the whole Boston dust-up this year where they reworked the entrance requirements (i.e. tightened the standards forcing all of us to work harder), I figured it was the first domino that would eventually sweep through all of the major marathons. Every large, popular race would re-evaluate their registration process/entrance requirements. New York, known for its exhaustive lottery system, also has a backdoor entrance. Well, I’m a backdoor kind of guy.****For 2011, a man of my age could automatically qualify and avoid the lottery by running a half marathon in less than 1:30. Really, just 1:30? Really. So, bingo, I knocked off a couple of 1:26-7ish’s this year preparing for the 2012 registration. Based on 2011 standards, I was NYQ’ed!

You can see where this is going right?

That’s right, sons of bitches changed the standard for 2012. I knew it was probably coming but hoping they wouldn’t adjust for one more year. Or, at least, it’d only drop to 1:27. To auto-qualify for 2012, now I’d have to run below 1:23 in a half marathon. 1:23? Am I a fucking ROBOT? Who does that? Do they not realize how many Tootsie Rolls I’ve been eating? Jesus H. Beardsley on a popsicle stick…that’s quite a requirement change.

They’ve also renovated the traditional lottery system so, if you were interested, you better check the new requirements. All of these changes seem designed to specifically keep me away from their marathon. Clever...a more subtle version of a restraining order. I guess they’re not interested in a natural born American winner. And, make no mistake, I was coming to win.

Well, I still want to run NY just to put another notch on my Asics so…I could chance it in the lottery or roll up my sleeves and make my dreams a reality through my sweat, determination, and solid Midwestern work ethic.

In other words, lottery, here I come!

Happy trails.

*Could I suggest another though? How ‘bout “Man Continues Abusing Children For Years After All Notified Adults Have Met Their Legally Obligated, Contractual Reporting Requirements So, You Know, Not Their Fault”.
**See how I casually pivoted the conversation back to me? Don’t like it? Screw you, it’s my blog and narcissism reigns around here.
***Take it easy, just throwing the Tea Partiers a bone.
****You know what I mean.

Tootsie Roll Challenge

2011-11-09T10:33:00.003-05:00

I believe I professed my love for Tootsie Rolls a few weeks back buried deep within this post concerning my love for …spite (and anus waxing). If I need remind you, I believe Tootsie Rolls are little gobs of fecally-reminiscent goodness wrapped in a fun little pull and twist package! But, to be clear, the order of things I love from that post should go:

1. Tootsie Rolls
2. Spite
3. Anus waxing

Folks often get #1 and #3 mixed up and I advise you not to do so. The pull and twist open meets with substantially different results. Trust me…you do a 1-3 year stretch for orphanage arson and tell me they’re the same.

I was going to present a lengthy sonnet in Shakespearean iambic pentameter to really describe my fascination with the rolled Tootsie but said fuck it so all you get is a lousy haiku. Suck it, sonnets!

Tootsie Rolls are sweet
I Am Not Above Murder
To Obtain This Treat

With Halloween behind us, the Tootsie Roll supply is at its yearly high right now in the Nitmos home. We had pre-Halloween candy sales, Halloween, and then post-Halloween candy sales. I shook the kids down the moment they walked in the door Halloween night and confiscated their Rolls. There’s so much of this stuff coming into the house lately and disappearing that I’m like the John Wayne Gacy of Tootsie Rolls. I don’t even have to wear the clown make-up while eating them. I mean, I don’t have to…I just do that for fun.

But this is the danger season for those of us who like to watch my figure. Pre-Halloween, Halloween, post-Halloween, Thanksgiving, post-Thanksgiving leftovers, Hanukkah, Christmas parties, Christmas, Kwanzaa, excessive drinking to get through the holidays, New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day football, there are some serious weight-bearing days ahead. Tootsie Rolls are just the start. My six pack abs turn to a half barrel kegger by mid-December. I no longer have to ask if that was a fart or a shart. Come December, it was a shart, definitely. If I get through a December day with anything less than three pair of underwear, it’s a win. The wallet in my back pocket is replaced with a travel size case of wet wipes. You get the point. I shart. A lot.

So, as a time chasing runner, how do I combat this? Years ago, I used to basically take December and January off. I’d run sporadically but a week or more may go by before I’d brush the crumbs off my chest and find my running shoes (usually being used as a beer cozy somewhere). Then I’d burp my way through three miles – miles that were previously quite easy – and then settle back in for more sloth and gluttony. This became too hard to keep bouncing back from each spring if I wanted to set new PR’s so there is no more taking December and January off. The gluttony still takes place – oh, I gluttony the hell out of December, believe me – but I put the slothfulness away.

With my Tootsie Roll consumption at an all time high this year, I decided I needed some additional motivation to keep this confection from clinging to my belly and slowing the legs. Turned sideways, they may look like little ab muscles on the outside but, believe me, they don’t take up residence in the gut that way. I’m still going to eat a truck load of them. So just how many miles do I need to run to keep things in check?

I figure one track lap interval = one Tootsie Roll. Or, you may consume four Tootsie Rolls to each mile (4:1 gluttony ratio). My Sunday long run will net me at least 40 Tootsie Rolls as a reward.

I challenge you to find your own successful Gluttony level. Snack size Snickers, Baby Ruth, and Butterfingers may have a slightly different consumption:miles ratio. You’ll need to figure this out by yourself. I suggest you eat lots of them but also keep running. The point at which you look in the mirror and don’t exhale in disgust saying Damn, I’m getting fat is probably the correct ratio. Eat up! Run on! Post your results! We can create the world’s largest candy consumption to miles gluttony ratio science experiment.

I’m planning a meager 4x800 (2:45 pace) at the track today. With cool down laps, that’s 11 total laps. If I don’t consume during the cool down, I figure I can unwrap and double fist 8 Tootsie Rolls between my fingers while I run. That’s one for each lap of the track, two for each interval. They'll be poking out of my knuckles like a set of Willy Wonka brass knuckles. By the time my intervals are complete, my fists will be empty. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Remember, there is no reason to deny yourself delicious snacks. Where there is a will, there is a way. Whether it be candy or beer or orphanage arson, there’s a mileage equivalent that can balance against your running. You just need to ~~burn~~ find it.

Happy trails.

Hood To Coast: Two Minute Movie Review

2011-10-31T11:50:00.003-04:00

Before I get my Ebert on, I’d like to remind everyone that I refuse to deploy the cliché “fine folks” to describe the company, person, or mysterious emailer that gives me free stuff to try out and review. Sure, the people that give me things are quite often “folks” and I’m also sure they are probably “fine”. But I try to avoid blog clichés so you’ll never see “fine folks” together in a single review sentence (outside of this tortured explanation, of course.) I even wrote about my feelings on this extremely important matter previously. Take a trip down memory lane. Now, on with the show…

I received a copy of HOOD TO COAST last week in an unmarked, standard issue post office padded envelope. Naturally, I assumed it was more of my regularly scheduled shipments of pornography. Instead, it was an actual movie: one I call a “Curtains Open” feature!

If you don’t know, Hood to Coast is a 197 mile relay journey from Mt. Hood to the Oregon coast. It’s billed as the world’s largest relay race with around 1,000 teams and 12,000 runners being stalked by 2,000 transport vans. Most of us have run some form of relay so you know what they are all about: camaraderie, sweaty people rubbing shoulders in vans, crazy costumes, and far too much discussion about each others’ pooping habits. Also, lots of high fives, “woo hoo’s”, and side split running shorts revealing pasty white thighs.

This movie has all of that. This movie also has mothereffin’ llamas. No kidding. When you watch, take note at around the 52 minute mark as a relayer passes a group of those filthy, unpleasant devil-beasts. Funny how they always turn up around races and runners isn’t it? Filthy llamas.

Here’s where I go full fledge Ebert on you: I liked the movie. As you know, F.M.S. uses a non-standard 666 Llama Scale for movie/book reviews. I’d score this a nice high 590 llamas out of 666.

What it did right: Let’s face it, races courses are just a collection of roads, concrete, signs, and distances. Sure, some race courses have more intrinsic character than other courses but, ultimately, they are still just inanimate objects. Based on the title, I was a bit skeptical that I would be in for a bit of over dramatizing of the daunting course itself. What really gives a race its life are the people who run it. The energy, the fun, the excitement come from the people lacing up the shoes and bounding over that concrete and distance. Each has a story. Each are motivated for a different reason. The directors wisely chose to focus their attention on four distinct groups of relayers and their reason to be at this event on this day race than the course itself.

The movie follows each of these groups as they discuss their motivation, their preparation, the race, and the finish. One group is running in memory of a recently deceased father-to-be. One group – a bit obnoxious in my opinion – is an aging group of men dealing with their declining running abilities. Try not to roll your eyes too hard as they squirt down every female runner that passes them with a water gun while forcing them to run through a “power arch”. I sprained an eyeball. Another group features an older woman who had collapsed and needed to be revived at the same event the previous year. And, finally, a group of computer animators/ artists with little to no experience running take up the challenge of the course.

By focusing attention on the specific groups, the course itself becomes a constantly looming background feature to the characters. As with any good documentary, you become involved with these peoples’ lives for a few moments. You cheer them on (or, for the “Dead Jocks”, you passively root for a flat tire.)

What the movie could have done better: I love comparing us “regular” runners to the elites (i.e. their training, their approach, their mental confidence). I don’t think it diminishes what the rest of us do to prepare for a race. I don’t think it minimizes our accomplishments. In fact, sharing the course with the elites is often a thrill and one of the unique features of running. The Bowerman Elite relay team, the favorites, made a brief cameo in the film but I would have loved to see more of them. It would have been fascinating to see the approach the different groups take – and how they handle the rugged challenge – to go from Hood to Coast. Even though the movie is not about “times” and winners and losers, it is about people. And the elite runners are a differently wired people than the rest of us. That contrast could have been more fully explored.

Though she probably wouldn’t admit it, even Mrs. Nitmos seemed at least casually interested in HOOD TO COAST. At least, she didn’t run screaming from the room like she does when I review my weekly mileage splits with her. Runners will enjoy it. Non-runners should at least be interested in the story of the four groups tracked long enough to hold them to the finish. Check it out!

In addition, the flick left me motivated to buy, and retrofit, a rape van into a super awesome relay bus and start heading West. One more relay group; one less rape van! By my math, that’s mighty fine, folks.

Shit.

Happy trails.

If You Are Dressing Up For Halloween...

2011-10-28T11:11:00.012-04:00

...remember, not all costumes are for you. Choose wisely in this day of cell phone cameras and internet exposure.

Holy VHS tapes, Venom! Careful...his Spidey Sense...of Diabetes is tingling.

Either The Smurfs or the Blue Man Group fired their make-up artist. Shame.

Awww, cute kid...with the worst parents ever. I guess it's better than dressing her like a stripper. In a few years you can file for emancipation.

Okay, kind of a funny costume actually. But she could really use a Brazillian. And a floss.

Dude, at least scrub off the liposuction pre-surgery lines before becoming The Flash.

Nice furniture. Where's the lava lamp?

What will I be wearing? To be honest, I'm pictured in the photos above but I'll never tell which one. Okay, okay, I'll give you some hints: (1) I'm a bit bashful and (2) I like rainbows.

What will I actually be wearing this Halloween? Nothing, I'm an adult. Halloween is for children. However, if I were to wear a costume, I'd prefer it to be something like zipperhead here:

Happy Halloween!

Patience and Persistence

2011-10-27T14:47:00.002-04:00

Wherein I dispense my single greatest running advice.

Most of you know that I look with sideways glance, pursed lips and skeptically cocked right eyebrow* at amateur running coaches with their neat looking online coaching certificates. I’m not going to go in to All The Ways that I think coaching should best be left to professionals. And those seeking coaches should also probably best be left to professionals (or overachieving amateurs.) You’ve read it here several times already. It’s one of my Go To targets when I need something fun to ridicule because I have no doubt that it ruffles some feathers as, ultimately, all running bloggers become coaches.** Besides lame metaphors, llama hatred, and mildly amusing sarcasm, feather ruffling is what this blog is all about after all. Suffice to say, I think amateur runners should be encouraged to explore, investigate, and experiment on their own to learn their abilities – what works for them – and discover their path to success without an amateur coach stealing their journey.

***"The road of life twists and turns and no two directions are ever the same. Yet our lessons come from the journey, not the destination.” Don Williams, Jr. (American Novelist and Poet, b.1968)

*** “Focus on the journey, not the destination. Joy is found not in finishing an activity but in doing it.” Greg Anderson (American best-selling Author and founder of the American Wellness Project., b.1964)

So, far be it for me to offer up unbelievably sage running advice right? Wrong. I’ll need four Philadelphias to tell you why. My hypocrisy knows no bounds. I talk out of both sides of my mouth so much that I can harmonize these conflicting thoughts like a grade A Philadelphia street corner a cappella group. But bear with me as I think you’ll also see I’m not robbing you of your journey like some sort of Philadelphia street corner mugger. Nor am I overloading you with unwanted running advice like so much cheese on a Philly cheesesteak sandwich. Philadelphia! Four! (Wish you would have written that paragraph, amirite?)

If you are in it for the short term, a quick one off marathon and done, hire your running coach. If you have money to burn, hire your running coach. If you are so incredibly lazy that you can’t spend ten minutes of your time doing a few quick Google internet searches, hire your running coach. If you can’t motivate yourself to set down your remote and lace up the shoes, hire a running coach. If any of that applies to you and you still really feel you need a coach, give me twenty minutes and I’ll put together an impressive, official looking Coach certificate. I charge $75 an hour. Email me. When your marathon is over, you can have the certificate and now you’re a coach too. (I’ll write my name on it in pencil for ease of transfer.)

But here’s my running advice for you budding long term runners, presented in total alliterative form: Patience pand Persistence. Here it is again in much clearer partial alliteration: Patience and Persistence. That’s it. You’re welcome. That’ll be $75.

Oh, but what does that mean?

You want it in alliteration or regular? Let’s go regular. ‘P’ jokes are only funny for so long. If running is part of your lifestyle – if you do it regularly and intend to continue for the foreseeable future – you’ve already developed your Persistence. It’s a habit. Like a good postman, you do it in rain, snow, heat or gloom of night. Whether you recognize it or not, you’ve probably already adjusted your training based on your training and/or race performances. You’ve done more speed work. You’ve added hills. You started wearing magnetic bracelets and offered a pet as a sacrifice to Dick Beardsley. Internet? Oh, yeah, you’ve been to Hal Higdon, McMillan Running, Complete Running. You have a subscription to Runner’s World. You read blogs. For some reason, you’re even reading this blog. In short, you know where to find the information you need. It’s all out there. Running coaches don’t have some secret stash of knowledge. This isn't the DaVinci Code. There's nothing hidden under the Johnny Kelley statue. Then you mix and match and try things out. Persistence, you haz it.

Now, I’m going to stop right here because I can already here the 3 hour marathoner snorting derisively and saying, Nitmos, you don’t know what you are talking about. I needed a coach to fulfill my dreams. You, sir or madam, are an overachiever and in the top 2% of runners. You are not the target audience. You are not like the rest of us. You want to pay for a coach to get you into the top 1.9% bracket? Knock yourself out (but I’m guessing you don’t hire some dude or dudette with an online coaching certificate.) In my head, that’s how the conversation goes, anyway.

For the rest of us amateurs, our persistence will pay off through our…patience. That’s right, patience. I know the ultimate goal for a lot of runners is to get from A to B as fast as possible (implied: without pooping self). And sometimes you want something so badly that you speed up the process by increasing mileage too quickly or doing more interval speed work than your body is prepared to handle. Or mentally beating yourself up if improvement isn't going as fast as you hoped. You want to PR a race in two months. You want to BQ at your next marathon. In other words, forget the patience, like Violet Beauregarde, you want it and you want it now. But if you attempt to grow more quickly than your body can reasonably respond, you’ll pull a Krispy Kreme. Sure, it’ll work for awhile – remember when Krispy Kreme’s were all the rage? – but then it may just fall apart in the form of injury or frustration or a Rick Perry campaign.

Patience. It’s good enough that your race times are slowly going down - even if it is falling slower than you had hoped. Remember, you are persistent and you can be patient. It's downward trending. I always wanted to BQ and got lucky doing so in my second marathon. But I didn’t place all of my hopes on that race so I wouldn’t have been disappointed if it didn’t happen. I knew my training was getting better with each passing week, month, year. I would be patient. I would be persistent. It would take what it took but I would get there.

Stand back and look at the big picture of your running, your abilities, and how things that was so hard are not so hard anymore. It doesn’t look good over the last few months? Then stand further back and take in more of the big picture. Heck, if you need to, back up all the way to Philadelphia (!).

Patience and persistence, baby. When I get frustrated with my training, I always remember those words. They soothe me like a nipple suckling baby. And, see there? I didn’t rob you of your journey. You’ll find your own path to your goals and you’ll be the richer due to your uniquely personal introspective journey. This even applies to you goofy barefoot bastards.

But if that’s not good enough – things need to happen quicker and you believe someone is holding a secret cheesesteak of knowledge just past your outreached arms - email me and I can turn around and email back a training plan for you in about ten minutes and 12 mouse clicks. Fee, as always, is $75.

Happy trails.

*You may score ten points for Gryffindor if you tried this at home – before reading this footnote.

**Running Blogger Life Cycle:
New Runner -->Run Blogger -->Improving Runner -->Running Coach

Where are you in the cycle?

Runner Punished For Thinking on His Feet

2011-10-13T10:51:00.004-04:00

I know we are supposed to be all Over The Moon over the preggo that finished the Chicago Marathon on Sunday then squirted out an 18 year tax credit a mere few hours later. I know this because everyone is discussing it ad nauseam like it is some morality play that needs to be debated endlessly. Then we can decipher your position and figure out who watches Fox News and who watches MSNBC based on where you come out. I love taking sides on relatively inconsequential, non-important issues that don’t concern me. Did you hear about the woman in Ohio that planted her tomatoes next to potatoes IN THE SAME GARDEN? CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? Discuss.

Besides, I’ve birthed an eight pounder myself immediately following the 2008 Detroit Marathon and it barely made news. Of course, mine didn’t provide a tax break and wasn’t nearly as cute, I’m sure. His name – Nutty Cornhead – might have turned some folks off too. (That’s why I left him in the Port-a-John. He wasn’t a keeper.) So, big deal, right? Everyone shoots something out of their posterior post-race.* I just feel bad for the folks who were not only ‘chicked’ but also ‘birthed’ (and possibly ‘episiotomied’?) at the finish. How’d you like to get beat to the finish line by a rush of amniotic fluid among everything else?

No, I don’t really give a crap about Preggo Runner and Her Fabulous Birthing Adventure. There was another marathon story playing out elsewhere in the world on the same day that was far more interesting. I give a crap about running innovation. I’m not talking about the current minimalist fad.** I’m talking about true innovation. Take, for example, Rob Sloan. Rob Sloan knows that running marathons are hard. It’s a looong way, after all. Hell, 26.2 miles is basically like running two half-marathons consecutively. Two of anything back-to-back is ridiculously hard. Ever eat at two buffets consecutively? See two Twilight movies back-to back (when even one is more than most can take)? Give attention to both of your kids in a row? Grueling.***

So Rob knows that marathons are difficult, taxing, and dangerously anaerobic. And maybe he has a bit of Thomas Edison in him. Maybe a dash of Steve Jobs. Was he satisfied with reading by candlelight? No, he invented his own electric light. You see, Rob got to mile 20 of the Kielder Marathon. Rob was exhausted. But Rob still wanted to finish. He wasn’t going to continue using his legs, lungs, and basic human decency like a fool. That’s not how an innovator works. Rob searched for another way…another solution…a better method to achieve a goal for the common good – or his own personal glory – whichever came first.

Inspiration rarely strikes like a lightning bolt from the sky. Usually, it slowly, imperceptibly, engulfs you like…fumes from an idling bus. A true genius recognizes the signs (and smells) and follows the path. Rob got on that idling bus on Sunday. Rob rode it to a point near the finish. Rob found a solution to avoid having to use his fatigued legs and lungs and his challenged moral compass. Rob emerged from the bus and hid behind a tree in a wooded area near the course finish like true champions must do. Rob must have felt like Steve Jobs emerging from his garage with the key to future technological advances rattling around his head. Rob had immediately redefined what it meant to “finish” a marathon. Rob waited for the first and second place runners to pass by. He wanted glory but he wasn’t an enormous egomaniac. His ego was merely over-sized. He waited for the one position that would attract the least amount of attention while maximizing his rewards: Third place. Third place would be his Macintosh!

Rob Sloan, executing the strategy only he invented that day, slunk out from behind the tree, rejoined the marathon and finished third! And then, in another brilliant move, decided not to slink away quietly with his ill-gotten gains. Instead, he stuck around for photo ops and interviews in which he proclaimed the course “unbelievably tough”. For those of you who have run a marathon, three cheers to Rob Sloan! In post-Sloanian days, can we really be expected to run 26.2 consecutive miles any longer? No one reads by candlelight anymore. We don’t go backwards in our advancements (see, it says ‘advance’ right in the word advancement.) We don’t take our shoes off again once we start wearing them. We don’t go back to spears once we invented guns. Heck, we won’t go back to guns once we invent laser guns. It’s called progress. And the new standard for completing a marathon is to run until you are fatigued…and then hop a bus to the finish. There’s something charmingly Amazing Racish about it.

But did we embrace this advancement? No. The heartless race organizers stripped him of his medal. He was deemed unworthy. His innovation for completing a marathon was tossed into the dustbin of history. He must feel like the inventor of Betamax. Rob Sloan, unrecognized champion of the everyman marathon runner:

The people's champion!

We salute you.

It does lead me to wonder…if an innovation like the bus-aided marathon isn’t embraced, how are folks going to accept my original concept, the Segway marathon? Time will tell. I’m sure Edison and Jobs had the same apprehensions.

