'Not Harmful Enough'

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.
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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?
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Dear Speed Work

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

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.
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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

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

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

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!

Life By A Thousand Runs

About eleven summers ago, I went for my first run. I went about a half mile – one loop of my neighborhood – and stopped. I wasn’t exhausted but I was breathing heavy. I was surprised how difficult it was to run for 5 minutes straight. At the time, I played pick-up basketball frequently and could get up and down the court as fast - or faster - than most. I thrived at diving into a middle of a group of ballers underneath the rim, jabbing my razor sharp elbows into some ribs to clear room, and coming down with a rebound, passing the ball out, then exploding down court for a return pass. Surely a little bit of “jogging” would be easy right?

Turns out, this running thing was a whole lot tougher than I expected.

Over the first several months, those “jogs” were difficult. It was tough to go more than a mile at a time. Eventually I built up to three miles. Still, I always felt awkward and disjointed when I ran. I told Mrs. Nitmos repeatedly that I just wasn’t a natural runner. My breathing felt off. My arms and legs were hopelessly kicking out in strange angles. I thought that I must look like an epileptic having a fit while running. Nothing was smooth. No flow. Certainly it was obvious to others with every step I took that I was a beginner. My knees were chopping too high; my feet slapped too much; my elbows were unnaturally akimbo. I even remember feeling a touch self-conscious when one of those seasoned runners with the hip angular sunglasses and moisture-wicking….everything…would run by me and my cotton t-shirt.

I was 30 years old when I went for my first run. I made a goal to run a 5k in my hometown that I’d been aware of since I was a little kid. I probably would have quit running early on if I didn’t at least want to run this race first. Basketball was my thing. Running was just a short-term affair.

The race came and went. I had fun. Compared to my age group, I did reasonably well finishing in the top 40%. I was surprised that many of the other runners looked just like me…except with less efficient Adam’s apples and not as quick with spontaneous observational humor. That’s when the competitor within took over.

If I shave two more minutes, I can get in the top 20 for my age group.

If I shave three more minutes, top 10!

Maybe I’ll try one more race after a few more months of training.

BOOM. Hooked!

Over time, my running style smoothed out. My breathing is pretty relaxed even at strenuous intervals. I don’t even think about those things anymore. Mrs. Nitmos tells me that she can always spot me coming from far away because of my distinctive high front knee kick when I run. Maybe it's the Vegas showgirl in me. Or maybe it’s the same as it always was….it just feels natural now. Alas, I own a moisture-wicking burial tuxedo.*

I don’t know how many runs I’ve completed over the last ten plus years. For the first few years, I’d stop running completely for 3-4 months over winter to continue playing basketball. I still normally only run three times a week due to time constraints. I would guess I’ve run about a thousand times now, probably more. I’m still searching for PR’s. I haven’t played a single game of pick-up basketball in three years.

The phrase “death by a thousand cuts” is often used metaphorically to describe the gradual destruction of something by repeated minor attacks.** What do you call the gradual construction – in this case, of a RUNNER – over time by a series of minor actions?

I’m on the precipice of age 40. The next time I post, I’ll be on the other side. I’ll let you know how it looks. A new age group to compete within beckons. I’ll officially be called a Master. It’s about time.

I guess this is life by a thousand runs.

Happy trails.

*It’s got to be hot in a coffin right?
** source

I Steal Your Confidence

I’m a big believer in finiteness. In fact, I find the whole concept of “infinity” infinitely boring. How can there be boundless, unlimited supply of something…of anything? It’s unnatural. The Tea Partiers tell me it’s un-American too. For every person or thing that “has”, there must be an equal and opposite person or thing that “has not” in order to keep the universe in balance. Since their shirts are more star-spangled than mine – spangled stars aren’t moisture wicking – I have to believe it’s true.*

I guess this applies to CONFIDENCE as well.

We all know how important it is to arrive at the starting line on race day with full blown Confidentitis. Very rarely can you turn a pre-race “oh, God, I just hope I don’t shit myself” shoulder slumped case of the jitters into a PR. It can be done but then you’d be the exception that proves the rule. It’s better to stare down the first 100 meters of the race course with the eye of the tiger** You’ve done the work. You’ve finally beaten Apollo in the ocean front trail race. Paulie has been playfully dunked in the pool. It’s time to ace the test. Bring it!

That type of confidence would be A-MAAZING to have come race day. But it’s not realistic.

Usually, I’m somewhere between mildly pessimistic and mildly optimistic. My confidence is never extremely low but also rarely very high. This is why most people think I’m obtuse, which I assume means something similar to “pragmatic”. There’s a simmering, modestly-filled bowl of confidence within but I’m not jumping up and down whooping it up and telling everyone how “I’m about to make them my bitches” as soon as the gun sounds. (We’ve all seen that right?)

Assuming there is only a certain number of units of Confidence available at the start line amongst the group; I need to steal some of yours if I want that PR. I arrive early to top off my bowl.

If I overhear you nervously chatting with a friend about how scared you are about your first race, I make a point to sidle on up next to you and whisper, “You are under trained. You’re going to struggle today.”

If you happen to look like you are in worse shape than me, I smile and say “thanks for volunteering! It’s people like you that make these races possible for runners like me!”

Fiddling with your Garmin? I might come up and ask if it really matters. Really? (elevator eyes up and down) Does it?

I love to ask about others’ PR’s and, when they tell me, smile condescendingly and reply “oh, it sounds like running is not really your thing then? Are you good at volleyball?”

Aren’t wearing a shirt or, if female, have a tank top on? I’ll innocently ask if “they are part of a weight-loss group activity.”

I can just feel my bowl of Confidence filling at the expense of yours. It’s like in Spiderman 2 when Doc Ock uses his reactor and all the metal in New York starts sucking into his waterfront lab. I get more powerful as you weaken. I’m sucking in your Confidence like a fatty at a Jell-o bar armed with only a straw.

If I can acquire enough Confidence, when the gun sounds, I’m off to a jack-rabbit start. The sight of your Confidence being carried off with me further depletes your reserves.

