I hold within these sentences 9 fool proof ways to run faster...to subtract seconds from your average per mile pace. These secrets are so secret I had to close my eyes even to type them. All 11 of the Colonel’s herbs and spices can’t believe how secret these secrets are. The lost city of Atlantis just called to ask about these secrets and I told it (them?) I couldn’t say and then pretended they had they wrong number. To which they said ‘we’re cold and wet down here. Can’t you just help us?’ to which I said ‘maybe you should have thought of that before…’
But I’ll share them with you now.
I hate to disappoint those in the southern, non-snowy climates but these secrets only apply to us cold weather folk. Sorry. You don’t get mounds of snow and polar bears snowboarding by your windows for three months out of the year so….you can wear your bright colored clothing and go screw yourselves. These secrets are climate specific. These are for us northerners who prefer to dress in shades of brown, forest green, and blue and like our cars, and everything else we own, rusty.
Every year, about this time, my per mile pace starts subtracting seconds. It depends on the distance of the run, of course, but those gains can be anywhere from 15 seconds to 40 seconds per mile! Why? I’m not very bright so it took me four long years and lots of clinical research to create the following list. It’s obvious now to me why I get faster every spring.
Each one of these things, by itself, will shave some amount of time and it is notated to the right. You can apply all or pick a la carte to experience your own time gains. To standardize the secret list, I assumed a 10 mile distance. Get ready to find El Dorado!
Super Secret Get Fast Tips (close eyes before reading)
1. Melted snow leaves running paths flat, hard, and clear. (-15 seconds per mile!)
2. North Face thermal jacket finds a home at the back of the closet for the next 9 months. (-5 seconds)
3. Remove wind pants/wear shorts instead. (-4 seconds)
4. Remove YakTrak and/or buy new running shoes now that you are doing abusing your “winter” pair. (-3 seconds)
5. Replace Seasonal Affective Disorder with spring allergies. (-3 second net gain)
6. Panic sets in as race approaches. You stop missing runs. (-3 seconds but climbing!)
7. Rotting, ditched, recently uncovered animal carcass odor smells like creeping death on running path. (+ 3 seconds as you make crinkle face Ewww noise but still pause to gawk at the remains.)
8. You stop saying “fuck it, it’s too cold out” before skipping a run and returning to the couch, TV, and your stretchy, elastic-banded fat pants. (-2 seconds)
9. Re—hydrate with New Coke. (indeterminate but probably -75 seconds)
See how easy it is to get faster? Why waste your time with intervals? Take off some layered clothing, stop skipping runs and VIOLA!, you’re faster! Yasso can kiss my asso. I shaved a good 30 seconds off my 10 mile pace in the span of six weeks just by following those 9 rules without doing a single 800. (Okay, maybe I did a few 800’s but I didn’t need to and that’s really my point.)
This isn’t the only secret I have. Come fall, I can help you rake those pesky leaves TONS faster than how you are doing it now. (Hint: Rule #1: Wait for first snow fall.)
Now that I’ve shared them, please forget them immediately. They are super secret and thus, not to be known. Don’t make me send Jimmy Hoffa after you. (Yes, he’s alive and living in Atlantis with the cast of Mad About You. Paul Reiser says 'Hello'.)
Happy trails.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Five Knuckle Shuffle
You know what? I don’t need your dirty minds around here. You can just leave.
I’m talking all serious today. I have knuckle troubles. What would you call a post in which you discuss your knuckles? Knuckle Under? Knuckle Kerfuffle? Knuckle Fuckle? See? What I came up with isn’t so bad now is it?
If embarking on the last year of my 30’s while simultaneously attempting to set PR’s in every race while treading dangerously close to the over training line isn’t enough stress, my body – normally a model for off-color bachelorette party masculine soaked greeting cards (think cowboy hat and holster and nothing else) – is starting to revolt. Hip bones? Puh-leeze, they’ve stopped agreeing with my weekend long runs a few months back. Forget sleep Sunday night. A few Advil and some Biofreeze works for awhile then, it’s tossing and turning the rest of the night. Sore hips and side sleepers don’t go together. Who has Propofol? Paging Dr. Murray.
Now, the knuckles, of all things, have taken their turn to express their displeasure. I wake up every morning over the last several weeks with at least five knuckles swollen and painful to bend. After a nice, hot shower, much of the swelling goes away. But, what the hell? I’m 39 not 59 or 69 or 79. The joints shouldn’t be swelling up yet. I like to think that my knuckles are merely reacting to the years of bar brawling I like to pretend I’ve done. That sounds cool. It’s like when I get an in grown toenail and limp around the house telling the family that my foot “is flaring up over all the ass I’ve kicked.”
Fortunately, my knuckles aren’t needed to run…no matter how many times I’ve been called a ‘Neanderthal’ and asked if ‘I get grass stains on those knuckles.’ So, the training goes on…
Sunday’s 17 mile long run was completed haiku style.
Long run broken down
Five seven five segments each
Seventeen miles done!
That’s three segments of 5 miles, 7 miles, 5 miles with a Gu and water break between each for you knuckleheads not familiar with (irregular) haiku. (I know I didn’t have a seasonal reference.) I enjoyed making a normal run into an expression of Japanese poetry. I felt really international…like when I watch Gung Ho on TNT.
I’ve been cracking my knuckles all morning trying to come up with a way to do an Iambic pentameter run for this weekend’s 18 miler. Don’t worry, I’ve got the Dirty Limerick style run covered.
But it’s really this knuckle swelling that has me vexed. What could it be? Am I arthritic between the hours of 4 AM to 9 AM only? This wouldn’t be entirely unusual for me as I’m known to be extraordinary between the hours of 9 AM to midnight. After midnight, I revert to slightly above average for a few hours.
I’d like to figure this one out…so then I can move along and solve my Rosy Palm problem.
Happy trails.
________________________________
Sunday = 17 miles @ smooth 7:13 pace.
The week ahead:
Today = 5.5 miles with 3 x 800.
Thursday = 8.5 miles
Saturday = 18 miles
Sunday = No sleep Saturday night.
I’m talking all serious today. I have knuckle troubles. What would you call a post in which you discuss your knuckles? Knuckle Under? Knuckle Kerfuffle? Knuckle Fuckle? See? What I came up with isn’t so bad now is it?
If embarking on the last year of my 30’s while simultaneously attempting to set PR’s in every race while treading dangerously close to the over training line isn’t enough stress, my body – normally a model for off-color bachelorette party masculine soaked greeting cards (think cowboy hat and holster and nothing else) – is starting to revolt. Hip bones? Puh-leeze, they’ve stopped agreeing with my weekend long runs a few months back. Forget sleep Sunday night. A few Advil and some Biofreeze works for awhile then, it’s tossing and turning the rest of the night. Sore hips and side sleepers don’t go together. Who has Propofol? Paging Dr. Murray.
Now, the knuckles, of all things, have taken their turn to express their displeasure. I wake up every morning over the last several weeks with at least five knuckles swollen and painful to bend. After a nice, hot shower, much of the swelling goes away. But, what the hell? I’m 39 not 59 or 69 or 79. The joints shouldn’t be swelling up yet. I like to think that my knuckles are merely reacting to the years of bar brawling I like to pretend I’ve done. That sounds cool. It’s like when I get an in grown toenail and limp around the house telling the family that my foot “is flaring up over all the ass I’ve kicked.”
Fortunately, my knuckles aren’t needed to run…no matter how many times I’ve been called a ‘Neanderthal’ and asked if ‘I get grass stains on those knuckles.’ So, the training goes on…
Sunday’s 17 mile long run was completed haiku style.
Long run broken down
Five seven five segments each
Seventeen miles done!
That’s three segments of 5 miles, 7 miles, 5 miles with a Gu and water break between each for you knuckleheads not familiar with (irregular) haiku. (I know I didn’t have a seasonal reference.) I enjoyed making a normal run into an expression of Japanese poetry. I felt really international…like when I watch Gung Ho on TNT.
I’ve been cracking my knuckles all morning trying to come up with a way to do an Iambic pentameter run for this weekend’s 18 miler. Don’t worry, I’ve got the Dirty Limerick style run covered.
But it’s really this knuckle swelling that has me vexed. What could it be? Am I arthritic between the hours of 4 AM to 9 AM only? This wouldn’t be entirely unusual for me as I’m known to be extraordinary between the hours of 9 AM to midnight. After midnight, I revert to slightly above average for a few hours.
I’d like to figure this one out…so then I can move along and solve my Rosy Palm problem.
Happy trails.
________________________________
Sunday = 17 miles @ smooth 7:13 pace.
The week ahead:
Today = 5.5 miles with 3 x 800.
Thursday = 8.5 miles
Saturday = 18 miles
Sunday = No sleep Saturday night.
Friday, March 19, 2010
A Devious Plot Revealed!
I almost bought it. Hook. Line. And Sinker. I was thrashing on the line just about to go over the edge of the aluminum boat, take a mallet to the head, and plop into the fisherman’s cooler.* Then, I realized what was happening. This guppy turned into a shark, severed the line and swam away just in time.
Nice try, Beardsley.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I recently celebrated a birthday. Don’t think I didn’t appreciate all of your ‘Happy birthday!’ comments (there were none). It’s really a testament to your character (you have none). I’m not going to go on one of those contrived ‘why didn’t you get me any presents’ rants but, as I stood there being sung to by a trio of familial carolers, the empty void of Gifts Not Given was distracting – and infuriating - to say the least. I made my birthday wish with furrowed brow and angry heart and plenty of open space on the table where gifts could have been. It’s said that, if you reveal your birthday wish, it will not come true. So I won’t. I’ve been Mr. Nice Guy until now but, after this latest slight, just wait until your birthday. It might look like chocolate on your birthday cake. Heck, it might even taste like chocolate. But that ain’t chocolate.** Revenge is best served applied like a thin veneer of frosting I always say.
The parade of Gifts Given came next. Maybe not a parade so much as a processional. Maybe not a processional per se but more of a strolling elderly couple heading for the Metamucil aisle. There were two gifts. Two. There are three ‘others’ in my family. So it appears they each chipped in to get me 2/3 of a gift each. That’s okay. I appreciate the effort. Besides, who’s counting? Who’s doing fractional math to make a point? Not this guy. (I just wonder what it’d be like to be driven 2/3’s of the way to school each morning. Sex? What would 2/3’s of an effort look like?***)
One of the gifts was a tool for which I can clean with. No kidding. Score! Second gift...well now, this is interesting. Is that….? Why, yes it is, that’s BEARDSLEY! A signed poster from the man almost personally responsible for my failure to win the 2008 Boston Marathon.****
I was taken aback. Was this a cooling off, a détente, between the titans? A gesture of civility? Perhaps a personal admission of responsibility for what occurred on Heartbreak Hill in April of 2008? Did Mrs. Nitmos intervene to resolve the issue before things spiraled out of control?
The writing reads: “To my greatest nemesis Nitmos, You’re the best. Keep up the great work you do! Dick Beardsley 2:08:53 Boston ‘82”
And this is where I found myself tethered to the line and, internally at least, thrashing about like a fish out of water. I looked at the poster. The furious tension that I’ve been carrying around for the last two years as a sub layer to my normally sunny disposition dissolved. I felt a renewed and refreshing sense of calmness. The omnipresent desire to squash kittens with the chipped heel end of an old army boot temporarily replaced with an overwhelming urge to plant dandelions randomly about town and drop off donations to an orphanage under the name of Anonymous. Sunshine? Yes, please, but only if it’ll make the clouds extra puffy like little balls of cotton candy holding their own little balls of cotton candy.
I was at the edge of the boat. My body smacking against the aluminum side. Mallet raised and poised for the strike.
And then it hit me. Not the mallet but the realization of what was happening. I was being placated. Pacified. Appeased. Mollified. Quelled. (Add your own word here…it’s easy with a thesaurus.) Robbed of the very anger that drives me towards redemption.
This was no gift. This was a Trojan horse sent into my home to slay me from the inside. IN MY HOME! WHERE MY WIFE SLEEPS…AND MY CHILDREN PLAY WITH THEIR TOYS! A devious plot to destroy my drive, my passion, my motivation. Détente, my ass. More like intente…to mess with my head.
Notice the sly reference to 2:08:53 on the poster. That’s my goal Bayshore time!***** I’m being mocked! I thought about crumpling the poster, ala Rocky crumpling Clubber Lang’s photo upon obtaining the Eye of the Tiger in Rocky III, and tossing it into the bin. But it’s kind of a neat poster. And Mrs. Nitmos went through all of the trouble and all…
So, I’ll just hang it on my wall as a reminder. The world is cruel. Folks don’t send internet strangers birthday gifts. Legendary runners hope your hamstrings snap before you best their PR.******
Something SNAPPED alright. The fishing line you were using to land this fish. You created a shark, Mr. Beardsley, and he’s swimming your way.
Nice try.
Happy trails.
P.S. Save your belated 'Happy Birthday’s'. The damage has been done. I wouldn’t refuse delivery of a belated gift however. I’m not a jerk. Get your own poster here.
*Like one of my “dates” twenty years ago on a roofie.
**When’s the last time chocolate had bits of corn in it?
***Roughly, two minutes.
**** Besides training and ability.
***** Minus an hour.
****** Plus an hour.
_________________________________________
17 miles this weekend in the cold and rain. Should be fun!
Nice try, Beardsley.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I recently celebrated a birthday. Don’t think I didn’t appreciate all of your ‘Happy birthday!’ comments (there were none). It’s really a testament to your character (you have none). I’m not going to go on one of those contrived ‘why didn’t you get me any presents’ rants but, as I stood there being sung to by a trio of familial carolers, the empty void of Gifts Not Given was distracting – and infuriating - to say the least. I made my birthday wish with furrowed brow and angry heart and plenty of open space on the table where gifts could have been. It’s said that, if you reveal your birthday wish, it will not come true. So I won’t. I’ve been Mr. Nice Guy until now but, after this latest slight, just wait until your birthday. It might look like chocolate on your birthday cake. Heck, it might even taste like chocolate. But that ain’t chocolate.** Revenge is best served applied like a thin veneer of frosting I always say.
The parade of Gifts Given came next. Maybe not a parade so much as a processional. Maybe not a processional per se but more of a strolling elderly couple heading for the Metamucil aisle. There were two gifts. Two. There are three ‘others’ in my family. So it appears they each chipped in to get me 2/3 of a gift each. That’s okay. I appreciate the effort. Besides, who’s counting? Who’s doing fractional math to make a point? Not this guy. (I just wonder what it’d be like to be driven 2/3’s of the way to school each morning. Sex? What would 2/3’s of an effort look like?***)
One of the gifts was a tool for which I can clean with. No kidding. Score! Second gift...well now, this is interesting. Is that….? Why, yes it is, that’s BEARDSLEY! A signed poster from the man almost personally responsible for my failure to win the 2008 Boston Marathon.****
I was taken aback. Was this a cooling off, a détente, between the titans? A gesture of civility? Perhaps a personal admission of responsibility for what occurred on Heartbreak Hill in April of 2008? Did Mrs. Nitmos intervene to resolve the issue before things spiraled out of control?
The writing reads: “To my greatest nemesis Nitmos, You’re the best. Keep up the great work you do! Dick Beardsley 2:08:53 Boston ‘82”
And this is where I found myself tethered to the line and, internally at least, thrashing about like a fish out of water. I looked at the poster. The furious tension that I’ve been carrying around for the last two years as a sub layer to my normally sunny disposition dissolved. I felt a renewed and refreshing sense of calmness. The omnipresent desire to squash kittens with the chipped heel end of an old army boot temporarily replaced with an overwhelming urge to plant dandelions randomly about town and drop off donations to an orphanage under the name of Anonymous. Sunshine? Yes, please, but only if it’ll make the clouds extra puffy like little balls of cotton candy holding their own little balls of cotton candy.
I was at the edge of the boat. My body smacking against the aluminum side. Mallet raised and poised for the strike.
And then it hit me. Not the mallet but the realization of what was happening. I was being placated. Pacified. Appeased. Mollified. Quelled. (Add your own word here…it’s easy with a thesaurus.) Robbed of the very anger that drives me towards redemption.
This was no gift. This was a Trojan horse sent into my home to slay me from the inside. IN MY HOME! WHERE MY WIFE SLEEPS…AND MY CHILDREN PLAY WITH THEIR TOYS! A devious plot to destroy my drive, my passion, my motivation. Détente, my ass. More like intente…to mess with my head.
Notice the sly reference to 2:08:53 on the poster. That’s my goal Bayshore time!***** I’m being mocked! I thought about crumpling the poster, ala Rocky crumpling Clubber Lang’s photo upon obtaining the Eye of the Tiger in Rocky III, and tossing it into the bin. But it’s kind of a neat poster. And Mrs. Nitmos went through all of the trouble and all…
So, I’ll just hang it on my wall as a reminder. The world is cruel. Folks don’t send internet strangers birthday gifts. Legendary runners hope your hamstrings snap before you best their PR.******
Something SNAPPED alright. The fishing line you were using to land this fish. You created a shark, Mr. Beardsley, and he’s swimming your way.