In the meantime…

Happy busing.

*That’s where babies come from right?

**I know, I know, it’s not a fad. Rock n’ Roll and TV are not a fad either even though everyone thought they were at the time. And, sure, eyeglasses are just a human made attempt to correct the natural sight of the eye – FAD! – when we all know that the best way for the eye to see is through its natural state. It cannot be improved upon. Throw down your glasses and crunch them under your minimalist shoes! While you’re at it, throw down your hearing aids and insulin pumps and crush them under a Five Fingered heel! Colostomy bag? Remove that and….gently deposit that in the garbage please.

***Believe me, Chutes and Ladders never gets more fun the MORE you play. I started to see Slides in my nightmares. Thankfully, my kids have outgrown this adult torture game.

All Clear, Full Spite Ahead

2011-10-07T09:57:00.004-04:00

As I survey the weeks ahead from the captain’s bridge of the S.S. Nitmos, everything looks clear and smooth. There is nothing – nada, zippo, zilch – on the schedule. Not a race to be found. No fun run. No Halloween adults-dressed-up-on-a-holiday-meant-for-children costume run. No post-Thanksgiving work-off-the-food-orgy run. No Jingle Bell freeze-your-ass-off run. Heck, I don’t even see one of those weird webcentric “virtual 5k’s” being promoted anywhere (at least, anywhere that I can find one to hyphenate into a mocking phrase). I literally have nothing to look forward to except death and taxes…and American Idol.*

I don’t even have to run if I don’t want to. So why I am?

Oh, yeah, that’s because the races are really just lighthouses on the ocean of my running life. I could live a nice anonymous running existence without the races or the blog. Neither drives the running for me anyhow except for as a tool to release the built up pressure of lame, over-boiled nautical metaphors. Believe it or not, I don’t derive any motivation from your snarky comments left to insult or critique me.** I run and blog purely out of spite. I comment on your blogs when I’m feeling spiteful. I definitely race out of spite. And I blog filled with venomous spite. I’m not even going to go with the obvious, cheap joke that I sit around drinking Sprite because it’s the closest thing to fuel my spite. I’m not going to do it. Out of spite, once again.

So, despite the fact that I have no races ahead and no PR’s with which to Jell-o wrestle, I haven’t slacked off on my non-existent training log one bit. I was at the track on my lunch hour yesterday rounding it in perfect concentric 400 meter ovals in the midst of a round of 800’s. The day was warm for a Michigan October. The fallen yellow and orange leaves criss-crossing the football field with every whim of the wind. Sweat was pouring from my brow, neck, and Tootsie Rolled abdomen. I was killing myself out on the track and…I couldn’t think why. Why? Why do this to yourself? There are no lighthouses ahead. I plan to stay in the ocean and eat Tootsie Rolls for the foreseeable future.*** Who needs it, right? I finished the 800’s anyway despite your expectations that I would suddenly quit and jog home. Out of spite, once again.

Well, I need it, I guess. I get even crankier if I take a few days off. I’m pretty unpleasant to begin with but, if I miss a few runs, “spite” will be the least of anyone’s concerns about me. Try “felonious assault” or “llama torture” or “Cambodian orphanage arson”. What am I running for? Uh, perhaps my sanity, my well-being, and my rabid appetite for fudge stripe cookies and Tootsie Rolls (not to say that I’d kick sour balls out of bed for melting, youknowwhatImean?)

I might be swinging in the hammock on the open seas right now, untwisting my delicious Rolls and gulping down the rum and ~~Sprite~~ Coke, but, believe me, I’m still putting the work in. The 800’s are still getting eight hundreded. The occasional 1200 gets twelved. The long runs, as always, are completed at a much faster pace than any running coach would desire (but what do they really know, right?). I limbo the fuck out of a few runs here and there just to show it who’s boss. It’s all clear and smooth sailing.

Eventually, I’ll flop out of the hammock into a pile of crumpled Tootsie wrappers, shave my scraggly beard, wax my anus**** and point the ship to the nearest lighthouse. When the mood strikes, that is. And that mood is spite, once again.

Happy sailing.

*Kidding, I’m an X Factor man, of course.
**By the way, the guy – don’t remember the name - who keeps popping up to point out my spelling or grammatical errors, you understand of course that I spend less than 7 seconds editing. If you would like to be my unpaid editor, call me.
***Seriously, Halloween is hard enough without all of the candy specials going on right now that get your “pre-Halloween” gorge-fest started early. Tootsie Rolls? Little gobs of faintly fecal-reminiscent goodness with a fun little pull and twist open!
****You don’t?
_________________________________

Postscript: I had meant to punch this little Sea Tale up with a few pirate references. You know, arrrr, thar she blows (t.w.s.s.) and a few references to lubbers and bilge rats, that kind of thing. You can go back and re-read and drop a few Ahoy ye mateys! where you see fit. Hell, go ahead and change the title to A Runners Life For Me while yer at it. What do I care? Now, hand me the second bag of Tootsie Rolls and GTFO.

The Healing Power of a Good Run

2011-09-30T09:40:00.005-04:00

I know people that are always looking for a miracle fix-it:

< mocking sneer in lilting fancy-boy voice >
Oh, I have a headache better pop an aspirin.
Oh, no, part of my tooth fell out. Time to go to the dentist for a filling.
I was just hit by a car. Someone call 9-1-1 while I gather the bone shards from my diced clavicle.
< / mocking sneer in lilting fancy-boy voice >

Sheesh…ibuprofen, alloy amalgams, Vicodin, ambulances…folks, these things don’t solve all of life’s problems. Sure, the Vicodin can take you on a distractedly strange and magical journey that lasts a few hours before depositing your tattered consciousness back into the hot stew of your troubles. Well worth it - just to get re-acquainted with Salvador Dali style surrealism if only for a short time - but hardly a miracle fix-it.

You don’t have to go all Anna Nicole if life’s physical and mental woes have you down. See those running shoes over there under the Ab Lounger/coat rack? Go on, put them on. There’s the miracle fix-it you crave. C’mon, just one little step. I’ll give you the first mile free. Try it. I bet you like it. Plus, have you seen all of the sold out marathons? Everyone’s doing it.

Case(s) in point: I was recently struggling with some post-half marathon upper respiratory tightness. I felt my annual chest cold coming on. I went out for an 8 miler. Three miles in, I wanted to quit. I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt uncomfortable and fatigued. Did I quit? Am I not Nitmos? Of course not, I pressed on as the slave to my running log that I am. Facing a few hills and a sharp headwind, it was not going to be pretty. I was wishing I had some Vicodin. At one point, I was wishing that I tripped and shattered my clavicle. But, mostly, I was wishing for the Vicodin (and maybe some Vicodin-flavored whiskey*).

Then, the clouds parted, a ray of sun shone through, and a giant floating clock appeared and ticked…then tocked…then melted in front of my very eyes. Then I remembered that I had consumed some Vicodin-flavored Gu a few minutes beforehand. At any rate, a miracle occurred. An epiphany ephiphaned. I charged up the remaining humps of the hills with frenzied spinning legs, like a teenage boy’s arms fumbling with Anna Nicole’s bra strap, and huffing breaths. At the top, I turned and looked into the valley of abandoned despair. I could see the red little devil-horned chest cold baby floundering on the sidewalk amidst its bioslime covering. He could no longer cling to a healthy body in motion.

I bounded down the sidewalk like a gazelle and never again looked back. Chest cold? No. Lungs tight? No. Breathing labored and fatigued? No. Clavicle intact? Yes. Nipples hard? You betcha (Hi Sarah!), it was cold out.

This same sort of miracle fix-it happened a few days later too. My left foot was throbbing due to some impromptu yard soccer-rugby that the boy and I tend to play. (It involves me trying to tackle/trip/push him while he dribbles the ball in circles around me.) The first mile was miserable. Did I quit? Am I not Nitmos? Hell no, I kept running until I couldn’t feel the foot anymore. I figured I either damaged it severely and it is now numb - so better keep running and deal with that problem later (you know, get as many miles in as you can while you can't feel anything) – or it worked itself out.

Guess what? It worked itself out. No foot pain whatsoever. I must have lost it on the run like that miserable little chest cold baby.

Bad day? Get a good run in. Bad kidney stone? Good run. Bad toothache? Good run. Bad break-up? Good run. Bad cirrhosis? Good run. Whatever your ailment, a good run is the cure. And approximately 1500mg Vicodin**. But, mostly, the running thing.

The only side effect? Apparently, a nasty habit of asking rhetorical questions. How many have I asked in this little blog post? Seventeen.

Happy trails?

Eighteen. Happy trails.

*Don’t take medicinal advice from me.
**I warned you, don’t take medicinal advice from me.
________________________________

It's been years since I revisited my Enjoy These Links sidebar (which you probably didn't even know I had there) and, lo and behold, half of the links were either downright dead or no longer updating. I have updated my links. This is not a complete list but, I think, are some of the most consistently enjoyable/thought-provoking/entertaining runner writers (or, exercise writers) out there. Check them out! Yes, I left Half-Fast on there despite the fact that he cares so little about anyone that he isn't even bothering to put a crappy Happy Labor Day! post out there. What an ass.

Mine Got Even Bigger

2011-09-22T10:15:00.002-04:00

My 2011 Capital City River Run half marathon race report.

You may remember the double entendre in the post title from such classic prior Capital City River Run race reports as:

2009: Mine is Shorter Than Yours
2010: Mine is Longer Than Yours

Once again, they f-ed me. That’s right, according to infallible Garmin (p.b.t.n*), the already long half marathon course…got even longer again this year. It’s like the race organizers are using some sort of enlargement device to make it longer (and girthier) every single year. Really, it’s unnatural and, the way it weaves all over the place, entirely too veiny. The good news is that, despite the extra inches, I was able to set a new course PR. The bad news is that, due to the extra inches, I wasn’t able to set a distance PR.

To begin at the beginning (a very good place to begin), this was to be my second and, most likely, last half marathon of the year. In May, I set a PR of 1:26:37 on a largely flat, perfectly measured course. Then, per usual, I started getting all braggy about how I’d go ahead and devote my summer to some hard training and come back in September to set yet another PR. If there is one thing I’m good at, it’s telling people about the wonderful things I’m gonna do. If there’s two things I’m good at, it’s assigning external blame when the first thing I’m good at inevitably doesn’t happen. Consider this post my #2 thing I’m good at.

The truth is that, though I trained consistently hard through-out the summer, I didn’t really “up the ante” from what I had been doing prior to the Bayshore Half in May. More like, I put my brain, legs, and training plan pen on auto-pilot and just kinda….kept on going. Same training distances. Same paces. Hell, largely even the same unwashed compression shorts/end table. I wasn’t really expecting to kick ass. But I was thinking about taking a few names though I’d commit them to memory…no need for a Rolodex.

I showed up at the course full of yawns and fecal matter. The yawns were easy to pass. The fecal matter….another story…but not through lack of effort. I was one grunt away from running a half marathon with a spidery hemorrhoid hanging out of my unwashed compression shorts. Did you hear about the Irishman caught recently with 72 bags of cocaine in his abdomen? This is not a joke. There’s no punchline. See, here’s the actual story. And the CAT scan.

And you thought runners were gaunt? Dude, we can see your ribs.

That’s what I felt like with the pressing on my lower g.i. Except, it wasn’t cocaine. Well, it wasn’t all cocaine. There was a fair amount of Chili’s chicken tender tacos, chocolate pudding pie, and Good n’Plenty’s in there. You know, your normal pre-race fuel. I knew right off that this race would be a battle considering the 72 little bags of waste stowing away in my small intestines. I could only hope the course was more in line with the Bayshore distance (13.13 miles) if I wanted to PR. Hey, they redesigned it – again – this year so there was always the chance, right?

I won’t bore you with the mile by mile details except to point out that the key point came around the 7 mile mark. I had been following a group of 7-8 runners - whom I nicknamed the “peloton” - by about 15 seconds. They were marching along at a consistent pace in the neighborhood of 6:30 minute miles. I knew that my PR hopes were pinned to sticking with the peloton. But, man, my little stowaways were starting to get a little rowdy. I wasn’t sure I was up for it. Frankly, I felt like easing off and spending the next 6 miles coming up with a creative excuse to blame for my failure. Even more frankly, I felt like easing off and figuring out a way to get to the finish with no more than 20 stowaways left.

This was my Flight or Fight moment. It came earlier in the race than I expected. I’m happy to report that I chose to Fight, mainly because I received a small bump in motivation from the peloton. The #3 overall female runner was in the group but she had slowly slipped off the pace and I had gradually gained even with her by mile 8. As I moved on past, I could tell that she was using me as a pacer. Nobody uses me as a pacer. Hell, no one uses me at all. I’m the notorious user around here. I felt strangely obligated to carry the pace forward under some sort of unwritten runner’s code of race pacer ethics. So I did. My robot brain overrode the yipping from my lower g.i. and the body went marching along under its monotone command.

My mile by mile splits weren’t nearly as consistent as I would have liked. I think they reflect my waxing/waning motivation. Here they are, for posterity, in all their mundane glory:

Mile 01 6:40
Mile 02 6:43
Mile 03 6:48
Mile 04 6:24
Mile 05 6:31
Mile 06 6:34
Mile 07 6:36
Mile 08 6:31
Mile 09 6:38 (overall time, 59:24 – compared to 59:37 at Bayshore – ahead of pace!)
Mile 10 6:43
Mile 11 6:28
Mile 12 6:30
Mile 13 6:33 (overall time, 1:25:38 – compared to 1:25:51 at Bayshore – ahead of pace!)
Last bit 5:53 pace (1:49 time - .31 miles according to Garmin(p.b.t.n.))

Numbers? Yes, numbers:

1:27:27 time
13.11 miles (Garmin sez 13.31 miles)
6:34 pace

25th of 1630 overall
5th of 106 in age group

No PR. Despite being faster than PR pace through 9 miles and 13 miles, each by 13 seconds, the long, engorged course raped me in the final post-13 miles distance by over a minute. I wasn’t in shape for that extra girth. Still, I’m glad I didn’t prematurely emasculate myself at mile 7 and stayed in the fight. It was, after all, a new course PR! Compare from year to year (according to Garmin):

Year – Dist - Time
2009 13.21 1:28:51
2010 13.29 1:27:43
2011 13.31 1:27:27

They can keep making the course longer but I’ll keep setting course PR’s apparently. Hell, by the time this course measures at an even 14 miles in a few years, I should be able to run it in 1:20, right?

I’ll take my course PR, my half marathon per mile pace PR (6:34), and my little stowaways home with subdued satisfaction. They can keep pumping up that course and I’ll keep setting a personal best on the sumbitch.

Oh, and yes, I spent the rest of the afternoon reading and ejecting stowaways, if anyone was concerned. Lots and lots of reading. Lots and lots of puckering.

Happy trails.

*”praise be thy name” for those who forgot

Run Robot, Run!

2011-09-16T10:28:00.003-04:00

Folks, we are getting closer to the days when we won’t actually have to run marathons. Behold the creation from the University of Michigan (the leaders and best.) This is MABEL. She’s a sexy running robot.

So now they are building robots with two legs and knees. Knees?! As in “I torn my ACL and will be bedridden for 26 months” knees? I thought the goal of robotic creations was to improve upon the human form to make tasks more efficient, less prone to human injury and fatigue? And so you build a robot with knees? That apparently, as shown in the video, favors the Galloway run/walk system?

I’m told their next generation MABEL will have asthma and adult onset Diabetes. They are going to keep creating new, improved generations until they get to a generation that refuses to get off the couch and prefers to bitch about the weather instead.

I spend half my running time dreaming of robotic wheels to replace my tired legs and these guys are building mechanical knees? I guess it’s still a work in progress though. At 6.8 mph, MABEL won’t qualify for Boston. They don’t have oil flavored Gu there anyhow. Heck, she wouldn’t even age group a local 5k.

There is something to be said for robotic running though. I admit to using a little psychological trick when racing to try to disassociate from my fatigue. I have a half marathon this weekend and I’ll be employing a little Robotic Brain on the course. Inevitably, there comes that point in the race where my breathing accelerates, stride lengthens, and the negative thoughts creep in. I’m at the key spot where the Fight or Flight path will be chosen. In a half marathon, it usually comes around the ten mile mark. I can’t fathom doing another three miles at current pace. I’ve started to become conscious of my own labored breathing. And my arms that once hung loosely by my side are now bunched up, elbows akimbo, swatting at the air with every stride.

When I get to that point, I try to become a cyborg. From the neck up, I’m an emotionless, slave-driving computer. My lungs and legs (and knees!) take direction from the command post. When the body attempts to send signals back to the brain that it’d like to slow up, please, and stop for a Fresca and a scone, the cyborg brain blocks the message and replies with short, authoritative monotone commands:

“Maintain current speed.”
“Relax arms and shoulders.”
“Breathe fuller, easier.”
“Wipe chin spittle. Have some self respect for chrissakes.”

Seriously, it sounds stupid but I really think that way. My body likes to try to quit way sooner than my head. So I’ve become accustomed to simply detaching my thoughts from my feelings. I actually imagine that I’ve stepped out of the tired body and crawled up into my cyborg head. I know my body is fatiguing….but I also know that there is more to give in there somewhere. Maybe a bit more energy in the 4th toe? Check there.

I run the first 10 miles with my body and the last 3 with my head. And I’m living in my head at that point. The body is all rundown and gross and the foundation is leaking. I abandon it like I'm an upside down mortgagee. My head is still crisp, clean and filled with people wearing matching silver jumpsuits and carrying clipboards. In other words, by mile 10, my body is the abandoned home of the average American and my head is filled with bankers walking around holding deeds and blowing their nose on the wads of crumpled cash falling out of their pockets. Stupid bankers.

I’ve been pretty successful at disassociating the pain and fatigue by becoming a cyborg runner. I’ll probably continue with the technique until the day comes when I don’t have to run at all.

Just a few more mph’s on ol’ MABEL and I can get one of them to run the race for me. Have you seen the new movie trailer for Real Steel? It’s like a real life version of Rock ‘Em, Sock ‘Em Robots. Why would robotic athletics be confined to boxing?

Oh, yeah, this is happening. The day will come when I won’t have to run these marathons at all. I’ll wear a headset, sipping a Fresca while sitting on the couch, issuing commands to my own MABEL and she'll herky-jerky step her way through a marathon.

I just hope she doesn’t blow out a knee. I guess.

Happy trails.
_________________________________

I only half-heartedly trained for the Capital City River Run half marathon. I intended to train hard…and then summer days and summer vacations and Oberon got in the way a bit. So, goals, quick and easy:

a) Beat 1:26:37 and PR.
b) Beat 1:27:43 and set a course PR.
c) Beat 1:28.

I'm hoping for the B goal, realistically. I ran my current PR time back in May but this is a longer (measures 13.29 miles compared to 13.15 miles on my PR course) and slightly more challenging course. So, I’d need to be at least one minute faster just to match my PR time. I’m not sure I’m any faster. I may run exactly the same as in May and barely beat 1:28. We’ll see. No worries, though. It should be a beautiful day for a run either way.
_________________________________

Side track note: I overheard my colt’s soccer coach discussing fitness with the team and how they should run or cycle on off days. I even heard him explain the term “fartlek” and how it can be used to build speed. You have no idea how weird it is to hear that term in a non-running environment.

Cold Lung Disease

2011-09-09T10:41:00.004-04:00

I hate this time of year. Overnight, the weather has shifted. Last Friday was the final “hot” summer day of the year. When Labor Day weekend comes, it’s like someone flips a giant “screw Michigan” switch and it gets chilly, cloudy, and the leaves start dropping. My normally robust balls start cowering close to my abdomen for protection. I haven’t seen the sun in four days. And that was on the heels of a string of 90 degree plus days where the only thing not sweating was your eyeballs but that’s only because they come with their own windshield wipers.You never hear me complain about the summer heat. Sure, I might point out how the warm air affects my running or question how people from the south run in the extreme heat, like in my last post, but never, NEVER do I wish away the summer heat. It’s too precious of a commodity around these parts. To those Midwesterners that complain about running when it’s hot out? I don’t want to hear you complain over the next 8 months about how it is too cold. You wished away the heat so now enjoy the next three seasons and your YakTrax. We’ll see a full day’s worth of sunshine maybe a dozen times now until May and that’s no exaggeration. If you live in a warm climate, remind me what the sun looks like every now and then m’kay? My sunglasses will be as useless as my Members Only jacket.

This state is almost uninhabitable. But at least we are not Ohio.

I am, however, not above complaining about the cold. In fact, I’m a champion Cold Weather Bitcher like most Midwesterners. You’ll hear a ton of that over the next 8 months. And that’s really the point of this post. It’s not exactly “cold” per se either. It’s in the mid 60’s and constantly drizzly. It’s really near perfect running weather. But when you’ve been sucking in hot summer air for the last four months and suddenly your morning long run is 52 degrees with a nippy breeze, your lungs eject the air back out like a cheap Hollywood spit take. Ever spray a passing runner with Gatorade spittle? It’s not as comical as Laurel and Hardy would have you believe.

I attempted another 8 mile “race pace” time trial last night and, per Michigan standards, it was around 60 with a chilly breeze. My lungs were tight, my colon was clogged (don’t eat Frosted Mini-Wheats if you will be running later), and my breathing was labored. The two little shriveled balloons inside my chest cavity simply would not take in enough air to keep the heart rate down and the engine running. My lungs ejected the chilled air. They were as useless as a dog groomer in Korea.

With a few well-timed intersection traffic light breaks, I was able to complete my 8 miles at a 6:35/mile pace per plan. But I double checked the race website and, again this year, they will not feature periodic rest stops with no time penalty. I’m on my own. Again. Their stubborn insistence on 13+ miles – run consecutively – is growing as tiresome as my lame “useless” joke comparisons in this post. But there’s only one more of those to go.