They say “a rising tide lifts all boats” but that’s really not true in the Confidence game. It’s finite. It can be bought and sold. It can be stolen. The truth is that “a rising tide lifts some boats, but others will run aground.”*** It’s more like a teeter-totter. In order for me to succeed, others must fail.

Next time you arrive at a start line, beware of a Con Man like me working the crowd, slurping up your PR with a gurgle through a straw. Think your shorts make you look fat? They do, I hiss. Not sure if today’s your day? It isn’t. Wonder what kind of beer awaits at the finish? It’s Blatz.

Consider this fair warning. Race day CONFIDENCE is key to your success. There are Con Men out there looking to steal it. Heck, they might even be inside your own head. (Your subconscious is the biggest offender after all.) When a Con Man approaches as you loosen at the start line, tell ‘em to take a hike. You feel great; you look great; you will BE great. They’ll wander off to work the crowd for their next victim.

Fall prey and, well, you’ll be infinitely sad.

Happy trails.

*Ever run a marathon with an ankle holster? The only thing that soothes the chafe is the freedom dancing in my heart.
**Or tiger blood in the veins? Dammt, I don’t know where to go with this “tiger” metaphor now.
***Gene Sperling
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I’m happy to see that there aren’t many Filthy Hippies out there based on the latest poll results. Or, as commenter Jess observes, maybe they are all just 'too stoned to take the poll'? Could be.

Running the Numbers

There are two kinds of runners: The jerks that beat me and the losers I beat.

I kid, I kid. I like to do that. Don’t get your compression shorts in an awkward snag.

Runner Spike is currently evacuating his training log bowels all over his last few posts. If you are in to the numerical scatology scene, it’s fantastic! There are maps, paces, distances, elevations, graphs, charts, Spam, and decimals as far as the eye can see! Oh my, clean up needed at La Casa Nitmospants. For a numbers nerd like me, it’s like heroin in the eyeballs….like watching a group of llamas get run over by a riding lawnmower…

Lurking underneath his numbers dump, there’s a deeper conversation about the importance numbers and statistics are to a runner. Or should be. And one of the things I do real well is take someone else’s post, modify the discussion slightly, and present it as my own original idea. Do you think those endless economic term papers I wrote in college came out of my own alcohol-addled brain? Mama didn’t raise many llamas.

I think he’s suggesting that it’s better to be one of those hippie runners, that wear tie-dye shirts and over-sized headbands and tell everyone how running is so great “because, like, you get to commune with nature, man, and that’s an awesome thing…especially after smoking a box of dried Gu Tri-berry while rockin’ out some Phish”, than a number/Garmin/third decimal place spreadsheet fanatic. The reason I think that’s what he thinks is because it would so conveniently set up the rest of my discussion. Plus, I’m hiding behind a pseudonym and general protection of critical commentary on the internet has already been defined by the courts.

There are two main types of runners: The numbers obsessed and the numbers indifferent. The numbers obsessed are usually meticulous training log jockeys, PR chasers, and/or time goal setters. If you’ve graphed your pace/distance over a period of time just for fun, you’ve given yourself away. The numbers obsessed usually track every run through a Garmin or Garmin-like device. They read the results like tea leaves searching for the magical secret to speed and/or distance. The thing that makes them happy are PR’s and more appealing times to plot on the log – even if they have to go to four decimal places to get it.

The numbers indifferent are hippies. (I kid, I kid. Don’t get your bong in a knot.) The numbers aren’t the scene, man. It’s about the feeling of the motion….the wind through the unkempt hair…the hard, rough pounding of pavement under bare feet…the tunes, man, THE TUNES. It’s all about pushing yourself based on how your body feels. It’s not about the digits, man, don’t harsh their vibe with your Stalinistic Garmin. If you’ve ever created a blog post and dropped in the runner cliché “listen to your body” more than once, you’ve given yourself away. The numbers indifferent just care about the FEELING running gives them. ..the endorphin release…the thrill and satisfaction from physical exertion. And Doritos, man.

To be clear, these aren’t disconnected categories. Within every runner, a little bit of both philosophical sides exist. The numbers geek (guilty!) truly enjoy the feeling of the run, the sweat, the fatigue regardless of the statistics. Like taking the occasional hit of recreational crack, they’ll unstrap the Garmin and toss aside the over-priced shoes The Man made them buy. They’ll shuffle China Grove to the top of the playlist. They’ll run just by feel letting the air rush through their sensibly styled hair. They’ll revel in the motion and the physical exertion. When the carefree run is over, they’ll feel happy and refreshed and wonder, maybe just a little, what their pace would have been had they had their Garmin. But then it’s back to business…training logs, pace charts, DATA.

Whether they care to admit it or not, the numbers indifferent runner also occasionally checks the stove clock – the Kenmore Ironman edition – when they return from a particularly gnarly run. Then they turn on reruns of Mama’s Family and get stoned. I kid, I kid. Don’t get your Nick at Nite in a huff.

Both sides exist in each of us but there is usually a predominant force. I’m numbers obsessed. I don’t care what self-proclaimed “purists” think about that. I reconciled long ago that I’m overly competitive. I once sent the Chutes and Ladders game piece of the Little-Blond-Boy-Frolicking-In-His-Striped-Shirt flying into the wall because, dammit, he would NOT STOP GOING DOWN THAT STUPIDLY LONG SLIDE ON THE #87 SQUARE. (I’m not allowed to play Chutes and Ladders anymore.) I derive enjoyment from chasing numbers. It’s a tangible, competitive goal I can pursue in my otherwise normal suburban life. No apologies to the numbers indifferent. I love me some numbers. I love ‘em violently.

There’s no right or wrong type of runner. YOU decide what role numbers play in your experience. One way doesn’t make you more PURE than the other. It’s all about whatever gets you out the door, feeds your soul, and keeps you moving. It could be Garmins and spreadsheets or bare feet and Doritos.