Nice try.
Happy trails.
P.S. Save your belated 'Happy Birthday’s'. The damage has been done. I wouldn’t refuse delivery of a belated gift however. I’m not a jerk. Get your own poster here.
*Like one of my “dates” twenty years ago on a roofie.
**When’s the last time chocolate had bits of corn in it?
***Roughly, two minutes.
**** Besides training and ability.
***** Minus an hour.
****** Plus an hour.
_________________________________________
17 miles this weekend in the cold and rain. Should be fun!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Irish Schm-Irish
I’m not wearing any green today. I’m not Irish. I’ve never been to Ireland (though I’d be happy to go if you’re paying). In fact, I’m told we have some Scottish somewhere up at the top branches of the family tree. Don’t the Scots and Ires have some sort of blood sport rivalry anyhow? Eh, don’t care. I’m not Catholic either. And, though I’m sure Patrick was a complete angel and one of the finest humans you could ever want to meet, I’m not sure what was so saintly about him. Did he win a big soccer match for team Ireland one year?
Nope, no green here. It’s a day like any other. And, yes, I’m one of those guys.
We did dress my filly in green. If it saves her a few pinches, I guess that’s a good thing. Besides, it’s more for the other kids’ protection than hers. She’s the type to punch some innocently teasing child in the face. And then ask questions later…probably while standing over the recently punched kid, with the blood spewing nose, still clenching her fist. Daddy taught her that. My colt likes to play Call of Duty. Sometimes, he’s not sure who he should be shooting at in the fog of war. I like to remind him that he should just open fire on everyone. ‘Kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out.’ If I don’t dispense this advice to my foals’ tender ears, who will?
Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against St. Patrick’s Day or Ireland or Irish folk. Dress up in shamrock hats. Drink green food coloring. Whoop it up. Knock yourselves out. For me, however, a day isn’t a holiday unless it comes with a free day off from work. No day off; no celebration on my part. Valentine’s Day anyone? No thanks.
I’ve never been sensitive about my heritage. I did have occasion to run into someone hyper-sensitive about their heritage once. It so happens, he was Irish though I didn’t know that at first. And since this is Patty’s Day, why not share that story now?
Several years ago, I was sitting on the couch at some in-laws house “celebrating” his kid’s tenth birthday by trying to stay awake watching the NBA All Star game and checking my watch every five minutes to determine the socially acceptable time to leave. Some guy, a friend of the relatives or something, was sitting there watching the game modeling fashionably green shaded camouflage pants, shirt and hat. Keep in mind, despite the camouflage, I could see him perfectly. He really popped against the white leather couch though I didn’t have the heart to tell him.
At some point, this complete stranger decided to start sharing his person views on black people. Let’s just say, he didn’t seem to like them. Every highly-successful, multi-millionaire black player was belittled with a withering, disgusting comment from the dude without a job and an aversion to soap.
I ignored the first half dozen or so remarks. It’s a child’s birthday party. Let it go, right?
Finally, after fifteen minutes of non-stop racial commentary, I looked over at him and said, “I feel the same way…except about the Irish.” Now, I had no idea this guy was Irish. Before I said it, I knew he might be Irish. But I could have picked any other group. That was just the first name that came to mind. I was simply trying to make a point.
As the kids raced around the house full of birthday cake and presents, this highly visible, green monster stands up and says to me, “I’m Irish, you want to step outside?”
All that I could do was laugh. It was completely surreal. Fortunately, my laughter broke the tension and seemed to remind the camouflaged racist the he was at his friend’s house at his friend’s child’s birthday party. Now might not be the best time for a whiskey fueled bar fight.
Thank God, too. It would have been him standing over me with a clenched fist while my nose spewed blood. That would have been a real lesson for my kids: Don’t fuck with the Irish. They’d probably wear green every day thereafter.
I would have still taken my chances though…unless it came with a free day off.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
(No, I don't want to step outside.)
________________________________
Saturday: 4 x 400m (1:19, 1:19, 1:18, 1:17). Starting small on the intervals.
Sunday: 14 miles @ 7:06 pace.
This week: 3 x 800m w/warm-up/cool down, 8 miles tempo, and 17 mile long run.
Nope, no green here. It’s a day like any other. And, yes, I’m one of those guys.
We did dress my filly in green. If it saves her a few pinches, I guess that’s a good thing. Besides, it’s more for the other kids’ protection than hers. She’s the type to punch some innocently teasing child in the face. And then ask questions later…probably while standing over the recently punched kid, with the blood spewing nose, still clenching her fist. Daddy taught her that. My colt likes to play Call of Duty. Sometimes, he’s not sure who he should be shooting at in the fog of war. I like to remind him that he should just open fire on everyone. ‘Kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out.’ If I don’t dispense this advice to my foals’ tender ears, who will?
Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against St. Patrick’s Day or Ireland or Irish folk. Dress up in shamrock hats. Drink green food coloring. Whoop it up. Knock yourselves out. For me, however, a day isn’t a holiday unless it comes with a free day off from work. No day off; no celebration on my part. Valentine’s Day anyone? No thanks.
I’ve never been sensitive about my heritage. I did have occasion to run into someone hyper-sensitive about their heritage once. It so happens, he was Irish though I didn’t know that at first. And since this is Patty’s Day, why not share that story now?
Several years ago, I was sitting on the couch at some in-laws house “celebrating” his kid’s tenth birthday by trying to stay awake watching the NBA All Star game and checking my watch every five minutes to determine the socially acceptable time to leave. Some guy, a friend of the relatives or something, was sitting there watching the game modeling fashionably green shaded camouflage pants, shirt and hat. Keep in mind, despite the camouflage, I could see him perfectly. He really popped against the white leather couch though I didn’t have the heart to tell him.
At some point, this complete stranger decided to start sharing his person views on black people. Let’s just say, he didn’t seem to like them. Every highly-successful, multi-millionaire black player was belittled with a withering, disgusting comment from the dude without a job and an aversion to soap.
I ignored the first half dozen or so remarks. It’s a child’s birthday party. Let it go, right?
Finally, after fifteen minutes of non-stop racial commentary, I looked over at him and said, “I feel the same way…except about the Irish.” Now, I had no idea this guy was Irish. Before I said it, I knew he might be Irish. But I could have picked any other group. That was just the first name that came to mind. I was simply trying to make a point.
As the kids raced around the house full of birthday cake and presents, this highly visible, green monster stands up and says to me, “I’m Irish, you want to step outside?”
All that I could do was laugh. It was completely surreal. Fortunately, my laughter broke the tension and seemed to remind the camouflaged racist the he was at his friend’s house at his friend’s child’s birthday party. Now might not be the best time for a whiskey fueled bar fight.
Thank God, too. It would have been him standing over me with a clenched fist while my nose spewed blood. That would have been a real lesson for my kids: Don’t fuck with the Irish. They’d probably wear green every day thereafter.
I would have still taken my chances though…unless it came with a free day off.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
(No, I don't want to step outside.)
________________________________
Saturday: 4 x 400m (1:19, 1:19, 1:18, 1:17). Starting small on the intervals.
Sunday: 14 miles @ 7:06 pace.
This week: 3 x 800m w/warm-up/cool down, 8 miles tempo, and 17 mile long run.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Elbow Room
It sure is getting crowded around here.
In 1977, Jim Fixx released his book, The Complete Book of Running, and helped usher in what has become known as the first great running boom. Millions of non-running Americans took to the streets with their running shoes, shaggy hair trapped under red, white, and blue headbands, and mustaches. It was the era of disco. And what better way to look groovy in the leisure suit than with a nice, svelte, runner’s physique. Also, considering the state of the economy and the gas shortages, it probably just seemed like a prudent idea at the time anyhow.
I remember those years. One of my first encounters with the sport of running was in the late 70’s as a wee elementary aged lad with the block’s best bowl cut and mischievous just-wait-til-Devils-Night smirk. (Kids don’t do “Devil’s Night” anymore, do they? Shame.) I watched my neighbor, a doctor, run circles around my block for seemingly hours on end. It looked so exhausting. And uninspiring the way he huffed and puffed around the corner and back out of view. We watched, ate popsicles on the porch, and mocked his perspiration levels and challenged each other to touch….no, wring out…no, drape his running shirt over your face. Ewwwww. You know, stuff like that. Double dog dares that usually ended with someone having to do something unsavory and humiliating with the runner’s perspiration.
Plus, he wore those unnerving split side running shorts. Even in the 70’s, those were uncool. I don’t know what he was the doctor of but it certainly wasn’t Fashion.
Looking back, I think this particular memory had a lasting impact on my running life. Or, more accurately, my lack of running in my early life. I was always a natural runner. On playgrounds and school races, I finished near or at the front. They always played me at forward in soccer so that I could run back and forth across the entire field, never tiring. My older brothers couldn’t catch up to me after I slugged them in the back for no reason and took off down the street until their angry footsteps faded away.
I played soccer, baseball, basketball, sandlot football but never considered track or cross country.
A few years after we moved away, the running doctor from my neighborhood had a heart attack and died while running. My parents shook their head and repeated What a shame several times. My dad theorized that he shouldn’t have run so much. His heart couldn’t take it and just gave out. When you’re nine years old, a comment like that can leave an impression. From the safety of our car window, I’d see other folks out running and wondered when their heart would give out. Running just to run, not to chase a ball or play a game? It seemed pointless.
Then Jim Fixx died of a heart attack in 1984 at the age of 52. While running.
You would think that would just about cinch it for me: Two dead runners, so close together in age and circumstances, and me at such an impressionable, youthful age. Nope, this kid wasn’t going to grow up to be a runner. I didn’t want my heart to give out. We only get so many beeps of the heart right? And yet now, nearly three decades later, here I am circling the neighborhood – heck, circling the town – and dripping with sweat. I run three or four days a week. I really don’t play much basketball anymore like I did a few years ago. That seems pointless.
So why do I run now? I can’t really explain it. It seems natural. In fact, I think I should have been doing it all along. I didn’t start running regularly until the age of thirty. There was a dormant runner within until then, repressed by unfounded fears and, probably, the omnipresent night terrors created by those side split shorts of Dr. Runner.
I’ve heard this era, the last several years or so, called the second great running boom. In 1984, at the time of Fixx’s death, there were approximately 170,000 finishers of an American marathon. Twenty five years later, that number has more than tripled with most of those gains occurring this past decade. More importantly though, the percentage of runner’s wearing side split running shorts has decreased. Thank God for that, at least.
Of course, there’s plenty of data out there dispelling the myth of the doomed heart of a runner. In fact, there’s enough evidence touting the benefits. But how many of us still hear about the ‘damage we are doing to our knees’?
With so many runners these days, the existing races can barely hold them all. New races, new marathons are popping up everywhere. Old races are expanding their field size. It takes careful advanced planning now to get registered for one of the well-publicized races. I missed out on Boston in 2010 simply because I figured registration would roughly follow the timeline it took in 2008. Wrong. It filled a few months quicker than just two years prior.
I had to jump on the Bayshore Marathon, a small town little-known marathon if there ever was one, as registration was going to fill within a month!
And now I received notification that the Chicago Marathon, which just opened registration a month ago and one I’ve been considering for this fall, is already across the 30,000 applicant threshold. A few years ago, that would have maxed the race out but recently they expanded to 40,000. I guess I’ll have to make my October plans now, before the snow even melts from this winter.
Races sure are getting crowded. Not as much elbow room these days. I’m okay with that though. I’m not one that thinks races should be confined to the truly dedicated. As we know, there are run snobs out there. The weekend warriors and the run-walkers are welcome too. It’s a great sport to be enjoyed by all.
Just not in the side split running shorts. Think of the children…and their double dog dares.
Happy trails.
_________________________________
After Tuesday's post, I thought I better make this one at least 90% taint free. I think I owed it. So, you're welcome for the lack of taint within!
_________________________________
Nice 5 miler on Tuesday with Garmin timed 2 x 1/2 mile repeats of 2:40, 2:47. Working my way up slowwwwllly after a harsh winter of limited speed work. Next week, 3 x 1/2mile (or 800m if I go to the track).
7.5 miles today.
4 x 400m track repeats on Saturday with warm-up/cool down miles.
14 miles on Sunday (cut back week!)
In 1977, Jim Fixx released his book, The Complete Book of Running, and helped usher in what has become known as the first great running boom. Millions of non-running Americans took to the streets with their running shoes, shaggy hair trapped under red, white, and blue headbands, and mustaches. It was the era of disco. And what better way to look groovy in the leisure suit than with a nice, svelte, runner’s physique. Also, considering the state of the economy and the gas shortages, it probably just seemed like a prudent idea at the time anyhow.
I remember those years. One of my first encounters with the sport of running was in the late 70’s as a wee elementary aged lad with the block’s best bowl cut and mischievous just-wait-til-Devils-Night smirk. (Kids don’t do “Devil’s Night” anymore, do they? Shame.) I watched my neighbor, a doctor, run circles around my block for seemingly hours on end. It looked so exhausting. And uninspiring the way he huffed and puffed around the corner and back out of view. We watched, ate popsicles on the porch, and mocked his perspiration levels and challenged each other to touch….no, wring out…no, drape his running shirt over your face. Ewwwww. You know, stuff like that. Double dog dares that usually ended with someone having to do something unsavory and humiliating with the runner’s perspiration.
Plus, he wore those unnerving split side running shorts. Even in the 70’s, those were uncool. I don’t know what he was the doctor of but it certainly wasn’t Fashion.
Looking back, I think this particular memory had a lasting impact on my running life. Or, more accurately, my lack of running in my early life. I was always a natural runner. On playgrounds and school races, I finished near or at the front. They always played me at forward in soccer so that I could run back and forth across the entire field, never tiring. My older brothers couldn’t catch up to me after I slugged them in the back for no reason and took off down the street until their angry footsteps faded away.
I played soccer, baseball, basketball, sandlot football but never considered track or cross country.
A few years after we moved away, the running doctor from my neighborhood had a heart attack and died while running. My parents shook their head and repeated What a shame several times. My dad theorized that he shouldn’t have run so much. His heart couldn’t take it and just gave out. When you’re nine years old, a comment like that can leave an impression. From the safety of our car window, I’d see other folks out running and wondered when their heart would give out. Running just to run, not to chase a ball or play a game? It seemed pointless.
Then Jim Fixx died of a heart attack in 1984 at the age of 52. While running.
You would think that would just about cinch it for me: Two dead runners, so close together in age and circumstances, and me at such an impressionable, youthful age. Nope, this kid wasn’t going to grow up to be a runner. I didn’t want my heart to give out. We only get so many beeps of the heart right? And yet now, nearly three decades later, here I am circling the neighborhood – heck, circling the town – and dripping with sweat. I run three or four days a week. I really don’t play much basketball anymore like I did a few years ago. That seems pointless.
So why do I run now? I can’t really explain it. It seems natural. In fact, I think I should have been doing it all along. I didn’t start running regularly until the age of thirty. There was a dormant runner within until then, repressed by unfounded fears and, probably, the omnipresent night terrors created by those side split shorts of Dr. Runner.
I’ve heard this era, the last several years or so, called the second great running boom. In 1984, at the time of Fixx’s death, there were approximately 170,000 finishers of an American marathon. Twenty five years later, that number has more than tripled with most of those gains occurring this past decade. More importantly though, the percentage of runner’s wearing side split running shorts has decreased. Thank God for that, at least.
Of course, there’s plenty of data out there dispelling the myth of the doomed heart of a runner. In fact, there’s enough evidence touting the benefits. But how many of us still hear about the ‘damage we are doing to our knees’?
With so many runners these days, the existing races can barely hold them all. New races, new marathons are popping up everywhere. Old races are expanding their field size. It takes careful advanced planning now to get registered for one of the well-publicized races. I missed out on Boston in 2010 simply because I figured registration would roughly follow the timeline it took in 2008. Wrong. It filled a few months quicker than just two years prior.
I had to jump on the Bayshore Marathon, a small town little-known marathon if there ever was one, as registration was going to fill within a month!
And now I received notification that the Chicago Marathon, which just opened registration a month ago and one I’ve been considering for this fall, is already across the 30,000 applicant threshold. A few years ago, that would have maxed the race out but recently they expanded to 40,000. I guess I’ll have to make my October plans now, before the snow even melts from this winter.
Races sure are getting crowded. Not as much elbow room these days. I’m okay with that though. I’m not one that thinks races should be confined to the truly dedicated. As we know, there are run snobs out there. The weekend warriors and the run-walkers are welcome too. It’s a great sport to be enjoyed by all.
Just not in the side split running shorts. Think of the children…and their double dog dares.
Happy trails.
_________________________________
After Tuesday's post, I thought I better make this one at least 90% taint free. I think I owed it. So, you're welcome for the lack of taint within!
