What's The Beef?

They say “you are what you eat.” I know what you are thinking and no, I don’t eat pieces of shit. I’ve never eaten “dumbass” either so you can save your derogatory comments. Remember what your mother said: “If you don’t have anything nice to say….put it on the internet for others to read instead.”

I try to eat somewhat healthy. I say ‘somewhat’ because for every grape I place on my tongue an M&M isn’t far behind. My rum is now mixed with Coke Zero instead of the unhealthy stuff, regular Coke. I’ve cut my Little Debbie snack cake consumption by 95% over the years (though my fudge stripe cookie consumption has gone up about 60% as a result).

The truth is that I do eat a lot more fruits and vegetables since I’ve started running. Mrs. Nitmos and I have cut down on the amount of red meat in our diet by substituting for turkey meat wherever we can (without sacrificing too much taste.) The only time we eat fast food is if we are traveling and simply don’t have two hands at our disposal to hold a Jared approved Subway sandwich and the steering wheel at the same time. Immediately after eating fast food….or caffeinated soda…or pizza for that matter, I start feeling a little ill. Maybe it’s because our diet has changed enough where it is rejecting high sodium, high fatty foods. Or maybe we are just getting older? (I have started to notice that the Top 40 charts these days are loaded with singers/groups I’ve never heard of before. What is a "Nicki Minaj"?)

Our greatest beef-turkey transition success story has been to turkey tacos. Yum. In fact, there is only one place on earth where I’ll eat a taco, other than my home, and it’s a little mom-and-pop joint up in my hometown that serves the freshest tacos on the planet. Crispy shells. Fresh, nicely textured meat. Delicious cheese. That’s how tacos are supposed to be done!

And then there’s Taco Bell, which is #2 on my list of least favorite fast food joints (#1 is KFC for reasons I won’t go into here.) Mrs. Nitmos and I simply will not go in this place. I don’t care what this guy says, it’s disgusting. I’ve been on record for over 15 years now stating that taco meat should not be able to be applied to a shell using a butter knife. What exactly is that meat-like paste? And what the hell is a “chalupa”? Ask any person of Mexican heritage if their grandmother ever made chalupas back in the old country and watch their face crinkle into a sarcastic frown.

Which is why I find the current Taco Bell beef lawsuit kerfuffle hilarious. It encapsulates everything I’ve thought about the place: It’s serving a meat paste that’s nowhere near being real meat.

Now, this shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone. The contention is that Taco Bell’s meat only actually contains about 36% beef. The rest is a list of ingredients that together lock arms to form a FrankenTaco. Rise. Riiiisssse. If anyone finds this shocking, I’d be…shocked. You don’t go to a fast food place expecting fresh, real food right? Hell, if a cow even mooed in the general direction of my McDonald’s hamburger, I’d be pretty happy.


At first glance, you think “lawsuit, yeah, some fatty wants to sue for millions over an ingredient listing technicality because their ass is 17 chalupas wide.” Well, apparently, the group doing the suing isn’t asking for ANY money. (They must not be Americans.) They just want the label to correctly identify the “beef” as “taco meat filling”, which it legally is, instead.

But here’s where it gets even funnier: In order to be classified as “taco meat filling”, the USDA requires a minimum of 40% fresh meat. Taco Bell’s “beef” isn’t even riiiisssiing to that level apparently. They still need to add another scoop of cow taint just to get it up to “meat like paste” standards. Mix, stir, zap with lightning, your order is ready.

New campaign: "Ain't it better with less taint?!"

One fast food company famously challenged the others with their “Where’s the beef?” advertising campaign. Turns out, the question we should have been asking them is “What’s the beef?”

Happy trails.

Die Hardish

I like to think of myself as a DIEHARD when it comes to running. I brave the cold, wind, sleet, rain, and rotting, ditch-strewn animal carcasses. I’ve run in sub-zero temperatures. I’ve gone on a suicidal 95 degree 18 miler. I’ve raced an approaching tornado home.* I’ve taken a huge dump next to the local high school football stadium because I had to and, dammit, that’s what a runner does. In short, the weather (or bowels) doesn’t stop me. I’m like a postal worker, I guess, but less angry and without a firearms permit.

I only missed 2-3 scheduled runs all of last year. I thought that was pretty good so, to celebrate, I’ve gone ahead and missed two this January already!

I’ll run in any weather but, you know what, that looks awfully cold out there. While I was drinking my fresh, hot coffee and gazing out at the quiet majesty of a winter’s morn recently, I saw a squirrel pop out of a hole, scamper over to another hole clenching a sharp stick in its teeth, disappear inside, and emerge a few moments later with the skin of another squirrel that he then wrapped around himself and tied underneath the neck before heading home to his hole discarding the bloody stick on the way. If I could read a squirrels thoughts – and who can’t, really – it seemed to be saying ‘Fuck, it’s cold out’ or ‘Who’s the bitch now, Mr. Nutty?!’ I couldn’t tell for sure.

While in the past I’ve definitely been DIEHARD. I would say, so far this year, I’ve been Die Hardish. After bitching and moaning for a half hour, I usually lace up and still go out. One of the two runs I missed was not because I wanted to but because we had other plans that interfered. As usual, once you actually get out in the cold it’s really not so bad. It’s the ‘getting out’ part that’s the hardest.

I always feel like I sprout a few more chest hairs whenever I return from a particularly frozen run. My voice drops an octave. Hell, my testicles droop a little more (that’s good right?)

For the first time in four years, I’m not running a spring marathon so I've had the luxury to take January a bit easish. I have a half marathon in May . I don’t need to kill myself with winter LONGRUNS. I’ve been content with winter longish runs. Maybe that’s wimpish. I’m sure I’ll hear about it from you January DIEHARDs and I don’t really careish.

I’ve capped my long runs in the 7-8 mile range. Sure, that’s not the same as taking a John McClane leap off an exploding rooftop with nothing but a fire hose to keep you alive (t.w.s.s.). It’s more like riding in a fast moving elevator without handrails. It’s not DIEHARD but Die Hardish?

I’m comfortable with that. Just like I’m comfortable with the fact that one of you is going to call me Steel Magnoliasish in the comments.

Happy trails.

*Contents of this post may be slightly exaggerated.

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FYI: My photo editting skills, while not great, are certainly improving, no? The necks almost align in each picture!

I'll Show You Mine; You Show Me Yours

Let’s face it, here in the frigid Midwest this time of year it is hard to come up with blog post topics. Not much exciting going on in the land of the dead. Running is in maintenance mode. The only races around are those that start with “Frozen” or “Snow” or “Igloo” or “Don’t Blame Me You Chose To Live Here”, etc. So I thought I’d go all MTV Cribs on you and show you around my place. Well, specifically, my work space. You know, “where all the magic happens”.

I know you probably thought that my work space is a fantastic giant trampoline in which I repeatedly try to back flip myself onto one of my pet unicorns, based on all of the wonderful, thought-provoking, offbeat topics I’ve provided for you over the years. Close. Instead, as you can see below, it’s a $30 clearance desk from Office Max. The desk has one of those roll out trays for the keyboard that I have to keep jamming back onto the track due to the weight of my apparently humongous wrists pulling it out too far. A roll out tray that cannot sustain the weight of a gaunt runner’s wrist? I see why it was in the clearance section.


You’ll note the requisite Runner’s World calendar. You’ll also note that I’m downstairs in the basement. No trampoline. No unicorns. Just a few spider webs, the clicking of the furnace, me, and a disgruntled llama (not pictured).

What you can’t see is the pile to the left of my desk of chewed fingernails, dried boogers, and lost ambition along with the vapor of Farts Past hovering in the air. The fingernails and boogers are swept up each week with the vacuum. The lost ambition is a bit more clingy.

I have two monitors. Me and my clearance desk are rich that way. You could say that I could multi-task by exploring two of your terrific blog sites at a time. You know, getting more done…reading more posts. You could say that but you’d be wrong. I have much better things to do than put up TWO blogs on a screen at a time. No, the left screen is reserved for my porn* (not pictured). The right screen is where you prattle away about something or other.