Eventually, for me, I could see the pendulum swinging back from the NUMBERS side to the FEEL side as I get a little older and tire of the PR chase. But, then again, maybe not. (Does one “lose” their competitive spirit??) If - or when - that time comes, I’ll still be a RUNNER in every sense of the word.

I’ll just have shaggier hair and a penchant for quaaludes.

Happy, like, trails, man.
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Your turn to speak up.

I Fired My Coach

I fired my coach today. This came after studying my post-February year-to-date totals. It’s a drastic step but something had to be done. Review the data with me and I think you’ll agree that it was necessary.

First of all, my total mileage is down 30% at this same point as last year. 30%! That’s about the same amount as Charlie Sheen’s sanity level.

I’ve done barely any speed work since December. Sure, it’s been snowy but I could have at least fartleked the dry pavement parts right? It’s like I’ve halted production on speed altogether like I’m a top-rated, though inconsequential, sitcom with a steady stream of increasingly bland one-liners.

Inspirational speeches? None. No ‘build me up buttercup’. No Adrian motivation before the big fight. No freakin’ wind beneath my wings whatsoever. Not once have I been called a 'warlock' or told that I have 'tiger blood in my veins' and those are two of the four things people primarily describe about me.*

How’s my training plan going? Well, I’ll let you know that once I find one. I’m scriptless. My coach hasn’t written a training plan since last May’s marathon. He’s so over confident that he feels like, at this point, the miles just kinda write themselves and I’m just going to laugh my way around the track.

And how about a tender massage every now and then? I don’t need oil and candles but a nice compliment about my complexion sure wouldn’t hurt, you know? I fella likes to hear that every now and then. It’s like he’s forgotten about me and is already on to his next conquest.

Forget about a diet. I’ve indulged in enough fudge strip cookies to make a Hollywood coke party think ‘whoa, that guy has had too much.’

All of this has taken place directly under the supervision of my old running coach. I can overlook the 30% decrease in mileage. I’m training for a half marathon now whereas last year it was a full marathon. And the winter has been a little harsh. But this coach seemed to be content with my 6 pound weight gain, 50% increase in wine and beer consumption (year over last), and 80% increase in Sons of Anarchy reruns. Couple that with my 40% increase in Cabin Fever coming out in the form of a series of eye-rolling “Dad jokes” foisted upon the helpless children, with no remote, and you’ve got a serious problem on your hands.

He had to go. It’s too bad because he sure was a handsome little devil. Funny too. We had really similar personalities. It was like looking in the mirror.

I think I’m going to hire this other coach I’ve seen around from time to time. He’s a bit more of a curmudgeon. He likes to flip the bird at other drivers. He’s likeable but in a completely insulting and offensive way. He says things publicly like “kill ‘em all and let someone else figure it out” and “what’s up with the hunchback?” a little too loudly for my tastes. He thinks babies are useless for interval training unless it’s to create a hurdle in lane one. He appreciates a few drinks but likes to confine it to Saturday night. And don’t get him started on the weather. That’s unacceptable excuse #1.

He’s also what I see when looking in the mirror though, as we know, the mirror reverses the image. He’s a Bizarro me and I think that’s what I need right now.

Plus, he’s promised to make me a runner with the equivalent ability of two and a half men three men.

It’s time to get serious. Run on, warlocks!

Happy trails.

*Others: asshole and douchebag.

Randomly Richer!

The Drawing for the CSN Stores $70 Gift Code/Card

The Gods of Generation, Lords of Luckytown, Rulers of Randomness have been fed their input and returned an output. Thirty-four hopefuls prayed at the altar of divine chance but only one could walk away $70 gift code virtual dollars richer. If you did not win, it’s probably because your soul was found to be lacking. I’m not trying to over-dramatize the random number generator (from random.org) but I truly believe that it measures your entry against your very qualities as a human being. If your number was not returned, you must ask yourself ‘why’. What is wrong with you that you were not chosen? Is it personal hygiene…the hair cut? Both? Probably….and a whole lot more. When’s the last time you called your mother for chrissakes??


That’s right, the number returned was ‘20’. Twenty is a good, solid, wholesome number. No hyphens. Easily divisible by both 10 and 5. Heck, it’s even topical in nature. Twenty is the first two digits of our year. The twenty dollar bill features Old Hickory himself, Andrew Jackson, famous for taking on the power of the banking industry during his Presidency. And just try to compose a list of your Top 20 favorite FMS posts without it!

Plus, it’s the very amount I obtained, in addition to the offered $50 amount, with my humiliating acts at the Ft. Wayne Super 8. Shudders.

A quick check against the entries reveals that comment #20 belongs to CANYONCAIRNS. Though (she?) doesn’t have word verification, she did correctly answer the question about where the quote came from – Reality Bites – indicating a detailed reading of the ENTIRE entry rules post including all asterisks (which contained the ‘easy out’ for those worried about the word verification requirement.)

I was tempted to just award the $70 to Debbie for going with another Reality Bites quote: “There’s an IQ prerequisite but there’s no secret handshake.” If you count “IQ” as one word, the quote totals exactly 9 words and, therefore, eligible for the contest. Plus, it’s a pretty good life philosophy, isn’t it?

But, sorry, rulez are rulez.

I did enjoy the other 9 word philosophies from several of you. Very creative. I guess you aren’t all mindless chimpanzees! Congrats!

CANYONCAIRNS, please contact me at the email shown under About Me on the sidebar to claim your $70 prize.

The rest of you? Time for a good hard look in the mirror I guess.

Happy introspecting.

Bad Break-up

In happier times, we went together like marathons and nipple chafing: She with her four voluptuous curvy mounds; me with my taunt, sweaty, exhausted muscles working hard to earn her respect. I felt both vigorously alive and hopelessly overwhelmed navigating the succession of her mounds, each more physically demanding than the last.

Oh, I wanted her. I spent years wanting her. She wanted me too. I could tell, when the time came, by the way she eagerly accepted my online payment for future services rendered. No hesitation. No ‘Unable to Display Page’. It was a great relationship while it lasted. Now it appears to be over. I didn’t end it. She doesn’t seem to want me anymore.