_________________________________
Nice 5 miler on Tuesday with Garmin timed 2 x 1/2 mile repeats of 2:40, 2:47. Working my way up slowwwwllly after a harsh winter of limited speed work. Next week, 3 x 1/2mile (or 800m if I go to the track).
7.5 miles today.
4 x 400m track repeats on Saturday with warm-up/cool down miles.
14 miles on Sunday (cut back week!)
Monday, March 08, 2010
How To Celebrate A Successful Long Run
Or, How Not to Celebrate A Successful Long Run depending on your appreciation of a cow's ass.
I ran 16 miles this Saturday. Okay, for a marathoner, not that big of a deal. We frequently run 16 miles. It’s part of the biz. But I haven’t gone that far in a surprisingly long time. My last full marathon was last May in Cincinnati. Damn, that was 10 months ago! For the half marathons this past Fall, I think I went 15 miles max in training for both. So, 16 miles? Yeah, I was as interested as all of you in how the body would respond.
Conditions were perfect: 42 degrees, sunny, largely clear sidewalks, little wind. I still wrapped up in the wind pants. Habits are hard to break.
The first 10 miles went great. I kept a nice, easy feeling 7:12 pace. I sang out loud to favorite songs. There was the odd air guitar and air drumming thrown in to the amusement of passing motorists. I even had that brief, euphoric feeling about 8 miles in. You know the one. That feeling that washes over you in the early stages of a long run and convinces you that you can run all day, hell, even SPEED UP during the last few miles. Yeah, I AM the man. Look at me, I’m a machine cranking out these miles.
Then, of course, reality sets in. After 10 miles, someone started strapping two pound weights to each of my hamstrings every mile. By thirteen miles, I remembered that I WASN’T the man. That I hadn’t gone over 12 miles more than three times in the last three months and that two of those were on the soft, self-propelling treadmill. I had Treadmill Mileage Delusion (TMD – won’t you give today?) disease. Full blown.
One of my great weaknesses as a runner is hydration. I never drink enough. I often realize that I’m dehydrated about 20 miles into a marathon when my calf muscles start cramping up and I involuntarily lay by the side of the road in a fetal position lapping rain water from a pothole puddle as hundreds of well-hydrated marathoners step over me on their way to the finish. Or I find myself being cradled on a surprised mother’s lap breast feeding as her recently head butted baby flails away through crying shrieks on the ground next to us.* After 14 miles, I had that desperate need to drink. Without an engorged breast around (and, really, is it so much to ask to have an engorged breast around when someone is training for a marathon? With chocolate milk, please?), I started looking for melted snow and an oasis of ice water.
The last 4 miles were covered in a disappointing 7:30 mile pace. Considering it was the first of the longer long runs of the year, I’m still satisfied with the results. Sixteen total miles at an average 7:19 pace. And no restraining orders!
Then, of course, the munchies come on. I need to eat. Lots. So, how do you celebrate a successful long run? Really, there is only two ways. (1.) Beer (obviously). Or (2.) eating ridiculous amounts of food.
And here’s where a critical decision went haywire. We had a breakdown in the Nitmos home. You’ve heard the old saying the ‘You should never go grocery shopping while hungry’? Well, you should never allow a runner coming off a long run to choose dinner. A bartender has a responsibility to take the keys away from a drunk patron. A spouse also has a responsibility to prevent a famished runner from picking the dining location.
I chose bulk food. Yes, a buffet. A filthy, bacteria-riddled buffet filled with lukewarm, fly tickled food overflowing the troughs. The kind of place where most of the folks perspire just getting their food. The kind of place in which sweat rolls off the ankles with each chew. I should have known better but, at that moment, it just sounded sooo good.
But here’s where it got worse. Not only did I choose a buffet but, for the main course, I selected a cut of their finest steak. Bulk. Steak. From a buffet. You can see where this is going right? I ate a bite and crinkled my face. Something tasted…off. I ate a second bite and then re-examined the meat. This is steak, right?
Now, I know that a buffet is not going to buy the choicest cuts. No doubt, the buffet is getting the steak from an area closest to the cow’s ass. And not just a regular cow but probably the cows that go ‘Ooom’ rather than ‘Mooo’ if you know what I mean.
Here’s the thing, I’m pretty sure that I was eating the cow’s asshole. Or, since that’s a ‘hole’, I guess I was eating the taint. Steak isn’t supposed to be shaped like an onion ring, right? That should have been the tip off.
I finished the meal. Filled my belly with all the taint I could eat. Received my courtesy penicillin injection and bonus two minutes in the “anti-bacterial chamber” on the way out, and vowed never to return.
Be careful how you celebrate a successful long run. With great long runs comes great responsibility. Decisions should be left to the spouse. Learn from me…don’t get stuck with a mouthful of taint.
Happy trails.
*It’s true. I have the restraining order to prove it.
I ran 16 miles this Saturday. Okay, for a marathoner, not that big of a deal. We frequently run 16 miles. It’s part of the biz. But I haven’t gone that far in a surprisingly long time. My last full marathon was last May in Cincinnati. Damn, that was 10 months ago! For the half marathons this past Fall, I think I went 15 miles max in training for both. So, 16 miles? Yeah, I was as interested as all of you in how the body would respond.
Conditions were perfect: 42 degrees, sunny, largely clear sidewalks, little wind. I still wrapped up in the wind pants. Habits are hard to break.
The first 10 miles went great. I kept a nice, easy feeling 7:12 pace. I sang out loud to favorite songs. There was the odd air guitar and air drumming thrown in to the amusement of passing motorists. I even had that brief, euphoric feeling about 8 miles in. You know the one. That feeling that washes over you in the early stages of a long run and convinces you that you can run all day, hell, even SPEED UP during the last few miles. Yeah, I AM the man. Look at me, I’m a machine cranking out these miles.
Then, of course, reality sets in. After 10 miles, someone started strapping two pound weights to each of my hamstrings every mile. By thirteen miles, I remembered that I WASN’T the man. That I hadn’t gone over 12 miles more than three times in the last three months and that two of those were on the soft, self-propelling treadmill. I had Treadmill Mileage Delusion (TMD – won’t you give today?) disease. Full blown.
One of my great weaknesses as a runner is hydration. I never drink enough. I often realize that I’m dehydrated about 20 miles into a marathon when my calf muscles start cramping up and I involuntarily lay by the side of the road in a fetal position lapping rain water from a pothole puddle as hundreds of well-hydrated marathoners step over me on their way to the finish. Or I find myself being cradled on a surprised mother’s lap breast feeding as her recently head butted baby flails away through crying shrieks on the ground next to us.* After 14 miles, I had that desperate need to drink. Without an engorged breast around (and, really, is it so much to ask to have an engorged breast around when someone is training for a marathon? With chocolate milk, please?), I started looking for melted snow and an oasis of ice water.
The last 4 miles were covered in a disappointing 7:30 mile pace. Considering it was the first of the longer long runs of the year, I’m still satisfied with the results. Sixteen total miles at an average 7:19 pace. And no restraining orders!
Then, of course, the munchies come on. I need to eat. Lots. So, how do you celebrate a successful long run? Really, there is only two ways. (1.) Beer (obviously). Or (2.) eating ridiculous amounts of food.
And here’s where a critical decision went haywire. We had a breakdown in the Nitmos home. You’ve heard the old saying the ‘You should never go grocery shopping while hungry’? Well, you should never allow a runner coming off a long run to choose dinner. A bartender has a responsibility to take the keys away from a drunk patron. A spouse also has a responsibility to prevent a famished runner from picking the dining location.
I chose bulk food. Yes, a buffet. A filthy, bacteria-riddled buffet filled with lukewarm, fly tickled food overflowing the troughs. The kind of place where most of the folks perspire just getting their food. The kind of place in which sweat rolls off the ankles with each chew. I should have known better but, at that moment, it just sounded sooo good.
But here’s where it got worse. Not only did I choose a buffet but, for the main course, I selected a cut of their finest steak. Bulk. Steak. From a buffet. You can see where this is going right? I ate a bite and crinkled my face. Something tasted…off. I ate a second bite and then re-examined the meat. This is steak, right?
Now, I know that a buffet is not going to buy the choicest cuts. No doubt, the buffet is getting the steak from an area closest to the cow’s ass. And not just a regular cow but probably the cows that go ‘Ooom’ rather than ‘Mooo’ if you know what I mean.
Here’s the thing, I’m pretty sure that I was eating the cow’s asshole. Or, since that’s a ‘hole’, I guess I was eating the taint. Steak isn’t supposed to be shaped like an onion ring, right? That should have been the tip off.
I finished the meal. Filled my belly with all the taint I could eat. Received my courtesy penicillin injection and bonus two minutes in the “anti-bacterial chamber” on the way out, and vowed never to return.
Be careful how you celebrate a successful long run. With great long runs comes great responsibility. Decisions should be left to the spouse. Learn from me…don’t get stuck with a mouthful of taint.
Happy trails.
*It’s true. I have the restraining order to prove it.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Wherein I Promote Anarchy
I believe it was the never-ending Summer (also Spring and Fall) of 2008 in which I read Don Quixote and then proceeded to tag every post with a “wherein…” subtitle like Cervantes did in his Tome of Infinite Boredom.* Now, for the first time, I bring you an actual “Wherein” titled post! What a day for you. Cervantes is probably rolling over in his windmill.
I’m feeling a little cranky today. As such, I’m going to ruffle a few feathers with something that increasingly annoys me as I scan the running blogs. I’m in just that kind of mood. And what better way to relieve the annoyance than to foist it onto the rest of you. I’m a person with a computer after all!
Is it me – and it probably is – or does it seem like everyone and their horse Rocinante either (a) thinks they are an “online running coach” or (b) is following the advice of an “online running coach” without ever having met the person?
First, I should draw a distinction between what we ALL do – offering our personal tips, tricks, lessons learned, experiences, etc. into the general knowledge breach – and what “online running coach” does, which is recommending detailed training plans and/or specific work-outs to a less experienced runner looking for that magic elixir of speed and/or endurance.
Perhaps the problem is that I put the term Coach on too lofty of a pedestal. I have spent way too much of my youth and early adulthood watching sports and believing Bo Schembechler and Sparky Anderson were descended from Mt. Olympus to provide a boost to my local athletic teams. To me, a Coach is an achieved position. It implies that you have special insights into the sport or activity that another does not/could not possess. The Coach has gained this knowledge through engagement amongst the best athletes at the highest level of the sport. Simply, they just Know Things that the rest of us don’t because they have Been There/Done That.
As an example, I’ve mentioned before that I coach my filly’s youth soccer team. I coach the team. But I am not a Coach. I don’t have any special insight into soccer. I’ve played before. Many times, in fact. But I’ve never competed – or achieved – at any level that qualifies me as a Coach. Basically, I’ve just played more than a group of second graders so my knowledge base is broader (though not by as much as you would think, sadly.) I always bristle when one of the kids, or parents, calls me Coach ____ . I always think I’m not a Coach but it’s just easier to let it stand, no?
I compare the loose use of the term “coach” to that of “chef”. To me, a Chef, like a Coach, is an achieved position. You don’t just walk into Olive Garden, grab an apron, and now you are Chef Donnie the Ravioli King because you put in your 40 hours a week making square pasta which, after all, is more than anyone else does. No, you are a cook. A Chef is a designation for a highly-trained, highly-experienced, and/or highly-educated cook.
If I had a sensitive gastro-intestinal tract, I wouldn’t trust my G.I. happiness to Donnie the cook. I’d want a Chef for that. Similarly, I wouldn’t trust my hamstrings to Chuck the Online Running Coach simply because he’s run a few more races than me.
But many folks do. And now I’m seeing them report injuries and muscle strains. Some are unable to run and are missing races. Doesn’t a coach really need to be there to see you run? To watch how you are handling the work-outs? To get to know you intimately, on some level, in order to best understand how to build a personal training program? A program just for you? Not a program that worked for them. Plus, shouldn’t the coach have actually achieved something besides, basically, running more than you and at a slightly faster pace?? Running is more personal than that. There is no cookie-cutter formula to success. Or am I just being cranky today?
You all know more than you think you do. My favorite running quote comes from Dean Karnazes who opined:
“Listen to everyone, follow no one.”
To me, that is the best advice. Survey what other folks are doing. Try your own work-outs. Something that works for you may not work for someone else. Do not accept pre-packaged training plans and then, when they aren’t working out, feel like a failure. Through trial and error, discover what works for you. A runner really must be a leader. Don’t be “coached.” Be your own Coach.
Throw off the shackles of preset training plans. Delete the impersonal email plans from Chuck the Online Running Coach (who has run only 3 more marathons than you, anyhow.) If someone is calling themselves a running Coach, look closely at their accomplishments. What special insight do they really have? My guess is they are more of a cook, just with more kitchen hours than you, than a Chef. And they are breaking eggs on your knees. Listen to them but don’t follow them.
In short, I’m proposing coachless Anarchy. Otherwise, you just might unwittingly be playing Sancho Panza to someone’s coach hallucinating Don Quixote.
I’m feeling a little cranky today. As such, I’m going to ruffle a few feathers with something that increasingly annoys me as I scan the running blogs. I’m in just that kind of mood. And what better way to relieve the annoyance than to foist it onto the rest of you. I’m a person with a computer after all!
Is it me – and it probably is – or does it seem like everyone and their horse Rocinante either (a) thinks they are an “online running coach” or (b) is following the advice of an “online running coach” without ever having met the person?
First, I should draw a distinction between what we ALL do – offering our personal tips, tricks, lessons learned, experiences, etc. into the general knowledge breach – and what “online running coach” does, which is recommending detailed training plans and/or specific work-outs to a less experienced runner looking for that magic elixir of speed and/or endurance.
Perhaps the problem is that I put the term Coach on too lofty of a pedestal. I have spent way too much of my youth and early adulthood watching sports and believing Bo Schembechler and Sparky Anderson were descended from Mt. Olympus to provide a boost to my local athletic teams. To me, a Coach is an achieved position. It implies that you have special insights into the sport or activity that another does not/could not possess. The Coach has gained this knowledge through engagement amongst the best athletes at the highest level of the sport. Simply, they just Know Things that the rest of us don’t because they have Been There/Done That.
As an example, I’ve mentioned before that I coach my filly’s youth soccer team. I coach the team. But I am not a Coach. I don’t have any special insight into soccer. I’ve played before. Many times, in fact. But I’ve never competed – or achieved – at any level that qualifies me as a Coach. Basically, I’ve just played more than a group of second graders so my knowledge base is broader (though not by as much as you would think, sadly.) I always bristle when one of the kids, or parents, calls me Coach ____ . I always think I’m not a Coach but it’s just easier to let it stand, no?
I compare the loose use of the term “coach” to that of “chef”. To me, a Chef, like a Coach, is an achieved position. You don’t just walk into Olive Garden, grab an apron, and now you are Chef Donnie the Ravioli King because you put in your 40 hours a week making square pasta which, after all, is more than anyone else does. No, you are a cook. A Chef is a designation for a highly-trained, highly-experienced, and/or highly-educated cook.
If I had a sensitive gastro-intestinal tract, I wouldn’t trust my G.I. happiness to Donnie the cook. I’d want a Chef for that. Similarly, I wouldn’t trust my hamstrings to Chuck the Online Running Coach simply because he’s run a few more races than me.
But many folks do. And now I’m seeing them report injuries and muscle strains. Some are unable to run and are missing races. Doesn’t a coach really need to be there to see you run? To watch how you are handling the work-outs? To get to know you intimately, on some level, in order to best understand how to build a personal training program? A program just for you? Not a program that worked for them. Plus, shouldn’t the coach have actually achieved something besides, basically, running more than you and at a slightly faster pace?? Running is more personal than that. There is no cookie-cutter formula to success. Or am I just being cranky today?
You all know more than you think you do. My favorite running quote comes from Dean Karnazes who opined:
“Listen to everyone, follow no one.”
To me, that is the best advice. Survey what other folks are doing. Try your own work-outs. Something that works for you may not work for someone else. Do not accept pre-packaged training plans and then, when they aren’t working out, feel like a failure. Through trial and error, discover what works for you. A runner really must be a leader. Don’t be “coached.” Be your own Coach.
Throw off the shackles of preset training plans. Delete the impersonal email plans from Chuck the Online Running Coach (who has run only 3 more marathons than you, anyhow.) If someone is calling themselves a running Coach, look closely at their accomplishments. What special insight do they really have? My guess is they are more of a cook, just with more kitchen hours than you, than a Chef. And they are breaking eggs on your knees. Listen to them but don’t follow them.
In short, I’m proposing coachless Anarchy. Otherwise, you just might unwittingly be playing Sancho Panza to someone’s coach hallucinating Don Quixote.
Sincerely,
Coach Nitmos
Happy trails.
*If you want to read an interesting and exciting book of equally ridiculous length written during a similar era of serial publishing, I suggest Count of Monte Cristo. Mainly because, well, something actually happens that couldn’t be compressed into a short story.