I guess I’ll just need some more time to suck it up - to suck it in. As the temperature drops, it takes a few weeks for my innards to adjust. It’s like when I go on vacation and don’t poop for 5 days. Everything holds on for dear life inside until it has no place to go and falls out like a Titanic victim frantically grasping for a railing. Eventually my colon settles into routine; eventually my lungs will as well. They have 9 more days to adjust until the half marathon. Better get adjustin’. Quickly.

Until then, they are as useless as a Futon store in the Upper West Side of New York.

Yep, good work on those jokes, Nitmos. /wipinghandstogetherpattingselfonback

Happy trails.
________________________________
Happy 16 years to Mrs. Nitmos! How she did it, I don’t know. She’s a true endurance wife. I have a few more “useless” jokes that didn’t make the cut to share with you…and consider the ones that did make it, you could be in for a long evening. Here we are in recent warmer times. Can you name this exact location? It's from my recent Florida trip. Not much to go on but a beautiful evening, sunset, some background architecture and our rum flushed faces.

And, yes, that is a Boston shirt. I wear it everywhere. Want to fight about it?

Everywhere Signs

2011-09-07T09:45:00.010-04:00

Here’s what I love about Northern Michigan: Signs.

This appeared a few years ago on the route to one of my normal race destinations. I know what you are thinking. How do they get the bears to cross the highway within those same five miles? Dunno but it sure is a neat trick. I like to stand just in front of the sign wearing nothing but a slathering of honey and my shame (and my Garmin, for obvious reasons). There’s nothing that the sign-following bears can do about it right. Right? Stupid bears.

For the record, I’ve never seen any bears along this stretch of road but I have seen a few mobile homes with stick built makeshift roofs over top. Classy. And so far, the record for number of rusty pick-up trucks parked in the gravel drive of a mobile home with a makeshift roof is…9. C’mon Northern Michigan, you can do better than that! This is the land where “You Can Have My Gun When You Pry It From My Cold Dead Fingers” bumper stickers are as prevalent as Southerners and their “South Will Rise Again” stickers. And speaking of the South…

It’s been a hectic few weeks. Last you knew, I was heading to Florida – in August – for more R & R. This was resoundingly accomplished. Didn’t you get Mrs. Nitmos’ Facebook update titled Patron, Bitches! sometime on August 22nd? Well maybe you should be friendlier to Mrs. Nitmos so you can be Friended to receive updates such as Patron, Bitches! as well as photo evidence of me playing pool volleyball while floating horseback style astride two partial weight-bearing water noodles after several shots and a few Heinekens. Tequila, pool, water noodles, midnight volleyball = advantage Nitmos! You won't find that picture here.

I wish I could share more of my vacation with you but our cameras are now “evidence” and our accompanying friends are now termed “material witnesses”. On advice from council, that’s all I’ll say about Florida other than…how in the hell do you southern folk run in that heat?? I managed three runs in the easy, vacation-friendly 3-4 mile range and worked up enough sweat to match a 15 miler here in mild Michigan. Holy suffocation, David Carradine! I didn’t think “heat” should have a consistency and flavor. My sweat beads dried up while ejecting half way down my torso…due to dehydration. Maybe I don’t feel so bad now when I have to dress up like a Sherpa just to get a few January miles in.

Over Labor Day, Mrs. Nitmos (bike) and I (legs) took in 14 wonderful miles along a scenic rails-to-trails path in Northern Michigan. There’s something pleasant and reinvigorating about a run through the quiet countryside. At least, there is until you come upon this scene:

I don’t want to know who sits in that chair watching the runners…and his bird friends. Feel free to hum the standard Deliverance ass-rape banjo accompaniment to yourself. If that seems like a good place for a fartlek…it was.

And since our Northern Michiganders are so sign conscious, they had the foresight to warn us that some tractors might be working in the area as well here:

And here:
Also here:
Like the bears, I also didn’t see any actual tractors either. And that’s what scares me. If someone is taking the trouble to post these signs, that means the threat is in the area somewhere. So…where are the bears? Where are the tractors? And, praise jeebus, where in the hell is the guy that sits in that yard armchair?

Soo-ee! Oink-oink.

Happy trails.
_________________________________

Any mention of "signs" brings out my favorite: Who’s the jerk that likes to make fun of slow kids by posting signs rather than taking them to the track for some much needed speed work (apparently)? Oh, that was me.

Have Legs, Will Travel

2011-08-17T10:34:00.003-04:00

Well, it’s been nearly three weeks since I took some time off from work and you can imagine how tired I am. How do people work an entire month without taking time off?? It’s not healthy. I don’t have gout but, if I did, it seems like it would start flaring up after a few weeks straight of work. All of that sitting in an office chair just has to do something to the uric acid, doesn’t it? Lesson learned: Don’t go this long without a day off again or risk gout. Time for a vay-kay-shun (or, as I call it, “minimalist working”).

Fortunately, I’ll be bringing my legs with me so there’ll be no excuse to not get a few miles in. Does everyone else try to keep the running going while on minimalist work? Or do you shut it down completely? Just how obsessive do we need to be about this hobby?

We are heading to Florida. In August. Yeah, smart planning, I know. It won’t be warm there, will it? Should I pack a hoodie? My kids kick-off – literally – their fall soccer seasons upon our return so there wasn’t much of a choice. Our weekends will be busy from now until…eternity. Upon return, we’ll drop them off from the pool to the pitch. To make matters worse, we are renting a house in land-locked Orlando, of all places, with some friends of ours and their kids. That means four kids, four iPods they can’t find but is somehow our fault that they are lost, and four sets of lungs we have to worry about filling up with pool water. Just how much beer is there in Florida anyhow? I know Florida isn’t the Caribbean. It’s kind of a minimalist Caribbean, in fact. But, if you knew me, you’d know I’m minimalist lavish.

I know what you are thinking: How do you have any friends and why would they spend a week in the same house as you? Well aren’t you the asshole for asking? Obviously it’s because I’m incredibly charming and my posture is amazing. I think both come across clearly on this blog. At least, my blog coach tells me so. I’ve spent all week shaving the hairs off my back moles. THAT’S how considerate I am. I wanted to do a word cloud from all of the wonderful comments I’ve received over the years to illustrate my personality traits but SOCIOPATH took up most of the results. (You couldn’t even see dickhead running along the side.) It seems you guys are the real problem. Haters.

Whenever we go out of town for any extended time, I tend to cram my long runs and hard workouts in the days before I leave – schedule be damned. During minimalist work, I want to just run some easy miles to keep the continuity but not hammer intervals and tempo runs, etc. So I’ll be heading out for yet another hard run this afternoon (9 miles - four at race pace).

Yesterday I followed up the previous day’s 13 mile long run with some 800’s at the track. If you recall, I just bragged about the 1200’s I was lovin’ on this year but here I am returning to Mistress 800, last year’s track slut. All of that nostalgic talk of 800’s got me ~~randy~~ anxious to try a few again. I figured I’d do 5 x800 meters (400m cool down lap between). Turns out, I pulled a Grover Cleveland. I did the first two 800’s but then forgot what I was doing, slipped into current habit, did a 1200, said “D’oh!”, and then went back to a couple of 800’s to finish up. A wayward 1200m right smack in the middle. In the end however, they were the best non-consecutive 800 intervals I’d ever done. Though Grover Cleveland was too heavy to have been much of a track man, he’d have been proud of my non-sequential abilities.

My legs are packed. My mind is already on minimalist work. Hell, once you get me thinking about antique American presidents you KNOW this boy is ready to party. By this weekend, I’ll be dropping some Taft on everyone’s ass. How much time will I take sitting around the pool discussing this mustache? Much.

President "Stache" Taft

I figure three runs in the 4-5 mile range each should hold me over until I return. Does that sound about right? Who knows, if any crocodiles jump out at me, I might get some fartleks in too.

Anyone else make sure to run during minimalist work? Anyone else pissed that Grover Cleveland threw off the orderly presidential list? I hate asterisks*.

Happy minimalist work!

*unless deployed by this blog.

When Will Races Recognize Street Lights?

2011-08-12T10:40:00.002-04:00

I was standing at a street corner yesterday with sweat droplets pouring down my neck, to my arms, hands, and fingertips before leaping to their death on the pavement below when I had a sort of epiphany (ed: that's not the giant drums, right?) . Well, I actually had two epiphanies (ed: that's not TWO giant drums, right?). The first was Damn, I sweat A LOT from my neck. That can’t be normal. But, the second, and more relevant to this post, was the concept of a mid-race break. A sorta “time-out” – a street light, if you will – strategically placed in a few spots during a race that allows the runners a chance to take a deep breather, a sip of water, and maybe a bite of melba toast, just to cool off, without any time penalty.

Crazy? Or crazy genius?!

I’m about a month out from another half marathon so it seemed like a good time for another one of my race time trials. I like to do these as a race approaches just to see where I’m at with training. It serves its purpose as it either (a) confirms that I am right on track or (b) scares me shitless because I’m so under prepared and provides enough lead time to invent an injury or excuse to withdraw without anyone being the wiser. One of my most common responses to someone that asks “are you running in the race this weekend?” is “I’d like to but (enter completely plausible excuse here)….”

I usually go about 2/3 of the distance of the race at the time trial. I feel like that gives me a pretty good idea of where I’m at while bypassing the ego destroying late race collapse amidst a flood of tears and uncontrollable sobbing and abject feelings of failure. I like to save that for the race itself. For a half marathon, I’ll go anywhere from 8-10 miles at my planned race pace.

The nice thing about a time trial is that there are no registration fees or timing mats or cowbells or rapidly browning bananas on the food table. It’s just you, local traffic, jeering shouts from passing carloads of teens (who all need haircuts, btw), and street lights. Yes, street lights! It would seem counter intuitive to want a street light in the middle of your time trial. But that would make you a Time Nazi. I, on the other hand, press ‘Stop’ on my Garmin whenever I hit a street light. Time literally stands still. I’m in a chronistic void in which I may suck wind, drip fluids from my neck, and, generally, rest without any time penalty whatsoever.

And I pray for the long 60 second light. Or the intersections that have a separate light for every left turn lane and you just missed (by slowing your approaching pace) your light and now have to wait a FULL ROTATION of the lights. Ohhh shooooot, I miiiisssssed it.

And then eventually the little pedestrian light turns to the image of the walking person, I push ‘Start’ and off I go again feeling absolutely refreshed and rejuvenated. My pace is quicker. There is more room at the base of my neck for sweat to pool until the next intersection.

I normally get stopped at two major intersections during my time trials. Each time, I take a moment to gulp some air, sweat band off my forehead and neck, pinch my nipples (I’m shirtless or “minimalist shirted”, of course) and self-consciously make my pecs dance for the passing cars. I’m an entertainer at heart. When my light comes, I’m off again and, damn, do I feel refreshed. Why don’t they have street lights – or little time free beaks – at races? In fact, they go OUT OF THEIR WAY to bypass the lights with those annoying police officers and volunteers stopping traffic and waving you through the intersections.

BUT I DON’T WANT TO TAKE CUTS. How ‘bout we stop the race and let regular traffic flow, eh? We are living in a society here and a society has rules and I, for one, am willing to follow them. It’s the pesky race directors that are playing God with time and the natural order of things.

I finished my time trial pretty much on schedule – thanks to a few well-placed street lights - and headed in to find my neck squeegee. I don’t think I’ll need an excuse for this race. So far, right on schedule with one more time trial to go.

But it sure would be nice to count on those street lights during the half marathon. Race directors, take note!

8.5 miles
55:23 non-street light time
6:31 pace (planned: anything below 6:35 pace)

Happy trails.

Cry Me a 1200 Meter River

2011-08-09T11:21:00.002-04:00

One of my favorite aspects about this whole business of running is that I own it completely. When I don’t hit a planned run, there is no one to blame but myself (and my kids because I’m sure they got in the way somehow). Successes and failures at the races are a direct result of my own efforts. When I look in the mirror after a few grueling rotations at the track, I see my chisel-jawed coach staring back at me and he’s either smugly satisfied, lips pursed with eyebrow-cocked unhappiness, or dreamily leering at his star pupil. I think my coach is hot for me but that’s another matter.

He also doesn’t seem to care when I wake up Tuesday feeling a bit sluggish and needing an extra half scoop of coffee in my Mr. Coffee. According to the calendar, it is track day today and 1200 meter repeats want to take me for a whirl. According to my fuzzy head and engorged lower g.i., it’s coffee time and some quality bathroom reading await. What’s better than the sly wit of some light Nick Hornby reading? How ‘bout Hornby, a full role of toilet paper, and thirty-five uninterrupted minutes on the porcelain?

I don’t feel like 1200 meter repeats today. Sometimes I get to the track and disguise my 1200 meter repeats as 800 meter repeats with a 400 meter half-ass effort and call it 1200 meters. There are usually a few other folks at the track and I’m sure they’ve noticed that my 1200 meters aren’t quite 1200 true, quality meters but, thankfully, they don’t say a word. They just continue running their circles and pretend not to notice but I know they know. How could they not?

My coach notices. And he immediately starts an internal dialogue with me complete with name-calling. I’m a “wimp” and a “scaredy-cat” and “heart hugger”. I’d respond but my heart is pounding in my chest as I continue my cool down lap and I can barely control my breathing. Coach sure knows how to hit the right hot buttons. I’ve been coddling my heart for years and he goes right after it when he wants to hurt me.

I don’t know why I’ve chosen 1200’s as my intervals of choice this summer. Last year I hammered the 800’s and that was fun. I guess one more lap seemed like a nice challenge. That’s the great thing about the mirror coach: you get to figure yourself out as you go. I realized a few years back that I wouldn’t be in the Olympics. They’re all hung up on “qualifying times” and “ability” and “stop sending us emails – you can’t ‘join’ the Olympics”. I’m pretty persistent but my limit comes when the talk of restraining orders and arrest warrants seem more than a threat. So I’ve been content to figure this whole running thing out by myself free from delusions of grandeur. Might as well reap the free Introspective Reward points that come with it right? After awhile, you can redeem them for free Internal Peace and Understanding.

But building up the points comes with a lot of tears at the track. Sweat…tears…snot rockets…blood...spit…phlegmy cough. There’s a river of bodily fluids building at my local track. I don’t know if the 1200 meter intervals have done much for my overall running ability this year but it’s been a nice challenge for me. Once again, I’ve learned by doing. Crazy concept, I know, in this short cut culture. Pretty much everything I’ve learned about my abilities as a runner was through my own investigation so, at the very least, this throws another log on my bonfire of knowledge. It’s through trial and error that you can find your own path and bank some serious knowledge and Introspective Points.

It’s time to hit the track. Well, frankly, it’s time to hit the Hornby then it’s time to hit the track. I’ll shoot for those 1200 repeats. But I may just stack a 400 meter midget on top of an 800 meter person and wrap them with a huge overcoat and pass them off as 1200 meters too. Who can tell? That’ll be between mirror coach and myself. Heck, I may even veer off and do a ladder run today…

Either way, I need to be home by one o’clock. My hiking coach will be here by then.

Happy trails.

Where I Was

2011-08-04T10:29:00.013-04:00

Where was I? Well, derp, I was at the film festival!?! I told you that pretty much straight out with my last post. Sheesh.

Sorry to disappoint but Breckin Meyer didn’t valet my car. It was Dustin Diamond and he’s still pretty ticked off about the Saved By The Bell thing. Don’t joke with him. I asked him not to screeeech my tires into the parking spot and he punched me in the neck. Ever have someone punch you in the neck and then hold their hand out for a tip? I don’t know if I felt more embarrassed for him or for me but dammit if I didn’t swish around in my pocket for a few quarters. I considered it payment for all of the hilarious hijinks I enjoyed from Zach, Slater, Screech, and Kelly Kapowski. A sore neck and 4 bits? Any time.

I’m still trying to get my bearings straight this week. I think I answered one of life’s mysterious riddles: What would happen if you drank several Oberon’s and Two Hearteds and then watched artsy independent films every single night of the week? Well, let’s put it this way, if I carried on like that for another day or two, I’d finally get busy on penning a sequel to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. My version would be decidedly less cocainey.

I didn’t run a lick…except to the urinal to make more room. So, I’m making up for it this week and, man, my legs are tired. I’m about as weary as this trip summary. Shall we go to picture form and slightly amusing anecdotes? YES!

We do things differently here in Michigan. Witness the ski lift being utilized in the middle of a summer’s day. Those are my kid’s legs dangling off of there. For Michiganders, a beautiful July day means….time to hit the slopes!

Actually, the chair lift took the kids to the top where they could go down the water slide:

Well, okay, it’s not a “water” slide. Here in Michigan, that would be “a little cart with wheels” slide. No water. We got enough of that shit surrounding us in every nook and cranny of this state. We don’t want it on our slides too.

Instead, we sit in hot tubs on 92 degree July afternoons. What better way to cool off in 90% humidity than a soak in 105 degree water?!? Remember, it’s Michigan. It’s damn cold here 6-7 months of the year. We need to soak in all of the warm we can get to carry us through those few dozen runs in January and February in 15 degrees.

Awww, look at the fam casually standing in a filthy lake next to floating milk cartons. In Michigan, that’s called recycling. Whenever we are done with our milk cartons, we toss them in the nearest body of water and let the tide “recycle”. Look, there goes two recycled cartons now:

My dog was quite content sniffing everything that could be sniffed. When I told her it was time to go, I got this Mrs. Serious Face. Can you see “WTF?” in those eyes?

Mrs. Nitmos says “kiss off” it’s time to dump the kids at the grandparents and head back downtown for more beer and films and hipsters walking around with douchey chin hair and oversized, thick framed rectangular glasses.

That’s right, I didn’t shave last week.

Running related topics resume next.

Happy trails.

Moore Money, Moore Problems

2011-07-27T10:02:00.005-04:00

I’m going mini-vacationing this week. That is, I’m taking a long weekend. Mrs. Nitmos and my running shoes are going too so I have everything I need. Oh yeah, also the kids are going but that couldn’t be avoided. How is it that a little fish can survive for 3-4 days in a bowl without adding any food but human children, oh no, can’t leave them at home for a few nights (or weeks) or the cops crawl right up your ass. It just goes to show that we all view things differently…one man’s long weekend is another’s felonious child endangerment.

Besides running, one of my favorite pastimes is people watching. I like to think I’m pretty good at it too. I don’t have no weird leer or bug-eyed, mouth agape stare or anything. I’ve only made a few families uncomfortable enough to hold their kids tight and walk away and arrests? None. Detained for questioning? A few times but that goes with the territory.

State Theatre - one of my former employers in the Nitmos early days

We’ll be back in my ancestral homeland again this weekend for the 7th annual film festival put on by everyone’s favorite left wing boogeyman, Michael Moore. Now, before the Fox News crowd starts in with the “socialist” accusations in the comments and the MSNBC crowd seeks travel directions, let me be clear that I don’t attend the event as any sort of political statement. I like to people watch. I like independent films (yeah, that’s right, sue me). I have a place to stay since both our parents (and, more importantly the kids’ ~~babysitter~~ grandparents) live there. We do some boating. We do some beering. We do some watching. The area is loaded with great little bars and a thriving downtown scene so, really, why not go right?

Inside the recently restored State Theatre

Plus, there are some fantastic rails-to-trails running paths.

The great thing about this event is watching this conservative small(ish) town come to grips with Michael Moore and his Big Hollywood Socialist Friends every year. This is the type of town that’ll vote around 75% for any Republican on a national ticket. If a Democratic politician sneezes, they assume it’s because he/she has a strange disease from all of the goat fornicating that person must do. Why Moore decided to make this area his home is anyone’s guess.* We’ve run into him a few times over the years at – surprise, surprise – the local theaters and he seemed to blend in with the masses even knowing most of them would love to slash his car tires while he enjoyed Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle.

But, for this film festival week (and its cousin, a winter comedy festival also put on by Moore in the same area), the truce flags are up. Moore’s festival brings in beaucoup bucks to the area’s conservative businessman. I’m sure it pains them to take this money - on principle - but take it they do. Likewise, a largely left-leaning crowd packs the theaters only to be met with sponsors and advertisements for those same conservative businesses. It’s fun to watch these natural enemies deal with each other. Moore needs the local conservative businessman to make this work and the businessman relish the money bonanza the Great White Liberal's festival brings in. I’m sure many hands are shook beneath gritted teeth.

And Mrs. Nitmos and I sit back at a local pub with a frosty one and take it all in. While the other tables mutter about debt ceilings, I’m sure I’ll be bending Mrs. Nitmos’ ear with more talks about my personal speed ceiling and what needs to be done to raise that.

And then we go running. Or boating. Or filming. Or whatever. Truly this is usually the most relaxing week of the year. Last year, I documented our efforts at the costume film festival 5k. I finished 2nd overall which is the highest I’ve ever finished overall in a race. So, of course, they cancelled the race for this year. Damn, had I won it, I probably would have been audited. The Man doesn’t want me to win a race.

I’ll let you know if I spot any celebrities. The best the festival has done is bring in Madonna one year but I suspect that was only because her father owns a vineyard on the peninsula (you know, free room and board makes it an affordable trip for her. She wasn’t in town to screen Shanghai Surprise.) Usually there’s a few B and C level directors and producers hanging about and the odd C level celebrity. What’s Breckin Meyer doing these days? Hope he's available for photo ops....or to valet my car.

Happy trails.

*Well, okay, it’s also a beautiful area filled with friendly people.

Sweat Diaper

2011-07-26T10:30:00.002-04:00

If you are like me - and really, you should be – you have probably found yourself needing a sweat diaper lately. We are in full fledged It’s Not The Heat, It’s The Humidity territory here. I wish I could say that I’ve only been sweating buckets during my long runs. Truth is, I’ve been sweating dumpsters. I’m flinging sweat from my fingertips with every arm pump. I’m going to put out a blanket warning to all runners in my area: Do not expect a hand wave as we pass or you’ll get a face full of my sweat.