You’ll also notice that, behind my larger monitor is an In/Out box (t.w.s.s.) See:


Why do I have an In/Out box when I work from home through a largely paperless company? Basically, it’s a place to put my kids’ pictures when they come bounding down the stairs.

“Dad, look what I made for you.”
“That’s great honey but you can see Daddy’s having his Porn Time. Put it in the Inbox and I’ll review it later.”

It’s been five months. Haven’t gotten to it yet.

And, finally, on my desk you see a coffee cup from a local race. It’s their “prize” for finishing in the top 5 of your age group. It’s a prize in the same way that winning The Bachelor is a prize: You don’t really want to but, since everyone is watching, you feel you have to take it. I have a bunch of these mugs. I’ve donated a few of them to the local homeless shelter. If you walk these streets, you might find a few of Michigan’s capital city’s homeless sleeping on cardboard boxes and drinking their own hobo urine from one of these mugs. It’s the least I could do. Literally. Philanthropy!

Oh, and if I look far over my left shoulder, here’s my lazy dog. She sleeps quietly there six hours a day EXCEPT the moment I call into a teleconference, in which case, she finds something urgent to bark about. Maybe the llama is spitting at her?

She doesn't have a liver condition. She's not really jaundice. My camera battery is failing.

Now that I’ve shown you mine, perhaps you’d like to show me yours? Consider this a gift. You didn’t really know what to post about anyhow, did you? I’ve just given you a topic for free. You’re welcome, internets.

If I see a photo of your blog work space online that I find interesting (based on my own unknown criteria but it wouldn’t hurt to include a midget), perhaps I’ll send you one of those fancy race coffee mugs like you see on my desk. I have others in the kitchen cabinet. Unused. And no, before you ask, hobo piss not included. You’ll have to supply your own.

Now get clicking.

Happy trails.

*“work”

When She Begins

Have you ever been nearly killed by your running music? I’m not talking about getting run over by a car because you were jamming the Black Eyed Peas too loud when you realized ‘Imma Be…CRUSHED BY A CAR!!’ No, I’m talking about your favorite music suddenly becoming animated and actually attacking you.

It happened to me. My all-time favorite running song once jumped off the shelf and attempted to cave in my skull mid-chorus. But that was almost 18 years ago before I was a runner….

(queue flashback wavy lines on your monitor, doo do do doo do do /flashback wavy lines)

In the winter of 1993, I was doing what all college kids were doing: walking around with an air of undeserved superiority, critiquing Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment by mockingly detailing the stooge’s plot holes while vowing to do better myself, wondering how long the University of Michigan basketball’s era of dominance would continue*, and smoking far too many cigarettes. Kurt Cobain was going to be our generations John Lennon unless some crazy nut took a shotgun and blasted him in the head.

Oh, and drinking, can’t forget about that. Not “hydrating” – drinking. Back then, a liver could live forever. Or so we thought. Thanks a lot David Crosby.

A typical afternoon involved completing course work and/or reading in our disgustingly filthy living room, plants hanging above with dead brown leaves pathetically draped over the side because everyone was too lazy to water the damn things, while flicking cigarette ashes into the emptied 40 ounce bottle of Mickey’s Malt Liquor** on the coffee table. When the bottle became half full with butts, it was time to be thrown away. It was thrown away daily.

After an early dinner, a smoky stroll to the corner liquor store set up our evening. Gut wrenchingly bad beer, loud music, and more cigarettes. Annnnd repeat across four years.

There was a lot of music we’d listen to back then but few have stood the test of time and made it onto my current iPod. Hüsker Dü, The Replacements, The Pixies: Great bands but not currently shuffling to the top of my run music. One group still is however. And one song heads the list.

Social Distortion - When She Begins (Official Music Video). Watch more top selected videos about: Social Distortion

Social Distortion, baby!

“When She Begins” is a kick ass song and my favorite running song. Back in college (remember, we are still in flashback mode), my roommate and I had decided that if we were being pursued by the cops in a manic car chase (for some reason, this seemed plausible at the time), one of us would need to locate this disc, pop it in the car stereo, and crank the volume. If we were going down, it would only be to the soundtrack of Mike Ness’ croaky vocals and thumping punk rockabilly beats. No Thelma and Louise “Ballad of Lucy Jordan” for us.

Fortunately, it never came to that. However, we did blast this song on numerous occasions in our living room over horrible beer, lung-destroying Camels, and lots of sardonic laughter. The over-sized 40 inch tall, 80 pound speakers were balanced on a shelf over the armchair with the best view of the entire room. Despite how sure of ourselves that Dostoevsky fucked up Crime and Punishment, no one bothered to measure the shelf depth (8 inches) against the speaker depth (15 inches) let alone give the smoke choking plants a squirt of water for chrissakes.

I remember “When She Begins” thumping away – each thump gently rocking the giant speaker imperceptibly closer to the shelf edge – as I leaned forward to ash my cancer stick into the Mickey’s bottle. Just at that moment, the song launched its attack. It kamikazed off the shelf as Mike Ness yelled “oh, God, this must be hell”, nearly missing my exposed skull by a matter of a second or two. It smashed into the back of the chair and rolled into my back as I looked with wide-eyed astonishment at my roommates. Had I been still sitting back, ole Nitmos here would have had a dented head and possibly a vertebrae or two shifted out of alignment.

I love that song but it tried to kill me.

Of course, I did what any normal college student would do in that situation. I clenched the cigarette in my teeth, grunted the speaker back into position on the shelf, propped the front up with a notebook so it wouldn’t fall forward again, and restarted the song from the beginning. And what was I saying about Dostoevsky being stupid?

(queue flashback wavy lines on your monitor, doo do do doo do do /flashback wavy lines)

Now as a non-smoking, non-Mickey-drinking, non-plant-water-depriving, Dostoevsky lover, when that song comes on, I always run as fast as I can at that moment in my run. We’ve formed a peaceful truce. There are no speakers hanging over head ready to bounce into my neck…though, come to think of it, I’ve almost run into an intersection a few times...Hmmm.

“…if you start me, start me, start me, you can’t stop me, stop me, stop me…”

Do YOU have a favorite “Go To” running song? And has it tried to murder you?

Happy trails.

*Answer: It was already over. You remember the Fab Five, right? Most people don’t realize that only one of the players took cash but all of their reputations were destroyed.
** Three Mickey 40’s for $5 at the local store. None of us had jobs.
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I recommend running to Social D’s “The Story of My Life” too. Also, It hasn’t attacked me. Yet.
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And, yes, I did title another post, that you long time readers may recall, with a twist on a Social Distortion album name. Sue me. It won't be the last time either.

Do You Support Your Local Running Store?

I have one of those little niggling voices in the back of my head that pop up whenever I leave my local running specialty store empty-handed. I browse but usually don’t make a purchase because, as often happens, the specialty store is overpriced compared to other places where I can get the same – or similar - product at a 20-40% cheaper price. The niggling voice sneers, “Nitmos, you should support this store because it sponsors many local races, puts on free events for your kids, and does much to promote the sport you love. If you don’t support it, it will go away as will other things you like you cheap sonofabitch.” I know this to be true because I like boobs, never bought anything at a boob store, and now there are no more boob stores around.

My little niggling voice speaks with the same derisive sarcasm with which I blog. Go figure.

My filly’s soccer team’s parents had bestowed upon me a gift card to this local specialty shop as a gesture of appreciation for volunteering to scream at coach their kids this past fall. They probably felt that I’d get some use out of it. I don’t know what tipped them off that I like to run….perhaps the fact that I wear a race shirt to every practice and game? (Sorry, I have nothing else in my closet except funeral/wedding clothes, neither of which is moisture-wicking.)