I know I haven’t changed. I’m the same ordinary, amateurish shclub that appealed to her once long ago. I haven’t gotten any smarter (see: Jersey Shore); I haven’t gotten any faster (see: fudge stripe cookies); I haven’t gotten any sexier (see:…impossible!). But I haven’t gotten any worse at any of those things either. I’m the same Little Engine That Could runner I always was.

I guess what I’m saying is: It’s not me, it’s her right?

Here we were in happier times:

Remember when I carved her initials in the tree?

That’s all gone now. She’s moved on to a faster crowd. She tells me it’s a crowd I’d have a tough time keeping up with though I’m welcome to try. I understand. You don’t have to condescend to my Garmin. There are eight seats available at the cool kids’ cafeteria table and I’m student number nine, holding my tray full of sad little dried out peas and beefless lasagna(ish) scanning the room for another seat while you try to look away so that I won’t embarrass you in front of your new friends.

You tell me that you are the same that you always were as well. Just that things change and you have different standards you are looking for. But suddenly you won’t accept my online payment attempt. My best is no longer good enough. I won’t get to feel those mounds against my body. I won’t get to prematurely dehydrate between your slopes.

Well, missy, I’ve moved on as well. You won’t see me busting my butt trying to keep up with your crowd. Besides, your new friends are all lame. Is that guy’s hair frosted? Is that a goatee AND a gold necklace? Where’s his Trans Am parked? I look at you now and I just want to guffaw. Guffaw, guffaw, derisive snort, guffaw. And I want my ABBA CD back (the one hidden in the Linkin Park CD case.)

Look what I did to your tree:

You’ll be back. You’ll see. You’re just a fad right now. You’re Bieber trendy. Fads fade and….well, so does fast but you get my point. One day, I’ll be sitting around looking at photos of all my other conquests….mounds much greater than yours…and you’ll want me back. You’ll suddenly think I’m in the fast crowd.

Maybe I’ll take you back. Maybe I won’t. But, for now, we need to see others. I think it’s best for both of us.

When you feel you can lower your standards again, perhaps I’ll pay for your services.

Happy trails.
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Another Unasked For Epinion:

Contrary to the above little fiction, I support the BAA’s tougher entrance requirements. I think they tried to hedge around too much with the “rolling admission” based on how many minutes you beat the standard bullshit, however. Drop that crap and just go with a straight time requirement. From there, quickest finger to the draw on registration day! Look, you can’t please everyone and it is a mistake to even try. Boston is an exclusive race and, based on the current marathon explosion, the demand quickly outgrew supply of available spots. They haven’t adjusted their qualifying standards in like 30 years. It simply makes sense to tighten things up for awhile. It probably should have been done a few years back when it became obvious that the Second Great Running Boom was upon us.

I’d like to know that they put some analytical thought into the qualifying times and the male/female standards, etc. based on actual data. Maybe they have but I just haven’t seen it yet. Why do they think tightening up by exactly 5 minutes will solve the issue? How did the rolling admission process play into their concerns about the entrance standards? It seems a bit arbitrary but, then again, it’s their race so they can be as arbitrary as they want, arbitrarily speaking.

I trust – and expect – that the BAA will revisit the standard every few years. Eventually, the amateur athlete will find a new interest – I’m looking at you competitive jousting – and the demand will shrink and standards eased.

But, if not, better run a bit harder right? That’s one thing you can control.
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There is still time to enter for a $70 Gift Code to CSN Stores (you have until Sunday at midnight, Eastern). As of now, as I suspected, there are only 28 comments on that post. Of those, about 6-8 comments are from people who DON’T want to enter (odd, no?) and people who didn’t read the entrance requirements carefully and disqualified themselves (note: if you don’t have a blog, you can still answer the question I proposed or, at the very least, READ THE ASTERISKED FOOTNOTE - which has already been answered by others - for an ‘easy in’.)

I can't in good conscience award a prize to someone who couldn't read two simple instructions. Sorry. Your odds are good. Enter away!

Yet Another CSN Stores Giveaway!

You’ve heard the expression “everyone and their Nitmos” right? Quite literally, I believe EVERYONE has given away a CSN Stores gift certificate at this point. And now your Nitmos has too. Like losing your virginity - or watching The Bounty Hunter – it’s something you do just once.

After intense negotiations, consultation with lawyers, and a luxurious wine-n-dine getaway at a Ft. Wayne, IN spa/Super 8, we settled on the oddball amount of:

$70

That’s right, no cheap $50 gift certificate around these parts. Your loyalty is worth an extra $20 (and apparently so is my self-respect based on the happenings in Ft. Wayne.) That’s $70 to spend at CSN Stores (csnstores.com). A quick perusal of their website – based on their product categories - indicates that you can get Bed & Bath, Lighting, Décor, and Baby & Kids. I have enough baby and kids at my home but, if I were in the market, $70 for a baby is a GREAT price. I doubt Madonna gets them any cheaper. Once you get that baby and/or kids, they might need a place to play. Then head on over and check out the swing sets available here.

I’m not going to burden you with a bunch of “follow mes” and “add my websites” and “tweet me” and “come over and clean my gutters” requirements. If you want the $70, there are two simple rules:

1) Leave a comment.
2) Make sure you use word verification for comments on YOUR blog.

That’s it! What? Oh, right, the word verification thingy. You must use word verification on your blog. You didn’t expect this to be too easy, did you? Remember whose blog this is? I’m going to be a jerk about it too. I’ll use a random number generator to draw the winner. You may enter with a comment time stamped now through Sunday, February 27th at midnight. When the generator…generates a number, I will visit your blog and verify the…verification. No word verification, then it is back into the generator to…generate another number. I will continue to be a jerk as…jerkishly as I want until a winner is found. Hey, if you knew what I had to go through to get that extra $20 for you people*, you wouldn’t complain about the lousy little word verification part of this contest.