Which brings me back to the sweat diapers. When I complete the run, I am not a welcome person in my home. I walk in trailing droplets of my salty, syrupy goodness all over the floor on my way to the fridge for a cold ~~shandy~~ water. My dog has some sort of sweat fetish and follows after me mopping the floor with her tongue. Sick puppy. The filly doesn’t ever seem to want a post-run hug from Dad. Instead, I’m met with a crinkle face and an ewwww sound. I am persona non grata in my own casa. I can’t even stand still for more than a second or I create tiny little floor swimming pools for the fruit flies that surround my plums (NOT a euphemism!)

So, I sit on the front porch instead: Me, my pathetic little 12 ounce water bottle and a porch swing. And I sweat. And swing. And sweat. If a human is made of around 70% water, then a good 40-50% is soaking through my shorts and onto the floor beneath my swing. Frankly, I’m sweating in such a steady stream that it looks like I’m pissing the porch floor. I need a diaper for my sweat.* I’ve gotten a glimpse of what life will be like in a few decades when I wear my uroscopy bag and nonchalantly pee in full public view while walking through a Wal-Mart. It’s liberating but, also, a little wet.

To make matters worse, I don’t wear a shirt during summer running. Why contain these pecs? I’m a firm believer in minimalist torso wear. Christopher McDougall missed the point completely in Born to Run. The Tarahumara aren’t successful distance runners because of their lack of footwear. Raise your eye level, big guy. They are successful because they don’t wear shirts! It’s the natural way and leads to a more efficient upper body posture and arm swing. Plus, we are also always told to “run tall” which, you’ll find, is something you’ll naturally do when you realize people are looking at your exposed pecs.

However, a consequence of this minimalist running top approach is that all of your bodies fluids seek a spot to absorb. And that place is your shorts. There’s not enough wicking available to wick away that amount of sweat. This is where the Run Diaper comes into play. You’ll need something to catch that sweat that can’t be wicked away. If the sweat is contained, how can anyone object if you come in for a plum? You won’t have to sit like a leper all alone on your front porch swing. You can squish your way into the house immediately post-run, grab your water bottle to suckle, and lie back on the changing table for your significant other to pinch your ankles together for a good, old-fashioned wiping (provided your significant other is willing, of course.)

I’m going to test my design out today. I have some 1200 intervals planned for the track. It’s over 80 degrees. I have a bag full of marshmallows, or “shorts sponges” as I call them. I’ll be going minimalist torso too. I should be a sweaty mess.

I’ll let you know how it goes so you too can enjoy the wonders of the Nitmos Sweat Diaper. But, please, don’t go grabbing marshmallows and tossing them all willy-nilly into your shorts. My design is a little bit more complicated than that. Ever see a kid strap a pillow onto his chest with a belt as a catcher’s chest protector? Now your wheels are turning….

Happy trails.

*Some of you may say that you don’t want to trap your sweat – that you want it wicked away and to disappear completely. But isn’t that what we want for babies as well? Why aren’t baby diapers moisture wicking then?

Somebody Owes Me Something

2011-07-22T09:52:00.002-04:00

Let me be clear right from the start: I’m not a proponent of getting something for nothing...unless it is running gear or race entry fees or stolen cable or donation jars for a local hospitalized kid left unattended on the convenience store counter or health care or Extreme Makeover homes or Russian brides or petty cash drawers from every small business with which I’ve ever been employed. And maybe a few other things as well. But, beyond those few dozen loosely defined, ever-shifting things, I draw a strict line at receiving something for doing nothing.

But I’m getting screwed here.

My local running store is kind of a Big Deal as far as running stores go. You know those shoes they review endlessly at the back of Runner’s World? Ever notice that the individual reviewers (from which there is a brief quote about their test trial with the shoe) – from every issue over the last several years - are either from Reading, PA or East Lansing, MI? Yeah, the East Lansingers come from their affiliation with my local running store. I’m not going to mention the place by name out of fear. I’d like to race again somewhere in the Midwest. If you’ve paid attention, I’ve good-naturedly needled this store before so I may already be on probation.

The truth is that I browse this store constantly. They have many new shoes, clothes, and gadgets for the fashion conscious runner you know me to be. Then, after I browse the store taking note of the new, interesting items, I drive off to find a cheaper place to buy them. Truly they provide a great service.

They held their second of two yearly SEMI-ANNUAL SIDEWALK EXTRAVAGANZA SUPER TERRIFIC BLOW-OUT SALES again the other day. I came in armed with $120 worth of gift cards bestowed upon me by grateful soccer moms. Since it wasn’t my money, really, I was sure to find something to “buy”. And I did (though I skipped a pair of shoes. Sorry, won’t even spend $75 free gift card dollars on “sale” shoes that I can get for $55 elsewhere even if I have to pay real money for them elsewhere. No sale.)

I knew I had run a few dollars past $120 and, with tax and after gift cards, I was looking at a deficit of nearly $11. Eleven dollars? My inner Viper immediately recoiled at the thought of paying that in actual cold hard cash. I started looking over the items to see if there was something among them that I could make or buy second hand from the Salvation Army or go “minimalist” (i.e. high-minded excuse to cheap out). Eleven dollars?!? Do they think people are made of money??? I got a North Face fall jacket, Adidas running shorts, and Wright running socks and you want $11 of MY money?!?! I think you can understand my rage. I’m going to emphasize it again with a few more exclamation points with alternating question marks?!?!?!?! <--That’s some serious fucking rage right there.

Then I realized my Ace-in-the Hole. You see, I’ve allowed this store to use my image to promote themselves for years without saying a word. I’ve appeared on their TV ads in footage from previous races and currently (and for the last THREE YEARS) my image is on a poster in their front windows. Sure, I’m half concealed by someone in the foreground but I’m clearly visible, along with several dozen others, as part of a starting line shot from a local kids race (my filly was little at the time and parents ran with their kids aaaaand I WON IT! My filly came in three minutes behind me scared, confused, and crying for her Daddy. She wasn’t much cheered when I explained that Daddy kicked all of these other kid’s asses and told tales about how their little legs couldn't keep up. Through tears, she inquired, “Even mine?” I wiped a tear away and whispered back, “Even yours, sweetheart.”). My filly is in the photo too though you can only see her left arm and left leg. She’s lucky to be in that much because I just noticed the camera a half second too late and was in the middle of pushing her to the side to center myself better when the picture took. What does a poster sized ad promotion run these days? At least $11, I’d think.

So here I am at the counter with a bag full of merchandise and a bitchy saleswoman who keeps repeating that I “still owe $11” no matter how many times I roll my eyes and reach for the bag. Finally, exasperated, I motioned my head in the direction of the storefront poster. She looked out the window confused and back at me. I nodded again. She crinkled her brow and nodded back. The chick just wasn’t getting it. “Look, that’s me on the poster. I haven’t asked for anything before but, you know, you never asked to put my picture up. And you never paid me anything either. You see what I’m saying?”

She didn’t. I was forced to pay $11 and “escorted from the premises” as the manager gently but firmly explained to the security guard. Pretty ungrateful, I thought, to a customer who, on average, spends $11 a year in their store. Their loss...guess they'll have to make up that $11 some other way for fiscal year 2012.

Meanwhile, my image is still on the storefront. And RIGHT NOW their web page has an image of me AGAIN advertising one of their races this weekend as part of their rolling front page shots. You would think that, for all I do for that place, they could have comped me $11 right? What’s next, full life-size cardboard cut-outs of me in a mankini* next to your shoe display?

Next time, we’ll see if I bother to peruse their store first before buying my running gear elsewhere. We’ll see if the only money I spend in there is free gift card money given to me by others. They called down the thunder so now they get the horns. I’m not going to get mad, I’m going to get a bull. Or whatever, I’ve never been very good with sayings. All I know is that revenge is a dish best served by making the whole world blind.

Either way, I’m out $11 and someone owes me something.

Happy trails.

*I have them already made up. Just specify color of mankini and shade of bronze you prefer on my torso. Cost is $11.

An Offensive Shade of Blue

2011-07-20T09:22:00.005-04:00

I like getting free stuff. My parents did a reasonably good job of teaching me to be thankful for another’s generosity so I’m quick with a Thank You and a half-hearted smile even if I really don’t appreciate the crap I’m being given. My parents also taught me that, if you truly don’t like something, you should always remain polite to the givers face and only ridicule them when they aren’t looking or listening. Or, at the very least, leave anonymous derogatory messages on an internet site. Family values. This is why I created a blog. I like to think that I started cyberbullying before it became cool.

Despite the obvious general snarkiness of my blog, Columbia Sportswear saw fit to send me some free products to try out and review. One was a moisture wicking short sleeve running shirt. The other was their new Peak 2 Peak jacket that retails for $350. I threw on the running shirt the very day I received it and hit some 800’s and it performed wonderfully. I believe it is the Altimeter shirt and it came in a cool blue and gray color. Very manly. I felt like hunting something or, at the very least, lifting something extremely heavy from the moment I put it on. It wicked properly. It felt cool and light despite the buckets of perspiration the 800’s provided. Good shirt. By itself, it made up for nearly 3/4 of my natural feelings of inadequacy.

All well so far, right?

Now we come to the Peak 2 Peak jacket or, as I call it, Mr. Crinkly. It’s a loud jacket. It makes a wretched crinkly noise every time you exhale. You know those space mylar blankets you get to keep you warm after a marathon? It’s like the jacket is made of a couple dozen of those. Oh, sure, it wicks moisture. It’s reasonably light and cool if you want to run in it during fall or early winter. The pockets are well placed and abundant. Really, besides the annoying crinkly sound, it’s a top shelf jacket. That is, all except the color.

Seriously, what the f--- color blue is that? Blue happens to be my favorite color too. I thought I liked every shade of blue imaginable but I’ll be damned if they didn’t find one I hate. It burns my retina. I tried out the jacket because I said I would but, really, I won’t be wearing it in public. That is one horrendous color. A $350 price tag isn’t enough to overcome it. It’s like a jacket version of an eclipse. Don’t look right at it. Plus, let’s be honest, $350 for a lightweight jacket?? Uh, there's a bit of a recession going on here. I’ve got two similar jackets at home now both for under $100. And neither of them are offensive to the eyes. I could buy three jackets of similar quality elsewhere and still have $50 to get a hooker on the way home. And I doubt the hooker would be all crinkly sounding (though that shade of blue may be present).

So Thank You Columbia for the free items. The running shirt has become a regular part of my rotation. And Thank You for the jacket. It’s a great jacket - just loud and ugly and pricey if those things matter to you. Performance-wise, however, top notch! I’ll enjoy seeing its offensive blueness hanging on a hook in the corner of my closet for years to come (unless we can arrange a trade for the Black one or, heck, even the red one - I'd even promise a highly complimentary blog post for your outstanding customer support).

Happy trails.
_________________________________

Since I’m taking care of some general housekeeping today, let me give props where props are due. High marks for Apple. If you recall from one of my last posts a few weeks back, I announced the death of my iPod. I can only speculate that it died due to extreme perspiration intake. Well, I called Apple and explained the situation (the product is still under warranty). When I say “explained” I, of course, mean I lied through my teeth and replied “No” when they asked if it had come in any contact with "liquids". I’m not the smartest guy but I’m no fool either. They sent me a replacement iPod within 48 hours no (other) questions asked. New Soundy lives! Best part? It's gray and silver colored...no offensive blue to be found!

Suckers.

Summer Shandy Fuels My Long Run

2011-07-19T09:44:00.004-04:00

I’ll admit that I’m not much of a beerophile. Whether it’s Bell’s Oberon or a moderately chilled Schlitz in a dented can, I’m equally apt to flip the top side of my skull backwards as if it was on a hinge and pour said beer down my gullet. It’s beer. Beer belongs in my belly. Let’s send beer to my belly with the fewest obstructions possible. That includes reading the beer bottle label. I’ll assume that “high fructose corn syrup” and “phosphates” and several other kinds of “phates” exist within the beer and that way I’ll never have to read a label. Ever. It’s an unspoken deal I have with mass beverage producers: You give me legal intoxicants in sporty or sexy or heroic or metallic looking bottles and I will consume it no questions asked.*

But that agreement was broken on Friday. I was perusing the beer aisle looking for, basically, something different than my normal beer selections when I noticed several customers in a row selecting Leinenkugel’s Summer Shandy. I’d heard the Summer Shandy commercials on TV but had no reason to want to buy it other than so I could say “Summer Shandy” over and over again while I drank it. It’s fun to say. Try it. Summer Shandy. Tee-hee. Summer Shandy. Tee-hee. Damn, I giggle every time. And, if you know me, then you know that that’s enough to make me buy it. Summer Shandy. Tee-hee. Sale!

As I was happily plopping the gently clinking bottles into the cart, an unexpected word on the label caught my eye. Lemonade? Did that say “lemonade”? But I’m buying beer?!? Beer and lemonade go together like half marathons and cargo shorts. What’s that word doing on my label?!? I had no choice. A deeper inspection was warranted.

The label explains that it is “beer with a natural lemonade flavor” and the first thing I thought of was Zima. Ever have a Zima? Ever drink Pledge through a straw? Same thing. I instantly recoiled with the thought of an overwhelming taste of lemons in my beer. I want beer. If I wanted lemonade, I’d drink – wait for it – lemonade. I’m weird like that. But here’s the problem: The beer was already in my cart. Do you know the effort it would have taken to remove the beer from the cart, place it back on the shelf, and then make another selection all the while appearing hopelessly indecisive to the crowd of oblivious anonymous strangers in my presence? Nope too late. Summer Shandy it is. I didn’t want those people I don’t know - and who were paying no attention to me - to think I was a beer-choosing flip-flopper.

So, here’s how may weekend went encapsulated in sentences I spoke:

-“Hmmm, I’m not sure I like the Summer Shandy.”
-“I’ll try another Shandy and see how it goes.”
-“Want to try a Summer Shandy?”
-“Your neck hurts? You know what might fix that? A Shandy”
-“I hope I have time for a few Shandies before going to Harry Potter.”
-“Can I bring a Shandy into Harry Potter?”
-“Why are you looking at me like that, do you need a Shandy?”
-“I wonder if Voldemort drinks Summer Shandies?”
-“I wonder if there would be such a thing as war if everyone drank Shandies.”
-“You know who needed a Shandy?” Women’s soccer Team U.S.A.
-“I’m going to drink a Shandy in Team U.S.A.’s honor. Great effort ladies.
-“Do you know who did drink a Shandy? Team Japan.”
-“I’m almost out of Summer Shandy!”
-“Why can’t I say ‘Summer Shandy’ anymore? Are you sure you don’t need a Shandy?”

And that was only part of the weekend. Mrs. Nitmos, judging by the number of eye rolls and deeply exhausted exhales, didn’t share my enthusiasm for the words “Summer Shandy”. She especially didn’t seem to appreciate my suggestion that a Shandy might have prevented the bacterial eye infection she obtained this weekend from expired contact cleanser. All I know is, I was drinking Shandies and don’t have an eye infection. She was not drinking Shandies – eye infection.

But the true test occurred on Sunday: A long run – 11 miles – in 90 degree heat after a heartbreaking World Cup finale and a Summer Shandy (or two). I usually don’t run on Sunday afternoon and particularly not after enjoying a beer (or, in this case, a Shandy). Heck, I haven’t even registered for another race yet this year so I don’t even know where the 11 mile plan came from. I picked that number out of my shandy earlier in the week and felt obligated to commit to it.

It was a rough go but it wasn’t the Shandy’s fault. It worked hard trying to keep my insides cool but my pores were pouring out the Shandy as quickly as I could suck it through the Camelbak straw.** Also, my f.p.m.*** was through the roof!

I made it. I dragged back in to my slightly cooler, air-condition-malfunctioning house weary and bleary and dehydrated. Mrs. Nitmos inquired as to the success of my run through her red, infected, Shandiless eyes. I was parched. I was nearly delirious. The only words I could form came out stuttered and choked.

“Okay but I sure could use a Summer Shandy.”

Tee-hee.

Happy trails.

Final Verdict: Summer Shandy, fun to say, but not for everyone. In truth, I’m not sure I’d get it again. It’s not beer… exactly. Next time, I’ll choose more carefully before selecting a liquid refresher.

*This agreement even extends to my father-in-laws favored beer: Blatz. Since he offers, I will drink it when visiting. He is the only person in the known universe that still drinks Blatz. Fact #1: The company only produces 10-12 cases of Blatz a year and it is only sold out of one lonely party store just outside of Interlochen, Michigan. Fact #2: Blatz tastes similar to llama piss if the llama had a severe kidney infection. Don’t ask how I know this. You don't know where I've been.
**Not all parts of this story are true.
***farts per mile

Death to Soundy

2011-06-30T11:23:00.002-04:00

See this lil feller? Mrs. Nitmos got him for me as a Christmas gift. He doesn’t work anymore – a mere five+ months later.

What can we conclude from this?
a) Mrs. Nitmos buys cheap gifts.
b) Apple makes cheap iPods.
c) It would rather commit suicide rather than stay clipped to my sweaty torso for one second longer.

If I plug it in to charge, the little square gets piping hot to the touch within two minutes. The regulator which said ‘charge me’ must have stopped regulating and instead switched over to ‘unleash the fires of hell upon thee’. I always thought my music was hawt but not literally HOT. Its poor little insides must be burned to a crisp.

It’s too bad because I liked the smallness and ease of use of the little device. It’s very much like my penis. It reminds me of this favored set of Marantz speakers I had in my college dorm room. The speakers were way too powerful for that little cement cell of a room so my roommate and I had to exercise supreme restrain not to blow the doors and windows out. My Marantz and me envisioned a long and happy life together…until an impromptu party began…(queue flashback sequence)

It started out as three, then ballooned to ten before finally ending with 20 beer seeking twenty-somethings packed shoulder-to-shoulder in a square dorm room made for two. These were the days when 80’s hair bands were on their way out and grunge was setting up shop on the Billboard charts. Kids were finally realizing that Poison did, in fact, look like a bunch of sissies. Warrant, Winger, et al was getting the mocking they richly deserved. As a long time Hater of 80’s hair bands, it was a glorious time for me.

Beer was drank. Fun was had. My Marantz chirped away at a loud but not obnoxious level with my preferred musical selections. Husker Du, The Replacements, Pearl Jam, etc. But, inevitably, just as we couldn’t control the amount of people flooding into our room, we also couldn’t keep control over the music. I found myself trapped on one side of the room when I heard it. The music stopped, the disc tray slid out, a Def Leppard CD was produced, the tray slid back in, ‘play’ was pressed and THE VOLUME WAS CRANKED. I knew what my Marantz were capable of and the volume was red lined to dangerous heights.

If you’ve been in a car accident, you know there is that moment that probably only lasts a millisecond but feels like an eternity. That moment where you can see everything bad that is about to happen and you are powerless to stop it. I looked at my roommate who was also trapped on another side of the room and mouthed ‘Oh, no’ just as “POUR SOME SUGAR ON ME ooohhh IN THE NAME OF LOVE” screamed through the room. It was loud. Too loud. The sound bounced against the cement walls and reverberated back creating a devilish echo chamber of horrible music. If you’ve been waterboarded, you still don’t know the agony – the torture – of being in that room, that moment.

I knew my Marantz wouldn’t put up with this transgression for long. Before I could wade my way through the crowd to the stereo, I heard the unmistakable crackle and pop of a blown speaker. They killed themselves right then and there. And I couldn’t blame them. I remember opening that CD tray and shouting “Who put this shit in here?!” before flinging the CD like a buzz saw across the room. Fucking Def Leppard killed my awesome speakers. What a way to die.

So, I’m mindful of the last moments of my little iPod. What was it playing when it had enough? I don’t have any Def Leppard on there but I’ll cop to some ABBA. Who doesn’t like a little Mamma Mia when on a road trip with friends? If ABBA killed my iPod, I hope it was Super Trooper and not Dancing Queen.

Now, when running, I’m stuck listening to the birds sing, the wind rustling through the leaves, the melancholy bark of lonely dogs, children frolicking with squirt guns. You know, all that annoying shit.

Here’s to hoping that Apple can fix and/or replace my lil music box quickly so I can once again drown out the incessant sounds of nature and life. I need to match my steps to the thump thump of an angry, aggressive bass. Any more of this pure oneness with my body and the intoxicating senses of the natural environment may send me the way of the Marantz. I’ll zig rather than zag right into oncoming traffic…

Happy trails.
_________________________________

Happy 4th of July weekend! I hope everyone enjoys some quality tunes whilst drinking beer and lighting small explosives in their yard. Go America!

Why Am I Running?

2011-06-27T11:10:00.002-04:00

What the hell am I running for?

This thought occurred to me about 7 miles into yesterday’s Sunday 10 mile long run. It was over 80 degrees; sweat pouring off of me; my saturated wrist band crying mercy. I don’t actually have a race on the schedule. I have no training plan. I just kinda ran the half marathon over Memorial weekend and then…kept going with the same basic schedule as if I had another half marathon coming up. Which I don’t.

So, what exactly am I running for anyways?

Well, besides the fact that I love to run. And I get moody and (more) sarcastic when I don’t get my scheduled miles in. Plus, it sure makes my butt tight. I don’t have any desire to be imprisoned long term but, if I were, I just know I’d be the belle of the ball.

The annual Cherry Festival 5k is coming up in less than two weeks. I’ve run this race 9 out of the last 10 years. In fact, it was this race that I got me started running over ten years ago in the first place. It’s been a tradition for me. But I don’t think I’m going to do it this year. I just don’t like where I’m at for a 5k right now. Some folks sign up for races every few weeks and, whether they trained hard for them or not, go right ahead and run them. I don’t. I like to focus in on just a few races a year and work hard to PR those races. I’m not a race whore. If I can’t (or haven’t) put in the work to make a PR effort, then I simply don’t run the race.