After my lunch hour 6 miler yesterday, I headed to the local running shop to hit Day One of their BIG-BLOWOUT, SUPER-EXTRAVAGANZA SEMI-ANNUAL SIDEWALK SALE. It was chaos. Cars parked everywhere. I had to stash my vehicle a ¼ mile away. I might like to run 26 miles but I sure don’t like walking a quarter mile. A half hour later, I heard that same sneering internal voice as I again headed out the door with nothing in hand but my well-ingrained sense of financial responsibility, metaphorically speaking.

I browsed. I elbowed. I price checked. The nice thing about shopping at a running store is that, if things get physically confrontational over a pair of sale-priced compression shorts and a fight breaks out, if you’ve had a hamburger within the last week you’ll probably win the brawl.* Eventually.**

So here I was with a gift card burning a hole in my pocket searching through piles of sale-priced shoes, jackets, shirts, hats, gloves, etc. Things were definitely cheaper than what they normally sell at in this store. But here’s the rub: They were still more expensive than what I could pay for the same item elsewhere. Case in point: My Asics shoes. I need shoes. I would have bought shoes at a SUPER AWESOME, HEAD EXPLODING DEAL price. The tag said they are normally $100 but marked down to $75 for this sale!! Okay….cheaper…but I normally only pay $60 for these same shoes. All they did was reduce the amount of mark-up compared to my ‘go to’ store. They were treating me like an aging prostitute. I was just being screwed less.

Even though I wasn’t even going to have to pay for the shoes thanks to the gift card, I still couldn’t pull the trigger. It felt like wasting a gift card. I didn’t let loose all that rage on impressionable children, twice a week during practice and once on the weekend game, just to get chiseled out of $15!***

I try to buy there when the price difference is within reason. All my Gu comes from their little corner of nutrition. I might buy a pair of shorts…maybe some socks. I run a few of their sponsored races each year. Heck, I even smile and wave when I cross one of their employees on the running trails – something I don’t normally do for the commoners.

So the little niggling voice can shut up.

I support the local running store. I’m with them in spirit. They get first crack at selling me something I need, and I even look at them suggestively when driving by on my way to a cheaper store. In other words, my support ends at a 10% mark-up. Max.

Happy trails.

*Yes, that was a gaunt runner (i.e. “runner chic”) joke.
** Followed by an endurance joke.
***Don’t judge. You know you get your toilet paper from WalMart too.

Preening Glory Seeker Blows Marathon

Despite what you think based on the title, this post isn’t about me. And for my new Eastern European audience that will spike my page hits due to the misleading title, I will break the news right up front: There is no porn within. You are welcome to stay if you want. Hell, go ahead and do a site search on “fruit” and “anus” or “Hello Kitty” and “nipples” and see what you come up with.

While it’s true that I haven’t yet found a mirror that didn’t have an extraordinarily rugged and handsome man staring back at me (wink wink love ya’ Mirror Me), I can say that I never lost a race to satisfy my vainglorious tendencies.*

This guy did.

Oh, Terada! I know you just pulled into first with a bold late race surge. You looked unbeatable! While it’s true that maybe you couldn’t determine where the finish line was because the big white banner didn’t say “FINISH ” but, instead, had a collection of hieroglyphics more appropriate for an Indiana Jones movie. (It doesn’t take that many symbols to say ‘Finish’ does it?) Why, oh why, did you follow the camera truck? The overly verbose white banner, frantically waving cops, and screaming throngs of spectators still weren’t enough to convince you to give up the front row directly behind the TV film crew?

After Terada takes a wrong turn and realizes there is no more Face Time to be had with the slowing camera truck, he quickly corrects course and heads to the finish where, no doubt, he expects to find more cameras. Notice the second place runner in green laughing hysterically at the poor fellow all the way across the finish line.



After finishing, Terada’s support crew quickly wraps him in a towel, smiles playfully for the camera, and proceeds to drag him away to a van where he’ll be beaten within an inch of his life.

The 4th place runner collapses to the ground in humiliation when he realizes that he just got beat by “Right Turn” Terada in the final 200 feet. I’ve seen Shōgun. I know what happens next.

And what is the deal with those guys in the white lab coats standing in the middle of the street where Terada took his wrong turn? Odd place to collect bio samples, fellas. Maybe Terada has a little something to hide? Maybe the support crew hustling him away was not so much of a kidnapping but more of a DNA getaway?

I felt bad for the guy until I realized that this wasn’t a full marathon. He was part of a relay. Who thinks his fellow relayers may want to have a word? I think there’s an opening on the Kokugakuin University relay team anchor leg if someone is interested.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who has an impeccable sense of direction and timing?”

Not you Terada.

Happy trails.

*Oh sure, I’ve missed the start of many races because I just couldn’t pull myself away from Mirror Me. And, okay, so it’s also true that I’ve never been in a position to win a race either. But I’m betting that you don’t read footnotes.
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I want to thank Eat, Run, Have Fun! blogspot for bestowing something called the “Stylish Blogger Award” on this little site right here. I'm the only one on the entire internet that got this right? I’m not sure Feet Meet Street and “style” belong together but whatev. Thanks!

Suburban Freak-Out

Even though the holidays are well past now, the stress of it all still has its evil, bony fingers wrapped around my chest cavity. Things came to a head today like a 14 year old’s chin pimple.

Besides the normal hustle and bustle of the shopping season, the sticker shock of Christmas expenditures, and the simple fact that the kids are home from school ALL DAY, EVERY DAY for TWO WEEKS arguing, fondling my remote control and leaving small piles of snack residue on every table top space available (all occurring with a Hannah Montana soundtrack behind it), everything - and I mean EVERYTHING – in my house has needed repair.

A brief list:
- The cable went out.
- The local phone service became loaded with static.
- Laptops needed to be set up.
- Laptops needed to network to printer.
- Netbooks needed fancy reconfiguring to play kid games due to screen size/resolution.
- Loft beds needed assembling. Instructions inadequate.
- Dressers needed assembling. Instructions inadequate.
- The stove doesn’t work correctly.
- The garage door froze shut.
- The modem failed.
- The kitchen faucet seal is leaking.
- The light pull cord for the basement laundry room snapped off the chain.
- My son’s desk chair screw is stripped.

The list goes on and on and on. I blacked out at one point and couldn’t recall what exactly I was repairing anymore. When I came to, I had a tire iron and was whacking the side of the washing machine. One or more of these things would happen every single day during winter break. They’d go off like a timed bomb set to the exact moment I would sit down to watch Cougar Town football. I’m no Mr. Handyman. In fact, “fixing things” is right up there on my list of least favorite activities right next to “watching another Godforsaken Twilight movie”. But I’d lug out the toolbox and hammer or screw or drill as necessary before finally freaking out, yelling obscenities, and smacking the broken object repeatedly with a wrench until it started working again. It really is amazing how often that actually works.

The kids are back in school but things haven’t stopped breaking. On my way to drop my filly off at school the other morning, the car door latch was frozen open so the door wouldn’t latch the door shut. I toyed with the idea of having her hold the door closed and driving anyways but the judge’s “one more chance, Mr. Nitmos” warning kept ringing in my head. Better not. Fortunately, we live ½ mile from school so we walked/ran up the road to make it. The latch unfroze later that day.

This morning, I felt the cold, deathly fingers pump again constricting my heart and causing temporary shortness of breath as I turned on my windshield wipers – and ripped half the rubber off one arm that had become frozen to the window.

FUCK.

I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth and tried to look calm and pleasant as my filly, backpack attached, looked at me through the windshield on her way to the car. No sense upsetting the kid even if I did feel like ripping the wiper arm off the car, dousing it with gasoline and burning it in effigy on my driveway.

There was a brief moment in which I considered pointing her to the OTHER door so that we wouldn’t have the whole 'latch fiasco' again this morning. But it wasn’t as cold as the other day and the problem never recurred after that so, what could be the problem right?

“Dad, my door won’t shut.”

"FUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!" I screamed.