________________________________
Razz @ Running Off At The Mind is organizing a curiously titled virtual race. Go there. Sign up. Have virtual fun. There are fabulous prizes. I believe the deadline is tonight. Do it. Do it now.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Har Har
Soooooo….where was I?
At last we spoke, your hero was heading out for some much needed R & R at a Northern Michigan resort for warm suds, cold suds, and some belly laughs sans children. It’s taken me this long to report back because, frankly, the unwinding that the weekend provided is still occurring if, sadly, slowing to a stop. Several hours lost in a hot tub and/or hovering over a cold brew (or other drink) has a strange transcendental time-traveling effect, ala Lost, on me. Time moves quickly and often out of sequence. One moment, I’m splashing in the tub like a toddler with one of those adorable little baby laughs with my legs spastically kicking out. Then, I’m Don Juan Nitmos as I romance Mrs. Nitmos with one of my patented early 80’s electric bugaloo dance moves (which, ironically, also involves spastic leg kicks). Then, like a teenager, I find myself laughing at fart jokes told by a surprisingly filthy-mouthed comedian. Once time unspooled, it just kept going and going and going like one of those hilarious handkerchiefs from a clown’s lapel pocket. I’ve only now started to stuff the stress and aggravation back into my pocket knot by knotted handkerchief.
If only life could always be a warm soak with fun little bubbles constantly running up the testicles…
While in TC*, I made my annual pilgrimage to the local book seller to investigate his wares and purchase a broad sampling of literature through which I’ll spend countless hours this year on the toilet refining my brain while expunging my waste. That’s called a “win-win” scenario. A nice smattering of writers from Eliot to Cather to Dostoevsky to Roth to collected short stories all to provide entertainment during my private time on my stool sans children (but, sadly, also sans fun little bubbles…) I like to think that, as Willa Cather goes in one way, it forces Beverly Cleary and her damned mouse on a motorcycle out the other.**
Also, while enjoying a warm soak (and fun little bubbles tee-hee), I resolved to alter my writing style to a more manly, Hemingwayesque testosterone-driven, short, choppy sentences, preposition-filled style. At least, temporarily. So, here goes…
The comedians performed on Saturday. They were funny. One after the other, they insulted Sarah Palin. And joked of unspeakable things at Waffle House. After dark, in cold lines, we waited for Roseanne. The crowd was impatient and chilled. The doors opened. Entering in a rush, we took our seats and prepared for the 90’s flashback.
First, The Great Controversial Liberal introduced her. He didn’t dress for the occasion. Stretch pants? Yes. The camera, seemingly repulsed by the leisure wear, couldn’t capture the image well.
The Big Melt appears to be, finally, officially on in these parts. I do not expect to take any more runs on the treadmill in 2010. That’s the plan at least. However, I did take my final treadmill run – a 15 mile long run – on the mill this Sunday timed to watch the Olympic 50k cross country ski race and the start of the USA vs. Canada hockey game. Every run complete for February! I’m over 200 miles for the year during my annual slow down/maintenance months. I call that: A Good Start! March brings a shift in intensity. Longer long runs and the introduction of a second day of speed work. Hooray for March! (Also, someone cool with two thumbs turns 39 this month. This guy!)
At last we spoke, your hero was heading out for some much needed R & R at a Northern Michigan resort for warm suds, cold suds, and some belly laughs sans children. It’s taken me this long to report back because, frankly, the unwinding that the weekend provided is still occurring if, sadly, slowing to a stop. Several hours lost in a hot tub and/or hovering over a cold brew (or other drink) has a strange transcendental time-traveling effect, ala Lost, on me. Time moves quickly and often out of sequence. One moment, I’m splashing in the tub like a toddler with one of those adorable little baby laughs with my legs spastically kicking out. Then, I’m Don Juan Nitmos as I romance Mrs. Nitmos with one of my patented early 80’s electric bugaloo dance moves (which, ironically, also involves spastic leg kicks). Then, like a teenager, I find myself laughing at fart jokes told by a surprisingly filthy-mouthed comedian. Once time unspooled, it just kept going and going and going like one of those hilarious handkerchiefs from a clown’s lapel pocket. I’ve only now started to stuff the stress and aggravation back into my pocket knot by knotted handkerchief.
If only life could always be a warm soak with fun little bubbles constantly running up the testicles…
While in TC*, I made my annual pilgrimage to the local book seller to investigate his wares and purchase a broad sampling of literature through which I’ll spend countless hours this year on the toilet refining my brain while expunging my waste. That’s called a “win-win” scenario. A nice smattering of writers from Eliot to Cather to Dostoevsky to Roth to collected short stories all to provide entertainment during my private time on my stool sans children (but, sadly, also sans fun little bubbles…) I like to think that, as Willa Cather goes in one way, it forces Beverly Cleary and her damned mouse on a motorcycle out the other.**
Also, while enjoying a warm soak (and fun little bubbles tee-hee), I resolved to alter my writing style to a more manly, Hemingwayesque testosterone-driven, short, choppy sentences, preposition-filled style. At least, temporarily. So, here goes…
The comedians performed on Saturday. They were funny. One after the other, they insulted Sarah Palin. And joked of unspeakable things at Waffle House. After dark, in cold lines, we waited for Roseanne. The crowd was impatient and chilled. The doors opened. Entering in a rush, we took our seats and prepared for the 90’s flashback.
First, The Great Controversial Liberal introduced her. He didn’t dress for the occasion. Stretch pants? Yes. The camera, seemingly repulsed by the leisure wear, couldn’t capture the image well.
Roseanne appears like an aging Pippi Longstocking. A mish-mash of clothing that, if you met her on the street, you would think belongs to a bag lady.
It’s midnight. Most are asleep. We laugh a little but not a lot. Amusing, yes. Hilarious, no. Back out in the cold we go. Back to our rooms….our warm tubs…our fun little bubbles. /hemingway
Between shows, Mrs. Nitmos managed to capture my enthusiasm for reasonably priced well drinks at a local yuppie pub. (Pay no attention to the date stamp. Camera error) Though I’m not wearing stretch pants, the camera also seems unable to stabilize the image…mainly due to my awesomely energetic thumbs:
Happy trails.
*Traverse City for you non-Michiganders.
**You can save your Richard Gere joke. Already thought of it.
__________________________________
The Big Melt appears to be, finally, officially on in these parts. I do not expect to take any more runs on the treadmill in 2010. That’s the plan at least. However, I did take my final treadmill run – a 15 mile long run – on the mill this Sunday timed to watch the Olympic 50k cross country ski race and the start of the USA vs. Canada hockey game. Every run complete for February! I’m over 200 miles for the year during my annual slow down/maintenance months. I call that: A Good Start! March brings a shift in intensity. Longer long runs and the introduction of a second day of speed work. Hooray for March! (Also, someone cool with two thumbs turns 39 this month. This guy!)
Friday, February 26, 2010
Neither Snow Nor Rain Nor Heat Nor Gloom...
This is my mailbox. I took this picture 30 minutes ago. It is still snowing.
This is not my actual mailbox. As you can see, it's more of a paper box at the end of my driveway. I don't get the paper. I know everything I need to know. I'm convinced that everything that happens has already happened before. And I have tons of history books in my nice, warm house. Why rebuy old news repackaged in a trendy ink print package and full of ads? Only the names and faces have changed...
So I will not shovel out the front of this paper box. Nature will need to do its thing to free it from it's cold tomb.
I took this picture to illustrate what I'm up against for this weekend's 15 mile long run. It is more than others. But not as much as some. I have completed every run on my February training plan except one. I will not be deterred by the heaping mounds of creeping, cold death.
Fortunately, my 15 mile long run has options. And "options" is sometimes referred to as a "treadmill."
So, neither snow nor rain not heat nor gloom will keep me from accomplishing my appointed course.
Winter, you may now Fuck Off.
Happy trails.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The Wrinkle Finger Plan
Mrs. Nitmos and I are escaping for a much needed vacation (re: once you have kids, any time apart is now deemed “vacation” even if you happen to use that time sitting in your kitchen watching the bushes grow through the window). In this case, however, we are traveling to my ancestral birth home of Traverse City, Michigan. I’m an aboriginal Traverse Citite. It is here that we can deposit the loin apples off at their grandparents by slowing to 10 mph, placing foot in middle of back, and jettisoning them out the car door into the nearest snow bank. I reach out and snip the rope that is holding their suitcase to the top of the car and it clunk clunk clunks off the back and down the road we bound. I believe Mel Gibson, as William Wallace in Braveheart, said it best as he was being impaled and gutted: “FRRRRRREEEEEEEDDDOOOOOMMMMMMM!”
I’ve been invited* to TC to judge** the First Annual Traverse City Comedy Arts Festival. Now anyone that reads this blog would think to themselves, “But, Nitmos, shouldn’t you be performing at a comedy arts festival? You are hilarious and your biceps are strong.” Guilty. I can’t defend either charge so I’ll just let the anonymous mid-post blog comment stand (though I’m slightly embarrassed.) No, I won’t be performing. They thought it best that I mix in with the commoners, buy my own ticket, and stand in line like everyone else. These guys sure are sticklers about not drawing attention to me.
TC is remaking itself into the Sundance of the Midwest except for all of those pesky crowds and celebrities and national media attention. The annual TC Film Festival in late July is going strong into its 6th year. We even attracted Madonna one year!*** And what a thrill it was to see The Kite Runner a few months before anyone else. /sarcasm
We are slated to see Jeff Garlin, Whitney Cummins, and – yes, she still apparently does stand up comedy – Roseanne Barr. Jealous much?
However, the Jokey McJokesters are really ancillary to the weekend. The important equation here is:
Me + Mrs. Nitmos + wine and/or rum x my biceps – kids = A little slice of heaven
For much of the weekend, Mrs. Nitmos and I will be nipple deep in a nice warm hot tub when not laughing at comedians. Or drinking. Or both. We’ll scrap the condensation off the hotel windows while wearing our big fluffy robes and scoff at the mounds of snow outside.
Winter will be our bitch.
At least, it will be for a few days. Let my wrinkle finger shine.
Happy trails.
*through mass email marketing
** the festival calls it “a paying customer”
***insert your own penicillin joke here…something like: she couldn’t come back the next year because it costs too much to inoculate the town.
_________________________________
So far, I’ve hit every scheduled run for February. To ease the pounding on some tender knees, I took last Saturday’s 15 mile long run on the treadmill thankyouverymuch. Post-run, whipped and starving, I ran into an impromptu baked goods sale in the lobby of the gym. A cherry cupcake with vanilla frosting? Yes, please. Oh my God, it tasted great. I've never been good at metaphors but, let me give it a shot here, it tasted like....like...an angel shit in my mouth.
I’ll be doing my scheduled long run for this weekend tonight so as not to interfere with my wrinkle finger plans.
_________________________________
I did a poll last week about what you think about when running. I admitted to being a non-thinker. And it looks like most of you are as well. A whopping 58% (25/43 votes) don't think when you run. This doesn't surprise me. I've seen your vacant looks in passing. For the two of you who voted that you think about WORK! WORK! WORK!, you do know that your boss isn't reading this blog right? Good try.
For the eight of you who said you'll be thinking about a unicorn birthing a midget, get over it already. I was leading you astray. Everyone knows that midgets birth unicorns and not the other way around. Sheesh.
I’ve been invited* to TC to judge** the First Annual Traverse City Comedy Arts Festival. Now anyone that reads this blog would think to themselves, “But, Nitmos, shouldn’t you be performing at a comedy arts festival? You are hilarious and your biceps are strong.” Guilty. I can’t defend either charge so I’ll just let the anonymous mid-post blog comment stand (though I’m slightly embarrassed.) No, I won’t be performing. They thought it best that I mix in with the commoners, buy my own ticket, and stand in line like everyone else. These guys sure are sticklers about not drawing attention to me.
TC is remaking itself into the Sundance of the Midwest except for all of those pesky crowds and celebrities and national media attention. The annual TC Film Festival in late July is going strong into its 6th year. We even attracted Madonna one year!*** And what a thrill it was to see The Kite Runner a few months before anyone else. /sarcasm
We are slated to see Jeff Garlin, Whitney Cummins, and – yes, she still apparently does stand up comedy – Roseanne Barr. Jealous much?
However, the Jokey McJokesters are really ancillary to the weekend. The important equation here is:
Me + Mrs. Nitmos + wine and/or rum x my biceps – kids = A little slice of heaven
For much of the weekend, Mrs. Nitmos and I will be nipple deep in a nice warm hot tub when not laughing at comedians. Or drinking. Or both. We’ll scrap the condensation off the hotel windows while wearing our big fluffy robes and scoff at the mounds of snow outside.
Winter will be our bitch.
At least, it will be for a few days. Let my wrinkle finger shine.
Happy trails.
*through mass email marketing
** the festival calls it “a paying customer”
***insert your own penicillin joke here…something like: she couldn’t come back the next year because it costs too much to inoculate the town.
_________________________________
So far, I’ve hit every scheduled run for February. To ease the pounding on some tender knees, I took last Saturday’s 15 mile long run on the treadmill thankyouverymuch. Post-run, whipped and starving, I ran into an impromptu baked goods sale in the lobby of the gym. A cherry cupcake with vanilla frosting? Yes, please. Oh my God, it tasted great. I've never been good at metaphors but, let me give it a shot here, it tasted like....like...an angel shit in my mouth.
I’ll be doing my scheduled long run for this weekend tonight so as not to interfere with my wrinkle finger plans.
_________________________________
I did a poll last week about what you think about when running. I admitted to being a non-thinker. And it looks like most of you are as well. A whopping 58% (25/43 votes) don't think when you run. This doesn't surprise me. I've seen your vacant looks in passing. For the two of you who voted that you think about WORK! WORK! WORK!, you do know that your boss isn't reading this blog right? Good try.
For the eight of you who said you'll be thinking about a unicorn birthing a midget, get over it already. I was leading you astray. Everyone knows that midgets birth unicorns and not the other way around. Sheesh.
Friday, February 12, 2010
A Day Like Any Other
It’s February 12th, 2010. There is nothing particularly special about today in the Nitmos home. The kids are raiding the food closet and ingesting copious amounts of mood altering intoxicants, in their earthly cookie and Sweettart form. The filly has accused the colt of being a bad brother. The colt is refusing to help the filly with a computer problem she’s having. I’m downstairs “working” in blissful ignorance pretending not to hear any of it.
Yep, a normal day at home with the kids.
For some, however, it is a special day. There are birthdays, anniversaries, the first time you saw The Big Lebowski. You know, important things. For some, a day to celebrate!*
Mrs. Nitmos provided me with the gift of running literature this past Christmas. Born to Run, Duel in the Sun, Staying the Course, and Runner’s World’s The Runner’s Body all made their appearance from beneath the wrapping paper. Mrs. Nitmos likes me well read. She thinks my brain is sexy.**
I enjoyed Duel in the Sun. I’ve heard the story, seen the video clips, and read a recap of the 1982 Boston Marathon in the past. The book filled in some holes but didn’t provide me with a ton of new information. I recommend it though for fans of running history.
I just finished Staying the Course: A Runner’s Toughest Race. As you probably know, this book is by my nemesis – my foil – Dick Beardsley. When not plotting out ways to undermine me on Heartbreak Hill, he apparently writes heartfelt autobiographies. Reminds me of the time I wrote a term paper while dunking my roommate's goldfish in and out of the bowl.
Staying the Course is a better overall read than Duel. In it, you not only get the background story of the build to the famous 1982 Boston Marathon but also the events that followed. It frames this most landmark event better than Duel. Staying the Course is the story of one man’s running career….followed by the same man’s battle for sobriety. And accident avoidance. Seriously, you will not believe the pure volume of accidents and mishaps that occur to one person in a short time frame. Cars, tractors, giant pancakes falling from the sky…they all somehow landed on Beardsley. Remember all of those bb gun pellets you shot up into the air against your parents’ warning that ‘they have to come down somewhere’? Yes, they all hit Beardsley. He should have a sign hung around his neck that says: ‘## Days Since Last Accident.’ You’ll note that there are only two digits. A third probably isn’t needed. Encase the man in bubble wrap and place him in a cool, dry warehouse next to Indy’s Ark, please.
Staying the Course is an interesting read in that it encapsulates the demands, the training, the intensity of an elite runner’s rise and descent from the peak of his sport. The second half of the book describes his subsequent injuries, surgeries and accidents and, ultimately, becoming hooked on prescription pain medication. It’s here that we learn more about the man rather than just a list of running accomplishments. The battle with drug addiction begins when the running accolades end. Mirroring his running career, he descends to unwanted depths…before rising again.
Despite all of its honesty, after reading it, there is one thing I’m very angry about. While recovering from yet another injury, Beardsley, unable to run, maintains some level of fitness through snow shoveling. Not just any snow shoveling. Hyper-intense shoveling including fartleks. That’s right, FARTLEK SNOW SHOVELING! Arrgghh, did I kick myself for not coming up with that first! Shit, the hilarious blog post was already written two seconds after reading that. BEARDSLEY! (fist shaking in anger) You beat me again!