I know, I know, there is a subset of the running crowd that likes to roll out the hippie-dippie themes Time Doesn’t Matter and Can’t We all Hold Hands And Run Together and Love The Feel Of The Motion Not The Ticking Of The Clock. Hey, whatever floats your boat. My boat is floated by my competitive spirit. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I’m not necessarily competitive against other runners – though I do like to see if I can age group place – but against the clock and myself. This, my friends, is where the FUN resides FOR ME. I love to mentally abuse myself if I don’t reach my time goal just as much as I enjoy a virtual high five between my cerebellum and medulla oblongata when a PR falls.

In order to set these time goals, I have to have a plan. Also, I need a race. Currently, I have neither. So, I ask again, what the hell am I running for?

I better get a race on the schedule to focus the training. I’ve been running 800’s, 1200’s, tempos, limbos, etc. Basically, whatever I feel like that day. Heck, on Friday, I went out for a tempo 7 miler and, on my way past a track, decided spur-of-the-moment to do a few mile (1600m) repeats instead. Why? Well, why not? When you don’t have a goal or plan, the answer to “what should I run today” is “anything you want”.

It’s fun – I’m not going to lie – to make up workouts during the first mile of a run. But I’m not sure it’s helping me work towards any specific goal. There are a few 5k’s I’ve normally done at the end of July. Maybe I’ll work towards that. Maybe I’ll choose some new races. Or maybe I’ll just continue to do a random smattering of 800 – 1600 intervals until inspiration strikes.

I guess I really do know why I run. I just don’t know where I’m going to race next.

What about you? Do you know what the hell you are running for anyways?

Happy trails.
_________________________________

Someone order a CAT scan. Mrs. Nitmos and I must be crazy. We let BOTH kids try out for premier level soccer teams. And both made it. Now, we are “soccer poor”. Forget weekend plans…we will be standing along a pitch somewhere watching the seasons change. I miss the days when we could throw a pacifier in their mouths, set the swing to ‘fast’, and still sit on the deck with friends and beer. As long as their little heads didn’t tilt sideways and clang against the rails, you could go on for hours…Now, when the weekend comes, we are busy. I don’t even set up a schedule planner. We are busy somewhere, somehow. Just assume that is the case and life is easier….we’ll figure out the where and how on Friday.

Randumbery Finds Koalas, Chlamydia

2011-06-16T11:03:00.006-04:00

I used to run this semi regular feature called "Randumbness" about, as you would guess, various random and dumb things going on. It was nice page filler. You thought you were getting actual carefully constructed content. Instead, you were getting fluff, filler, time wasters. I'm not saying this to foreshadow this post. I'm just saying the post title is Randumbery and if you can put 2 and 2 together....well, we'll both be pleasantly surprised at your cognitive skills.

Sorry, I don’t have a cute little alliterative title for this sporadically regular feature. No “Monday Musings”, “Try It Tuesday”, “Wordless Wednesday”, “Three Things Thursday” or “Friday Funnies”. Nothing. Deal with it. There’s just a simple little clever play on words in there between random, dumb, and ran (this is a running blog, get it?) That’s all you get. I don’t do alliteration.

Khlamydia Koalas

Aww, look at this little guy. If you are like me, don’t you just want to give it an STD?

In what has to be my favorite headline of the year, AOL’s Huffington Post declares “Chlamydia and Climate Change Killing Koalas”.* Um, ‘scuse me, what was that before ‘climate change’??

Apparently, Australia’s cute little mascot, the koala, is being decimated by this common STD. Folks, I know, they are cute. And who doesn’t like a little exotic marsupial action from time to time? I’m no prude – whatever floats your boat – but, c’mon, you can’t wrap it up first? I know I haven’t been to Australia any time recently so don’t blame me. (Fingers crossed that this doesn’t occur in the U.S. llama population as then I might have some ‘splaining to do.) Has anyone seen RazZ lately?

Unless we are comfortable with this iconic animal listed in the Great Book of Extinction under the cause “venereal disease”, let’s think a bit and follow the simple rule: Wrap before you tap. Have a heart and save some of that kwuality koala tail for the rest of us.

NYQ News

My new favorite letters are N-Y-Q: New York Qualified! This has replaced ‘BQ’ as my favorite type of ‘Qualified’ qualifier. Everyone knows about the New York Marathon’s lottery system due to the outrageous number of entrant applications it gets each year. In a nutshell, you can apply each year in a row and are guaranteed entry by the fourth year if you were not randomly selected in a preceding year.

That sounded like a lot of work and, potentially, trip planning for trips that would never occur. So, I never applied. And then someone tipped me off that there is a back door way to get in the race. And since I’m a back door kinda guy…er, never mind. Apparently, NY has a qualifying time standard for guaranteed entry. If I read it correctly – and I’ve read both Moby Dick and Don Quixote – it means that you can bypass the lottery and head right to the front of the line.

And look at that, the time standard for a 40 year old male is 1:30 or below for a half-marathon. I just ran a 1:26+. I guess this makes me…NYQ’ed! Good thing I just turned 40 too because that 1:23 qualifying time for a 39 year old would have been a difficult task. Hooray for Masters leniency!

Now, let’s hope they don’t go changing the requirements ala Boston…

Soccer Saturday

Finally, soccer season is over for both kids. EXCEPT, this weekend is tryouts for next year! (It never ends.) Here’s my colt defending with his left foot while playing, wait for it, left defender for his premier team. Yes, his feet really are that huge. That’s not an illusion caused by the orange shoes. Good luck at tryouts, colt!

And here’s my filly getting last minute instructions from her swashbuckling, debonair coach who wears the hell out of those sensibly-priced Sears St. Johns Bay shorts. Since last September, she’s scored 35 goals in…35 games and is now busy trying to convince Coach St. John’s Bay that she’s ready to move on and play in a tougher league not coached by people wearing St. Johns Bay cargo shorts. We’ll see. It’s 50/50 if we’ll let her do it….much to decide at this weekend’s tryouts. Good luck, filly!

Happy Hrails!

*Or, in runner blogland, I guess that would be “Khlamydia and Klimate Khange Killing Koalas”

Race Day Voodoo

2011-06-10T10:18:00.004-04:00

I’m not a superstitious fella. I don’t believe in evil on Friday the 13th or fear black cats or walking under ladders. I definitely don’t believe that blowing out all of the candles on your birthday cake with the first puff will grant you your wish. Do I look like the richest person in the world, the sexiest, and holding dominion over all living creatures? (Well, one out of three ain’t bad though, amirite?) Birthday candles…birthday’s cruel tease. This year I’m going to wish to be a fairly normal – though heavily sarcastic - middle class white guy with too much personal debt just so ONE wish can come true.

There is a certain kind of voodoo I do believe in however: Race day voodoo. This doesn’t mean that I have little runner dolls made up and I callously stick pins in their feet while cackling maniacally. That would be stupid…and a complete waste of pins. The start line is so crowded you can just wander by and jab them into the hamstrings of the lead runners and no one knows from anything about where they came from or if they have tetanus. That’s much more mature than sitting in your car playing with dolls. But usually my race day voodoo is wholly self-contained. No chants, no amulets, no pin jabbing, no sacrifices of llamas (unless warranted…which is always). I have two little superstitions that I do. I don’t know why or how it started but I do them for every race.

1) My bib is pinned with only three pins: Two at the top and one at a bottom corner.

I don’t know why. Maybe it’s my Midwestern values. Why pin a bib with four pins when it really only requires three? Let’s not be wasteful. (I don’t want to hear from the Two Pin Mafia in the comments either. You guys are just being cocky.) It seems a bit pretentious to use ALL FOUR PINS for your bib. Who am I after all? Maybe Ryan Hall can use all four. Certainly Geoffrey Mutai gets four pins if he wants them. The rest of us, know your place, and use three. And for God’s sake, the toilet doesn’t need to flush all the time. “If it’s brown, flush it down. If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s nutty, leave it for others to marvel at.”

2) I invert my Garmin, wearing the face inward.

Again, I don’t know how this started but there I am strapping the ole Garmin on upside down. This one might have begun due to my own shameful vanity. The Garmin 205 face is so damn LARGE, like walking around with an iPad strapped to your wrist, that I started inverting it so that, from the outside, only the thin little wrist strap shows. And, like Pringles and shaving, once you start, you just can’t stop. I strap it on like this every time. If you look at my last post, you can see me pushing Stop on my inverted Garmin. Most folks just think I’m checking my pulse which makes me seem like some sort of super cool doctor so, really, it’s a double win.

I believe both of these superstitions have contributed to my race day successes. And, sure, it doesn’t hurt that some of my age group competition is lying in a medical tent with bloody pinhole marks dotting across their IT bands but that’s none of my business (anymore). Perhaps they should have had a horseshoe over their head?

Do you enjoy any race day superstitions? I assume everyone showers before running a marathon right?

Happy jabbing.
________________________________

PlanetGear.com sent me a Sigg water bottle to try out and "review". I don't want to forget about this since I promised that I would post something so....here goes:

How does one review a water bottle? It's a cool design: silver, metallic, looks like a giant suppository. It holds water well, no leaks. Water seems to stay cool for a satisfactorily amount of time. Basically, everything you could want in a water bottle outside of self refilling and long, gentle shoulder massages. Plus, it sure beats trying to walk around with water cupped in your hands for two hours!

PlanetGear.com would also like you to know that they are having a Father's Day sale on Gu and Ultimate Direction stuff.

Thank you for the water bottle...now go there and get your own. Oh, and be sure to drink your Ovaltine.

Run Angry: A Sexism Story

2011-06-07T09:58:00.012-04:00

How many of you knew that another Nicholas Cage movie, Drive Angry, was released on DVD recently? You might have missed it at the theatre. I was thinking about seeing it but then stopped to get gas and it was gone in 60 seconds. In fact, by the time you get done reading this sentence, it’s already been moved to the discount bin at your local video store. And by the time you get done reading this sentence, it’s now one of the movies available for 3 box tops on the back of your favorite Kellogg’s cereals (right next to Mannequin 2: On The Move). But, at the very least, it provided me a title from which I can derive a blog post.

I’m not a pleasant person. In fact, when I race, I can be downright persnickety…bordering on bile-spitting angry. Add in a pinch of sexism – directed at me – and you get the full on furrowed brow (great name for a band, by the way*). Usually I’m the one making sexist comments - not receiving them - so this was quite the switcheroo.

I was the victim of unrelenting sexism through-out the entire Bayshore half marathon course. Why? Apparently it was because I had the nerve to run with a group of female runners for much of the race. See? Here I am about 8-9 miles in running just behind the, at the time, #2 female half marathoner.

That Furrowed Brow started out knitted and became furrowed after the seventh time I heard “You go girl, beat those guys!” from one of the passing female marathoners on the other side of the street or one of the coffee sipping umbrella-toters along the way. I was actually mixed into a group of three women – weren’t they lucky? – in the pack of ladies trailing the overall female lead. I heard:

“Let’s go girls!” - 18 times
“Yeah, girls, go get’em!” – 9 times
“Woo-hoo, beat those boys!” – 37 times
And “Who’s the virile sex cannon in the gray shirt?!” – one time**

Now, why did they have to go getting all sexist up in here? If you cut me, do I not bleed? If I run, do I not race? Sure, I was once accused - in my own comments - of wearing a running skirt due to my spindly little legs hanging out of my shorts like a strand of spaghetti hanging through a strainer. And, yes, I cleverly wear a sports bra to prevent my enormous pecs from slapping me in the chin (look at the picture, can’t tell I’m wearing one, can you Russ?) And maybe I’ve read Cosmo a time or two (just for the pictures, I’m not a pervert). I do loofah. A fella likes to exfoliate. But, I think obviously, I appear to most as a dude - granted with understated masculinity.

There could be no confusion. These were outright sexists attacks aimed at yours truly. Here I was busting my ass, doing the best I could, and every single comment was encouraging the group I was running with…to BEAT ME?!? Look, I just came here to run a race, not be the victim of some coordinated anti-male runner conspiracy. I started shouting back, “C’mon guys, show the skirts whose boss!” One young lady shouted “You got him, girl!” and I sneered back “Hey, what’s for dinner, toots?!” It got ugly out there, let me tell you. Ever been booed at a race? Drop a few sexist cliché bombs and see what happens. Spectators started hissing at me; I started growling at them and punching at the crook of my arm in an exaggerated F*ck You flip off motion. It was full on WWF for awhile. I think someone took a swing at me with a metal folding chair.

Finally, I’d had enough and decided to speed away from the female peloton. Here I am kicking into high gear and, for the honor of men everywhere, making the pass. Not photographed? Me looking over my shoulder shouting “Does my PR make you look fat?” (I will be copyrighting this.)

Green - with envy

After building a nice 25 foot lead I offered up the following nugget: “I still got extra testosterone to burn, honey.”

Finally, after another 50 feet, I yelled out confidently, victoriously “Susan B. Anthony sucks!”

I didn't want to do it. Kinda felt like I had too.

Now, despite all evidence, I’m no angel. Walk me past a grocery aisle with cantaloupes and you will hear a few giggles and a comment (and maybe, just maybe, I pick up two of them and do a little imitation). I saw the remake of I Spit On Your Grave and felt a twinge of sympathy for the guys. And I’m a firm believer that, while men should never wear side split running shorts or run topless (except me, of course), women should be encouraged to do both. Jell-o? Good for one thing: female wrestling. But should this make me a target for rampant sexism? No, I don’t think so. Me not likey. Me not likey long time.

You know what I realized during my sexist half marathon experience? It’s more fun making the sexist comments than receiving them. I think I’m going to stick with that. That’s the real lesson here.

Happy trails. And Run Angry!

*Format stolen from Denis Leary's Why We Suck.
**This was unspoken but I got the very strong impression from one spectator that this is what they were thinking.
_________________________________

Hey, here’s an obligatory finishing shot of me pushing my Garmin stop instead of looking at the camera. Or, am I texting this post? Believe me, by mile 10, I already had half of this post written in my head and thought I’d get a jump on things before getting to the finish.

_________________________________

It should go without saying that the preceding post is intended for sophomoric humor purposes. While I did hear numerous Beat The Boys comments, they made me chuckle. In fact, several of the commenters realized I was in the group and would yell “Woo-hoo, Go Girls…Beat those boys!...And go guys too!” Adding the last comment in after eventually noticing me in the pack.

"Holy Shit, A PR!"

2011-06-03T10:25:00.005-04:00

The 2011 Bayshore Half Marathon Race Report

No, I wasn’t Raptured. I stood out there ten yards past the finishing mats with my head thrown back, arms extended, and my shorts around my ankles (don’t ask why) and…nothing. No Rapture. Not even a slightly uplifting breeze to move me from a “leans left” to a “tilt right”. Just a few angry, jeering shouts such as “Get out of the way, you fool!”, “Look at this idiot!” and “You call that a penis?”

It was cold out. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

The weather was darn near perfect. The Bayshore races, oddly enough, take place along the shore of a bay. For the half marathon, they bus you out 13 miles to the middle of a farmer’s field where a mini shanty town of chilly runners spring up in the hour before the race. Then, you run back in from the peninsula. The hard straw is crunchy beneath the feet and the naturally growing ground brownies aren’t nearly as delicious as they sound. Very oaty. The buses pull up every few minutes depositing more shivering runner’s into the crisp, cool 50 degree morning air. The runner’s were dancing side to side trying to keep warm and chattering their chatterboxes while the cows mooed anxiously in the next corral. Everyone likes hamburgers and I think they knew it.

Grand Traverse peninsula: Home of wineries, cherry trees, and animal feces

It’s not exactly Hopkinton but it is a unique and charming race environment: The beautiful Grand Traverse Bay on one side and a myriad of cherry trees and livestock on the other. No one felt out of place pissing on the straw and cherry trees* either, which was nice. The rain pelted down in the final 30 minutes leading into the start of the race and I thought I was in for a wet one (t.w.s.s) After the national anthem two minutes before the race started, the hard rain gave way to a light, cooling mist. Really, it couldn’t have been more perfect. This mist held up for the duration of the half marathon. It was like someone running next to you the entire way with one of those misting fan bottles surrounding you in a cocoon of cooling breezy air. Damn, if I could bottle that race day weather, I would.

I won’t bore you with text of the mile by mile breakdown. Let’s just say that the race unfolded precisely as I had desired. I can’t follow a disciplined pace plan in a 5k, 10k, or marathon but, for some reason, half marathons I nail right to plan. Example? I targeted 59:40 at nine miles. Actual? 59:37. Also, I wanted slightly descending mile split times, starting easy for the first 3-4 miles, and then picking up the pace. I wasn’t nearly as consistent in my splits as last September’s half marathon but, overall, right to plan.

My goal was to beat 6:40 per mile pace and make Harold Camping appear the fool (again).

Here, in all of their glory, is my mind numbingly boring race splits (for my personal posterity):

Mile 01 6:43
Mile 02 6:49
Mile 03 6:45
Mile 04 6:41
Mile 05 6:25
Mile 06 6:37
Mile 07 6:31
Mile 08 6:29
Mile 09 6:37
Mile 10 6:37
Mile 11 6:33
Mile 12 6:39
Mile 13 6:27
Last bit 5:58 pace (46 seconds)

Numbers? Yes, numbers:

1:26:37 time
13.11 miles (Garmin sez 13.13 miles)
6:37 pace

26th of 1652 overall
5th of 86 in age group

A new PR by 66 seconds! (drum roll, cymbal crash, and update my side bar…eventually). To be fair, my Garmin measured this course at a more accurate 13.13 miles compared to my race last September which recorded a 13.29 distance and led to me making all sorts of derisive comments about the length of the course. So, if you consider the .16 difference in Garmin between the races and a 66 second PR, realistically, I’m probably running about the same as I was last September. But, you can only run the course presented right? So, a PR is a PR! And now you know why I stood past the finishing mat with my arms out and pants down. In other words, I was in “PR pose”.

Overall, I am very pleased how this race turned out. Of the dozens of races I have run, there are only a handful where you feel completely satisfied afterwards…I had a plan, I followed it, the weather was perfect, I felt strong, PR resulted! Besides the lingering taste of ground brownie in my mouth, everything went right to plan.

Except the Rapture. Oh, and Camping’s prediction was wrong again.

Eventually I sheepishly pulled my pants back up and wandered through the refreshment line to grab some cookies (with a few eye rolls and “ewwww”s from the volunteers) and headed to my car. While I was enraptured with the results, I wasn’t Raptured. Enough were, however, to leave me in 5th place and awarded an age group medal.

Into the drawer it goes!

Happy trails.

*Remember that the next time you buy tart cherries. They may just have been hydrated by hundreds of pre-race jittery runners. That’s what gives them the unique flavor.
__________________________________

Stay tuned next for a secondary race report about the rampant sexism I encountered while running this race. If you are easily offended, you’ll no doubt be horrifically offended by the off-color way in which I discuss this sensitive topic!

Harold Camping Predicts My Race Time

2011-05-26T10:17:00.003-04:00

This Saturday is judgment day. Not Judgment Day in the fire and brimstone sense but small letter judgment day in the how-hard-did-you-train sense. It’s the Bayshore half marathon this Saturday! It should be Rapturous.

I’ve been having a difficult time determining just how well I’ll do in this race. My training log is filled with data but do I take the information as the absolute truth in text….or as parables for my training in general? Can I apply what I see from a 9 mile training run logged in the Book of Nitmos and extend it to a real life half marathon? How do I interpret the, at times, conflicting data? I did what any insane, hopelessly confused, mentally weak fool would do. I asked Harold Camping, Mr. Rapture 5/21, for help. I figured he had some free time now as his appointment calendar was empty past Saturday, right?

I gave him a quick call.

“Hello? Mr. Camping? I know you are great about studying a book and divining numbers for important events down to the exact day, hour and minute. Well, this half marathon is coming up for me. Can you help me predict my race time if I read to you from my training log? I’m setting goals…and I’d like to be precise…”

“God?”

“No, no….it’s Nitmos, though you wouldn’t be the first to ask.” Blushing.

“Jesus?”

“You are such a kidder. We both know he’s more of a baritone and that I have trouble with hair growth between the sideburns and chin. Say, any chance some of the top runners in my age group might have been sucked skyward last Saturday during your most recent Rapture and no one noticed? A few people here and there could suddenly ascend and no one would probably pay much attention unless they were pumping gas at the time and started spraying everyone with gasoline until the hose yanked out of their hands. A few gaunt runners would probably float fairly quickly out of view. I wouldn’t mind an age group medal…might look nice twinkling in the approaching celestial light during your next Rapture! I’m all for selective, sporadic Raptures if it bumps me up the age group rankings if you know what I mean. In fact, put me down for your last Rapture. I’d like to get some bling first.”

“You will live through hell on Earth and battle parched, angry mobs.”

“Yeah, it should be a tough race. The forecast looks okay and there should be plenty of water though, I agree, I will get thirsty. Runners can be surly late race…don’t know about angry. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Only 3% shall ascend, the rest shall remain behind…”

“Actually, the awards go five deep. Not sure what that is percentage-wise but…Hey, can you give me a finish time?”

“Genesis 1:28 says – "

“Hey, that’s nearly my current PR and very close to what I think I can do now. Let’s hope you’re right. I’d take it!”

“ - Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground.”

“Whoah, that may be going a little too far. 'Rule over every living creature that moves on the ground'? Damn, that would be cool though….at least for one morning. Well, thanks. I’ll talk to you post-race to see if you were right. Don’t go selling all of my possessions while I’m gone. Whether or not 1:28 happens, I still want those shows I have on TiVo. Bye.” Click.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I am shooting for something in the 1:27 range. Two misses in one week could be a bit much for him to bear. As it turns out, ole Harold C miscalculated by five months for his latest Rapture. The Next Great Rapture is actually Oct. 21st which, unfortunately, is five days after my planned Grand Rapids Marathon so it should be a more crowded field (arrrggh, why can’t we rapture before race day to make age grouping a little easier!! (shakes fist at sky))

For now, I’ll just concentrate on the Bayshore Half in two days. I hope he’s not that far off on my race time prediction or it could be a long afternoon.