Three weeks up pent up stress come out in one basketball sized profanity-laced explosion that bounced around the car, through my filly's ears, and out the partially opened, unlatched back door. SWISS! I freaked out. I super-freaked out. Rick James has nothing on me. I jumped out of my seat, grabbed the outside of the door, and slammed it repeatedly harder and HARDER and HARDER until I thought I’d cave in the side of the car. I’m pretty sure it went up on two wheels at one point. A steady stream of cars with school bound children was parading by my home as this wild man hurled this metal door against the car repeatedly with a crazed look.

You know what? The door finally latched. We drove to school without further incident. I went on with my morning in my nice quiet house with a warm cup of coffee. I’m relieved. I do not feel the hand of death squeezing my lungs. Now, as it is my nature, I’m attempting to reconcile how I can use that explosive anger to decrease my race times. There’s a lesson there somewhere. How can I harness that primal anger? Perhaps a nice freak out every now and then is good for the soul. It's cleansing.

Meanwhile, I’m quite sure my filly will have a few choice words to say today when the orange glue tip doesn’t uncork in art class. She’s an impressionable gal.

I await your call Mr. Principal. Meanwhile, why won’t the garage door go down…..??

Happy trails.

The Candy Cane Denouement

Yesterday I ended my self-imposed year-end hiatus from health.

It’s a new year. The holidays are over. Cue the sad trombone. It was time to hang up deadly sins sloth and gluttony and replace them with the more comfortable fitting pride and anger (with a little lust thrown in for good measure – brace yourself Mrs. Nitmos). I wear these well the whole year. My garage is loaded with wine bottles, beer bottles, rum bottles, empty packets of sugar cookies, and the rudimentary beginning of a small – admittedly rustic – meth lab that I never got around to finishing. C’est la vie. Now anger will have to kick around out in the 25 degree temperature for a half hour to get all the seasonal gluttony into a half dozen trash bags.

It’s about time anyhow. I’ve gained 5 pounds. My normal POW level gauntness (or “runner chic”) has given way to a more rounded – some say “healthier” – fuller cheeked pudginess that makes grandmothers swoon with pinching fingers at the ready during strolls through the local mall. I knew I was in trouble when I tried to snort the buttons off the gingerbread man’s belly. I won’t say what I did with the frosted snowman cookies but, suffice to say, it was…unnatural. And I don’t recommend sleeping naked on a pile of Christmas goodies as I did at the height of my gluttonous sloth. (Candy canes should most definitely not go there.)

I did what any runner does to break out of an unhealthy shame/candy cane anal probing cycle: I went for a run. That’s not to say that I didn’t run at all over the last few weeks. I got a steady stream of 5 milers in…just long enough to provide cover for the orgy of sugar and booze that would follow. But this run felt different. This run was the start of the new year…getting back to normal…reversing the downward trend…retracting broken chunks of the hooked peppermint striped curve of a shattered cane, metaphorically speaking. In other words, this was the beginning of something rather than the end.

I don’t know what 2011 has in store for me but I look forward to the ride. Maybe a new half marathon PR? Finally break 18 minutes in the 5k? (That would be really nice.) Perhaps a new marathon PR including the requisite BQ that I’ll opt not to cash in again? Who knows? Whatever happens, I’d like to make running less of a job this year. I’d like to be less this guy:

And more this guy:

What has two thumbs but no hands on the steering wheel?

2010 may have ended with a peppermint stick prison rape but, in 2011, I hold the shank.

It’s a new year…and a new me. My training log is empty but anxious. My race calendar is filling up. Feet Meet Street will (eventually) have a new look, a new vibe, and a new tone. Well, except for the pride, anger, lust, juvenile tomfoolery and random candy canaling. That’ll pretty much be business as usual.

Happy trails.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving The Whole Year

You know the story…it’s Christmas Vacation month here at F.M.S! The final installment:

Cousin Eddie: Clark, that’s the gift that keeps on giving the whole year.
Clark: That it is Edward, that it is.

I hope your Christmas went swell. Mine didn’t involve nearly enough rum though I believe I made up for it by mainlining the box ‘o wine…for three days.* I would like to drift off into an alcohol induced haze somewhere around December 23rd only to wake up on the 27th underneath a pile of bills and my kids shaking products under my nose that require assembly. If only.

Is your Christmas day like mine? Are you forcibly awoken by a bedroom light, which at some point during the night was replaced with a police quality spotlight, beamed on at 6 am by on over eager 9 year old? Are you pulled downstairs to a gift scattered living room and morning calisthenics in the form of gift hurdling and pole vault (hiding)**? Do you weep silently underneath a pained smile as you watch all of these overpriced and unnecessary items unwrapped before your blurry, hung over eyes? Do you “accidentally” kick the dog on the way into the kitchen for more coffee because “someone’s going to be in as much pain as I am goddammit”?

Christmas Day! Welcome to hell. My day usually unfolds as follows:

- 6am: Wake up.
- 6:10: Unwrap presents.
- 7:00: Kick dog
- 7:05: Add a little something to the coffee to dull the edges and restore some holiday spirit.
- 7:10: Start assembling the first gift handed to me by one of my kids.
- 7:12: The first profanity of Christmas screamed over a stripped screw!
- 7:20: Search for batteries.
- 7:30: Second gift handed to me due to “some assembly required”.
- 7:31: Deep breath and another trip into the kitchen for daddy’s “special” coffee.
- 7:35: “Motherf*ckin’ screw won’t line up with the mother*ckin’ hole!”
- 7:37: The search for a 9 volt battery begins. Who uses 9 volts anymore?
- 7:40: The dog hides behind a chair.
- 7:45: I try to fake sleep on a chair but am woken up by another product being jabbed into my ribs that…requires assembly. It’s a big one too.
- 7:50: Screw the coffee. Bring Dad the Jack Daniels bottle. Quickly.
- 7:55: Assembly is not going well. Prison language. I’ve already threatened to “find out where the idiots who wrote these instructions live so I can jam this thing right up their asses.” It’s a Nitmos family tradition.
- 8:10: Fingers cut and bleeding from screw drivers and jagged, plastic toys.
- 8:13: “Where’s the goddamn batteries?”
- 8:20: “Look kids, no hands.” I pick up the Jack Daniels with my jaw and toss it straight up, drinking in big gulps while I clap my hands maniacally and then belch the bottle out on to the floor with whiskey pouring down my chin.
- 8:21: I fall back in the chair. Black out.
- 11:30: Shaken awake. My filly pushes a box that needs assembly into my booze soaked gut. I stare at it groggily looking for the entrance to hell.
- Repeat for the next several hours.

Okay, so maybe I exaggerate but the day seems to proceed somewhere along those lines. Once you become a parent – specifically, a father – Christmas Day becomes about three magical little words: Some Assembly Required. S.A.R. = code for The Gateway to Torment Lies Within. If you’re smart, you’ll learn to avoid these words at all costs.

But I do find time for happier thoughts as well. Sometime between Christmas and New Year’s, I like to take the sore-ribbed dog on an exceptionally long walk so that I can escapereflect on the Year That Was. The last two weeks of every year for me are all about sloth and gluttony. And more sloth, more gluttony…and frosted, sprinkled Christmas cookies. Sometimes I combine the sloth and gluttony by napping on a pile of Christmas cookies. I applaud those of you doing Christmas Ass Buster challenges and other various ‘stay fit’ tricks. Nah, not for me. I try to stay in shape for 50 weeks out of the year. These last two weeks are all mine, baby. If it contains sugar or >5% alcohol, it goes down my gullet. No apologies. No questions asked. No guilt.

During the walk, I reflect on my yearly goals and what is in store for the New Year to come. I think about my physical fitness and how running helps me achieve those goals. I like jelly too but it doesn’t make a nice monthly gift despite what Cousin Eddie says. I’ll stick with my training plans and Gu diet.

Running is the gift that keeps on giving the whole year…starting January 2nd. Until then, hand me the rum, the remote, and a tub of frosting. That's the gift that keeps on giving during the holiday season.

That it is Nitmos, that it is.

Happy trails.