I guess – and maybe I’m going soft in the waning days of my thirties – I can let you enter the contest WITHOUT the word verification requirement. If you still want in, but refuse to use word ver, your comment should include a "brief justification for the ontological necessity of modern man's existential dilemma" in exactly NINE words. No more, no less. That’s the price you pay for not using word verification. **

So, get crack-a-lackin’ with a comment! Other times when I have run a contest like this, I’ve gotten no more than 30-35 comments due to my low readership so your odds are pretty good. And I didn’t have the verification requirement for those.

Don’t need $70? Well, you must have a job with a bank, Wall Street, or the health care industry and don’t need such hand-outs (unless they come from the government – ba dum dum). You can leave us commoners to our own private little money grab.

Enter once only. (NOTE: Open to residents of US and Canada.) Good luck!

Happy commenting.

*One Night in Nitmos. Roger Ebert raves "...much more disgusting and pudding-soaked than One Night in Paris. Comparatively, Hilton's "film" is PG. Abhorrent!"
**At the very least, correctly identify the movie the above quote comes from.
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The White Death has returned. Or, at least, I hear people complaining about it. I’ve already mentally started spring so I see nothing more than an accumulation of pollen from the blooming greenery. The pollen is 8 inches deep. I’ve used the occasion to get out my pollen shovel and do some cross-training by making little pollen banks at the sides of my driveway and sidewalks.

I hope I don’t have to Return to War with the Mailman over the pollen blockade in front of my mailbox. As Pooh says, “Oh, bother.”

Podium Post #3: Fat is Phat!

I mentioned last week, before my lame thumbcuff joke(sorry for that), that I would like to feature a blog post that I found on the blogwaves that is either funny or interesting or funresting or interfunny or some fractional combination of funny and interesting. Actual percentage of each doesn’t matter as long as it is gluten-free. Now I realize this is a bit pretentious. This assumes that (a) You care what I find funny/interesting (b) The blog writer cares that I featured them and gave them an inappropriately-named award and (c) That you haven’t already read it anyhow because their blog is probably way more popular than mine, for obvious reasons.

Despite all these good reasons not to do it, I’m going to do it anyway. I still own Enron stock.

I didn’t highlight Podium Posts #1 and #2 as I should have but they are tucked into the bottom of my inane ramblings here and here if you care to backtrack.

This week’s recipient of the coveted P.P. is Charlotte from The Great Fitness Experiment. I think the title alone earned a nomination: “Which is Worse: Being Called “Fat” or “Whore”?” Then, throw in a picture of Jesus on a piece of toast and, well, you got a winner! You know my rule: If you can combine fat, whore, and Jesus toast into a single blog post without coming off as blasphemous, the world is your piano and the rest of us are merely differently colored, and sized keys.

Charlotte makes a number of interfunny observations about pop culture and the current discrimination towards the fat. It’s going to be tough to make my usual sophomoric (heck, eighth graderic?) jokes about such an erudite post but, as mentioned, I’m willing to press on and embarrass myself for your benefit.

I’ll link you to read it yourself. It’s pretty phat!

Choice quote #1:

“…publicly pillorying fat people is the modern equivalent of sending away a
pregnant teen until her shame resolves itself. There is a new scarlet letter in
town: it's spelled XXL.”

She even bravely includes a photo of two larger-than-average humans enjoying a ride on a stressed scooter. Of course, she points out all of the horrible things people said about the photo to reinforce the obvious social media harassment that is taking place. Can’t argue with her conclusion. I’ve long felt that being fat, in this culture, is viewed as a crime. If it’s not a felony, than it’s at least a serious misdemeanor (with a side of cream cheese). (Note: Being phat, however, is still awesome! No change there.) However, it might be the most delicious of all the crimes!

Did I feel a little shameful when chuckling at some of the jokes people wrote? Yes. Did I spend more than a few seconds trying to come up with a clever one myself? Yes. (At least he’s not being chicked, amirite? What’s the mpg? 1/8th?) Did I futilely try to find the source of the photo? Maybe.

I do feel terrible. I need a scarlet letter of my own. Perhaps a giant “L”? (For “loser” not Laverne DeFazio.)

Seriously, this is another example of a well-written, thought-provoking blog post – which the internet should really be about – that you don’t get around here. Instead, you get offensive jokes and cheap word play. And that’s only as funny as a blown scooter transmission.

Her conclusion asks:

Choice Quote #2:

“Which is worse these days: Being called fat or whore?”

Why choose? They can be neatly combined for maximum effect.

Congratulations Charlotte for winning an award you’d probably rather not have. It’s your fault for writing a terrific post. Check it out. Now.

Off to get some Jesus toast with some Leviticus jelly.

Happy trails.

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C'mon fellas, we need some quality writing from the male runners. We've been chicked three weeks in a row!

Sigh No More

I’m done sighing. It’s nearly over.

The Winter Winds that have littered the local lonely runners these last few months seem to be turning its blustery puffs another direction. The snow is melting. The end (of winter) is near. As the snow retreats, the Thistle & Weeds reappear. Michigan is awash in dirty, running water, slush and mud. This is the time of year when we collectively soak in our filthy winter bath water only to emerge fresh and clean come spring.

I love it. I just might wear shorts on my run today. The size of my smile is directly proportional to the amount of exposed deer and raccoon carcasses along the road side ditches. You can have your lilacs and fresh cut lawn; nothing says spring to me like the rancid odor of a two month old, picked over raccoon with empty, gaping eye sockets.

This morning, I stared at my White Blank Page trying to determine how I’d communicate the joy I feel about this 50 degree day. I can feel my inner Little Lion Man growling. Some 800’s are near, finally!

Winter, I Gave You All. But it’s time for us to Roll Away Your Stone and emerge from The Cave. The wonderful world of running sans Himalayan mountain gear is upon us. Sure, I know we are bound to get another blast of cold and freezing temperatures…perhaps another inch or two of snow as well. I realize that I’m tempting fate by celebrating the arrival of spring on February 17th. In Michigan. I don’t care. Define your Timshel. Thou mayest choose to fear the evil past racing up from behind or look towards the glorious future. Awake My Soul, it’s time to run longer and faster!