Maybe if I get that PR, I’ll just extend my arms, throw my head back and wait for my ascension.

I just hope it doesn’t jiggle and spill my post-race beer on the way up. Rapture or not, a dehydrated runner needs his carbs.

Happy trails.

Note: The preceding phone conversation was completely fictional. I won’t call long distance unless it is to an 800 number. And 800 numbers don’t connect to Crazy Land.

Note 2: If you ever google images for 'Harold Camping', you will be surprised to find out how many photos there are of guys named ‘Harold’ who are camping at various parks and like to post them online.
_________________________________

Folks, Planet Gear sent me a cool Sigg water bottle which I have washed and prepped to use but have not done so as of yet. It looks like a fantastic water bottle though as far as water bottles go. They are currently running a Quicksilver and Roxy sale this week through next Tuesday and would like you to go there and check it out. They may have some upcoming sales on GU and Ultimate Direction things as well so stay tuned and check out Planet Gear when you have some time.

And be sure to drink your Ovaltine.

What This Race Means To Me

2011-05-20T10:06:00.003-04:00

What does the Bayshore Half Marathon on May 28th mean to me?

Nothing much.

I kid, I kid. It means more than nothing…but certainly south of something significant. It’s my first race of the year and, after a long cold winter and consistently depressing rainy spring, it will serve as a “baseline” race to determine where I’m at and where I need to go for the rest of the year. This isn’t a big showdown race between me and PR. Though there is an off-chance I could PR, doing so would probably inspire one of the following surprised proclamations:

- “Holy shit, a PR!”
- “Damn, I’m faster than I thought…someone get me a mirror, maybe I’m better looking than I thought too!”*
- “I was kidding when I said ‘do not resuscitate’….” Beeeeeeeeeeep!

It’s one of those races where I’m going to just show up and see what happens. I do that a lot in life. Others may have kicked ass on exams, quizzes, and SATs but I never – never – lost attendance points. Who’s the dummy now? You in your Cadillac and multimillion dollar home or me typing lame blog posts in my basement while wearing slippers? I think we both know the answer to that. Attendance! Attendance paid for this drop ceiling and sensibly priced basement carpeting. Attendance pays for this HEPA filter to combat the mold spores surrounding me all day and the Claritin I take when the filter doesn’t work. I don’t know what’ll happen on May 28th but I know I’ll ATTEND the event and that’s really half the battle.

Plus, I just love to get my Gu and Gatorade on. Seriously, there’s no place else where you can just suck down Gu and guzzle Gatorade to your heart’s content without getting a sidelong, disapproving glance. I think I’m addicted. Really, that’s why I continue to sign up for races…so I can feed the monster within. Nobody cares if I double fist some Gu while attending, participating or even cheering at a race. In the proper environment, it’s completely acceptable. Light up a doobie at a PTA meeting? You’ll get those angry sidelong – hell, full on frontlong – glances. Go to an Amsterdam café? No one gives a shit. Leave the PTA meeting and casually pick up a hooker on the way home? More enraged frontlong glances from the passing PTA motorists. Hang out at Charlie Sheen’s house sitting on a chair made of interlocked, contorted hookers? No problem.

See? It’s all relative. And speaking of relative….(insert your own Appalachia joke here)

So I’m missing some of the nervous, excited anticipation for race day. To be honest, my excitement levels have decreased with each passing marathon since I first toed the line (i.e. stood nearly 18 minutes behind the gun start literally at the very back of thirty thousand people) at the 2006 Chicago Marathon. There I was all wide-eyed and trembling with excitement. The only thing more numerous than my goose bumps was my adult back acne.** I’m an old, grizzled race veteran now. I still look forward to the races but, instead of dancing back and forth with anticipation and taking in the scene with every sense with which I’ve been endowed, I’m more likely to be yawning and reaching back to try to erupt a few ripe ones on the ole back before things get started. You know, “two birds, one stone” er, “two whiteheads, one set of pinching fingers”…however the saying goes. Some folks get blood “rose blossoms” around their skinned nipples towards the end of a race…..I have them dotted all over the back of my shirt pre-race.

So where does that leave me with this race (besides amongst a litter of rhetorical questions – sorry about that)? I will attend. I will run hard. I hope to run well. But a 15 second PR means the same to me as a 30 second PR miss. I’m ballparking my current fitness level so I can revisit a half marathon later in the year and take a run towards 1:25. Also, the Bayshore takes place in my hometown and who doesn’t like to run well in their hometown? (Rhetorically speaking.)

Just excuse me if I don’t have to nervously pee every five seconds, I seem tired, and my back “itches”.

Happy trails.

*not possible
** sadly, still the case
_________________________________

Mrs. Nitmos would like you to know that I don’t have bad back acne. Sure, occasionally, I have one of those middle of the back ragers where the hands, cloth and soap don’t reach and you have to try to pop it by angling yourself up against a door frame. But, generally speaking, I’m as smooth as a baby’s bottom (if a baby’s bottom had killer lats). She says that, when she runs her hands over my back, it’s like "dragging a palm across an abacus". I don’t know what an abacus is but it must be smoo-ooo-ooth.

Also, Mrs. Nitmos recently celebrated a birthday. You may recall that last year I took her to New York and wined and dined her in an extravagant, credit card buckling fashion. Our luxurious dinners nearly cost the same as a car payment – if I owned a used 1986 Dodge Aries K car, which I do. This year? Olive Garden in Nowheresville, MI. The sands of time shift suddenly and unexpectedly…and seemingly impact the gastro-intestinal tract. Happy birthday! Next year? Arby's. Drive-thru.

When I'm Good, I'm Very, Very Bad

2011-05-18T10:42:00.002-04:00

Here’s how it normally works: I silently bitch and complain to myself about the day’s planned race pace time trial all the way up to the moment I step out the door. I make up so many excuses about why I don’t want to run/can’t run, you’d think that I’m Viper. Heck, I even consider skipping the run altogether and posting a review of beer no one is going to drink.

But I goad myself into lacing up the ole Asics and getting out there anyhow. I’m not RazZ; I won’t quit completely.

When apathy strikes, the first step is often the hardest. I have this curiously incurious intellect. I convince myself that I’ll cut down my planned 9 miles to 4-5 miles making a difficult race pace run into a comparative walk in the woods. It buoys the spirit and offers an acceptable compromise to the psyche. Well, I don’t feel like nine miles but I can do five. Let’s get the shoes on! I’ve done this a hundred times but I still fool myself. I know that, once running, I’ll complete the entire planned distance but it helps to get me out the door. I must be a complete ~~English banker~~ boob to continue to fall for this every time. Now I know how Ian feels. But, sometimes, whatever works, right?

So when I’m in one of those not so motivated moods and I’ve played mind games just to start the run, you’d think that my planned pace and distance would crash and burn like so many Christian Slater television series launches, right? Wrong. The more I complain, the more I make fun of my favorite blogger targets, the better my run goes. It’s like my hatred of hard effort, RazZ, Viper and Ian fuels my running success. My best runs often follow 3-4 hours of solid internal bitching. I get out there and I can just feel the anger and annoyance flowing through my lungs and expelling like so many twangs of the banjo. My legs churn effortlessly like Bobby Flay’s mixer through some potatoes. My feet beat back the sidewalk like a banker cackling at a struggling debtor with an anguished, outstretched arm pleading for mercy. When I’m done, the apathy and complaining have poured through the pores creating an ever expanding PR -paced puddle on the kitchen floor beneath me as I drink post-run water.

When my mood is bad, my runs are very good. Hate and anger breed PRs.

Conversely, when I’m good, I’m very, very bad. Sometimes, the weather is perfect. The birds are chirping. My hamstrings are loose and stringy. Heck, the banjo doesn’t even sound like the ominous precursor to ass rape. I want to run all day and all night and a bit more the next day until Breaking In is on. If someone asked me if I wanted to re-mortgage my home with the devil himself, I’d at least listen to the rates.

But this happiness and motivation only lasts for a mile or two. It gives way to pain, struggle, grimacing, sadness, more grimacing and, ultimately, failure. My planned pace and distance isn’t met. The joy and positive energy dissipated like a delicious Flay steak released with a gaseous shart a few hours later. Gone. Nothing to show for it except some indigestion and less laundry soap. When I’m happy and relaxed, my runs suck. Plain and simple.

Positivity In = Failure Out
Negativity In = Success Out

I must have the hate and rage and annoyance and disgust in order to run my best. I want to get this run over with right fucking NOW. I run with purpose and intensity. I run to conquer goals and show no mercy. I run to GET DONE.

The other kind of running works great when I’m not preparing for a race. I love to watch butterflies frolic and birds chirp. If I need to slow up to clear room for a toddler on a tippy tricycle, so be it. It’s a lovely day and this just gives me a few extra moments to enjoy it. And, awww, look at the little horn. Running relaxed is certainly less stressful…but also less successful.

If I’m approaching a race – as I am in less than two weeks – you better watch out. There’s a freight Hate Train rolling down the sidewalks. It cares not of butterflies and banjos, Bobby’s and bikes. It cares only of PRs and Completing This Damn Run.

It leaves old PRs and tipped trikes and skinned knees in its wake.

Happy trails.

Speed Work: Nature's Laxative

2011-05-11T10:37:00.002-04:00

Speed training is really shitty. I’m not making one of my usual clever puns or excuses to slip in a vulgar word on a public blog. Balls! I’m above that. No, I mean literally shitty. Here’s how it works (presented to you in short, masculine Hemingway sentences):

- I run intervals.
- I sweat hard.
- I am the envy of all that bear witness.
- I feel a small lump in my abdomen.
- I fear it is a hernia. Or the track made me pregnant. No, no, it’s a hernia.
- I run home for a shower.
- My hernia starts sinking lower.
- Now it pokes its head out to have a little looksee.
- I realize it is not a curious hernia and rush to the bathroom.
- I explode like I just sat on a chocolate grenade.
- I didn’t save anyone. I am the only victim.
- Clean up in aisle Ass.
- Oh, the humanity.
- I go about my day.
- I sit on three more chocolate grenades at various intervals throughout the afternoon.

This happens every time I do speed work. If I do 4 x 1600 meters at the track, I also do 4 x explosive poo on the toilet. It’s gotten to the point where, if I’m feeling a little backed up, I consider throwing on my shoes and hitting the track. I tell Mrs. Nitmos, “You know, I’m a little clogged from yesterday’s steak. I’m going to hit the track. Can you have the light and fan on with a book or two prepped on the bathroom sink. Make sure a back-up role of paper is close by! I’ll be home in 35 minutes.”

Tuesday is track/speed work day for me. And Tuesday afternoon is Call the handyman to fix the ceiling fan day as well. I have him on speed dial. We are thinking about putting in an open air retractable atrium. At this point, it just makes more sense.

Why do people take pills to get things moving down there? Just hit some intervals at your local track. Bran, fiber, Metamucil….it’s all a bunch of poopycock*. The answer is right at your local track. I’m still working on the scientific formula – which I hope to present to Runner’s World sometime next year when the restraining order has been lifted – that equates Intervals, Distance, Meat Consumption, and Effort into an equation that can be used to anticipate your colon reaction.

Something like:

(I x D / M.C. (ounces)) / π x E = # Chocolate Grenades Expected

It’s still a work in progress. Eat your heart out Einstein. (What the hell does E=mc² mean anyway? What does Meat Consumption have to do with energy?? And why on Earth would you square it?) But way to look like Doc Brown from Back to the Future, Einny. Cliché!

If you don’t want to go through all of this trouble just to rattle the ole Stink Locker, I guess you can still do manual disimpaction the old-fashioned way: The Bobby Brown-Whitney Houston way. No link. You’re welcome.

Happy….BOOM goes the chocolate grenade!

*Not a gay joke.
________________________________

1600 meter intervals in the 5:58 range. Looking for 5:55's just for the numerically pleasing sameness but, so far, no success.

Who Brought the Beach Ball?

2011-05-06T10:45:00.003-04:00

Sorry I’ve been out of commission all week. I just flew in from Pakistan….and, boy, are my arms tired!

I can’t tell you what I was doing there. I promised important folks that I’d keep my lips SEALed. I can tell you that I learned how long it takes to slowly melt a person from the ground up. About 40 minutes.

I can also tell you that the Call of Duty folks have nothing to fear from the major news organization’s war game animations. Have you seen those mission simulations they are playing on ABC, NBC, CBS, et al? I didn’t think anyone still operated a Commodore 64 or Tandy 1000 computer but, there it was on national TV. Eight bits of power in action! Er, no thanks, I’ll stick with Qbert.

I think my favorite moment last Sunday, as I settled down in my bunk somewhere in the Arabian, was watching the celebration in the U.S. We sure can celebrate with the best of them. As a rule, we don’t like effigy burning. However, we are not opposed to telephone pole shimmying and beach ball bopping.

Did you see the beach ball? Seriously, LOVE. THIS. Only in America does someone head out the door to join a celebration over the death of a world terrorist and think to themselves: wait, let me grab my beach ball first. I mean, one wasn’t just lying there in the street. And most people don’t have them already inflated and sitting around in their living room. No, I’m thinking that someone got all jazzed up, put on their jacket and shoes, and realized something was missing. Death of public enemy #1? Check. Cab money to the White House? Check. Few dollars extra in case my hooting and hollering requires a Taco Bell run later? Check. Okay, set to go….except, oh shit, I almost forgot the beach ball! I can blow it up on the way.

Have the terrorists won? If we still have the desire and foresight to inflate brightly colored, rainbow-striped plastic balls on the way to a death celebration, I’m thinking No.

This is a running blog so it is incumbent upon me to tie this into running somehow. Luckily enough, I’m up for the challenge. Last week, I unveiled my Hip, Modern Half Marathon Time Trial. It seemed well-received. Most of you would also like the half marathon distance adjusted back a few miles to make PR-setting a little easier. I believe public consensus is congealing around this goal like so much burnt tissue and bone. (BOOM! Tie in!) But, I’ve found a way to make it even more Hipper and Moderner.

I usually do some mile repeats during the week…maybe some 3 or 4 X 1600 meters. Ever do 3 x Aircraft Carrier? It’s not as easy as it sounds. Those things are looong and gusty. And God forbid 'things' are being tossed overboard at the time. Ugh, obstacles! Holy Carl Vinson, I was exhausted.

Yesterday, I managed a hipper, moderner half marathon time trial of 9.5 miles @ 6:40 pace. This was a slight step back from the 9 miles @ 6:38 pace last week but still right on race goal pace. Plus, considering all the dead weight dragging and beach ball bopping from earlier in the week, my quads were shot. Death celebrations are never good for speed work. I believe Galloway has a chapter about that in his last book.

Don’t put away the beach balls just yet. It’s Mother’s Day on Sunday. Moms rarely like burnt effigies but they seem appreciative of a friendly game of beach ball bopping kept at a safe distance from the fine china and dinnerware. If you are a Mom, Happy Mother’s Day! If you have a Mom, Happy Mother’s Day! Otherwise, I hope Ian has a nice Sunday.

Now, get out there and SEALabrate you fools! (I know I have already….but you didn’t hear that from me.)

Happy trails.
_________________________________

Things have been busy lately. I haven’t made the rounds to catch up with all of you. I will soon. Ever been “debriefed”? Apparently, it’s a long process.
_________________________________

Btw, baseball games feature heavy beach ball bopping. NASCAR, besides drunken, toothless hillbillies, features plenty of midriff muffin tops boppin' beach balls. We recently learned dead terrorists inspire beach ball bopping. Why not marathons? I rarely see a beach ball being bopped around the crowd during a race. Are we not beach ball worthy?

Hip, Modern Half Marathon Time Trial

2011-04-29T14:47:00.003-04:00

Yes, I have to admit, that I’ve been caught up in the hoopla…the spectacle…the marriage of a man of some repute. The cheers, the tears, the years together. Oh, and the beers. Lots and lots of beers. It’s been everything it was billed to be: dramatic, hopeful, grandiose and filled with suits and gold blinge. I haven’t been able to rip my eyes from the TV! It’s been quite a festival of love!

Of course, I’m talking about the NFL draft. What did you think? Royal wedding? Er, no. Wake me when Hugh Hefner gets married. USA! USA! USA! (For the record, my Lions took Nick Fairley, DT, out of Auburn. And now they are married together for a whole career…or, at least, the length of his rookie contract. I wish them well. Maybe I’ll send a toaster.)

Will you be my defensive tackle?

To celebrate this fine occasion, I decided to do a little half marathon time trial. My race is almost exactly one month away. Just far enough away to start panicking and fretting about my undertraining but far enough to not really care that much either. I still got time. My split personalities work great together: one is laid back and nonchalant while the other excessively compulses over every little detail. They usually cancel each other out and I sit back and drink beer oblivious to the inner war within my subconscious. I feel mentally drained but not something that another Schlitz can’t fix. Plus, I’m never actually compelled to action. Is there a more exhausting word to say than “action”?

Here’s the thing: Today’s half marathon time trial would consist of 9 miles at goal pace. I realize that 9 miles does not constitute a “half marathon” but I’ve long been a proponent of adjusting the distance down from the tiresome current distance, 13.11 miles, to something more PR-friendly like 8 or 9 miles. So far, my emails, tweets, letters, manifesto’s, threats, and disgusted harumphs have gone unanswered by the World Half Marathon President. A man can only Harumph for so long before he gives up and grabs another Schlitz. They stubbornly cling to this whole “a half marathon is 13.11 miles” thing. What is the old saying “something something unchanged is something doomed something failure”? Yeah, take THAT!

So, if they aren’t going to reduce the distance, then I’ll need to actually reduce my time to get that PR. What a bummer. Everything always has to be the hard way, doesn’t it?

I targeted 9 miles (or, the “new hip, modern half marathon distance”) at 6:40 pace. For you math whizzes, that would be an even one hour. Nine miles @ one hour. Then, spend the rest of the day watching coverage of the marriages of large men to their football clubs.

How’d I do? Well, as William and Kate might say: Brilliant!

9.0 miles
59:41 time
6:38 pace

Under the new hip, modern half marathon distance (soon to be adopted), I would have just set a PR by 28 minutes! What a huge PR! Bully for me!

Oh, look at that, the Detroit Lions are proposing to a rugged looking linebacker. Always brings a tear to me eye. sniff sniff Time for a Schlitz, a smile, and, maybe, just a few tears. A guy can't help himself sometimes.

The NFL sure does love just right.

Happy trails.

Rainy Runday Afternoon

2011-04-27T09:22:00.003-04:00

My dog and I are a lot alike.

I realized this the other day as my dog jumped up from the total snorefest she was enjoying by the picture window and eagerly pranced over to me with ears erect just because I shifted a bit in my chair. She detected movement within her delta waves, assumed I was getting ready to take a walk, and hopped right up to let me know she’s totally up for it. Too bad for her that I was just executing a subtle Lean Right to open up room for a fart dissemination. The chair creak gave me away. This didn’t stop her from staring at me for another ten minutes with this hopeful anxiety expressing itself through an exhausting pant. It looks a lot like this:

I will do this until you walk me.

Then, I started nervously pacing the house out of sheer restlessness (and boredom). My usual intra-home itinerary consisted of living room, kitchen, check food shelves for something to eat, swing by front door to verify things were still fine with the driveway, and back into living room to change a handful of channels aaaaaand repeat. I noticed my pooch, eyes intently following, would meet me at the front door whenever I veered that way.

“What’s the matter, pup, is there a fire in the barn?!” I’d condescend and ruffle her rigid ears.
-No, asshole, I want to walk. Outside. Like the other dogs I see going by my picture window while you pretend to not watch Teen Mom. Ever hear of an umbrella?-

It was drizzly out. No hard rain. I could have thrown on a poncho and took her for a walk. I had lots of energy to burn. I had missed my weekend long run due to excessive amounts of youth soccer games, rain, and 35 mph winds. After several laps, I realized that not only did the dog want a walk but I needed a run. I could totally sympathize. I was way too energetic for a normal Runday afternoon. Here she was dependent on me for some energy-releasing, high-quality walking. And here I was staring out the window at 35 mph winds, rain, and stuck at home with a 9 year old that would be left unsupervised if I made a run for it. Literally. And this is no regular 9 year old. Ever read Junie B. Jones AND Judy Moody AND Ramona books? Yeah, put those characters together plus some Dennis the Menace and you have the impish qualities of my pre-teen firebrand. She cannot be left alone or there really will be a fire in the barn. We don’t have a barn but I’m pretty sure she could make one and then burn it down before I finished not watching Teen Mom.*

So, I continued to pace; the dog continued to meet me at the door. She didn’t get her walk; I didn’t get my run. I looked into those increasingly sad, brown eyes and said, “I don’t think it’s happening today, girl.” But I wasn’t sure if I was talking to her or to myself.

We both let loose a deeply disappointed exhale and wandered back into the living room. Before long, we were both curled up contentedly licking ourselves.

My dog and I are a lot alike.

Happy trails.

* I really don't watch Teen Mom.

Soccer Hooligans

2011-04-26T09:27:00.012-04:00

Our weekend in three photos.

It was another wet and muddy weekend on the pitch for my soccer hooligans. Despite that sun in the background, you can see the field conditions plastered all over their uniforms. My filly took on one of the best teams in the area in her age group and managed a 3-3 tie (probably should have won, in fact!) She netted two goals and a big smile.

My colt's team lost a late heartbreaker 5-4. The team had mud "war paint" on their cheeks but, by the time this photo was snapped, it had worn away.

I believe she is in the house getting a brownie. I hope that's not brownie on her shorts. They kind of look like that famous poopy-pants marathoner's shorts, don't they?