*Mt. Veeder Cabernet was this year’s selection.
**I’m still wearing my boxers which doesn’t go well with morning Mr. Peek-A-Boo. I don’t have a “pole” in the sense that you think I meant.
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I don’t buy race photos anymore. I have enough pictures of me with a pained, grimacing face drenched in sweat. So, it was hard to find a photo to select as my official Race Photo for 2010. Here’s a picture before my half marathon PR from September. As usual, Mrs. Nitmos isn’t in the picture as she’s the one holding the camera. One of these times, we’ll ask someone else to take the photo.

HAVE A SAFE AND HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

Merry Christmas! Shitter Was Full!

You know the story…it’s Christmas Vacation month here at F.M.S!

Ellen: What are you looking at?
Clark: Oh, the silent majesty of a winter's morn... the clean, cool chill of the holiday air... and an asshole in his bathrobe, emptying a chemical toilet into my sewer...
Eddie: Shitter was full!
Clark: Ah, yeah. You checked our shitters, honey?


How could the final pre-Christmas quote be anything other than this?? It’d be criminal!

As this month has shown, there are many things to be learned from Christmas Vacation right down to this foul-mouthed one liner. No, it’s not that Randy Quaid really is crazy. Well, not just that anyhow.

Santa?

This is a deep and meaningful piece of the C.V. masterpiece. In this scene, Cousin Eddie symbolizes the Everyman…the regular, non-elite struggling in quiet desperation against his own PR goals. Not all of his yearly goals were met. I doubt he drank all of the Meister Brau he had planned. He’s collected a year’s worth of successes and failures (and parole violations) that need to be emptied in order to start fresh next year. In short, his shitter was full. As Lance Armstrong said, ‘it’s not about the poop’ (or something like that). It’s a metaphor for how we carry around the weight of a bad training experience, an injury or a poor race performance. Heck, some of us even carry around low expectations of our own abilities. We internalize and walk around with this baggage until it bogs us down until we can’t move…like if our heads have been sewn to the carpet.

Our shitters are full this time of year. You don’t want to carry that into the New Year so that it keeps hanging around like an unidentified lip fungus.

Grab some Meister Brau, open the spicket, and let a year’s worth of shit drain away. New race schedules will be written! New training plans executed! New PR’s to set…and yes, new disappointments to refill the shitter along the way.

While you’re hanging your stockings, drinking heavily, wrapping presents, drinking heavily and…drinking heavily, don’t forget Cousin Eddie’s sage advice:

EMPTY YOUR SHITTER

Like changing the smoke alarm batteries during Daylight Savings Time, Christmas is that time to check the shitters and reset mentally in preparation for a great 2011. If you learn one thing from the many wondrous, thought-provoking discussions we’ve had here at Feet Meet Street this year I hope it is this comment about shit. At the very least, I hope I brought a little profanity to your blog reading this fine winter day.

Merry Christmas To You and the Family!

Happy trails.

P.S. I’ll be back between Christmas and New Year’s for a final C.V. themed post. Stay tuned.

'Tis The Season To Be Merry

You know the story…it’s Christmas Vacation month here at F.M.S!

Clark: 'Tis the season to be merry.
Mary: That's my name.
Clark: No shit.

It’s pretty amazing that I’ve made it nearly 13 years as a father without (a) the kids being taken to foster care or (b) me being led away with handcuffs over my strict “clean something for food” policy. I’m not saying I’m a bad husband and father, I’m just saying that Mrs. Nitmos and the kids get more sympathy than a partially squashed puppy gasping for air by the side of the road. Despite my best efforts, like flowers growing through a gravel pit, the kids have found a way to thrive anyhow.

But there are still those “some times” when I know a little bit of me has passed along in the genes.

Case in point: My 9 year old filly has the Christmas Crazies right now. And she has a lot of questions. Like any good Dad, I don’t actually answer questions. I remain vague and, if pressed, provide needlessly detailed circular logic that makes her so confused she’s afraid to ask a follow-up. One of the great joys of parenthood is pretending to know it all without actually doing or saying anything of value. You’ve read this blog…you know I’m good at that.

We are hurtling down highway 127 Sunday on our way home from the grandparents with a back end loaded with dirty clothes, a dog, and various dolls and Nerf guns. The radio is rocking holiday favorites by Trans-Siberian Orchestra, The Jackson Five, and Taylor Swift. I’m driving and wondering why I’m listening to a station that plays those songs. Clearly I’ve lost control.

In the middle of “White Christmas”, my daughter asks what Jesus’ last name is. (Ok, so right away you know we are not regular church goers. Don’t judge.) We provide the answer and breakdown the word Christmas for her.

She seems satisfied and looks out the window for a minute. Then, she speaks back up, “So what is God’s last name? Is it Damn?”

I smile proudly. My heart grew three sizes that day. God Bless Us One and All!

This 'tude knocked in 24 goals in 19 competitive league soccer games this fall!

Happy trails.
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I see Ian wandered out of the desert (or dessert?) and tore open the shutters and threw up the sash of Half-Fast. And then changed his blog subtitle to include a poop joke. Stay classy! His comeback announcement came complete with references to LL Cool J and Culture Club. I suppose that foretells some upcoming posts about the new fitness fads he discovered called the “hula’ed hoop” and a “flying disc”. Stay current!

Still, this is my second favorite “comeback” of the year. Right behind the Backstreet Boys.

Eat My Road Grit Liver Lips!

You know the story…it’s Christmas Vacation month here at F.M.S!

Clark: Let’s burn some dust here, eat my rubber!
Rusty: Dad, I think what you mean is “burn rubber” and “eat my dust”.
Clark: Whatever Russ, whatever. Eat my road grit Liver Lips!

A Case for Pre-Race Hotdogging

I love taunting a defeated opponent. I think it’s what separates us from the animals. A tiger just makes his kill and then settles in to eat. No prancing. No fingering miming of a pistol shoot-out at the corpse. No head bobbing moonwalk followed by a 180 turn into the splits, finger extended with the universal #1 sign. No wearing the antelope skin around like a robe. Nothing. A big sack of boring. That’s what makes us superior to animals. The day a tiger starts posing for sexy photos on his human skin rug is the day I’ll realize things have changed.

As a non-elite runner, I don’t have many chances to taunt defeated opponents. There’s way too many people that have already finished the race for it to look cool as I trot in backwards across the finish while cupping my hands to my mouth and shouting “C’mon, you can do it…keep on trying. Your effort is very cute.” I mean, I do that but it doesn’t look very cool what with the 100 or so runners already pulling on their sweat suits on the other side of the timing mats. No, it’s much better to get your cocky swagger on before you get to the finish.

Early hotdogger avoids the embarrassment, I always say.

Now some of you may be thinking that if you can’t back it up, why be so arrogant? Some of these runners are fast. Like tiger fast. And, yes, there’s a few elderly and/or sick antelope in the herd too but you can’t always tell which ones (though the fellas holding a CD walkman flat so that the disc won’t skip might be a give away).

It’s during warm-up and the slow corralling of runners before the race begins in which I’m at my cockiest. I strut around like a steroid fueled wrestler launching a verbal assault on the stretching racers:

“What do we have here? The JV? Where’s the varsity meet?”
“I’m still drunk from last night. Someone will need to get my first place trophy for me.”
“The real marathon follows this marathon right? Ok, let’s get the warm-up started.”
“I see one hungry lion and a bunch of antelope with moderate to severe hip dysplasia. ROAR!!”
“It smells like shit A LOT around here. Is this an outhouse convention and you are all the turds?”
“You can’t spell SUCKS without U!”

At this point, the runners probably think I’m all bluster and swagger but they probably don’t know for sure. I count on that. I mean, there is still the chance that I could be the guy who wins right? Usually no one responds before the race begins.

When the gun sounds, I take off fast just to deepen that seed of doubt. I might throw out a few “let’s burn some dust” or “eat my rubber” just to keep them off balance. Of course, eventually many, many folks pass me. Sometimes I get those smart-asses who pass me by with a “not talking tough now are you” comment as I grimace back at them in full mid-race limp and croak “someone get a doctor - I snapped my hamstring.”