It’s amazing that we’ve arrived at this point so soon After The Storm. I was about to choke on the noose around my neck. The chair was wobbly; one little kick – or a hard sneeze - would have toppled it and sent me into the dead man’s dance.

But here we are. I’m running today in shorts and 50 degrees. It’s a heat wave. Come summer, this slushy, wet land will look more like a Dust Bowl.

But that’s a problem for another day.

Sigh no more, little lion man, sigh no more.

Happy trails.
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Other Unasked For Updates

Note from the front:
In my last post, I announced WAR with the mailman. The mailman lost. I did not shovel. The snow melted enough a day later that he could find no reason to continue suspending delivery. I got my two days worth of credit card applications and unsolicited insurance appraisals. The mailmen may look imposing in their dress blues but, trust me, they can be beaten by a simple shift in the weather pattern.


Laughter is the Best Medicine:
And beer. Mrs. Nitmos and I attended the 2nd annual Comedy Festival along with some friends of ours over the weekend. I won’t tell you if Jeffrey Ross, Comedy Central’s Roastmaster General, is funny or not. If you find it amusing that he brought an obnoxiously drunk blond on stage and asked her “when the last time you had a microphone up your ass. I mean, today” then you probably get the general flow of the show. Good times, good times. Next year, people, you can attend also. Save the date.

A Microbrew Festival of some sort happened to be going on in town at the same time. This was unfortunate as it turned my favorite local restaurant into a fraternity party. I could smell Axe everywhere. I waited in line 10 guys deep just to use the pisser and, once inside, found two “ladies” using one of the men’s stalls. Where am I? Is this 1990? Am I in the basement of the TKE house?


Deliverance:
Finally, our good friend Viper has “picked” a new blog to tell you everything you want to know about banjers. It promises lots of good information, interviews, news and notes about everything banjo related. Since he’s an interesting writer, it’ll no doubt be a good read even if you aren’t a banjo enthusiast. Go there and support him. At press time, no word on whether the site will discuss toothless sodomites.
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Main post musical references provided by these guys.

At War with the Mailman

"Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds” - Herodotus, about 500 B.C.

I call bullshit.

My mailman and I are at war. I didn’t get my mail for two days straight last week during the Great Snow Event. I was fine with it. We couldn’t even back out of our driveway so I didn’t expect to find a mailbox full of the usual, ZERO PERCENT INTEREST FOR 12 MONTHS! credit card applications and subpoenas. It was a welcome break really. Standing over the trash can sorting 90% of the unopened mail directly into the garbage can be a real chore.

Then, the roads were plowed. Life resumed. My mail box became full again for a few days.

We’ve received no meaningful snow accumulation since last week. If anything, the piles of Snow Event have started to dwindle. But yesterday, I received a note rubber banded to my mail that reminds me that the “approach and retreat from my mail box must be clear for 30 feet in either direction to allow for the postal worker to complete their task.” They even provided helpful little pictures to show me how I’m supposed to shovel my snow in a tapered arch starting 30 feet from my mail box and then again tapering out 30 feet on the other side of my mail box. It’s like a mail carriers delivery parabola – the most inconsequential parabola in parabola history. They conclude by fairly sneering at me, “Your cooperation in this matter is greatly appreciated.”

Not so bad, is it?

Well, I ain’t gonna do it. I didn’t do it.

And I didn’t get my mail today. The mailman has joined the fight! I realize resistance is futile. Ultimately, I need my mail. I need my latest issue of Runner’s World so I can discover the 10 Keys to Your Best 5k (because I’m too lazy to look back at the preceding 46 issues.) Any “victory” I feel is Pyrrhic at best. I’ll destroy myself before the post office runs out of junk mail. But when fighting BIG MAIL, I’ll go without discovering the Pet of the Month if that’s what it takes.* Life is full of sacrifices…

The post office is becoming increasingly antiquated. Everyone knows it. Email, cell phones, netbooks, etc. are making mail delivery as outdated as horseback delivery when the automobile was invented. They even tried to make a movie glamorizing postal delivery and that failed. Remember The Postman? I didn’t think so. It was the bomb Kevin Costner made after the bomb he made called Waterworld. In The Postman, our hero rebels, fights, and survives a post-apocalyptic world jut so he can defiantly…deliver mail?! That was the premise, I kid not. Try not to become overcome with tears. I watched it so you don’t have to. That’s the kind of thing I do for you people.

So what happens now? There aren’t too many chess pieces to play in a Mail Addressee vs. Mail Deliverer stand-off. A fine? How are they going to notify me? How are they going to bill me? How will I know? If this goes on too long, I suppose the subpoenas will eventually turn into arrest warrants. I might need to continue paying 12.99% interest on some of my credit debt when I could be paying 0%.** And how will I know what shoes Runner’s World recommends? Do I assume it is the same shoes they recommended the last time, just the newest generation?***

Is it too much to ask the mailman to reach an extra three inches to drop some letters in a box? Do I have to go out and open the little door too because this would aid the postal worker in completing their task and that they really appreciate my cooperation in this matter? You see the photo. Am I out of line?

I’ll probably just hold off until next week. The forecast promises above freezing temperatures which means melting snow and increasingly expanding mail delivery parabolas. Then, I’ll get my mail; he’ll know I didn’t lift a finger over his little note.

Am I making a big deal out of nothing? Probably, but that’s what you expect around here.

"Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night…”

Rain? Snow? Heat? Gloom of night? Maybe. I bet Herodotus thought he had it all covered. But “lean a couple extra inches out of the heated, cushioned, radio-entertained vehicle”? Apparently, he missed that one. That’s just a bridge too far.

Happy delivery.

*I hope that’s not what it takes.
**Some restrictions apply.
***Safe bet.
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Last week it was Elizathon. This week’s featured Podium Post (i.e. post filled with creativity that rises to a place worthy of a spot on the weekly blog post podium) is from Two Motivate. Help beet-lover Drea name a group of runners. We desperately need one.