Being that this is soccer, I'd like to point out that there was no rioting in the stands or drunken brawls ending in fires and arrests. It was a mostly docile crowd though my son's English coach did have to tell a parent to stop yelling at the ref at one point. Score one for the English!

I got drunk later that night.

Kidding.

I've been drunk all day.

Happy trails.

Boston 2011: A Postscript

2011-04-22T09:44:00.004-04:00

POSTSCRIPT, dateline 4/21/2011, F.M.S. Studios: My last post about the non-World Record World Record at the 2011 Boston Marathon generated some interesting comments. First of all, how dare you be more interesting in the comments than I am in the original post. Don’t you know the proper rules of etiquette when dealing with a host? If my post is going to be hastily conceived and sophomoric, your comments should be ill-considered, poorly researched and, at most, freshmanic. Secondly, I know my own special brand of snark isn’t always detectable by the naked eye upon read through. I operate on an entirely different snark plain than most. It can be easily confused for serious opinion when just the opposite was intended.

To be clear: Having run the challenging Boston course, I can say, from firsthand experience, that the net downhill is not much of a benefit. It’s not like the course starts on higher ground and just gradually slopes gently down to the finish. There are hills. And bumps. And slopes. And general dipsy-doos through-out the entire 26.2 miles. Even though you end on lower ground than you started, your quads and calves have run a gauntlet of torque and submission. It’s fair to say that the Boston course keeps you on your toes with its different challenges on different parts of the course. For comparison, I’ve run Chicago. Chicago is largely flat. It is a much easier course that, I do believe, QUALIFIES for world record time ratification. How can an easier course qualify when a universally accepted tougher course cannot?

I also realize there are rules, regulations, qualifications and governing bodies that have measuring devises and satellites and guys on bikes with chalk rollers that control all of this and that the serious elite marathoners know this in advance. Or should. Still, my point was that, somewhere along the way, COMMON SENSE must prevail. Boston is, perhaps arguably, the premier marathon event in the world. Certainly one of a very few, anyhow. How can a time run on its course NOT be a World Record qualifier?? Have you ever heard ANYONE suggest that Boston is an easy course? Just the opposite, in fact. Isn’t that actually part of its allure besides the tradition?

So, my basic issue was not that this was a surprise to any of the winners despite my playful wording. It WAS a surprise to me however. Important People with Titles and a part of a Governing Body can point out stats and measurements and net downgrades and tailwinds all they want. I’m talking about COMMON SENSE here. And, look, my COMMON SENSE has way more bolded, capitalized letters than your Governing Body. Every race course is different. Every course presents its own challenges. Some are easier than others. Heck, some are specifically advertised to let you know that it is “the easiest course to qualify for Boston.” Obviously, not every course can be ratified for a world record just because it is 26.2 miles for, as Vava observes, someone will go out and establish a marathon descending Mt. Everest or, as I’d call it, “The Tuck and Roll Marathon”.

But wouldn’t common sense tell you that THOSE are the races NOT to qualify? Those are operating beyond the fair spirit of the athletic event and record books. Sheesh, let’s have a bit of COMMON SENSE and get Boston ratified already. There is nothing intrinsically “easy” that should prevent Boston from qualifying for a world record.

Descending off my soap box….before my ALL CAps key fails. oops, look at that, it already did.

happy trails.

_______________

Why are mile repeats so hard? Things are slowly rounding into form. You can’t force speed into a place that doesn’t fit….I know this even as I bang my square legs around the oval track. Ugh.

3x1600m (800m cool downs) at 6:00, 5:59, 6:00 respectively. The hopes for 5:55’s died by 800 meters.

Maybe I made my legs trapezoidal as they start on their journey from square to round to fit in the speed oval. More banging away to come…what comes after trapezoid. Rhombus? Or vice versa?

Boston: The Ultimate Fun Run

2011-04-20T11:10:00.004-04:00

Does anyone find it just a little ironic that the Boston Marathon – with it’s rigid to-the-second qualifying standards and reputation as the Big Enchilada of all marathons drawing world class competitors from around the globe (i.e. Kenya) – cannot ratify a time set on its own course as a world record?? It has too much of a net downhill and there may be a tailwind. USA Track and Field told Reuters: “Boston marathon performances cannot be ratified as world records as the course does not satisfy two of the criteria for world records.” I wonder if one of the requirements is: Cannot be set on the world’s most famous marathon course.

I just assumed that Boston, with its reputation as a challenging course and the standard-bearer for certification at courses around the country, would be World Record Qualified (WRQ). I’m sure this is no surprise to many of you but, frankly, this is news to me. (Also, we landed on the moon!)

Why am I pointing this out? Unless you live in a cave (i.e. Ohio), you know that Kenya’s Geoffrey Mutai pranced to the finish Monday in 2:03:02 destroying the official world record by 57 seconds (2:03:59, Berlin, 2008). He had time to re-tie a shoelace on Boylston St., if need be. Or lie down on a plush leopard rug right before crossing the line to pose for a sexy photo. THAT’S how bad he pwned Haile Gebrselassie’s official record time. In fact, with a time like that, you have to wonder what took Haile so long.

There seems to be something terribly wrong when the premier event for a sport cannot ratify its champ for world records. What if the Super Bowl champ could not be crowned because they determined that the football used in the game was made of llama skin rather than the tastier, less-spitty cow? Congratulations, you won! Sorry, but we will not be able to confirm your victory in the record books. Wrong ball skin.* What if NASCAR decided to go the other direction at Daytona? Same distance but a bunch of right hand turns instead of left. Nope, no speed record for you. Thanks for coming out and spiking beer sales in the mid-Florida area though. Here’s your money, trophy, and giant ASTERISK to carry around. Clean up your chaw stains on the way out, please.

Is Boston just a glorified Fun Run? Here I am busting my butt trying to “BQ” when, all this time, there was no chance of me setting the world record at Boston? What was I working so hard for? I’ve been playing rope-a-dope with the top Kenyans and Ryan Hall, et al, by never posting an official marathon time better than the 3:12 range. Lying in wait - like Mutai’s pre-skinned leopard - for my chance to pounce, blowing past the field in a stunning 2:02 at a future Boston. And now what? No friggin’ record? You can shove your laurel wreath up my Johnny Kelley if you know what I mean. I’ll save my world record effort for a race that cares.

Perhaps Boston should worry less about everyone else’s BQ and more about their own WRQ. With all of the recent Boston controversy over qualifying times, I’m starting to think that Boston is like the one sober friend of the promiscuous race slut at the bar who is busy BQ blocking everyone else. Then, come to find out, she’s a MAN.

Despite the non-world record World Record, the 2011 Boston Marathon was an exciting, record-setting race. Ryan Hall, 4th overall, set a non-U.S. record U.S. record. America’s Desiree Davila finished two non-qualifying seconds behind Kenyan Caroline Kilel for the women’s title in one of the most fantastic finishes ever. And I doubt any of the competitors heard the WR-DQ sad trombone playing in the background as they held up their trophy and reviewed their race splits. Congratulations Geoffrey and Caroline! You won the world’s most famous Fun Run!!

It was only later that they got the asterisk attached to their time. And the Boston crème pie to the face.

Happy trails.

* Is it just me or do I say this entirely too frequently in my life?
_________________________________

I’ve been following Thomas, from Diary of a Rubbish Marathon Runner, who achieved his goal of sub-3 hour marathon this past weekend in Vienna. Go there and read his report. It’s pretty darn good. Congratulations to Thomas!

Congratulations to Nate who bested 3 hours at Boston! Here’s his recap.

Waiting for Sean’s exciting Boston report here.

And, of course, Spike’s Boston should be rolling in soon here.

Randumbery Goes Arm Pit Digging

2011-04-15T10:22:00.002-04:00

I used to run this semi regular feature called "Randumbness" about, as you would guess, various random and dumb things going on. It was a nice page filler. You thought you were getting actual carefully constructed content. Instead, you were getting fluff, filler, time wasters. I'm not saying this to foreshadow this post. I'm just saying the post title is Randumbery and if you can put 2 and 2 together....well, we'll both be pleasantly surprised at your cognitive skills.

It just feels like a Randumbery kinda day doesn't it? In the 80’s – ‘member those? - there was a weird series of subversive movies making the rounds called Faces of Death. It spawned several sequels. It was really inappropriate, as I say to my kids now, but at the time we could feel our teenage rebellious innards embiggen with every knock of the mallet on the monkeys skull and every mouthful of brain a diner eagerly gulped down. Monkey brains, a delicacy in some parts of the world! It was one of the scenes, one of the more subdued scenes in fact, in the Faces of Death “films”. But you had to be in the mood to sit through it….much like sitting through Randumbery. I’ve decided for you that you’re in the mood.

Your Pancreas Looks Fat

As the owner of a daughter, I’ve become more aware of the societal pressures on female body image. It struck me in the face the day my then seven year old filly lifted up her shirt to show her rail-thin, rib cage exposed, near starvation level stomach and pronounced “I think I’m getting fat.” After I picked my lower jaw off the floor, I then launched into a series fawning compliments about how perfect she is and how she could eat at buffets for the next two years and no one would notice and that, though her belly button area could lose a millimeter or two, let's be honest, her stomach was perfect size - overall (almost no one will notice the millimeter or two) – for someone her age. Some of that may or may not be true but I’m sure I acted like a real buffoon with all of the over-exaggerated, self-esteem building compliments to combat the spector of anorexia looming behind her.

She looked at me like I was on crack. I eyed my fourth fudge stripe cookie suspiciously and put it away.

I think Stephen Colbert’s recent “The Word” summed things up pretty good. It’s well worth five minutes of your time. Pure genius comedy. Love this:

The Colbert Report

Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

The Word - Buy and Cellulite

www.colbertnation.com

Colbert Report Full Episodes

Political Humor & Satire Blog

Video Archive

How Quickly You Metabolize Quizno’s

The 115th Boston Marathon is Monday. There’s part of me that wants to be there and part of me that’s glad I’m not. I sure as hell didn’t want to have to train through this gawdawful winter. One of my favorite memories of the 2008 Boston Marathon was learning just how quickly my body could take in a solid food through the mouth, process it, and then spray it out my anus in pure liquid form. Total time? About twenty minutes. Long –time readers will recall my unfortunate choice to eat a taco from an airport taco stand in Washington D.C. while awaiting the connection to Boston.

Bad decision. I couldn’t hold anything in for two days. I walked around Boston with an eye towards each restroom as my body continually rejected food. After 48 hours, I figured the bug must have passed so I gambled and ate a few big bites of a Quizno’s sub. Then I ate another. Then I turned slightly green. Then I thought I was Paul McCartney for four minutes. Mrs. Nitmos asked how I was doing and I said “Let it be, let it be.” After a few minutes of gently sobbing with my face in my palms, I headed into the Quizno’s bathroom and sprayed down their stall like a fireman putting out a porcelain fire.

Maybe I was still sick. Or maybe Quizno’s is the perfect laxative.

Hella Sounds

Our good blog friend John Frenette from HellaSound has new music available. It’s original running music synced to YOUR pace and designed to burn calories. Have you checked it out? He has several songs in his catalog as well as a free song that you can check out to see what it is all about (according to his email blast).

John so graciously provided the intro music for our upstart podcast, Banned on the Run (currently experiencing production delays, cost overruns, rewrites, rehab, and general apathy), at no charge. How did we repay him for his time? By using it 2-3 times and then not podcasting anymore. Since none of the BotR crew are going to pay him for his time, the least YOU could do is buy a song or two from the guy. Go there.

Going Down

Yesterday’s race pace eight miler was accomplished at 6:43 pace. That’s better than last week’s 6:47 pace but the destination is 6:35 pace. I need to go down more (t.w.s.s.)

I’ll be at six – that’s 6 – soccer games this weekend for the kids. Who would have thought standing on the sidelines eating popcorn, chatting with other parents, and shouting “You gotta want it!” with popcorn shards spitting out of my mouth could be so exhausting? I don’t know why the kids are complaining.

Happy trails.

Am I a Runner If I Don't Get Runner's World?

2011-04-13T09:36:00.002-04:00

I’m going to let my Runner’s World subscription lapse. I’m not cancelling it in some sort of angry huff. Nothing’s getting punched. No one’s getting set on fire (this time). This is a big step for me because I normally do many things in an impulsive huff which garners numerous Stern Looks and the occasional Right To Remain Silents and the odd Put Down The Gas Can Or We Will Shoots.

I just don’t think I get much value out of Runner’s World anymore. I’ve had the subscription for at least four years – probably longer – and I dutifully read every issue. It didn’t take long before I realized, as all RW readers eventually do, that most of the features are souped up retreads like a TV sitcom. (Hey, have you ever seen a family sitcom in which the father of the family is a bumbling idiot and his put-upon wife has to suffer all his foibles wearily but gladly? Sure you have. It’s every sitcom.) I guess I’ll go without the biannual Secrets to My Best 5k where Expert A basically confirms what Expert B suggested six months earlier (and the years before that with Expert C, D, E, not F, but G. F was a real bozo.). I like the food and nutrition sections but I don’t do the family grocery shopping and, when I’m in a restaurant, I can’t remember what they said about this piece of fish versus this other piece of fish anyway. Mmmm, mercury! Maybe? Who knows.

But what will I do without the latest show review? I guess continue to ignore them as I always did. The same shoes, just the newer version, receive the Editor’s Picks every time anyhow.

Some of the magazine covers are cool. I mean, the magazine covers with Kara Goucher and the other female running glitterati are cool but then they go and spoil it with all the male posers with painted on abs. Jump back into your Abercrombie & Fitch catalog fellas. No one needs that. I’m in the book store often enough. I can put down the magazines in the high upper left hand corner of the shelf and wander over to see who’s on the RW cover (as long as I don’t expire the five minute wait loitering limit they imposed - for me.)

I don’t have anything against Runner’s World. In fact, the feature articles are often entertaining. I love reading about the history of the sport though, if I’m being honest, there isn’t nearly enough runner on runner knife stabbings.* Who doesn’t like to read about the former Boston winners and Olympic champions? Articles on runners who have overcome significant injury, disease, war, and thresher accidents make some issues into the Hallmark Channel of running magazines. But those stories only occupy 3-4 pages. Is it worth it to subscribe to an entire magazine for 3-4 pages a month? I can cherry pick those off the shelf whenever I’m facing a long car ride or, since it’s only a couple pages, a short car ride to the liquor store.

I feel like I’m turning in my Official Runner Badge by letting my subscription go unrenewed. Aren’t we all supposed to subscribe? If I don’t have a subscription , do I become some sort of rogue, unlicensed bandit. Do I have to turn in my moisture wicking clothes and wear *gulp* cotton?!? Or worse, Ian’s cargo shorts?

If I don’t have Runner’s World, do I not read, er, run?

Runner’s World is a quality magazine although I think they may have reached a bit with the name. World? Nah, there are lots of running events in the world that they don't cover at all. Maybe Runner's City or Runner's Municipality or Runner's Tri-County Area but "World" might be a bit of a stretch. Although I do think it IS especially handy for the new or returning runner. For me, I’m just not getting a lot of value out of it anymore. It’s like when I cancelled my subscription to Bazoombas when I realized I was more of an ass man. Someone would find Bazoombas helpful, just not me. I didn’t try to impugn the entire Bazoomba community. I just stepped away quietly.

The subscription will passively expire in July. I will passively fail to send in a check for another subscription. Until then, I’ll continue to enjoy the nutrition advice. Who knows, maybe after six times reading it, I WILL remember what kind of fish to eat. Then, without fanfare, RW will suddenly stop coming like so many Bazoombas before it.

Unless they get aggressive and send me more unwanted issues and – God forbid - a BILL, then it’s time to get out the ole gas can.

Happy reading.

*Would it kill them to include the phrase “and he let him bleed out on the sidewalk” in just one race recap? Honestly!
_______________________________

Good luck to Boston bounders Sean, Spike, Aron, and anyone else I may have missed. Looks like perfect weather. No excuses. Go get 'em!

But don't eat any airport tacos. Trust me.

The Mandelbaum Plan

2011-04-08T10:27:00.006-04:00

One of my favorite personal trainers is Izzy Mandelbaum. I haven’t had a chance to work with him directly but I’ve long admired his training philosophy.

This is not one of those coaches with an “online certification” from a magazine or the University of Phoenix (or equivalent). This is an actual, no messing around, I’m-here-to-bust-your-back old school muscle puller. No task is too big for Izzy. Thus, no task is too big for YOU. Izzy would rather wind up in a hospital than be told he cannot accomplish something. In the absence of all common sense, his approach makes the most sense.

I wish my coach was more like him. Instead, I’m stuck with this ruggedly handsome, surprisingly charismatic, never passed a mirror that didn’t need to be gazed into, impossible to please wanker. Whereas my coach, employs a “sensible” step-by-step approach to turning up the speed and distance over a prolonged period of time, Izzy would have had me going from 6:30 pace intervals to 4:00 within the same work-out. In fact, as soon as I accomplished one 800 at 3 minutes, he would have lifted his bullhorn, shouted “Time to turn it up a notch!” and demanded a 2 minute interval. That might be just the kind of crazy I need right now.

Here’s how the year normally progresses for me: I start slowly due to the long winter, finally getting up to acceptable speed around June/July, feel pretty strong into September/October and then precipitously fall off the speed wagon when the temperatures grow cold again. It takes so long to get back to where I was before that I can only enjoy it for a few months before I’m sliding down the back side again. Sure, who doesn’t like to slide down a back side – know what I mean – but you know what I mean.

This approach has kept me injury free for over eleven years of running but, I think, it’s also stagnated my race times. Every year around this time, I’m fighting just to get back to where I was last year let alone improve my overall performance. In summation: Winter sucks and I should move.

Or I should go with the Mandelbaum Plan. I normally run my 800’s in a high five minute pace (5:45-5:55). I’ve envied the low 5’s for awhile now from the safety of my 30 second, puke-free buffer. In fact, one of the strongest runners in Michigan trains up and down my same running routes. He’s a regular challenger for the overall win at statewide 5k’s, 10k’s and half-marathons. I see him busting out smooth and easy low fives all the time. Occasionally, he even smiles and nods (or is it sneers and mocks?) as I run by under the weight of middle class debt and anxiety. One can only go so fast with a metaphorical banker attached to one’s back whipping one's haunches like a working donkey. (Humans have haunches right?)

Lately, I’ve been passing this local star and thinking to myself: Think you’re better than me, huh? Yeah, that’s it. It’s go time. Step aside string bean. And then I accelerate waaay beyond my comfort zone…for about 10 glorious seconds before collapsing in exhaustion. Aaaaah, my back….my hamstrings…my pancreas. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.

Or was it? It’s said that “practice makes perfect” and maybe that’s true. I doubt Izzy would give up after a few ruptured hamstrings and one minor heart attack. Maybe I need to “take it up a notch” a bit more often? How often can a hamstring snap anyhow? Doesn’t a build up of scar tissue eventually make it stronger than before? To that end, I decided to ignore my current male order coach and listen to my Inner Izzy during last night’s run. I started my 8 miler in the low 7’s pace, after two miles turned it up a notch to the 6:50’s for a few more, and then cranked up a few more notches down to 6:30’s for the last several miles. The final ½ mile was pushed to a 6:15 pace just to please Mr. Mandelbaum. I was tired but it was, in fact GO TIME so what could I do? I normally would have kept this run at a consistent 6:50-7:00 pace for the duration.

Any time you step outside of your comfort zone and spike your training time/distance you are rolling the dice and risking injury. But Nitmos v.2010 and Nitmos v.2009 think they are better than me. Well, it’s go time!

Or maybe I just picked the wrong day to stop sniffing glue.

Happy Izzying.
_______________________________

8 miles @ 6:47 pace.

Shades of Yellow

2011-04-06T09:56:00.005-04:00

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.

'Not Harmful Enough'

2011-04-01T10:38:00.006-04:00

Apparently, the radiation I’m inhaling is fine. Don’t worry about it. At least, that’s what the voice on the radio told me.

I was in the middle of an aggressive eight miler last night (Limbo Run) accompanied by the local alternative rock station streaming hard thumping angst into my brain and out my stride when interrupted by this news story. Local scientists, armed with some sort of blinky light, bippity-bop box with a spinning gyroscope attached (one assumes), had detected a slight uptick in the amount of radiation in the Michigan atmosphere due to the disaster in Japan. I’m huffing and puffing along, gobbling vast quantities of air as a runner hog tends to do, while listening to this. It caused a slight hitch in my huff. Of course, the kicker was the pronouncement that the levels detected were deemed ‘not harmful enough’. For what??? They didn’t say.

“Not harmful enough”? Are there three scarier words – besides “Pauly Shore Presents” – in the English language? That “ENOUGH” just hangs on the end of that sentence fragment doesn’t it? I was raised with classic Midwestern values so I prefer NO radiation in my air just like I’d prefer no mercury in my water and no Snooki on my TV. Apparently none of those things are happening any time soon.

I like to order a nice piece of salmon when Mrs. Nitmos and I head out for an evening of decompression from the kids. But I can’t just look at the menu and order salmon. I look at the salmon’s description, how it is prepared, where it came from, and consider the cleanliness of the restaurant and guess as to whether or not they know how to properly store and prepare this delicate dish. (I may have low level OCD. I’m hoping the radiation cures it.) Then I recall the articles from Runner’s World that warns you against certain types of salmon (Atlantic Ocean, I believe) due to suspect fishing methods and pollution. But, of course, I can’t recall exactly what I read. Did it say NOT to have this type of salmon…or this was the SAFE one? Usually, I say Fuck It, eat it, and wonder deep into the night if I just ingested poison.

I’m pretty good though at compartmentalizing my fears. I’ll never go to a psychologist because, if he opens that one door near the back behind those old Dostoevsky novels, a shadow of anger and fear will come rushing out that’ll end with me chewing on his scapula bone, like stripping the chicken from a drumstick, while crouched at the top of his bookshelf moments before being tazed and landing with a thud on the floor. I told you not to go in there. So the fact that I’m being slowly poisoned by every needful inhale will get shoved under the door of the dark room along with every other nauseating memory and unhappy fact. It’ll probably come to rest next to Giving Grandma a Back Rub.