February 12th, 2010 might not be of any special importance for you. For others, it’s not just a day like any other. Maybe you’re celebrating Lincoln’s birthday or the 52nd anniversary of General Miguel Ydegoras Fuentes’ election as Guatemalan president. Or that fateful day 26 years ago when Torvill and Dean skated “Bolero” at the Olympics.
Or, just maybe, thirteen years of sobriety.
Head over and drop him a congratulatory line. (And maybe a thinly veiled threat in my name.)
Happy trails.
*I bought a new rug. It really ties the room together.
**Especially in a muscle shirt and chaps.
_________________________________________
Seven miles on lightly packed, recently plowed paths. Could have been worse. 7.0 @ 7:17 pace. Looking forward to this weekend's long run of 15 miles though it will be a last minute call as to whether it is done outside or on The Mill. Praying for outside.
The, I unload the entire house into the garage (and a few bedrooms) as a complete house re-carpet takes place on Monday. Maybe I'll be too sore after the long run and Mrs. Nitmos and the kids can do it. After all, I primarily married Mrs. Nitmos due to her strong back.
Yep, a normal day at home with the kids.
For some, however, it is a special day. There are birthdays, anniversaries, the first time you saw The Big Lebowski. You know, important things. For some, a day to celebrate!*
Mrs. Nitmos provided me with the gift of running literature this past Christmas. Born to Run, Duel in the Sun, Staying the Course, and Runner’s World’s The Runner’s Body all made their appearance from beneath the wrapping paper. Mrs. Nitmos likes me well read. She thinks my brain is sexy.**
I enjoyed Duel in the Sun. I’ve heard the story, seen the video clips, and read a recap of the 1982 Boston Marathon in the past. The book filled in some holes but didn’t provide me with a ton of new information. I recommend it though for fans of running history.
I just finished Staying the Course: A Runner’s Toughest Race. As you probably know, this book is by my nemesis – my foil – Dick Beardsley. When not plotting out ways to undermine me on Heartbreak Hill, he apparently writes heartfelt autobiographies. Reminds me of the time I wrote a term paper while dunking my roommate's goldfish in and out of the bowl.
Staying the Course is a better overall read than Duel. In it, you not only get the background story of the build to the famous 1982 Boston Marathon but also the events that followed. It frames this most landmark event better than Duel. Staying the Course is the story of one man’s running career….followed by the same man’s battle for sobriety. And accident avoidance. Seriously, you will not believe the pure volume of accidents and mishaps that occur to one person in a short time frame. Cars, tractors, giant pancakes falling from the sky…they all somehow landed on Beardsley. Remember all of those bb gun pellets you shot up into the air against your parents’ warning that ‘they have to come down somewhere’? Yes, they all hit Beardsley. He should have a sign hung around his neck that says: ‘## Days Since Last Accident.’ You’ll note that there are only two digits. A third probably isn’t needed. Encase the man in bubble wrap and place him in a cool, dry warehouse next to Indy’s Ark, please.
Staying the Course is an interesting read in that it encapsulates the demands, the training, the intensity of an elite runner’s rise and descent from the peak of his sport. The second half of the book describes his subsequent injuries, surgeries and accidents and, ultimately, becoming hooked on prescription pain medication. It’s here that we learn more about the man rather than just a list of running accomplishments. The battle with drug addiction begins when the running accolades end. Mirroring his running career, he descends to unwanted depths…before rising again.
Despite all of its honesty, after reading it, there is one thing I’m very angry about. While recovering from yet another injury, Beardsley, unable to run, maintains some level of fitness through snow shoveling. Not just any snow shoveling. Hyper-intense shoveling including fartleks. That’s right, FARTLEK SNOW SHOVELING! Arrgghh, did I kick myself for not coming up with that first! Shit, the hilarious blog post was already written two seconds after reading that. BEARDSLEY! (fist shaking in anger) You beat me again!
February 12th, 2010 might not be of any special importance for you. For others, it’s not just a day like any other. Maybe you’re celebrating Lincoln’s birthday or the 52nd anniversary of General Miguel Ydegoras Fuentes’ election as Guatemalan president. Or that fateful day 26 years ago when Torvill and Dean skated “Bolero” at the Olympics.
Or, just maybe, thirteen years of sobriety.
Head over and drop him a congratulatory line. (And maybe a thinly veiled threat in my name.)
Happy trails.
*I bought a new rug. It really ties the room together.
**Especially in a muscle shirt and chaps.
_________________________________________
Seven miles on lightly packed, recently plowed paths. Could have been worse. 7.0 @ 7:17 pace. Looking forward to this weekend's long run of 15 miles though it will be a last minute call as to whether it is done outside or on The Mill. Praying for outside.
The, I unload the entire house into the garage (and a few bedrooms) as a complete house re-carpet takes place on Monday. Maybe I'll be too sore after the long run and Mrs. Nitmos and the kids can do it. After all, I primarily married Mrs. Nitmos due to her strong back.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Things I Think About While Running
Well...
See all of those blank lines above? That’s basically what I think about. Nothing. Nothing much, anyways.
I see these blog posts about all of the wonderful, inspirational, touching, deep, introspective or just plain funny thoughts folks have while running and, I got to tell you, it doesn’t happen for me. I’m like the guy who can’t ever decipher the hidden picture in one of those 3D stereograms no matter how relaxed and “unfocused” I get. Everyone else is laughing or remarking about ‘how neat’ it is but I stand there with a confused, wrinkled brow staring at the jumble of geometric patterns like a unicorn is giving birth to a midget. The next time I see the hidden image in one of those photos (like the one shown below) will be the first time.
See all of those blank lines above? That’s basically what I think about. Nothing. Nothing much, anyways.
I see these blog posts about all of the wonderful, inspirational, touching, deep, introspective or just plain funny thoughts folks have while running and, I got to tell you, it doesn’t happen for me. I’m like the guy who can’t ever decipher the hidden picture in one of those 3D stereograms no matter how relaxed and “unfocused” I get. Everyone else is laughing or remarking about ‘how neat’ it is but I stand there with a confused, wrinkled brow staring at the jumble of geometric patterns like a unicorn is giving birth to a midget. The next time I see the hidden image in one of those photos (like the one shown below) will be the first time.
I’d really like to get some serious thinking done as I while away the miles and minutes (and sometimes hours) but, instead, my brain is too connected to the here and now. I’m running. What am I thinking about when I’m running? Well, I’m thinking about how I’m running…how many miles have passed….how is my pace…why am I so tired…why aren’t I tired I feel great…I shouldn’t have worn that extra layer…if I can go x amount of minutes next mile I can average x amount of time…after this, my next run is only X miles…etc.
Okay, occasionally when I run past my filly’s school, I might think I wonder how she did on that math test and is she eating tater tots right now? I hope she hasn’t told a teacher off today (always a threat). Fleeting thoughts…gone with the next chirp from Garmin. These simple distractions float in and out constantly. Hey, there’s a car…it needs a new paint job. Or, I wonder if they’ll pave this road next summer and I’ll have to reroute. Or, commonly, SQUIRREL!
There are things I’d like to think about. Family finances are a constant source of thought when I’m not running. Books, I like those. I’ve read some good, thought-provoking ones too. Work? I’ve tried. Maybe I can solve an issue with one of my work projects by thinking it through while I run. Yes, maybe, until beep! there goes Garmin and I’m off thinking about my pace, my race goals, my running form, etc. I’ve tried so hard to force myself to think about something – anything -other than actual running that my inner voice has scolded my concentration when my mind inevitably wanders. Ever yell at yourself from the inside? It’s weird. You look around and wonder if anyone else heard.
I guess I can’t multi-task. Coincidentally, this regularly appears on my performance evaluations as well so it should be no surprise. (Nor do I “get along with others” but that’s not what this post is about.)
Nope. It doesn’t happen for me. I’m glad it happens for you, if it does, as it seems like a nice way to pass the time during a run. I’m a one trick pony. I can’t see the hidden picture within a picture. I’m not going to analyze all of the symbolism in Ellison’s Invisible Man. Work problems will have to remain problems until I get back.
What do I think about while running?
Well, running. And maybe that squirrel over there. It sure is a little cold out here. I wonder if we’ll get a mild winter. Only four more miles to go.
Beep!
What’s my pace? Can I go faster next mile?
Happy trails.
_________________________________
Here’s a poll that you can answer anonymously. Are you a non-thinker like me? Let’s stand together. Be strong. Don’t be afraid….
_________________________________
Yesterday, five miles beating the storm! About two inches had fallen. I managed 2 x 800 around the covered track and with a nasty headwind for part. Both 800's in the 2:55 range which will be unacceptable in a month or so but, with this weather, I'll work with it. 5 miles @ 7:07 pace.
Monday, February 08, 2010
Thomas Kuhn, Harvard Physicist, Designs My Training Plan
I can’t say that it has been a lifelong ambition to quote Thomas Kuhn, father of the concept of “paradigm shift”, in a blog post but it has certainly been near the bottom of my life goals. But, on the list! If I had a bucket list, it’d probably fall somewhere below “start a web campaign to demand that Pauly Shore make Son in Law 2: Baby Makes Three” but above “approach Whoopi with a script to Sister Act 3.” Clearly, I like movies and sequels to horrible films (and 1960’s scientific theory.)
I’ve been thinking a lot about paradigm shifts lately when it comes to running. Kuhn describes (scientific) advancement as not organic or evolving but a “series of peaceful interludes punctuated by intellectually violent revolutions.” During these revolutions, “one conceptual world view is replaced by another.” A paradigm shift is a sudden, rapid change in the way of thinking (or doing). World views change. Old beliefs give way to new beliefs. Think Industrial Revolution. Think Bannister breaking the four minute mile. Think “Pants on the ground.”
What does this have to do with running? (Great, Mr. Rhetorical is back.) Well, as you know – and will continue to know as I hammer this into your heads over the next several months – this is the year of the Y.A.K. If you think I’ve run out of clever Y.A.K. references, I’m just getting started here. I haven’t even broken out my painfully obvious “Y.A.K. Attack” post or “Y.A.K.fest” references. Or “Y.A.K. Sack” when I’m feeling particularly ballsy after a strong run. I could go on…and will. How about “Y.A.K. Snacks” wherein I discuss my favorite race fuel? Or “Back to the Y.A.K.” when I overcome my inevitable injury? I could go on…but won’t.
I decided last year that I was in need of a paradigm shift. I’ve been following a pretty consistent running schedule for the last several years. Every marathon, I create a largely similar training plan as the race before it. It has netted me decent results – a few BQ’s, some age group awards, consistent times, etc. – but any new PR’s have been incremental. I’m barely nudging the PR boulder forward inch by painful inch.* If I want to continue following the same schedule, the same plans, I can look forward to small gains – maybe a few seconds shaved off my PRs – for the foreseeable future. I’ve plateaued. I’m in the midst of a “series of peaceful interludes…”
Time for a nuclear bomb. A “violent revolution.” I’m talking about full scale Che Guevara stuff (except without the douchy ‘look at me, I’m so anti-culturalist by displaying his image on my t-shirt and/or poster which, even though I know was created by a large capitalist corporation, the irony is lost on me’). It’s time to pick that paradigm up, like a mysterious island in Lost, and plop it right back down in a different spot. If I want ass kickin’ results, I better replace my old, comfortable “run view.”
Previously, I outlined my marathon training plans for this coming Memorial weekend’s race so I won’t go into it again. And you all know how I hate repetition around here. (Y.A.K.! SOS! Llamas!) As each scheduled run approaches, I’m asking myself why am I doing this run? How have I done it in the past? What can I change about it to accomplish my goals? Shifting a paradigm is not easy work. I’m surprised how stuck in a rut I’ve become. I head out the door not even knowing what I’m hoping to accomplish. Training plan says: Run 5 files. Okay, I do and pretty much at the same pace I’ve run every five mile training run over the past three years.
No, no, that will not do. I’m making a conscious effort to shake things up. Even with a snow covered high school running track, I’ve taken to turning a normal five miler into a few hard intervals around the ole football field. Really, why the fuck not? Why run past it at steady pace? Like always. I’ve bumped my mileage up. I’ve taken medium distance runs up the intensity scale while being more diligent about pulling back on the pace of my long runs (which have always been near race pace.) I’ve been questioning everything I normally do. And then changing things up.
Yesterday, I took the kids to a sledding hill and, as they were spiraling down the side with gleeful shrieks, I was scouting out the perfect angle to take to do some hill intervals - something I don’t normally do but should.
And then Mrs. Nitmos made turkey tacos last night before the Super Bowl. (Verdict: Delicious!)
Times are changing around here. Paradigm shifting is difficult but necessary from time to time. If I want to replace my current run view of what I can do – and what is possible – I need a seismic revolution in my approach to training.
KABOOM! There’s a mushroom cloud billowing up over F.M.S. A "YAKplosion", if you will.
Happy trails.
*That’s what she said. (What? Poor taste?)
_________________________________
After last week’s race pace 12 miler long run, I decided I needed to get serious about easing back a bit on the long runs. Paradigm shift! Also, after the near frost bitten appendages, I decided to treat myself to a nice, warm indoor treadmill and some Super Bowl pre-game TV at the gym. Long run of 13 miles at moderately easy 7:28 pace with incline fluctuating between 1.0 and 2.0 (and maybe a few pick-ups, or 2.0 incline “hill charges” @ 7:00 min pace thrown in. Shhh.)
First week of marathon training complete. So far, every run hit for 2010! Next weekend, 15 mile long run before a step down week to follow (timed to a nice R & R weekend out of town – more on that later.)
I’ve been thinking a lot about paradigm shifts lately when it comes to running. Kuhn describes (scientific) advancement as not organic or evolving but a “series of peaceful interludes punctuated by intellectually violent revolutions.” During these revolutions, “one conceptual world view is replaced by another.” A paradigm shift is a sudden, rapid change in the way of thinking (or doing). World views change. Old beliefs give way to new beliefs. Think Industrial Revolution. Think Bannister breaking the four minute mile. Think “Pants on the ground.”
What does this have to do with running? (Great, Mr. Rhetorical is back.) Well, as you know – and will continue to know as I hammer this into your heads over the next several months – this is the year of the Y.A.K. If you think I’ve run out of clever Y.A.K. references, I’m just getting started here. I haven’t even broken out my painfully obvious “Y.A.K. Attack” post or “Y.A.K.fest” references. Or “Y.A.K. Sack” when I’m feeling particularly ballsy after a strong run. I could go on…and will. How about “Y.A.K. Snacks” wherein I discuss my favorite race fuel? Or “Back to the Y.A.K.” when I overcome my inevitable injury? I could go on…but won’t.
I decided last year that I was in need of a paradigm shift. I’ve been following a pretty consistent running schedule for the last several years. Every marathon, I create a largely similar training plan as the race before it. It has netted me decent results – a few BQ’s, some age group awards, consistent times, etc. – but any new PR’s have been incremental. I’m barely nudging the PR boulder forward inch by painful inch.* If I want to continue following the same schedule, the same plans, I can look forward to small gains – maybe a few seconds shaved off my PRs – for the foreseeable future. I’ve plateaued. I’m in the midst of a “series of peaceful interludes…”
Time for a nuclear bomb. A “violent revolution.” I’m talking about full scale Che Guevara stuff (except without the douchy ‘look at me, I’m so anti-culturalist by displaying his image on my t-shirt and/or poster which, even though I know was created by a large capitalist corporation, the irony is lost on me’). It’s time to pick that paradigm up, like a mysterious island in Lost, and plop it right back down in a different spot. If I want ass kickin’ results, I better replace my old, comfortable “run view.”
Previously, I outlined my marathon training plans for this coming Memorial weekend’s race so I won’t go into it again. And you all know how I hate repetition around here. (Y.A.K.! SOS! Llamas!) As each scheduled run approaches, I’m asking myself why am I doing this run? How have I done it in the past? What can I change about it to accomplish my goals? Shifting a paradigm is not easy work. I’m surprised how stuck in a rut I’ve become. I head out the door not even knowing what I’m hoping to accomplish. Training plan says: Run 5 files. Okay, I do and pretty much at the same pace I’ve run every five mile training run over the past three years.
No, no, that will not do. I’m making a conscious effort to shake things up. Even with a snow covered high school running track, I’ve taken to turning a normal five miler into a few hard intervals around the ole football field. Really, why the fuck not? Why run past it at steady pace? Like always. I’ve bumped my mileage up. I’ve taken medium distance runs up the intensity scale while being more diligent about pulling back on the pace of my long runs (which have always been near race pace.) I’ve been questioning everything I normally do. And then changing things up.
Yesterday, I took the kids to a sledding hill and, as they were spiraling down the side with gleeful shrieks, I was scouting out the perfect angle to take to do some hill intervals - something I don’t normally do but should.