(I’m looking for a post each week to feature in the Podium Post section. In the future, I may even bump it to a whole post of my own…if I feel like it. If your blog entries are a dry regurgitation of run stats better suited for a Facebook, Twitter or Daily Mile entry, don’t expect to “win”. If it contains donkey fights and tons of hyperbole, well, you might be in the running!)
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Off to the Comedy Festival tomorrow! How drunk do you think I’ll get Saturday night on a scale of 1 to 10 (drunkest)? I’m guessing about a 7 but I wouldn’t put a 9 past me. Ever been thumb-cuffed? Weird experience. Brace yourself Mrs. Nitmos.

Speed Fiend

I’m Jonasing for some speed. I know what you are thinking and, no, I’m not “Jonesing”. That was not a typo. I’m not quite that bad yet for a full on Jonesing. Instead, I’m a lesser version, a pseudo-imitation-whinier-thicker-browed version. I feel like running fast. I feel like doing speed work. I can’t. This lovable, heaven-blessed blanket of snow is getting in my way. I’m feeling slightly annoyed – not significantly so –but enough to cast sad-faced glances at my snowed in high school track as I pass by for – sigh – another easy run.
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Jonasing (v): (1) To want something, mildly so. (2) To wish you had something but not enough to compel to action. (3) To desire insignificantly (4) To overlook pitchy vocals and caterpillar-browed brothers
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I’m not sure how much progress I’m making with my running so far this year. I’m just spinning my wheels like a car stuck on a sheet of ice (topical simile!) All of my runs are within 10-15 seconds of the same pace. Fortunately, there’s still over three months to go until my half marathon. Plenty of time for thawing, speed work, re-freezing, thawing again, speed work, and another Jonas album. In the meantime, I am in full on Maintenance Mode.

I don’t think I‘ve ever had such a prolonged stretch of base-building, maintenance style running. Usually the weather breaks here and there - the temperature climbs above freezing for a few days - where you can sneak in a nice track work-out a few times during winter. It hasn’t happened since New Year’s Day. And who does speed work when there are football bowl games to watch and left over NYE beer to drink? Heck, I usually spend New Year’s Day alternating between football and walking around my llama-strewn house scratching my unwashed, unkempt hair asking ‘what the hell happened last night?’ while arranging for rides home for the midget with the Tostada chip bowl sombrero.

But I’m starting to feel that itchy, burning desire for speed. Either that or my herpes is flaring again. Without signs of painful bumps and rash, I’m going to assume it is the speed fiend within growling with hunger.* I’m tired of boring easy runs. I want SPEED. I mean, I’m not referring to the injectable kind. I emphatically denounce recreational drug use. In fact, if you have the methamphetamine kind of speed and thought that’s what I wanted, you should email me using the address on the sidebar so that I can reply in a strongly-worded missive about how much I don’t WANT IT and how you shouldn’t SEND IT TO ME along with a box of 10 ML DISPOSABLE NEEDLES.

It is 8 degrees right now. I’m going to wait until it hits 15 degrees later this afternoon and then slide on my YakTrax and head out onto the snow-covered sidewalks for another easy run. I’ll run past the local high school track, per usual for my lunch hour run, and look wistfully at the stacked hurdles and indecipherable lanes around the football field. I might engage in a heavy sigh if I think the sucking of wind won’t freeze my lungs. It’s sad to think that the only thing keeping me from my beloved 800’s is some crystallized water. It gives life…and it takes it away.

For me, the goal is to make it to March. March is where the thaw begins! March is when the 800’s bloom! March is when my speed fiend is satiated!

But if March turns out just as bad as January and February? Well, forget about Jonasing. I’ll be in full on Biebering.
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Biebering (v): (1) To strongly desire something disproportionately to its actual value/talent. (2) To feel compelled to punch Usher. (3) To be poorly coiffed but able to convince others otherwise by some sort of mass brainwashing.
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Seriously, if you have speed, email me.

Happy injecting.

*But keep an eye on that llama. There is one with bumps and a red rash.
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Mrs. Nitmos and I will be heading north – North, can you believe it after I just complained about winter! – for the 2nd Annual Comedy Arts Festival. Once again, I wasn’t asked to perform (marking the second straight year I was overlooked, unintentionally I’m sure.) We’ll be taking in the comedy stylings of one of my favorite filthy-tongued Comedy Central roasters, Jeffrey Ross. I hope he has great material that I can steal and pass off as my own on this blog next week! Oh, plus add in a hot tub, red wine and delicious seafood and you have the rest of our planned weekend. Jeff Ross isn’t invited to the hot tub…unless he shaves.

Shame Run

I have a YMCA membership. So besides being reminded of the Village People every time I walk in the place, I also have to be surrounded by unapologetically naked old men in the locker room. It’s normally after about the third septuagenarian that rounds the corner from the showers and, while I sit on the bench changing into my running clothes, stands next to me drying the hair on the back of their head with THEIR ONLY TOWEL that makes me sigh hopelessly. Each shift of the towel against their scalp is performed with a hip thrust that creates a mid-section swinging motion – oh, God, a swinging motion! – that brings me a smidgen closer to meeting their Mr. Wanky. I pay for this right? I’m sorry but, if you have only one towel when emerging from a public shower, it better not be wrapped around your head.

Part of me admires a person that is so comfortable in their own skin that they can stand in front of strangers naked as jaybird, free as a…ball, unencumbered by societal values and the long-standing unwritten rules of common decency. To not give a damn what crevice is exposed nor the audience viewing it must be an intoxicating feeling. I’ve been intoxicated; I know the feeling.

But part of me is also sickened and annoyed. I just came in for a run on the treadmill. I’m already feeling shameful about it because I wimped out of an outside run. I didn’t come in to be the unwitting judge of an Antiquated Genitalia beauty pageant. Apparently, my changing stool was front row on the runway. Where’s Cojo? I need my judging abacus.