I can only do what I can to stay alive and remain healthy. I can run. I can eat (reasonably) well. I can crunch and stretchy band my evenings away rather than couch and potato chip it away. I can sacrifice llamas and drink their blood to fuel my strength. Or do that just to blow off steam. All of this is within my control. And, in the end, that still may not be enough. We are all subject to the whims of external forces. Air currents, corporate pollution, an inattentive driver, roving packs of revenge-seeking llamas: these are things that can undo all the done up effort.

It’s pretty hard to be healthy these days. The air may or may not be poisoned; the drinking water contains toxins; my running shoes are unnatural and I should be running barefoot. My parents are still convinced that my running caused my arthritis. And who hasn’t heard that ‘all of this running is going to ruin your joints’? Damn, it seems to me that runners – marathoners particularly – are the unhealthiest people on the planet. After my next race, I’m going to check myself into the hospital to get my radiation and mercury levels tested and, what the hell, get some x-rays to see how my running shoes have ruined my knees.

Or maybe I’ll just forget about all of it and keep on doing what I do. Sure, fleeting thoughts of air pollution will creep in from time to time as I gasp my way up a tough hill. I can ignore the teenager leaning out his car window shouting “Run faster, asshole!” before screeching off down the street. My post-run water will come strained through the Brita filter. I’ll take all of the negative and shove it deep into my little dark room behind those old books.

The door labeled ‘Not Harmful Enough’.

Happy breathing.
_________________________________

I realize the folks in Japan, the Pacific Ocean, and the western states have it worse than us Michiganders. This is something I’m both horrified and thankful for. However, you don’t call yourself “Michiganders” so, really, who deserves a telethon hosted by Kanye?
_________________________________

Enter for a Chance to Win A Trip to Meet Dean Karnazes in Indiana!

Enter for a Chance to Win a Trip to Meet Dean in Indiana! Eucerin is sponsoring 25 people to run with Dean in Indianapolis! Take the Eucerin Skin First pledge today. Make your skin a health priority, and you could be on your way! Enter here.

Dear Speed Work

2011-03-30T10:34:00.004-04:00

Dear Speed Work,

I love our Tuesday dates but I have a small, teeny tiny list of grievances. I think we’ve been seeing each other long enough to air these out in an open and honest forum, right?

First, and I hope this isn’t too direct, why are you such a fickle bitch? One day, you are easy to please and the laps just pass on by with both of us getting a good workout in. I enjoy your sultry ovalness; you relish the pounding of my feet. I leave healthier, happier and faster. The next, well, it’s an absolute slog. It feels like my legs have a pair of hungry, desperate orphans attached. Why do you have to make it so tough on me? And why don’t you warn me before I get to the track as a little friendly heads up that the Oliver Twist twins are around? Please, sir, can we have some more speed?

Is it so much to ask to cut down the amount of wind smacking me in the face around the first turn? I mean, really. EVERY TIME??? I know your home football team isn’t that popular so your stands weren’t built very wide or high but, heck, is that the fault of the runners? How hard is it to gently re-direct the wind so it is continually at my back? Or, at the very least, create a windless vacuum within which I can complete my speed session. You’ve become very selfish.

And you can plead innocence all you want but I KNOW that you make the track slightly larger after every lap. I’m doing 800 intervals but, really, don’t we both know that the second 400 meters is more like 450 meters? Clever trick. At first, I thought I might just be a little out of shape but, I checked in the mirror, and it’s not me. Is this more of your passive-aggressive nature coming through? I can hear you chuckling through my gasps, chokes, and sobs as I finish my third 850 interval.

I won’t blame you for the prolonged cold spell. That’s not your fault. But who placed that discarded green sweatshirt, crumpled in a heap in lane three? At first, I thought Oh, someone left a sweatshirt. After my second 800 and second tussle with the cold, biting wind in my face after turn one, I felt like the sweatshirt was put there on purpose. You know like, I don’t need it because I’m so hot but look at you in your hat, gloves and wind pants that flap and snap like a Sunfish jib sail coming about. By the fourth interval, it was pretty clear that the green sweatshirt was mocking me. The wind was frickin’ BLOWING in my face – if I had MC Hammer parachute pants I believe I might have taken flight – but that damn green sweatshirt just sat in its insolent, motionless heap. It was completely unaffected by the wind. And, yes, that was me that spit at you before my last 400 meters.

And finally, when will you get the water fountain working? I realize this has nothing to do with the track itself but the entire show – the track, the wind, the cold, the green sweatshirts, the water fountain – all need to come together to perfectly execute my symphony of speed. You don’t even give me false hope for water. I can see the pipes that were removed for winter have not been restored yet. How am I to complete my last 800 with the vision of a water oasis if there is no water? That’s a key part of the water oasis vision. You want me to suck my own spit from the green sweatshirt, don’t you?

I hope we can work this out. I intend to see you all spring, summer and fall and it’d be really nice if we could get along. What I’m saying is….it’s not me, it’s you. I’m a perfectly tuned speed machine. I’m quite sure that the long winter layoff from any meaningful speed work had no effect on me whatsoever. It’s you that’s to blame. You and your ever expanding oval. You and your filthy, contemptuous discarded sweatshirt. You and your annoying wind patterns. You You YOU.

As you can see, I’ve come here in an open, honest and non-judgmental fashion hoping to work things out. I hope you’ll make the changes necessary so that we can have enjoyable Tuesdays together.

In other words, stop being such a bitch.

Love,
Nitmos

Tresseled

2011-03-25T10:08:00.010-04:00

tresseled (v.) (1) To create a façade of integrity that hides fraudulent ethics (2) cloaked in a sweater vest (3) the feeling of soul-crushing defeat created in a Michigan football player after losing another game to Ohio State

Jimmy Two-Face

Can you use it in a sentence, please?
I told my mom that I found a home for the orphan kittens – she was so proud of me -but really I drowned them in a tub, to the amusement of my imaginary friends, to loosen their skin so I could turn their skulls into bongs. I tresseled my mom. Go OSU!

If you haven’t heard of him, Jim Tressel is a successful University of Ohio State college football coach. Outside the state of Ohio, he’s been officially exposed as a liar and rule breaker with a win at all costs attitude. He’s the “Pete Carroll of the Midwest”. However, within Ohio, like Garmin itself, he is still considered infallible. There is no sense arguing with an Ohioan on this matter. It would be the same as telling me Hilary Swank is not hot.* Until recently the rest of the world, which may not have been paying close attention here, here, here, here, and here, thought he was a fine upstanding professional operating at the top of his craft. In fact, if you wanted a college coach to write an inspirational book filled with Bible stories and motivational thoughts for #winning, then he might have been the go to guy. Hey, looky here, Go To.

Now, of course, the sweater vest has been ripped off revealing the seedy underbelly of deceit and pecksniffery.

I was pondering this hypocritical public image vs. self-serving guile the other day. Barry Bonds is still on the run with his fancy lawyers fighting steroid allegations. Lance Armstrong, let’s face it, has been backpedaling for years now under a cloud of unproven allegations. Heroes once lauded for their athletic accomplishments seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time in court rooms these days. I don’t want to start unsubstantiated rumors but I might have seen Michael Jordan travel with the ball every now and then too.

A few months back, Runner’s World had an interesting article about Eddy Hellebuyck, an American marathon champion and confessed performance enhancing doper. It was shocking because we simply don’t hear that too often in the running community. Doping? That’s for huge-headed baseball sluggers and rubber-legged cyclists. Cheating? That’s for Senatorial college coaches with little to no fashion sense.

We cheer on our marathon champions like the hyper-trained, well-coached, perfectly tuned runners we know they are. They have abnormal dedication to the sport. Maybe their genes are better suited to distance running than the rest of us. Perhaps their internal balance and biomechanics are simply superior. In short, they are a perfect cocktail of physical and mental preparedness. They train extraordinarily hard and we both envy and applaud them for their accomplishments. And not one of them wears a sweater vest.

But are we being deceived? What if you woke up tomorrow and discovered that world’s great marathon champions failed tests for performance enhancing drugs? Their victories were unearned. Their times were drug-aided. As a runner, would it matter to you that the sport you love has been tarnished?

Running makes such a strong, natural connection with the amateur athlete in part because the elite of the sport aren’t pampered, multi-million dollar athletes. They aren’t in rap videos pointing at gyrating booty. They normally aren’t on our boxes of Wheaties (even though they probably should be). In fact, if you participate in a popular marathon, there’s a good chance one of the elite runners will be participating in the very same race at the very same time. When’s the last time Kobe Bryant was in your pick-up basketball game? Elite runners seem just like the rest of us…just better at running.

There’s something pure and natural about the sport as well. Of course, all runners joke and laugh about the hidden costs (race & travel fees, shoes aren’t getting any cheaper) but, at its core, running is still just about you and your movement. Nothing more. You don’t need others to play a game. You don’t require pads or helmets or fancy uniforms (though I would suggest most of you need to wear a shirt, please.) It’s about how your body moves and what you can make it do with applied training. Running is the foundation of almost every sport. It’s the link that ties them together (except for you, bowling, but no one really considers you a sport.)

I’m not naïve to think that there aren’t, or won’ t be, elite runners willing to obtain their goals by cutting some corners. It would be tremendously disappointing. It’d rock the sport the same way cycling and the 100 meter sprint have become clouded. Like it or not, when the new 100 meter Olympic champion is crowned, how long does it take you to wonder if he/she's on steroids? I’d hate to have the dramatic climax of an epic marathon be the drug test administered thirty minutes later. Ryan Hall steps out of the port-a- potty with a cup of deep yellow, dehydrated urine waving to the crowd while a group of men in white lab coats signal “it’s good” with upraised arms. And the the crowd erupts! Folks, it’s official, he has won the marathon…pending second test in a week….

I hope our elite runners are making the correct choices. It’s not just about them and their race. It’s about all of us. When the marathon gun bangs, the elites, the near elites, the BQ aspirants, the ‘just finishers’ and the first timers are all taking off together as one community. I hope the elites are running to win…and not away from a secret.

Run, Tressel, Run...they are gaining on you.

Is there a wolf in sheep’s sweater vest in our midst? Are we all being tresseled?

Happy trails.

*I love outlandishly large teeth disproportionate to the rest of the face. Also, The Next Karate Kid? Awesome.
________________________________

Want to see shame in action? Look, the man can’t even look at his fans – or camera – in the face. Seriously, flip through every page. The shame. The subtitle to this series of photos is: "Strangers caress OSU coach Jim Tressel's back while he's busy writing his next novel about ethics across the face of many footballs."

You Gotta Want It

2011-03-23T10:25:00.002-04:00

I know that sounds like the title of Jack Nicholson’s next romantic comedy but it’s not. Or, at least, not yet. I’m sure he’ll get around to it. You may ask, How Do You Know? Well, it’s a colloquial phrase so…Something’s Gotta Give.

Actually, the phrase “you gotta want it” is providing much comedic relief these days around the Nitmos home. If I were into rhetorical questions, I’d probably insert a “what’s the big deal with this phrase?” right about here. Fortunately, I’m not so I’ll just tell you straight out.

My colt plays premier league soccer here in wet, rainy, population-dwindling Michigan. If you thought parents could be intense at regular youth league sporting events, wait until you start throwing around hundreds* of dollars, driving half-way across the state at 5 AM for a tournament every other weekend, and watching teenage boys learn the subtle art of referee-evading elbow jabs to the neck and mid back. Mrs. Nitmos and I normally just stand and chat with some of the more, ahem, 'relaxed' team parents, applauding where needed but, generally, staying out of the hub-bub.

There is a group of more aggressive parents attached to our team, like most teams, and they let their presence be felt with a series of catcalls to the ref (usually by completely misunderstanding the offsides rule), loud mid-game critiquing of their (or not their!) son’s performance, and an intensity that would scare the smart into Snooki. We like to keep at least a ten yard gap between that group and our group. Guilt by association, you know?! They are just a bi-colored face paint job, no shirt, and a flammable object away from being your prototypical soccer hooligan. Our normal operating procedure is to greet this group with a friendly ‘Hello’, casually check their hands for broken bottles and/or gas soaked rags, scan for the nearest exit in case of riot and then march off ten yards to our Zone of Serenity. Serenity now.

Out of that group, there is usually one voice that rises above. Now, the kids at this level don’t need to be encouraged to play hard anymore. In fact, if you don’t play hard, you just get run over. But that doesn’t stop one team parent from continually shouting “You gotta want it!” every three minutes like clockwork while the kids run around with sweat-drenched faces. “You gotta want it!” Three minutes. “You gotta want it!” Three minutes.

He’s truly become a master at You Gotta Want It. Using only those 4 four (ish) words, he’s able to convey encouragement, hope, anger, disappointment, and condemnation just by slightly changing the tone, emphasis and inflexion of the words. It always starts with an encouraging “You gotta want it!” If a few of our players lose some one vs. one battles, it turns to an angry “You GOTTA want it!” Finally, if the boys fall behind late in the game, you can feel the disgust rising from his belly as he throws his arms up and wails “You gotta WANT it!”

It’s as annoying as it is humorous. Don’t think I don’t take every opportunity to drive Mrs. Nitmos and the kids nuts with it either. If my colt loses, I’ll innocently ask him, “What happened? Didn’t you want it?”

When Mrs. Nitmos had trouble with a cake due to our constantly malfunctioning stove, I wandered into the kitchen, looked at the sunken baked good and stated, “Well, you gotta want it.”

Approaching a yellow light signal, the car in front of me chooses to slow to a stop rather than punch it and make it through. Of course, I flip them off and yell, “You gotta want it…asshole!” (Sometimes you need that extra word.)

Even the minutest thing can be an opportunity to use it. My filly can’t get the remote for the TV to work? “C’mon….you GOTTA WANT IT!”

In fact, the phrase has risen to a level where it’s now one of our much used family acronyms, like F.U., M-F’er, or PTF**:

You Gotta Want It = YGWI or "yig-wee".

Now, You Gotta Want It guy shouts his catch phrase during a match and Mrs. Nitmos and I can look at each other, nod, and say “Yig-wee….definitely a yig-wee moment” without starting an intra-fan bleacher brawl.

The phrase has even crept its way into my running. After a few loooong months of winter maintenance running, I’ve just started to get back into regular speed work. After a prolonged break, those first few track sessions can be grueling. Yesterday, I found myself puffing around the track on the last lap of my last 800 and fighting the temptation to slow when *pop* into my head came You Gotta Want It. I DID want it. Yig-wee, M-F'ers, yig-wee. Everyone needs a mantra. Maybe mine is yig-wee. Suddenly, I had an epiphany. Maybe Yig-Wee Man is right after all. You DO gotta want it. And it IS nice to be reminded every three minutes….that’s less than once every interval after all.

I finished my 800’s and took an easy pace for my mile plus cool down run home satisfied that I must have made Yig-Wee Man proud somewhere. Clearly, he's onto something here. Maybe I'll join his group for the next game and make his solo act a duet.

You gotta want it? Yes, you do. I hope you Yig-Wee your runs as well. That phrase is As Good As It Gets.

Happy Yig-Wee.

*thousands
**Pass The Fudge stripes

The Joy of Six

2011-03-18T10:21:00.002-04:00

I love six. It’s such a great number. It was my number when I played tee-ball for Trude’s Hardware as a wee lad. I remember it was my number because there is a cute little picture of me in my blue and yellow Trude’s Hardware uniform holding a bat and wearing a goofy over-sized, straight-brimmed hat (don’t bother to slope the brim for me, I'm good. Thanks Mom and Dad!) with an adorable, slightly mischievous, smile. There’s a giant shiny, ironed-on “6” on my back…the kind of giant number sticker that slowly peels off with each wash. Seriously, it’s priceless. If you saw the photo, you’d purse your lips, go “awwww” and pinch my cheeks. Guaranteed.

I also love six because of its many and varied uses. It’s the perfect way to describe my pack of abs. It’s my favorite number of beers to place on my lap to watch the NCAA tournament (after first clearing the puppy with a gentle arm sweep and yelp). Need to tattoo the mark of the beast on your children? Try doing it with triple fours. You’ll be lucky to get a disgruntled leprechaun. And how else would you know how many possible film roles separate your favorite actor from Kevin Bacon? Want to obtain '36' by multiplying the same number against itself? Yeah, I think you get the point.

Six is good. It’s great in a group but also nice by yourself. Oh – tee hee – I see how that could be misconstrued. Unintended.

Six has been showing up a lot more lately and I’m happy to see it. After a long winter of uneven, slippery surfaces, all of my mile paces started with sevens and, on a few occasions, eights. I wondered if I’d ever see six again.

Then, the snow melted, the temperatures warmed, my Sherpa running gear remained in the closet, and, lo and behold, there are the sixes again. They aren’t as regular as I would like yet. They show up sporadically in my mile splits like pimples on the chin of a “before” Proactiv celebrity. I’d like to fill the Garmin up with sixes like a real pizza face but these things take time. I’ll be content with a six here and a six there and a few sixes clustered over there on the bridge of the nose.

I’ve become such a six fiend that when my 800 interval pace dropped into the fives recently, I became a bit annoyed. Fives?! There was no Five Million Dollar Man. It took all Six Million to make the bionics work. (And seven million is just being wasteful. I think we can all agree on that.)

Next week, my tempo run should return lots of sixes as I kick the half-marathon training into full speed. The sixes will pop up with every beep of the Garmin. The question will become: what six was best? It’ll be a regular battle of the sixes.

Until then, I’m happy to see its sporadic return. Some say that a six is merely a poor man’s nine. An upside down number. A hastily drawn “G”. They don’t respect the six. But a 9 is structurally unsound. The heavy circle hangs precariously on an off-center stem. Just look at it: 9. That thing could collapse at any moment. Name me one engineer that would build something like that. No, a six is where it’s at. More stable. More pleasing to the eye. More loaded with euphemisms. Besides, it even has its own proverb:

A Six in Time Saves Nine

Or something like that.

I’m enjoying the sixes. I hope to enjoy six more often. As a solo runner, it’s something I can directly control. No matter what I do at home, when I lace up the shoes and head out, Mrs. Nitmos can’t possibly withhold six from me.

Happy trails.

Master Me

2011-03-16T09:49:00.004-04:00

Weird choice for me. Who's Karen?

Well, it’s done. I turned forty. I closed my eyes, clenched my teeth and grabbed my seat cushion but nothing rattled, shook, or exploded. When I slowly opened my eyes, there was nothing different but a confused restaurant full of people staring at me. Turns out, forty came in like a ~~llama~~ lamb (and a chips and salsa appetizer).

Now, officially, I’m a MASTER. And who thinks I’d let THAT go without an insufferable blog post? In fact, who thinks there won’t be a SERIES of insufferable blog posts about how I’m a Master? If there’s one thing I’m a master of it’s the Master of Insufferability.

There are some things that will have to change now. For one, there will be a sharp decline in masturbation jokes. Even though the root word MASTER appears within it, I’m exercising considerable restraint here not to make a cheap chicken choke joke. See how I’ve grown? I’m not going to flog that joke at all even though every fiber of my being demands comeuppance. I’m going to ~~five knuckle~~ shuffle along to other topics…

I can’t remember what I was talking about* but….here’s some other things I know will change beginning today:

· I no longer know how to operate a DVR. Too bad because I have some good shit on there.
· I’m too old to make fart jokes on this blog. Fartlek included.
· I’m no longer a “wise ass”. Now I’m “wise”.
· I’m too old to blog.
· Ten years until I can join AARP!
· What’s a blog?
· Looking forward to arthritis. Er, too late.
· Do they make Metamucil flavored Gu?
· Time to shop for a Corvette, gold chain, and a midlife crisis!
· When’s Matlock on?
· Last week, the neighbor kids played in my yard. Now, the little hooligans are causing a disturbance and…GET OFF MY LAWN!
· I run exactly the same times but, suddenly, my age graded finish just jumped a few notches!
· A new word to snicker at: “infirm”
· Now that I think of it, why can’t I wear black socks with shorts while mowing the lawn? Just makes sense…less to wash.
· I’m going to run in Keds now. They are sensibly priced.
· Tried on some side split running shorts. Looked sharp. Bought them.
· Wow, didn’t think hair could grow there.

Mrs. Nitmos and the kids wined and dined me for my birthday this weekend in the fashion to which I’ve become accustom: dinner coupons and cheap bargain restaurant beer. Then, I was treated to several shows – all soccer games – where the filly and colt went a combined 3-0 and were not scored upon. Nothing says “birthday” like the scent of crushed tire mixed with artificial grass and the faint hope that the kids are actually enjoying this time and money sucking activity. Now go chase that black and white ball little filly! (Implied: Score goal or walk home.)

Starting now, this Quadragenarian runner already has plans to master the USATF All American Standards of Excellence for road racing as defined by the National Masters News. Why? Because that's what old people do to stay relevant. It's either that or shuffleboard. And they have a website and arbitrarily listed times. (shoulder shrug) Seems official. I’m a sucker for numbers. And I like a challenge. Especially a challenge I can already beat. Currently, I can best every one of the listed times. But can I do it in a knee brace (I have to get one of those, right?) while fretting over my 401k and kids’ non-existent college fund? I guess therein lies the challenge.

If you thought I couldn’t toss around any more arrogance on this blog, I bet you forgot all about this whole “Master” thing, didn’t you? Time to step it up a notch. Heck, I might even be able to lure our (largely) dormant friends Ian, Blogger Formerly Known As Vanilla, and RazZ, er, other blogger guy, back to regular blogging through their futile hopes to Take Me Down A Notch. If I can land those two fish, what would that make me?

A Master Baiter.

Happy….um, what time’s Bingo?

*First Alzheimers joke!