And then Mrs. Nitmos made turkey tacos last night before the Super Bowl. (Verdict: Delicious!)
Times are changing around here. Paradigm shifting is difficult but necessary from time to time. If I want to replace my current run view of what I can do – and what is possible – I need a seismic revolution in my approach to training.
KABOOM! There’s a mushroom cloud billowing up over F.M.S. A "YAKplosion", if you will.
Happy trails.
*That’s what she said. (What? Poor taste?)
_________________________________
After last week’s race pace 12 miler long run, I decided I needed to get serious about easing back a bit on the long runs. Paradigm shift! Also, after the near frost bitten appendages, I decided to treat myself to a nice, warm indoor treadmill and some Super Bowl pre-game TV at the gym. Long run of 13 miles at moderately easy 7:28 pace with incline fluctuating between 1.0 and 2.0 (and maybe a few pick-ups, or 2.0 incline “hill charges” @ 7:00 min pace thrown in. Shhh.)
First week of marathon training complete. So far, every run hit for 2010! Next weekend, 15 mile long run before a step down week to follow (timed to a nice R & R weekend out of town – more on that later.)
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
(Ab)solutely! (And Mr. Rhetorical sucks.)
Get it? See what I did there by putting “Ab” in a parenthetical and drawing attention to it? Yeah, you get it. I can see the light bulb coming on. For many, it appears but a flicker…
It’s the 7th Annual National Ab Month!*
So soon? I haven’t shopped. Does Hallmark make a card? Something like on the outside: “Here’s something for you this month!” above a picture of beer cans. Open the card and it shouts: “A six pack! Happy National Ab Month!”
Damn, why didn’t I go into writing patter for greeting cards? I’ve got enough schmaltz to fill a can of Schlitz (or an equally awful can of schmaltz liquor). Ohhhh, see what I did there? Word play! Nailed it.
If you haven’t clicked the link, you should do so now. Mrs. Nitmos and I are the models. We are flanking our recently departed cousin Earl who, while possessing a aesthetically pleasing cross section of abdominal muscles, was not the brightest bulb (like many of you readers, see first paragraph) in the family chandelier. He took his modeling fee, invested in a long term annuity, and then allowed himself to be flayed like the cocky smart ass in a horror flick. Bad choice, Earlie. But it does provide you the wonderful pictures on the page. These are your (my) abdominal muscles. Now work them out!
There are countless articles extolling the virtues of core strengthening for runners. I won’t go into them here. I’m sure you can find more descriptive and beneficial articles by merely searching the net (though I assure you they’ll hardly be as sophomoric as this one). I’ve been coring for a few years. My core drugs of choice are crunches and stretchy bands.
Stretchy bands are wonderful. You can watchCougar Town PBS and stretchy yourself to look just like me (after I started looking like me, of course). Easy. Also, for those inclined, very easy to take on road trips.
Crunches? Puh-leeze. I’m Cap’n Crunch. I’ll do over 500 a night (Sunday-Thursday only as the weekends are for undoing all that hard work with beer, candy and chips).
Mr. Rhetorical asks, “Why 500?”
Because I’m way too impatient to do fewer.
Mr. Rhetorical counters, “Couldn’t you get more out of slowing down and doing far fewer crunches but with a better technique?”
Yes, but as I mentioned, I’m extremely impatient and who mad you Mister Know-It-All?
Mr. Rhetorical won’t shut up about it, “Just how impatient are you exactly?”
Well, since you asked, here are examples of my impatience in an ascending order of comedic hilarity:
1) I pour coffee grounds and water into my mouth and swish rather than wait for Mr. Coffee to finish.
2) I never complete a blink. Who has the time?
3) I often wet myself because I zip up and walk away from the urinal before finishing. Better things to do.
I crunch like I’m abdominally rowing a boat away from a homicidal maniac (am I the cocky smart ass?) I crunch with feet under couch, feet on couch in a seated position, feet suspended in air in a reclined chair position, and alternating straight crunches with laterals. I crunch for about 15 minutes and then, quite often, go eat ice cream.
Mr. Rhetorical is back. “Has it worked?”
Do you see any dirty clothes around?**
I’ve read many articles on the proper core strengthening technique and I’m always disheartened to see most of my techniques on the Do Not Do This list. But I do do them. (snickers) I will continue to do do them…though, begrudgingly, I may try to incorporate some of the slow holding of positions. Maybe I’ll have Mrs. Nitmos yell Freeze! on occasion. She’d probably like that anyhow as I’d be less inclined to prematurely crunch.
I encourage all of you runner’s out there to start (or continue) some form of core training. I’m a believer. Mr. Rhetorical is a believer. The Situation is a believer. And you should always believe everything you see and read on the internet, right Mr. Rhetorical?
Why are you such a jackass?
Time’s up!
Happy National Ab Month and…
Happy crunching.
*How do I know? Because it’s on the internet, of course!
**Whose with me? Huh? Huh? Washboard!....if the washboard as only one rung.
_________________________________________
Thanks to Roison for bringing this (non)holiday to my attention.
It’s the 7th Annual National Ab Month!*
So soon? I haven’t shopped. Does Hallmark make a card? Something like on the outside: “Here’s something for you this month!” above a picture of beer cans. Open the card and it shouts: “A six pack! Happy National Ab Month!”
Damn, why didn’t I go into writing patter for greeting cards? I’ve got enough schmaltz to fill a can of Schlitz (or an equally awful can of schmaltz liquor). Ohhhh, see what I did there? Word play! Nailed it.
If you haven’t clicked the link, you should do so now. Mrs. Nitmos and I are the models. We are flanking our recently departed cousin Earl who, while possessing a aesthetically pleasing cross section of abdominal muscles, was not the brightest bulb (like many of you readers, see first paragraph) in the family chandelier. He took his modeling fee, invested in a long term annuity, and then allowed himself to be flayed like the cocky smart ass in a horror flick. Bad choice, Earlie. But it does provide you the wonderful pictures on the page. These are your (my) abdominal muscles. Now work them out!
There are countless articles extolling the virtues of core strengthening for runners. I won’t go into them here. I’m sure you can find more descriptive and beneficial articles by merely searching the net (though I assure you they’ll hardly be as sophomoric as this one). I’ve been coring for a few years. My core drugs of choice are crunches and stretchy bands.
Stretchy bands are wonderful. You can watch
Crunches? Puh-leeze. I’m Cap’n Crunch. I’ll do over 500 a night (Sunday-Thursday only as the weekends are for undoing all that hard work with beer, candy and chips).
Mr. Rhetorical asks, “Why 500?”
Because I’m way too impatient to do fewer.
Mr. Rhetorical counters, “Couldn’t you get more out of slowing down and doing far fewer crunches but with a better technique?”
Yes, but as I mentioned, I’m extremely impatient and who mad you Mister Know-It-All?
Mr. Rhetorical won’t shut up about it, “Just how impatient are you exactly?”
Well, since you asked, here are examples of my impatience in an ascending order of comedic hilarity:
1) I pour coffee grounds and water into my mouth and swish rather than wait for Mr. Coffee to finish.
2) I never complete a blink. Who has the time?
3) I often wet myself because I zip up and walk away from the urinal before finishing. Better things to do.
I crunch like I’m abdominally rowing a boat away from a homicidal maniac (am I the cocky smart ass?) I crunch with feet under couch, feet on couch in a seated position, feet suspended in air in a reclined chair position, and alternating straight crunches with laterals. I crunch for about 15 minutes and then, quite often, go eat ice cream.
Mr. Rhetorical is back. “Has it worked?”
Do you see any dirty clothes around?**
I’ve read many articles on the proper core strengthening technique and I’m always disheartened to see most of my techniques on the Do Not Do This list. But I do do them. (snickers) I will continue to do do them…though, begrudgingly, I may try to incorporate some of the slow holding of positions. Maybe I’ll have Mrs. Nitmos yell Freeze! on occasion. She’d probably like that anyhow as I’d be less inclined to prematurely crunch.
I encourage all of you runner’s out there to start (or continue) some form of core training. I’m a believer. Mr. Rhetorical is a believer. The Situation is a believer. And you should always believe everything you see and read on the internet, right Mr. Rhetorical?
Why are you such a jackass?
Time’s up!
Happy National Ab Month and…
Happy crunching.
*How do I know? Because it’s on the internet, of course!
**Whose with me? Huh? Huh? Washboard!....if the washboard as only one rung.
_________________________________________
Thanks to Roison for bringing this (non)holiday to my attention.
Monday, February 01, 2010
I Can Run 100 Miles
Not consecutively, of course. That’s crazy talk. I find my mileage, like my personality, is better in smaller doses.
With apologies to The Proclaimers (and who thinks maybe they should apologize a bit to us for this song as well?), my February wraps up with a nice little total mileage near 100 miles. I did not run 100 miles. I didn’t even walk 500 miles…and walk 500 more just to be the man who walked 1,000 miles. I ran a shade over 94. What’s with all the walking anyhow?
Ninety-four miles represents a January high for me. Usually I spend the first two months of every year in a semi-hibernation waiting out the snow, ice, and cold. Not this year. I figure that if I want to make this the Year of the Ass Kicker, I better get off to a good start. You know, get my muscles pulls and debilitating injuries over early so I can quit YAKing by March. Why delay things?
I believe it was Brooks in The Shawshank Redemption, when faced with the movie refrain ‘get busy living, or get busy dying’, decided to get busy dying by kicking the table from under himself and hanging from the rafters. I think I’ll be like Red and choose to get busy living. In this case, get busy living is represented by a complete listing of runs on my training log. Not a missed day for the month! I sure know how to live it up, don’t I?
Today is the official kick-off for Bayshore Marathon training. And, of course, it is a rest day. I know how to start a plan the right way. Some of you schedule a run for the first day but that just seems silly. There’s 16 weeks to go. Pace yourself.
Also, even though I reference a “plan”, I still have not actually put my plan on paper. It’s still swirling around in my head along with sports scores, the plot to Lost, and amidst the wreckage of unrealized childhood dreams. I’ll tilt my head and dump it out my ear onto paper later today or tomorrow but don’t be surprised if week 8 contains ‘throw winning touchdown in the Super Bowl’ in place of a long run. I don’t know what’s going to come out. Plus, wouldn’t it be nice if once – just once – Runner’s World had an article about ’16 weeks to your best marathon!’ or ‘Our new plan for your fastest marathon ever!’? Help a brother out. Someone’s asleep at the switch over there.
So, off I go into February…into Bayshore training…with a get busy living attitude. Of course, if I come home again with my fingers mildly frost bit and face ice-wind burned like I did yesterday, I may be looking for the nearest rafter and a strong rope.
A month from now, Brooks’ way may not seem so bad.
Happy trails.
January total miles = 94.25
_________________________________
Sunday long run: 12 miles @ 6:59 pace. Started out easy, got cold, picked up the pace, got really cold, decided to really pick up the pace and negative split the sumbitch. My hands were tingling and burning for the first half hour after returning home.
With apologies to The Proclaimers (and who thinks maybe they should apologize a bit to us for this song as well?), my February wraps up with a nice little total mileage near 100 miles. I did not run 100 miles. I didn’t even walk 500 miles…and walk 500 more just to be the man who walked 1,000 miles. I ran a shade over 94. What’s with all the walking anyhow?
Ninety-four miles represents a January high for me. Usually I spend the first two months of every year in a semi-hibernation waiting out the snow, ice, and cold. Not this year. I figure that if I want to make this the Year of the Ass Kicker, I better get off to a good start. You know, get my muscles pulls and debilitating injuries over early so I can quit YAKing by March. Why delay things?
I believe it was Brooks in The Shawshank Redemption, when faced with the movie refrain ‘get busy living, or get busy dying’, decided to get busy dying by kicking the table from under himself and hanging from the rafters. I think I’ll be like Red and choose to get busy living. In this case, get busy living is represented by a complete listing of runs on my training log. Not a missed day for the month! I sure know how to live it up, don’t I?
Today is the official kick-off for Bayshore Marathon training. And, of course, it is a rest day. I know how to start a plan the right way. Some of you schedule a run for the first day but that just seems silly. There’s 16 weeks to go. Pace yourself.
Also, even though I reference a “plan”, I still have not actually put my plan on paper. It’s still swirling around in my head along with sports scores, the plot to Lost, and amidst the wreckage of unrealized childhood dreams. I’ll tilt my head and dump it out my ear onto paper later today or tomorrow but don’t be surprised if week 8 contains ‘throw winning touchdown in the Super Bowl’ in place of a long run. I don’t know what’s going to come out. Plus, wouldn’t it be nice if once – just once – Runner’s World had an article about ’16 weeks to your best marathon!’ or ‘Our new plan for your fastest marathon ever!’? Help a brother out. Someone’s asleep at the switch over there.
So, off I go into February…into Bayshore training…with a get busy living attitude. Of course, if I come home again with my fingers mildly frost bit and face ice-wind burned like I did yesterday, I may be looking for the nearest rafter and a strong rope.
A month from now, Brooks’ way may not seem so bad.
Happy trails.
January total miles = 94.25
_________________________________
Sunday long run: 12 miles @ 6:59 pace. Started out easy, got cold, picked up the pace, got really cold, decided to really pick up the pace and negative split the sumbitch. My hands were tingling and burning for the first half hour after returning home.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Frozen Throat Chronicles: Episode 2
Note: Though I have no intent to make this a regular running series, this is, at the very least, a sequel. If Alvin can do it, so can I. Go here for Episode 1.
Episode 2: The Chest Rash
In the last episode, an exceedingly handsome man went out on an ordinary four mile run when Old Man Winter attempted to choke the very life out of him with his own loogy. By the time he returned home, Captain Esophagus was born.
There’s something about stitching on moisture wicking clothing that just will not mesh. Since our hero returned and discovered his true identity, he poured through a library of superhero movies to determine his next step. Spiderman, Iron Man, they all go about the business of creating their costumes. And so it was that Captain Esophagus set about with sketch pad, dramatic music, and a montage of scribbled drawings and rejected ideas littering his floor.
A giant “E“ stitched on his marathon race shirt? No, an “E” is a failing grade and one with which the good Captain was all too familiar. How about a nickname, like Spidey, for citizens to yell out as he ran by? But the only nickname in which he was regularly referred did not inspire confidence or strength. Plus, “dumbass” was too long for the shirt.
Finally, he settled on an open throat with a stuck loogy dangling in the back. This was, after all, his moment of birth. Or re-birth. And this, the time of his afterbirth.
The stitching of the loogy filled throat scratched across his chest as he laced up for another mid-winter run. In hindsight, it was not a good idea to stitch into his moisture wicking shirts. He would need a lot of soothing gel post-run. But if a chest rash is the only price he’d have to pay for greatness, well, then he’d do it. For the people…who needed Captain Esophagus.
It was 12 degrees out. Too cold for mortals. His first steps were tentative. The crisp crunch of icy snow underfoot announced his arrival. Five miles to go. A test of wills.
I know you are out there Old Man Winter. I feel your frozen breath.
He ran on. His chest rubbed raw from the hero logo emblazoned on his shirt. A car horn beeped. A group of teenagers apparently wanted to wish him well by repeatedly calling him by his nickname. He tried to correct them, “It’s Captain Esophagus, please.” But the teens just laughed along with him, though the Captain was not aware of the joke, and pointed at his shirt.
“What’s that?” They asked through giggles. “Is that an ass with a piece of crap in it? Are you Captain Colon Blow?”
“Now that would be a ridiculous name for a superhero…” The Captain, with hands on hip, corrected but the teens were already careening down the road and out of sight (though he did hear the unmistakable shout of ‘Captain Dumbass awwaaayyy!’ amidst the cackles.)
Alone again. Two miles to go. His knuckles and fingers were frozen making it no longer possible for him to play air harmonica to the soothing sounds of one Hue E. Lewis broadcasting through his mp3 player. Maybe Old Man Winter did not want to tussle again? Maybe the colon, er, frozen throat loogy logo was scaring him away?
Like a shadow racing across the ground in front of the setting sun, the frozen air instantly numbed his tongue, throat, and then esophagus. It came suddenly. His panting breaths immediately turned asthmatic. He felt as if his lungs were going to collapse like Lindsay Lohan’s acting career. His steps became labored. The bright sun reflecting off the snow made him disoriented.
And that’s when he came. A swirling cloud of snow rose from the ground directly in his path at the next intersection not more than a hundred yards ahead. He formed like a towering pyramid. Pointy hair, bluish tint, elongated nipples, shrunken penis, all the signs of extreme cold were there. Old Man Winter threw his head back and thunderously laughed. His belly violently shook the steel cage of his ribs. Inside the ribbed prison, the Captain could see Jimmy Buffett in his Hawaiian shirt screaming and reaching for our hero to save him.
Captain Esophagus stopped, took one deep drag of the icy winter air, and, like the Mandelbaums before him, decided it was Go Time. He defiantly stared into Old Man Winter’s blue eyes and hacked up a big spit. And took off again, lowering his shoulder, ready to run full steam into the frozen giant.