I only use a treadmill a handful of times a year. Inevitably, every January and February, I’ll sprinkle in a few trips to the Y to get me past those really rough winter days. I always feel a bit dirty about it…like I’m cheating on running. I mean, the belt moves on its own. It’s padded. There’s a giant fan behind me with selectable settings. I’m watching Cupcake Wars. It just doesn’t feel right. It’s like hiring a call girl without a venereal disease. It’s supposed to be a bit dirty right?

I only did 6 ½ miles today. I didn’t feel like the treadmill deserved for me to round it off to an even mile. Fractions! Take that! If you run on a treadmill, I don’t think you should do it the honor of ending on an exact mile point either.

Then it was back to the YMCA locker room and the horrors within.

Normally, I sulk in with shoulders hunched and head bowed manifesting my shame run regret. I get in; I get out. The only thing I see is the feet of the nude old men as they walk across the floor sans shoes stepping in clumps of others’ abandoned hair with every step. Inwardly, my Edvard Munch is going crazy: NOOOO, don’t step there….yuck, it’s on your big toe…NOOOO, don’t step there either….Oh, that one’s attached to your heel. NOOOOO, that’s a Band-Aid, too late. NOOOO….

Today, I took a stand for the non-baby boomers everywhere. I marched in with head held high determined to not bring the shame from my adulterous run into the locker room. Bring on the old naked boomers! I kept my sight line at shoulder height. I half-smiled. I half-nodded. I tried to look distracted with my own belongings. I performed all of the acceptable ritualistic social greetings expected in a men’s locker room. I pretended not to notice when the old naked guy passed back and forth in front of me four times because he kept forgetting things in the shower but couldn't, at least, get his underwear on first. I watched his feet absorb the discarded pubes of others. I watched. I waited. I started changing.

Then, just after I had completely removed all of my clothes, I casually walked over in front of four Brat Pack fans that had paraded before me for the last ten minutes. I dropped my keys on the ground with a reverberating jangle. They all snapped their heads up in my direction. I bent over at the hips - without bending my knees - to pick them up. I was as exposed as exposed could be. Then, in full on right angle, I looked over my shoulder at the stunned Golden Boys, smiled, and slyly said, “I’m pre-Op.”


I didn’t wait for a reaction. I quickly dressed and hustled out to my car. At first, I felt intoxicated but that quickly gave way to more shame. I hate running on a treadmill. It makes me feel dirty.

Young man, there's no need to feel down.
I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground.
I said, young man, 'cause you're in a new town
There's no need to be unhappy.

It's fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A.
It's fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A

Happy trails.
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Here’s a much more thoughtful – and much truer – tale of interaction with a boomer runner from Elizathon.com. I enjoyed it and now you will too. Go here.

SNOWPRAH WINFREY!

Unless you live in a cave or are busy protesting in the Middle East over less important things, you know there is a giant snow storm pummeling the Midwest and eastward. You should know this because the media will not let you forget it. The dire predictions began on Sunday. The hyperbole-laced headlines began Sunday also.

DEATH STORM 2011: The BLIZZARDING!

It’s true that there is a lot of snow out there. It fell last night while I was snuggled with my snookums in our sin bin. When I awoke, I could hear the wailing cries and revolving tires on the stationary cars of the snow stuck and the shovel weary. Their cars were trapped in the 12-18 inches of snow while futilely attempting their morning commute. Their tears and anguish put a bounce in my step. Sipping my warm coffee and taking in the sadness of my snowbound neighbors through my window, I was compelled to shut the front drapes. Who needs to see that? My commute involves 13 snow-less steps and, usually, no shoveling. I yawned, scratched my ass, and consumed some Activia yogurt so I could ‘get my bowels on’ later this morning.

BLIZZASTER!

Mrs. Nitmos is one of the unlucky commuters stuck at home. She’ll work as much as one can in her position from home. Without her employer present, there’s nothing preventing the steady stream of Wife Swap reruns on Lifetime Network. However, with me present, there’s nothing preventing the demands for soup and shoulder rubs while I revert to a child-like state of perpetual whine and neediness. I may have to shovel intermittently for a half hour at a time but that’ll be followed with a good 45 minutes of complaints about my “wrenched” shoulder and charley-horsed flux capacitor. Day off from work? Oh, think not.

SNOW.MY.GOD! (SnOMG!)

I do feel bad for the neighbor lady. Her Oldsmobile is hopelessly encased in blizzard barf. She’s in her late 70’s and lives alone. The snow plow will be making its way through the neighborhood later today plowing up an impenetrable wall of hardened snow at the end of her driveway. Methinks it won’t be a Metamucil day. She’s pretty feisty. I’m sure I’ll see her out there with her tiny shovel and loosely connected vertebrae later this morning. From the warmth of my home office and mounds of Activia, I’ll smile, wave, and pull the side drapes closed. That’s why we were given two hips right?

SNOWAGEDDON!

So far, my internet connection works. There’s no reason I can’t work today…other than it just “feels” like a snow day. Whenever someone needs me on email or instant messaging, I’m sure I’ll be “shoveling”. And by shoveling, of course I mean, completing the job Activia began or watching those Wife Swap reruns over a bowl of soup. Just because I don’t have an external commute doesn’t me I should be punished with work right?

HORROR SNOW!

Running is out for the time being. I got 5 ½ miles in yesterday. That should hold me until Friday when enough paths open back up for the YakTrax to find some footing. Until then, I’m going to stay inside and watch the horror unfold from the comfort of my couch. There’s my neighbor, with ice clinging to his out-of-fashion porn goatee, frantically pressing on the accelerator sending a shower of snow pelting against his siding. Look at old lady Oldsmobile out to give it the Ole College Try with her tiny shovel! Well, she was there. Now I just see the top of a tiny shovel sticking out of a snow bank next to that weird indentation in the snow…

Hey, what happened to the cable?

OH GOD SAVE US, SAVE ME! I NEED HELP SHOVELING MY DRIVEWAY ARGGHGHHHHH!!!!

SNOW FOOLIN’!

Happy sledding.