Mostly, the runners pass me unnoticed as they’re too busy worrying about themselves and their own effort. I also count on that. By the time we reach the finish and the runners are collecting their medals or congratulating each other or reuniting with friends and family, I can high-step backward trot - on my miraculously healed hamstring - across the finish for one final hotdog to the few I might have beaten.

While the “winners” get their awards and everyone cheers, I quietly slink away. I’m a starting line champ…others can have the finish.

Occasionally, I may be spotted heading out to the parking lot and another smart-ass may sneer “that lion sure looks like an antelope to me.”

I just smile, “Whatever man, whatever.” And then mutter under my breath "Liver lips."

Happy trails.
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For more hot Lion-Hunting-Antelope action, check out one of my favorite race recaps. It has blood!
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I want to thank those that commented on my previous post for offering their opinion on my opinion about a controversial subject. All comments were welcome but I particularly enjoyed Thomas’ international take:

“As someone who has been self-coached for the last 6 years and recently got the offer of free coaching help, I can assure you that this post is full of shit. *Ever helpful* Love, Thomas”

I know Thomas is Irish so I had a difficult time interpreting due to the language barrier. I believe, if I’ve correctly translated, he was deploying an old Irish proverb that loosely translates to:

“Nitmos, once again you’ve hit the nail on the head! How did you get so smart? When will you be in Ireland so we can throw a party in your honor?”

I blush.

So Do Washing Machines

You know the story…it’s Christmas Vacation month here at F.M.S!

Frances: Talk about pissing your money away. I hope you kids see what a silly waste of resources this was.
Audrey Griswold: He worked really hard, Grandma.
Art: So do washing machines.


There is nothing more deflating than putting in the time and effort of training for the big race only to come up short of your goal on the race day. If you run and race long enough, you’ll experience both the thrill of PR’s and the disappointment of poor race performances. It’s part of being a self-taught, coach-less athlete. Races are mirrors that reflect back your preparation, strategy, and training. You may not like what you see but - and this is the important part - YOU own it.

When you plan smart, train hard, and execute on race day, there is no one to thank (besides your spouse and support crew – do NOT forget that) but yourself. You did the research. You put together the plan. You did the training. Finally, you ran the race. To me, this is the ultimate thrill. It’s me against the watch. Man vs. Machine. Or Man vs. Self? Someone call a philosopher.

If you’ve visited this corner of the internets before, you are familiar with my anti-coach diatribes for the amateur athlete. The number one reason I promote self-coaching is because of the feeling I get when I cross the finish line. When I look at that clock and realize that I just blew the doors off a PR, I’m overwhelmed with pride, happiness, and a deep feeling of accomplishment. My plan worked. I did this. Likewise, if the race doesn’t go to plan, who’s to blame? Well, the kids for one. And maybe that guy over there. And the snow and rain. And who measured this course? But deep inside, I know it’s all me. Something didn’t work with my training and preparation. There’s no one with which to transfer my success or blame. If I don’t like the post-race reflection, I need to analyze the image presented to find the flaws.

I think you earn a deeper, more meaningful appreciation of your self and the sport when you coach yourself. Now, I have nothing against those wanting to take the short cut by hiring a coach. That’s fine. Everyone chooses their own path. Certainly, competitive, semi-pro or pro runners would be expected to have a professional coach. But for the weekend warrior runner – the equivalent of the pick-up hoops guy or softball guy – why would you bypass the true joy found in the sport of running? I’ve learned more about myself through the trial-and-error process of preparing for races than I have through any other activity. It’s not about the miles; it’s about the journey of finding your own way.

Sure, like an old washing machine, I might clunk around for awhile working out the kinks in a training plan. I consult books, magazines, blogs, and fellow runners for tips. There’s a wealth of free information available to you at your fingertips. I follow the simple maxim “Listen to everyone; follow no one.” Sometimes I open the washing machine lid and the clothes are still full of soap. Sometimes the colors stained. And sometimes I left gum in my pocket.

It’s not enough to train hard. You must also train smart. Make adjustments. Check the mirror. Listen to your Inner Art but don’t let him have the last word. If you’ve hired a coach for some reason, listen to your Outer Art, in that case. But, please, don’t let the Outer Art rob you of your personal journey to your running goal.

Because sometimes the clothes come out of the old washing machine crisp and clean and perfect. And the only person to congratulate is the one staring at you in the mirror. That’s when you feel a deeper level of satisfaction!

Happy trails.
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Sorry for the mixed metaphors of washing machines and mirrors. I couldn’t decide which so I said ‘why not go with both? They’ll never notice.’ And you didn't, did you?!

The Little Lights Aren't Twinkling

I’ve decided to devote the remaining post titles in December to one of my favorite dysfunctional holiday movies of all time: Christmas Vacation. It’s the third in a 4 part odyssey of the Griswold family. The first one, Vacation, was okay. The second one, European Vacation, was a disappointment. And the final one, Vegas Vacation, was an abomination. But tucked in the middle of this supremely forgettable series was a little gem of a Christmas movie. It’d be like if Harold and Kumar made Harold and Kumar Go To The Hurt Locker right in the middle of their other two crappy films.

Of course, one of the main reasons I like it is because it’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. And I’m pretty sure you’re ridiculous too.* Besides, like The Godfather, there are life lessons abound sprinkled through-out the film. You learn how to fix a newel post, how to quickly replace a damaged Christmas tree, and the dangers of a plastic plate – instead of a metal one - in your head.

Mrs. Nitmos and I (and now the kids) quote from it all year ‘round. If I start complaining about some minor detail of something or other – which I often do – either the kids or Mrs. Nitmos are apt to say “the little lights aren’t twinkling”** which is our code for reminding me that everything is okay and stop focusing on the one little hair out of place.

This is a good lesson to apply to running as well. I often come home from my track 800 intervals annoyed because one of the six 800’s fell outside of my goal range. And by “outside” I mean by no more than 1-2 seconds. Never mind that I exceeded my goal on several of the other intervals…and that my overall pace was right on target…and that I looked extremely handsome accomplishing all this. The one damn 800 ruined the whole bunch (except the handsome part).

The little lights aren’t twinkling.

I’ve done the same in marathons. Twenty-five miles went pretty much to expectation but CURSE THAT WALKING BREAK IN MILE 23. ARGGGHHH!!!

The little lights aren’t twinkling.

I’ve seen it around on various blogs as well. It was my first marathon…I came up 5 minutes short of my goal. –or- I set a PR in the 15k but my bloody nipple ruined my favorite white shirt. – or- Angelina Jolie is pretty but she smells of orphan.***

The little lights aren’t twinkling.

This holiday season, let’s all take advice from the modern philosopher’s known as the Griswolds.

Forget about the 2 seconds you missed for your 800 interval. Never mind the rose blossom on your PR soaked shirt. So what if Angelina smells of orphan – they make perfume. And who cares if Cousin Eddie is bat shit crazy in real life? Look at the big picture.

The next time you notice some minor detail is out of place, one little mile of a training run is out of whack compared to an otherwise perfectly paced run, heck, even one whole run stunk amongst a training log of good ones, don’t let your Inner Art get you down.

Art: The little lights aren’t twinkling.
Clark: I know Art. And thanks for noticing.

Happy trails.

* Otherwise why would you continue to return here?
** After an exasperated Clark finally lights the outdoor Christmas lights, Clark’s father-in-law Art points out to him that some of the little lights aren’t twinkling as they should while ignoring the grandeur of the illuminated home.
*** I don’t just read running blogs you know.
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I’m sorry but there simply was not enough of a creative response about what kind of abuse you would like to heap onto a treadmill in the last post. Your punishment? No post about bears and farting. Hey, you called out the bull, take the horns…

Dead Mill

Several readers recently pointed out that my posts lately seem soaked in testosterone and burped onto the blog with a chest thumping primal growl. Let’s review….I see arm wrestling, beards, erect nipples, ninjas, and Stallone all in the last three posts. I don’t know what you are talking about. I never mentioned bears or farts once.