As he approached, he could feel his throat freezing to the point of suffocation. He did not know if he’d make it. But our hero was determined for the stitched shirt and rash not to have been in vain. He picked up the pace. He was going to fartlek into Old Man Winter. Jimmy Buffet screamed between mouthfuls of cheeseburger. Captain closed his eyes and braced for impact.
Just then, the careening car full of teens plowed through the intersection directly into O.M.W. just ahead of the hero. Old Man Winter instantly dissipated as if a thousand interlocking fireflies had suddenly dispersed and scattered. Buffett’s tan feel to the ground in a crumpled heap but his body disappeared with the rest of Old Man Winter.
“Where you headed now Captain Colon Blow?!” The envious teens yelled. “Your shirt needs a laxative…”
Captain Esophagus attempted to correct the misguided youths again but they were already too far down the road, their car seemingly fueled by sneering insults and incorrect hero logo identification. These are Rohrschach failures, the hero thought.
Captain Esophagus approached home. He was now 2 for 2 over Old Man Winter. And, based on his superhero understanding, there would not be a third encounter as every villain only gets to come back once in a sequel. He had conquered winter for the people. Everyone would be free to enjoy a mid-winter run!
He walked up the front porch steps and took one deep drag of the now refreshing winter’s air basking in victory. Five miles accomplished. Winter defeated! Again! A thick, gooey spit balled up in his throat. This time, Captain Esophagus confidently swallowed the food residue.
But, half way down, he choked. The flap of cartilage that directs food away from his lungs was frozen open! He gasped and spit until he regained his composure and breath.
His epiglottis was frozen open. Air and food were callously being directed to the same location. A new threat.
Off in the distance, an evil, gleeful cackle echoed…Captain Esophagus’ work was not done.
Epiglottis Man approached.
Happy spitting.
Coming January 2011, Frozen Throat Chronicles 3: The Paralyzed Larynx!
_________________________________
5 miles on Tuesday. 7 miles on Thursday. 12 miles this Sunday. Then official training begins!
Episode 2: The Chest Rash
In the last episode, an exceedingly handsome man went out on an ordinary four mile run when Old Man Winter attempted to choke the very life out of him with his own loogy. By the time he returned home, Captain Esophagus was born.
There’s something about stitching on moisture wicking clothing that just will not mesh. Since our hero returned and discovered his true identity, he poured through a library of superhero movies to determine his next step. Spiderman, Iron Man, they all go about the business of creating their costumes. And so it was that Captain Esophagus set about with sketch pad, dramatic music, and a montage of scribbled drawings and rejected ideas littering his floor.
A giant “E“ stitched on his marathon race shirt? No, an “E” is a failing grade and one with which the good Captain was all too familiar. How about a nickname, like Spidey, for citizens to yell out as he ran by? But the only nickname in which he was regularly referred did not inspire confidence or strength. Plus, “dumbass” was too long for the shirt.
Finally, he settled on an open throat with a stuck loogy dangling in the back. This was, after all, his moment of birth. Or re-birth. And this, the time of his afterbirth.
The stitching of the loogy filled throat scratched across his chest as he laced up for another mid-winter run. In hindsight, it was not a good idea to stitch into his moisture wicking shirts. He would need a lot of soothing gel post-run. But if a chest rash is the only price he’d have to pay for greatness, well, then he’d do it. For the people…who needed Captain Esophagus.
It was 12 degrees out. Too cold for mortals. His first steps were tentative. The crisp crunch of icy snow underfoot announced his arrival. Five miles to go. A test of wills.
I know you are out there Old Man Winter. I feel your frozen breath.
He ran on. His chest rubbed raw from the hero logo emblazoned on his shirt. A car horn beeped. A group of teenagers apparently wanted to wish him well by repeatedly calling him by his nickname. He tried to correct them, “It’s Captain Esophagus, please.” But the teens just laughed along with him, though the Captain was not aware of the joke, and pointed at his shirt.
“What’s that?” They asked through giggles. “Is that an ass with a piece of crap in it? Are you Captain Colon Blow?”
“Now that would be a ridiculous name for a superhero…” The Captain, with hands on hip, corrected but the teens were already careening down the road and out of sight (though he did hear the unmistakable shout of ‘Captain Dumbass awwaaayyy!’ amidst the cackles.)
Alone again. Two miles to go. His knuckles and fingers were frozen making it no longer possible for him to play air harmonica to the soothing sounds of one Hue E. Lewis broadcasting through his mp3 player. Maybe Old Man Winter did not want to tussle again? Maybe the colon, er, frozen throat loogy logo was scaring him away?
Like a shadow racing across the ground in front of the setting sun, the frozen air instantly numbed his tongue, throat, and then esophagus. It came suddenly. His panting breaths immediately turned asthmatic. He felt as if his lungs were going to collapse like Lindsay Lohan’s acting career. His steps became labored. The bright sun reflecting off the snow made him disoriented.
And that’s when he came. A swirling cloud of snow rose from the ground directly in his path at the next intersection not more than a hundred yards ahead. He formed like a towering pyramid. Pointy hair, bluish tint, elongated nipples, shrunken penis, all the signs of extreme cold were there. Old Man Winter threw his head back and thunderously laughed. His belly violently shook the steel cage of his ribs. Inside the ribbed prison, the Captain could see Jimmy Buffett in his Hawaiian shirt screaming and reaching for our hero to save him.
Captain Esophagus stopped, took one deep drag of the icy winter air, and, like the Mandelbaums before him, decided it was Go Time. He defiantly stared into Old Man Winter’s blue eyes and hacked up a big spit. And took off again, lowering his shoulder, ready to run full steam into the frozen giant.
As he approached, he could feel his throat freezing to the point of suffocation. He did not know if he’d make it. But our hero was determined for the stitched shirt and rash not to have been in vain. He picked up the pace. He was going to fartlek into Old Man Winter. Jimmy Buffet screamed between mouthfuls of cheeseburger. Captain closed his eyes and braced for impact.
Just then, the careening car full of teens plowed through the intersection directly into O.M.W. just ahead of the hero. Old Man Winter instantly dissipated as if a thousand interlocking fireflies had suddenly dispersed and scattered. Buffett’s tan feel to the ground in a crumpled heap but his body disappeared with the rest of Old Man Winter.
“Where you headed now Captain Colon Blow?!” The envious teens yelled. “Your shirt needs a laxative…”
Captain Esophagus attempted to correct the misguided youths again but they were already too far down the road, their car seemingly fueled by sneering insults and incorrect hero logo identification. These are Rohrschach failures, the hero thought.
Captain Esophagus approached home. He was now 2 for 2 over Old Man Winter. And, based on his superhero understanding, there would not be a third encounter as every villain only gets to come back once in a sequel. He had conquered winter for the people. Everyone would be free to enjoy a mid-winter run!
He walked up the front porch steps and took one deep drag of the now refreshing winter’s air basking in victory. Five miles accomplished. Winter defeated! Again! A thick, gooey spit balled up in his throat. This time, Captain Esophagus confidently swallowed the food residue.
But, half way down, he choked. The flap of cartilage that directs food away from his lungs was frozen open! He gasped and spit until he regained his composure and breath.
His epiglottis was frozen open. Air and food were callously being directed to the same location. A new threat.
Off in the distance, an evil, gleeful cackle echoed…Captain Esophagus’ work was not done.
Epiglottis Man approached.
Happy spitting.
Coming January 2011, Frozen Throat Chronicles 3: The Paralyzed Larynx!
_________________________________
5 miles on Tuesday. 7 miles on Thursday. 12 miles this Sunday. Then official training begins!
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Planless
So here I am a week before officially starting my training for my next marathon. I still haven’t put together my plan. I’m sure I’ll slap something together at the last minute. I do my best work when under pressure and after much procrastination. It’s netted me a number of “participant” ribbons and a staled career after all. Obviously, my system works!
I have high hopes for the Bayshore Marathon. It is the site of my reigning PR. It’s largely flat course with only a few rolling hills through certain sections. If the weather is right – it’s on the bay shore and thus open to wind blowing in off the water – it’s a great course for a fast time. Plus, in years past, I’ve had great success in convincing Mrs. Nitmos to go to Hooters post race for beer and wings. I don’t particularly care for the wings but, you know, its Hooters and its fun to watch Mrs. Nitmos deal with all that is Hooters just because she’s trying to be nice about things for my sake. It’s this kind of cashing in on favorable circumstances that make me such a great husband and an overall pleasure to be around.
I’d like to set a new PR in the marathon. This is the Y.A.K. and PR’s are the goal for the next 11 months. I’ve always wanted to qualify for Boston under the non-age graded standard. In other words, a time under 3:11. I’ve qualified twice in the 3:12 range which works for folks like me in the 35-39 age bracket. In fact, the next Boston I can run is April 2011 and this Bayshore would count towards that. Since I would be 40 in April 2011, I really only need a sub 3:21 now to qualify. Hooray for middle age! If no race ending calf cramping, that SHOULD be in the bag. (jinx?)
I think I need to shift my normal training paradigm. I’ve done just enough in the past to qualify but, literally, I’m running on fumes to get to the finish. If you know me at all, this isn’t surprising. I often do just enough to get by. But if I want to do better, I need to shake things up and embrace a new training regimen. I’ve resisted logging extra so-called “junk”miles in the past. It seemed like unnecessary wear and tear on my body when I was able to (barely) reach my goals without it. But now my goals have changed and I need to get faster. Do I need more miles? Do I need more speed work? Do I need more beer served to me by women wearing socks as shirts? I think…Yes and Yes and most definitely Yes.
Since I don’t have Bill Squires sending me work-outs scribbled on restaurant napkins, I’ll put together this training plan – like all the rest – on my own. The bulk of my prior long runs have been in the 15-16 mile range with only 2-3 runs of 20-21 miles before the marathon. I’m going to bump that up to where the bulk of my long runs are in the 17-18 mile range with around 4 long runs in the 20-23 mile range. Plus, I’m going to add a second “medium” distance run a week in the Nitmos-patented Limbo style. The question is whether or not this is enough of a change to shave another 3-4 minutes off my best time. I've kinda stalled out in the 3:12 range with my current plans.
The basic structure will look like this:
Tuesday: 5 miles/speed work/ intervals
Wednesday: 7-10 miles/easy run
Friday: 10 miles/Limbo run
Sunday: 15-23 miles/long run/fartleking through-out
That’s the tentative plan. It has me running about 8-10 miles more per week on average with more speed work at "medium" distances. Considering my life style, kid demands, and general slothfulness, is that enough miles to shave another 3-4 minutes off my PR?
The numbers themselves haven’t been plugged in yet. I’ll get to that….some day.
I still have a week to go.
Happy trails.
________________________________
Sunday long run: 11 miles @ medium hard effort of 7:11 pace. 43 degrees!!
I have high hopes for the Bayshore Marathon. It is the site of my reigning PR. It’s largely flat course with only a few rolling hills through certain sections. If the weather is right – it’s on the bay shore and thus open to wind blowing in off the water – it’s a great course for a fast time. Plus, in years past, I’ve had great success in convincing Mrs. Nitmos to go to Hooters post race for beer and wings. I don’t particularly care for the wings but, you know, its Hooters and its fun to watch Mrs. Nitmos deal with all that is Hooters just because she’s trying to be nice about things for my sake. It’s this kind of cashing in on favorable circumstances that make me such a great husband and an overall pleasure to be around.
I’d like to set a new PR in the marathon. This is the Y.A.K. and PR’s are the goal for the next 11 months. I’ve always wanted to qualify for Boston under the non-age graded standard. In other words, a time under 3:11. I’ve qualified twice in the 3:12 range which works for folks like me in the 35-39 age bracket. In fact, the next Boston I can run is April 2011 and this Bayshore would count towards that. Since I would be 40 in April 2011, I really only need a sub 3:21 now to qualify. Hooray for middle age! If no race ending calf cramping, that SHOULD be in the bag. (jinx?)
I think I need to shift my normal training paradigm. I’ve done just enough in the past to qualify but, literally, I’m running on fumes to get to the finish. If you know me at all, this isn’t surprising. I often do just enough to get by. But if I want to do better, I need to shake things up and embrace a new training regimen. I’ve resisted logging extra so-called “junk”miles in the past. It seemed like unnecessary wear and tear on my body when I was able to (barely) reach my goals without it. But now my goals have changed and I need to get faster. Do I need more miles? Do I need more speed work? Do I need more beer served to me by women wearing socks as shirts? I think…Yes and Yes and most definitely Yes.
Since I don’t have Bill Squires sending me work-outs scribbled on restaurant napkins, I’ll put together this training plan – like all the rest – on my own. The bulk of my prior long runs have been in the 15-16 mile range with only 2-3 runs of 20-21 miles before the marathon. I’m going to bump that up to where the bulk of my long runs are in the 17-18 mile range with around 4 long runs in the 20-23 mile range. Plus, I’m going to add a second “medium” distance run a week in the Nitmos-patented Limbo style. The question is whether or not this is enough of a change to shave another 3-4 minutes off my best time. I've kinda stalled out in the 3:12 range with my current plans.
The basic structure will look like this:
Tuesday: 5 miles/speed work/ intervals
Wednesday: 7-10 miles/easy run
Friday: 10 miles/Limbo run
Sunday: 15-23 miles/long run/fartleking through-out
That’s the tentative plan. It has me running about 8-10 miles more per week on average with more speed work at "medium" distances. Considering my life style, kid demands, and general slothfulness, is that enough miles to shave another 3-4 minutes off my PR?
The numbers themselves haven’t been plugged in yet. I’ll get to that….some day.
I still have a week to go.
Happy trails.
________________________________
Sunday long run: 11 miles @ medium hard effort of 7:11 pace. 43 degrees!!
Friday, January 22, 2010
Cold.
Mrs. Nitmos and I are bigots. Climate bigots. She hates the cold weather. I hate the wind. When you live in a temperature-challenged climate like Michigan, you learn to appreciate a warm string of days the way Cleveland enjoys a championship sports team. They both come around so rarely that you can hardly believe it when it occurs.
I can deal with the cold. I don’t like it but, for me, it just means another long sleeve race shirt to layer on. Mrs. Nitmos hates the cold. Hates it. She sneers invectives at the thermostat on a daily basis. I’ve found her outside on the patio threatening the thermometer with mercury drainage if it didn’t start rising dramatically. (The kids’ splash pool is right under it so it wouldn't go to waste.)
Nah, the cold isn’t a big deal. I can layer up and run. Zero degrees, 10 degrees, 20 degrees, whatever. That’s why they made winter running gear. Post-run with the sweat chillies, I just throw another broken, ex-racing greyhound in the fire to warm up by rubbing my hands over the crackling bones. -- OK now, before you judge, I feel I should explain. Understand that I’m all about solutions here on F.M.S. Some of you like to focus on problems. I’m sure you’ve heard about this issue. The greyhounds’ racing days are behind them. Used up. What to do with them? Mrs. Nitmos and I are cold. Pop! Light bulb goes off. Send away for some greyhounds! We are warm. I believe that’s called ‘killing two birds with one stone.’* If you don't like it, what are you doing about it? -- No, the cold weather isn’t my thing.
I hate WIND. Yesterday, while many of you were entertaining yourself with the bio of Rocko the thong artist, I escaped for another 7 mile lunch hour run. It was a Michigan-pleasant 30 degrees…until you turned into the wind. Then the icy, wind-aided, needles cut through my North Face jacket and long sleeve thermal sub layer. Penetrated my stretchy band toned exterior and roared through my torso and out the back like a soul-ripping poltergeist. I felt like I was running through a swimming pool as every step was labored and resistant. The wind brings my climate bigotry to the fore where it erupts in profane climate Tourette’s. “G** d*** wind!” “Motherf*cker!” “I hate the f*ckin’ wind!” All of these were shouted as the wind blasts battered me from the front. The cursing swept away to the tender ears and shocked faces in the three school zones I passed.
Starting February 1st, I’ll begin my official training plan for the Bayshore Marathon (though I haven’t created it yet). Half of the training will be done in less than optimal temperatures. All of it will be in less than optimal wind patterns. Around here, springtime is merely a cauldron of swirling winds that, no matter which direction you turn, seem to somehow STILL be head on.
This is a way of life in these parts. Deal with the cold. Deal with the wind. Often, deal with both. If you want to run, there’s no sense complaining. Just suck it up and do it.
Besides, you can always throw another greyhound on the fire when you get back. Heck, even two. Believe me, you can get more than one in. That’s why God made broomsticks after all.
Happy trails.
*Or ‘two greyhounds with one poker’, whichever you prefer.
_________________________________
For those concerned, rest assured that no greyhounds were actually harmed during the creation of this post. It’s plenty warm in here and has been for the last half hour. I don’t support cruelty to animals. Never have. Never will. I have a dog of my own and she is terrific (if not slightly flammable.) Pets are to be loved and enjoyed. I encourage each of you to find your own methods to fuel your furnace and also help solve a critical crisis like greyhound abandonment. It was through trial and error that I discovered greyhound combustibility in the first place. (FYI: Hamsters are like dried leaves. No good.)
_________________________________
7 miles @ easy 7:00 pace. This weekend, plan for 11 miles. Maybe 12. We'll see.
I can deal with the cold. I don’t like it but, for me, it just means another long sleeve race shirt to layer on. Mrs. Nitmos hates the cold. Hates it. She sneers invectives at the thermostat on a daily basis. I’ve found her outside on the patio threatening the thermometer with mercury drainage if it didn’t start rising dramatically. (The kids’ splash pool is right under it so it wouldn't go to waste.)
Nah, the cold isn’t a big deal. I can layer up and run. Zero degrees, 10 degrees, 20 degrees, whatever. That’s why they made winter running gear. Post-run with the sweat chillies, I just throw another broken, ex-racing greyhound in the fire to warm up by rubbing my hands over the crackling bones. -- OK now, before you judge, I feel I should explain. Understand that I’m all about solutions here on F.M.S. Some of you like to focus on problems. I’m sure you’ve heard about this issue. The greyhounds’ racing days are behind them. Used up. What to do with them? Mrs. Nitmos and I are cold. Pop! Light bulb goes off. Send away for some greyhounds! We are warm. I believe that’s called ‘killing two birds with one stone.’* If you don't like it, what are you doing about it? -- No, the cold weather isn’t my thing.
I hate WIND. Yesterday, while many of you were entertaining yourself with the bio of Rocko the thong artist, I escaped for another 7 mile lunch hour run. It was a Michigan-pleasant 30 degrees…until you turned into the wind. Then the icy, wind-aided, needles cut through my North Face jacket and long sleeve thermal sub layer. Penetrated my stretchy band toned exterior and roared through my torso and out the back like a soul-ripping poltergeist. I felt like I was running through a swimming pool as every step was labored and resistant. The wind brings my climate bigotry to the fore where it erupts in profane climate Tourette’s. “G** d*** wind!” “Motherf*cker!” “I hate the f*ckin’ wind!” All of these were shouted as the wind blasts battered me from the front. The cursing swept away to the tender ears and shocked faces in the three school zones I passed.
Starting February 1st, I’ll begin my official training plan for the Bayshore Marathon (though I haven’t created it yet). Half of the training will be done in less than optimal temperatures. All of it will be in less than optimal wind patterns. Around here, springtime is merely a cauldron of swirling winds that, no matter which direction you turn, seem to somehow STILL be head on.
This is a way of life in these parts. Deal with the cold. Deal with the wind. Often, deal with both. If you want to run, there’s no sense complaining. Just suck it up and do it.
Besides, you can always throw another greyhound on the fire when you get back. Heck, even two. Believe me, you can get more than one in. That’s why God made broomsticks after all.
Happy trails.
*Or ‘two greyhounds with one poker’, whichever you prefer.
_________________________________
For those concerned, rest assured that no greyhounds were actually harmed during the creation of this post. It’s plenty warm in here and has been for the last half hour. I don’t support cruelty to animals. Never have. Never will. I have a dog of my own and she is terrific (if not slightly flammable.) Pets are to be loved and enjoyed. I encourage each of you to find your own methods to fuel your furnace and also help solve a critical crisis like greyhound abandonment. It was through trial and error that I discovered greyhound combustibility in the first place. (FYI: Hamsters are like dried leaves. No good.)
_________________________________
7 miles @ easy 7:00 pace. This weekend, plan for 11 miles. Maybe 12. We'll see.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Rocko
I have to admit that I wanted to get another post out here as soon as possible. That photo in my last post is increasingly giving me the willies. I don’t mind if it gives you the willies but me? That will not do. We are all into German thong erotica, I know, but there’s an essence in that photo that leaps off the page and threatens to haunt our dreams. Besides, it took me several months to pry the eastern European traffic off of this blog when I posted a picture of someone with Hello Kitty band-aids on his nipples back in 2008. Well, welcome back eastern Europeans!
I think my favorite part of that photo – and we all have a favorite part, no? – is the interesting choices the photographer made. It’s almost as if he said “Rocko, we are going to take some chances here today. Nothing is TOO embarrassing for you. Your humiliation can know no bounds. What I’m after is for the straps to sling over your shoulder as if they were tree branches and you jumped into a Speedo from a higher branch and are hanging there with an increasingly violent wedgie all the while sporting a mustache and an indifferent ‘come hither’ gaze.” Almost there! Work it…work it. Now tilt your head and pretend you don’t look totally ridiculous. Got it! Click.
At first, I thought it was just a creepy, funny picture of an old dude. But now I’m starting to see the photographer’s vision here. Notice how the thong straps run just outside of the areaola and the watch face points directly at the camera. The straps could have easily concealed the mipples…but didn’t. Why? It’s almost as if the photographer is forcing us to confront our inhibitions by juxtaposing them with the constantly moving watch hand, or “time”. We may get older…we may start doing things we regret to pay our rent at the retirement village…but we are never comfortable with an elderly man in a thong wedgie gazing suggestively at a camera. No matter the time. No matter the era. There’s a lot of layers of seductiveness in that photo. Ladies, feel free to peel them back and analyze. Plus, as an added bonus, if you stare at it long enough, it works like the video from the movie The Ring but, in this case, your soul merges with Rocko’s thong and becomes part of the thong-soul-quilt. Get your reservations in early, I suggest, or you might not get a good seat, if you know what I mean.
But this IS a running blog so I guess we should turn our attention away from disturbing seniors with ass floss and to the sport we all know and love. To that end, my five miler yesterday was the most carefree of the early year. A thaw has melted most of the running paths around here. Very little ice. I started at 7:18 pace and worked down mile by mile to a 6:32 pace before calling it a day. It was so nice to run without Yaktrax and without multiple layers that I just might go out for 6-7 more miles today too.
The uncharacteristically mild weather lately has made me dream of an early spring. Of blooming flowers and runs in shorts sans hat and gloves. Of dehydration and long run calve cramping. In short, a chance for me to break out my purple Speedo and run free again.
Guten Tag!
I think my favorite part of that photo – and we all have a favorite part, no? – is the interesting choices the photographer made. It’s almost as if he said “Rocko, we are going to take some chances here today. Nothing is TOO embarrassing for you. Your humiliation can know no bounds. What I’m after is for the straps to sling over your shoulder as if they were tree branches and you jumped into a Speedo from a higher branch and are hanging there with an increasingly violent wedgie all the while sporting a mustache and an indifferent ‘come hither’ gaze.” Almost there! Work it…work it. Now tilt your head and pretend you don’t look totally ridiculous. Got it! Click.
At first, I thought it was just a creepy, funny picture of an old dude. But now I’m starting to see the photographer’s vision here. Notice how the thong straps run just outside of the areaola and the watch face points directly at the camera. The straps could have easily concealed the mipples…but didn’t. Why? It’s almost as if the photographer is forcing us to confront our inhibitions by juxtaposing them with the constantly moving watch hand, or “time”. We may get older…we may start doing things we regret to pay our rent at the retirement village…but we are never comfortable with an elderly man in a thong wedgie gazing suggestively at a camera. No matter the time. No matter the era. There’s a lot of layers of seductiveness in that photo. Ladies, feel free to peel them back and analyze. Plus, as an added bonus, if you stare at it long enough, it works like the video from the movie The Ring but, in this case, your soul merges with Rocko’s thong and becomes part of the thong-soul-quilt. Get your reservations in early, I suggest, or you might not get a good seat, if you know what I mean.
But this IS a running blog so I guess we should turn our attention away from disturbing seniors with ass floss and to the sport we all know and love. To that end, my five miler yesterday was the most carefree of the early year. A thaw has melted most of the running paths around here. Very little ice. I started at 7:18 pace and worked down mile by mile to a 6:32 pace before calling it a day. It was so nice to run without Yaktrax and without multiple layers that I just might go out for 6-7 more miles today too.
The uncharacteristically mild weather lately has made me dream of an early spring. Of blooming flowers and runs in shorts sans hat and gloves. Of dehydration and long run calve cramping. In short, a chance for me to break out my purple Speedo and run free again.
Guten Tag!
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
I is Old
I don’t have one of those cute cat pictures from wherever those cute cat pictures come from to illustrate my subject line. I’m sure there is one out there for “I is Old” in the land of hilarious cats with subject-verb disagreement line tags. I’m just way too lazy to look one up. So, deal with this instead: 
For whatever reason, every January and February I become seasonally old. The other months of the year I feel exactly my age. After the new year turns however, I start limping around and groaning with every knee bend and finger twitch. The aches and pains just don’t go away. Every morning, my finger joints are sore. No kidding. I haven’t had sore finger joints since I was thirteen and Madonna released a new video. (ba dum dum) My knees are tender. My shoulder is still strained from a stretchy band related accident 6 weeks ago. Kids are listening to entirely inappropriate music these days. And why are their pants hanging so low? And who ate my oat bran? And what time is Murder, She Wrote on?
This would be a good time to make a classless Alzheimer’s joke too. But, I won’t. Instead, I’ll ask a simple question: How many of you know someone who calls Alzheimer’s disease “Old Timers”? Seriously, is it so hard to get the disease name right that it has to be twisted to a like sounding, stereotypical slang? My boss giggles and says “Oops, I forgot about that….must have Old Timers” about once every meeting. To which, I roll my eyes, press my finger on the mute and mock her by saying "It’s Alzheimer’s, dumbass" and thank Wilford Brimley that she’s several states away. And my mute button works.
Anyhow, I forgot what I was going to say. I have a vague recollection but can’t quite remember…
So what’s with the seasonal old disorder? Or S.O.D.* Do any of you experience this phenomenon? Maybe it’s unique to us cold weather states. I wake up and just about every joint I use for exercise (and some I don’t….huh?huh? is this thing on? rimshot please) is achy and/or swollen. Since my office is in my basement, two painful, limping, stair rail propping descents of the staircase are in order before I can begin my day. I take a deep breath and look at those stairs like my grandparents must have looked at my low riding car when I came to take them to the bank to sign over their social security checks. Like, there’s no way I’m coming back from down there. (Or getting those groceries he promised.)
As the day wears on, the joints loosen up and my S.O.D. retreats. Usually, by the fifth hilarious one-liner from Will Smith at Carlton’s expense, I’m feeling pretty spry and I can ascend one flight back up to the break room** for some coffee with minimal groaning and only partial rail leaning. In fact, by evening, I feel 38 again. But the next day, I again wake up geriatric and increasingly bitter. It’s like Groundhog Day but Mrs. Nitmos is way better looking than Andie McDowell.
Maybe it’s the cold weather. My body is telling me to take a break during winter. But I’m telling it that I want to get a jump start on this coming May’s marathon so it will run on those frozen over sidewalks and do the slippy dance across those ice patches. It will stretchy band and crunch away every evening. I missed out on registering for Boston 2010 but I will not miss out on Boston 2011. If my nemesis can run with replaced knees, I can certainly run through S.O.D. It will not beat this fella.
There’s six weeks to go until the end of the cold and S.O.D. calendar here in my part of the world. Approximately 20-25 runs. Approximately 25-30 doses of Biofreeze. About 50 Advils. And another 36+ servings of bifidus regularis in my morning yogurt. Magically, as the temperature climbs, I’ll again return to my normal physical age. Mentally, of course, I’ll still be the sophomoric, vulgar blogger more appropriate for someone half my age and without kids. But, mind you, I do the judging around here and not you.
March will free me from my S.O.D. so I can pursue, pain-fee, my Y.A.K. during this YotA! WTF? LOL, that’s a lot of acronyms. Now, it’s time to end this post and push Publish and ascend the stairs, slowly and painfully, like a man in his 60’s. Its times like these that I ask, what would Brimley do? WWBD?
He’d enjoy his morning BM.
And I will too.
Once I get up these blasted stairs. Brimley help me, that’s a long ways to go…Never mind. Too late.
Hon, I need my "accident towel" down here. /shouts up stairs
Happy trails.
*Yes, 2010 with be the year of the acronym! Or YotA, for short.
** kitchen
_________________________________
This Week In Running (TWIR) notes:
5 miles, 6.5 miles, 10.1 miles and 5 miles again all outside, no Yaktrax! But no speed intervals either. So sad.
_________________________________
A few of you inquired if that was really Dick Beardsley that commented on my last post. I have no way of knowing for sure. I'll let you know when I receive the lawsuit as I believe each incidence of slander would be itemized. In the meantime, I'm preparing as I just finished reading Duel in the Sun and I'm currently into Staying The Course: A Runner's Toughest Race. Know thy enemy.
Should you accessorize this with a watch?
For whatever reason, every January and February I become seasonally old. The other months of the year I feel exactly my age. After the new year turns however, I start limping around and groaning with every knee bend and finger twitch. The aches and pains just don’t go away. Every morning, my finger joints are sore. No kidding. I haven’t had sore finger joints since I was thirteen and Madonna released a new video. (ba dum dum) My knees are tender. My shoulder is still strained from a stretchy band related accident 6 weeks ago. Kids are listening to entirely inappropriate music these days. And why are their pants hanging so low? And who ate my oat bran? And what time is Murder, She Wrote on?
This would be a good time to make a classless Alzheimer’s joke too. But, I won’t. Instead, I’ll ask a simple question: How many of you know someone who calls Alzheimer’s disease “Old Timers”? Seriously, is it so hard to get the disease name right that it has to be twisted to a like sounding, stereotypical slang? My boss giggles and says “Oops, I forgot about that….must have Old Timers” about once every meeting. To which, I roll my eyes, press my finger on the mute and mock her by saying "It’s Alzheimer’s, dumbass" and thank Wilford Brimley that she’s several states away. And my mute button works.
Anyhow, I forgot what I was going to say. I have a vague recollection but can’t quite remember…
So what’s with the seasonal old disorder? Or S.O.D.* Do any of you experience this phenomenon? Maybe it’s unique to us cold weather states. I wake up and just about every joint I use for exercise (and some I don’t….huh?huh? is this thing on? rimshot please) is achy and/or swollen. Since my office is in my basement, two painful, limping, stair rail propping descents of the staircase are in order before I can begin my day. I take a deep breath and look at those stairs like my grandparents must have looked at my low riding car when I came to take them to the bank to sign over their social security checks. Like, there’s no way I’m coming back from down there. (Or getting those groceries he promised.)
As the day wears on, the joints loosen up and my S.O.D. retreats. Usually, by the fifth hilarious one-liner from Will Smith at Carlton’s expense, I’m feeling pretty spry and I can ascend one flight back up to the break room** for some coffee with minimal groaning and only partial rail leaning. In fact, by evening, I feel 38 again. But the next day, I again wake up geriatric and increasingly bitter. It’s like Groundhog Day but Mrs. Nitmos is way better looking than Andie McDowell.
Maybe it’s the cold weather. My body is telling me to take a break during winter. But I’m telling it that I want to get a jump start on this coming May’s marathon so it will run on those frozen over sidewalks and do the slippy dance across those ice patches. It will stretchy band and crunch away every evening. I missed out on registering for Boston 2010 but I will not miss out on Boston 2011. If my nemesis can run with replaced knees, I can certainly run through S.O.D. It will not beat this fella.
There’s six weeks to go until the end of the cold and S.O.D. calendar here in my part of the world. Approximately 20-25 runs. Approximately 25-30 doses of Biofreeze. About 50 Advils. And another 36+ servings of bifidus regularis in my morning yogurt. Magically, as the temperature climbs, I’ll again return to my normal physical age. Mentally, of course, I’ll still be the sophomoric, vulgar blogger more appropriate for someone half my age and without kids. But, mind you, I do the judging around here and not you.
March will free me from my S.O.D. so I can pursue, pain-fee, my Y.A.K. during this YotA! WTF? LOL, that’s a lot of acronyms. Now, it’s time to end this post and push Publish and ascend the stairs, slowly and painfully, like a man in his 60’s. Its times like these that I ask, what would Brimley do? WWBD?
He’d enjoy his morning BM.
And I will too.
Once I get up these blasted stairs. Brimley help me, that’s a long ways to go…Never mind. Too late.
Hon, I need my "accident towel" down here. /shouts up stairs
Happy trails.
*Yes, 2010 with be the year of the acronym! Or YotA, for short.
** kitchen
_________________________________
This Week In Running (TWIR) notes:
5 miles, 6.5 miles, 10.1 miles and 5 miles again all outside, no Yaktrax! But no speed intervals either. So sad.
_________________________________
A few of you inquired if that was really Dick Beardsley that commented on my last post. I have no way of knowing for sure. I'll let you know when I receive the lawsuit as I believe each incidence of slander would be itemized. In the meantime, I'm preparing as I just finished reading Duel in the Sun and I'm currently into Staying The Course: A Runner's Toughest Race. Know thy enemy.
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