But I’m all about appeasement here so I’ll fore go today’s planned post about ‘things you can power drill after drinking a six pack’ and instead go with a topic near and dear to all of our hearts: treadmills.

You’ve all heard the nicknames: dreadmills, rubber band of doom, treadkills, etc. You name it…there’s a million derogatory nicknames out there for them. No one likes them but sometimes they are our only choice when you need to get a run in. It’s kinda like George Lopez on Lopez Tonight. You might want to see his guest but you really don’t want to watch George Lopez – who does? – so you weigh the pros and cons of guest vs. host on the scale of tolerance. ‘I really want to see Carrot Top so I guess I’ll deal with George Lopez.’ This is the same as thinking: ‘I really want to run so I guess I’ll deal with the treadmill.’

I try to keep my yearly tally of treadmill activity countable on one hand. Anything 5 miles and under can be done outside no matter the weather conditions. If I’m going to be out in a thunderstorm or blizzard for more than 45 minutes, well, I’ll consider the mill (if I can’t just postpone a day and go outside the next after the inclement weather passes). Last winter, I actually completed a 15 miler and two 18 milers on the mill. True story. It’s not so hard once you convince yourself that suicide is your only other option. And by mile 10 on a treadmill, to be honest, suicide starts becoming more attractive. Sisyphus? What a wimp. At least by pushing that boulder, he had a goal…a destination.

I haven’t been on the mill since last January but I know my millless days streak is numbered. The 20 degree days and harsh blowing winds are causing my Christmas lights to rattle ominously against my siding as I type. That could be me out there! That could be my teeth chattering. That could be my nuts internalizing. Hell, that will be me out there in a few short hours. I’ll be freezing my nuts off and my nuts are more of the lover-type than a fighter.

There are two truths I know to be, er, true. (1) Running is fun. (2) Treadmills should be tossed in the ocean.

Imagine my surprise when someone decided to sponsor this blog by expressing these two truths. Look, here’s photo evidence (and link on the sidebar):


The site of a drowned treadmill warms my Dimple Twins. That’s exactly where a treadmill should be – under water. Treadmill abuse, so far at least, goes unregulated. What do you call a thousand treadmills under water? A good start.

To be fair, the treadmills in the above photo are designed to be used under water and come in handy for rehab activities as well as low-impact cardiovascular training. I’m sure there’s a lot of merit to their use in this manner.

For me, it’s merely treadmill porn. I look at that picture and think “that’s great but can’t we push it deeper under water?” with an evil cackle. Maybe I’m the John Wayne Gacy of treadmills? I’m not saying treadmills should suffer but could we at least rip some of the wiring apart and slice up the mill itself a bit before submerging it. Let a fella have a little fun first, right?!

Of course, on the few occasions when I need one, I hope the gym will have a newly oiled and dry one ready for my use. Afterwards, they can chuck it in the pool for all I care.

Happy trails.
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What would YOU like to see done to a treadmill?

If I think someone has really thought outside of the box and come up with something really clever, maybe I will post about bears and farting. It's in your hands, people.
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See? This post was less man-driven. I only referenced a six pack of beer, my nuts, and a serial killer.
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What? No one going to congratulate me on reaching 400 posts with my last posting? If you aren’t keeping track…who is? Selfish.

Where Did Arm Wrestling Go?

This is another in my landmark nostalgic series about things we have lost in this country over time. The U.S. of A. may have forgotten them but good ole Nitmos hasn’t. See also: Devil’s Night.

I love confrontation. I love competition. I love alcohol-fueled barroom bravado by testosterone pumped muscle heads. These things make me the perfect target audience for the great lost sport: Arm wrestling.

2 arms + 1 tabletop + 1 macho dispute = 1 terrific arm wrestling match.

Fuck calculus. That right there is the world’s greatest equation.

Stallone made a whole movie about arm wrestling! Look at the poster. Is there anything that says “America: Fuck Yeah!” more than that?!



I see a strong man (never mind the awkward arm snuggie)! I see an 18 wheeler! I see lots of rigid, masculine, angular font! And is that a hawk? Damn right it is! Stallone’s character is named ‘Lincoln Hawk’. I guess Eagle Washington was too ‘over the top’. (So, it’s missing a fifth of Jack Daniels and a bikini-clad chick. You can’t have everything.)

OK, so Over The Top was a shallow, plotless rip off of the everyman-overcomes-odds-to-win crowd-pleaser Stallone made famous in the Rocky series. But here’s something it had that Rocky didn’t have: Arm wrestling. (Really? I had to tell you this?)

1 movie + arm wrestling + semi trucks + 1 Stallone = The Best Arm Wrestling move of 1987!

Fuck Pythagoras and his theorem. That right there is the world’s second greatest equation.

There’s something to be said for settling disputes concisely and instantaneously man-a-mano style. If someone cuts you off while driving, you flip them off then motion to the side of the road. Hop out, arm wrestle, go about your day. * Your work colleague tells the boss that the project failed due to your incessant lifting of hand weights. You confront him, find a table, and get to the bottom of things.

Really, it’s the perfect solution to almost all of life’s troubles. Ask yourself: What couldn’t I solve with a simple arm wrestling match? It’s why I recommend this solution to all my friends and family and you should too. The only thing required is a tabletop and they’re readily available. You supply the arms and dispute.

I mean, look how much fun these guys are having settling their issue. You wouldn’t know it…but the guy on the right with the awesome beard killed the other guy’s dog for fun. In a few short seconds, it’ll all be behind them.

Whenever an issue comes up with Mrs. Nitmos, we settle it the old fashioned way: by drinking a lot of whiskey and then arm wrestling, just like our forefathers. Sometimes we even turn it into leg wrestling. But I don’t recommend leg wrestling with strangers. It gets…weird.

I hope you’ll do your part to bring arm wrestling back to the fore of America’s – heck, the WORLD’S – collective consciousness. If not, I’ll be sitting at a local bar drinking whiskey, with an empty chair, and waiting for you behind my perfectly level tabletop. Bring the arm. Call for directions.

Happy trails.

*I realize this would require a bunch of tables to be erected at intersections all across America. Doesn’t this partially solve the jobless problem in this country? Well worth it.
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I’ve made my first 2011 selection. It’s a spring lady. The 2011 Bayshore Half Marathon goes on the board. Bayshore is a familiar race for me you long time F.M.S.ers will notice. This will complete my Bayshore races medal collection and, if all goes as it should, qualify me for auto-entry into NY 2012.

Full Nipple Erectus

I don’t know why I live in Michigan. I don’t like the cold. I hate winter. “Rust” is not my favorite color. The Lions stink (see: Thanksgiving, any year). I drive cars, sure, but I could care less what manufacturer’s logo is emblazoned on it. I don’t wear mittens; I’m a glove man. And, though I respect the rich history of Motown Records, I never listened to its artists. I don’t hunt (for anything but the elusive spotted PR - which can be found in any state). And did I mention there is a historically bad economy going on here?

In short, Michigan blows like Kid Rock’s next attempt at country music.

I’ve done my fair share of complaining about the weather. It’s a time-honored Michigan tradition…especially this time of year. I use the 30 seconds that I step outside to put my Garmin on the front porch to acquire a satellite signal to determine what I should wear on the impending run. You just never know at any time what it’s going to be like.

Full nipple erectus probably means two shirts and wind pants. Partial nipple erectus means a long sleeve shirt, hat, gloves but with shorts. An unexpectedly warm breeze and sun probably means it’ll turn cloudy with strong frozen blasts of wind sometime around mile two. Mother Nature likes to tease.

This is the time of year when I expect a 10-15 second drop in pace for every run. Between the long pants and the crippling asthmatic wheeze brought on by the 30 degree (or below) weather, the first casualty of war winter is innocence pace.

On Sunday, I managed to step out for a quick 6 miler feeling fresh as a recently powdered and diapered baby’s bottom. It was in the high-30’s and cloudy with only a little chilly breeze. As I headed out, I thought with satisfaction that this was a great morning for a run. I felt wonderful. It was cool but pleasant. My stride was loose and relaxed. That feeling lasted for a whole 60 seconds.

As I approached the ¼ mile mark, the two internal balloons inside my chest cavity began to shrivel to the size of my patience for Rich Rodriguez. I started sucking in deep breaths to try to keep the burners firing. I didn’t feel fresh like a newly diapered baby anymore. I felt like a baby that had eaten too much squash and made a little leaky present around one of the improperly fitted elastic legbands. With nearly 6 miles to go, this was going to suck…as in cold air suck…as in feel like you are slowly suffocating every step of the way suck.

As I finished up and peeled the cold, sweaty clothes into a pile on the carpeted floor for the laundry fairy* to magically wash, a simple truth dawned on me like it must have to the general public when they realized that Carlos Mencia is not funny: I love to run. This trumps the weather conditions. I’ve gone out in near 100 degree temperatures. I’ve run in 5 degree temperatures with a negative wind chill and everything else in between. It doesn’t matter what the weather is doing because, for me, it just affects what I wear.

I’ll still be out there either way. I shouldn’t even waste my breathe complaining. I will complain - you should know me by now - but I shouldn’t bother.

Michigan’s constantly changing climate presents some challenges but it really doesn’t override the bottom line: I’m going to run.

So, maybe Michigan isn’t so bad after all. The Great Lakes are pretty neat. It is nice to hold up the backside of your hand and point to the spot about half way between your middle knuckle and wrist as your home for those unfamiliar with the state’s geography.** Fall is beautiful. Summers are moderate. The Red Wings are terrific each year. No one wears sweater vests. And Kid Rock and Eminem just released new albums.

And, most importantly, we are not Ohio. Now that would be a reason to complain.

Happy trails.

*Mrs. Nitmos?
**How many of you just pointed to your hand? Be honest.

Age Degraded

In four short months, I’ll turn 40. Sometimes getting older is a beautiful thing. Here’s three ways in which I benefit:

First: In races I will be considered a “master”. A master? Little ole me? I’d blush but technically that’s a downgrade as I’ve been referring to myself as Pope Awesome the First for ten years now. I think Master falls below Pope Awesome but just above Da Bomb on the Nitmos Scale of Superiority. But being a member of this exclusive “masters” club does have some privileges. For one, we usually have our own winner separate from the overall race winner (though sometimes it is one and the same person).

In other words, while you schmo’s are out there freezing your skinned nips off watching the race champ get his prize, we Masters will be sitting in a heated bungalow, enjoying the muscle relaxing massage techniques of a Swedish immigrant, beneath velvet blankets, listening to a hippie strum his guitar with soothing strokes while wearing our personally fitted nipple warmers, as the Master champ is coronated.

At least, that’s what I think happens. I guess I’ll find out for sure in four months.

Another benefit, of course, is the age graded time adjustments. You’ve probably seen them attached to some of your race results. Supposedly age-graded results:

1) Adjust your performance to what it theoretically would have been during your
prime running years (your 20's and a portion of your 30's depending on the race
distance).

2) Judge your performance, using an achievement percentile,
without bias for gender or the aging process (in other words, you are measured
against a specific standard for your age and sex). These percentiles can
be interpreted as follows:

· Over 90% --- World Class
· Over 80% --- National Class
· Over 70% --- Regional Class
· Over 60% --- Local Class

3) Compare your performances for a specific race distance at various ages
to determine which was your "best race".

For me, this always meant that the old dude I torched in the final mile would end up getting the last laugh as the age-graded adjustment leapfrogged him above me in the final standings. I hated that and I’d always regret not taking him out – permanently – on the way by so that it wouldn’t happen. I didn’t mind it – or notice it – when my own age-graded score moved me above others…that seemed only right. But moving me down?? Not fair.

Now, I’ll be able to stroll across the finish line a few minutes after my jack-rabbit twenty-five your friends with a triumphant smile and watch their sad little crestfallen faces as, later that day, I move above them in the age-graded results table (or, as I call them, the "only results that matter"). Boo-yeah! Suck on that, youthies!

Second: Another huge benefit of joining the Masters club is that I’ll finally be able to invest in those creepy way-too-short, old man side split running shorts. You know the kind…they ride up high on the side exposing the hip bone and pale, sunless skin (as well as the sun tan line about 5 inches south). They are really…unsavory. They scare kids and pets. I believe they are considered a sex crime in about 19 states currently. I want them. I’ve been waiting to get them until I became a Master. Now, off to expose my bleached white hips and cultivate the matching tuft of grayish chest hair billowing out the top of my singlet like rotting cauliflower.

Third: Qualifying times! Case in point: I just posted that I was going to get into the lottery for the New York Marathon. A few of you wise soles, er, wisely, pointed out to me that NY does have an automatic entry qualifying standard to bypass the lottery roulette. For a 39 year guy like me, I’d have to run a sub 1:23. Sorry, I’m too old and slow to meet that requirement any time soon. I just did a sub 1:28 a few months ago and that seemed like a lot of work.

However, for a 40 year old, I only have to break 1:30. Suddenly, I’m plenty fast enough to gain auto entry. Look at that, in four short months, I go from hopelessly slow to Pope Awesome fast. Boo-yeah! Suck on that, youthies! So, I really just have to keep training steady – don’t even need to get any faster - and I’m in like Flynn.*

Screw the lottery. I’ll just turn 40 instead! New York, here I come.

So you young whippersnappers can have your “overall” champs and your flexible joints and your thigh length shorts and long life spans. I’ve got my ticket in hand for the Masters club and all the aroma of Flexall, tales of lost dreams, and side split shorts and pasty thighs as far as the (non-cataracted) eye can see. Oh, and arthritis, don’t forget about that.

Happy trails.

*It’s a historical phrase only us Masters would get.

________________________________

Happy Thanksgiving to my American friends! (Happy Thursday to everyone else!)

Randumbery X: May I Be Chosen By The Claw

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

I haven’t done a Randumbery in awhile. Mainly, I didn’t receive many (re: any) emails clamoring for its return since I last did one in April. But I don’t do what you like around here; I do what I like. So here goes the usual assortment of haphazard, ill-considered topics presented to you in Pro/Con format (also in HD, depending on your monitor).


The Claw

Ever notice how good I am with photo editing? I look just like Woody in a scene from Toy Story. It’s seamless. You wouldn’t know that my work computer only has MS Paint and that I have roughly 4 minutes to complete the task. It doesn’t show.

I hope to be chosen by the NYRR “random” selection claw process for the 2011 NY Marathon.

Pro: If I’m selected, rest assured that I’ll gloat, prance around with my successful application and point & mock those not chosen.

Con: If I’m not selected, rest assured that I’ll humbly resubmit for the next year and I’ll thank you not to laugh.


The Beautiful Game

Mrs. Nitmos and I are considering signing up for a co-ed indoor soccer team to be played in a safe environment and amongst friends. We haven't played in years but how hard can it be right? Besides, it's good winter cross-training.

Con: It costs $85 per person per 8 games. That’s $170 for 8 games of 'America frowned-upon' European sporting action. We’d have to decide which child won’t go to college after all.

Pro: It’d be a one-time only deal as, once the others got a face full of my elbows and latent adolescent hostility manifesting in the form of spikes to the ACL and threats against an opponent’s “real” father (if they even know who that is, of course, and, for that matter, does your mother?), it’d be doubtful that we’d be asked back.

Torn ACL’s in t-minus 17 days…


Home

Does anyone else refer to their home as a "lair" when speaking in public places? I highly recommend it just for the priceless looks you get from wary strangers.

Con: Your kids are humiliated and embarrassed to be seen with you.

Pro: Your kids are humiliated and embarrassed to be seen with you.

Hope everyone has a terrific weekend. Run long, run hard – that’s what I said – to make room for the turkey feast. That’s called being pro-active!

Happy trails.