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.
A Runner is Born
Mrs. Nitmos is running her very first 5k this weekend! Sure, she was part of the Detroit Marathon relay last October and the distance of her leg was almost exactly the same as a 5k but this is the first actual end-to-end, start to finish race for her. She’ll get to experience the rush of the crowd at the start (i.e. assholes pushing and tripping you), the thrill of the aid stations (assholes dropping full cups of water that slosh up on your ankles), and the roar of the crowd (assholes that “cheer” you on by clanking cow bells in your traumatized ear). Like any runner’s first race, it’s expected to rain. Showers, in fact. Doesn’t it always? She’ll cross the finish line soaking wet and covered in the sticky slime of others runners’ tossed Gatorade cups. Just like a new born baby. Hopefully she doesn’t puke. The afterbirth is my least favorite part of watching a newborn runner emerge.
Where Have All The White Race Shirts Gone?
I have a beef with race directors. When I started signing up for races 10 years ago, pretty much every race shirt came in white. This was good. It saved me an annual trip to JcPenney to purchase a package of undershirts. Instead, I acquired them slowly through-out the year at a less-than-economical price of $15-$30 per shirt. They came in super handy. Nobody suspected that the white collar ring exposed under my covering long sleeve shirt or dress shirt or Granimals was actually not pure white. That gravy train has ended.
Now, when I sign up for a race, I’m usually presented a bright red or orange or – gasp! – hot pink race shirt. I can’t wear those under anything other than my Granimals. I know race directors want their shirt to stand out from the crowd but, if everyone puts bright colors on their shirt, then, really, haven’t you really defeated the purpose? It’s like when a few men started having sex with Paris Hilton in the 90’s and then everyone did it, it really didn’t make you unique anymore. Just douchey. I fear race shirts are following the same trend.
My last few white race shirts are developing holes. Bring back the white race shirts! Or my next boring, mannequin-exposed trip into JcPenney is on your shoulders. And if I come out there with a pair of Dockers as well, I’m going to be pissed.
To Trail Ultra or Not To Trail Ultra
I just can’t pull the trigger on the Dances with Dirt 50k trail ultramarathon. Is it because the web site seems to go out of its way to warn you against doing it? (A curious strategy by a race director (probably another bright colored shirt guy too.)) I’ve talked to people who have done it and it doesn’t sound as bad as they like to claim. Although one Steers LDP member who does the relay has had the course markers moved on him causing some extra “lost” running until he found his way back to the course.
I’m all up for an adventure. I’m just not sure I want to be cradled by a bear by the light of the moon after several hours of searching for the marked trail. Or, worse yet, have a wolf use my exposed rib cage as a den for its wolfettes.
T.W.S.S.
My colt started middle school this year. They start in 6th grade around these parts which I tend to think is a little young. Case in point: He’s starting to understand the sexual innuendo he hears on TV but….not, really. He just knows something is supposed to be funny.
He comes bopping downstairs earlier this week telling me Michael from The Office said that he was “going to sleep long and hard on it” and Dwight responded with “That’s what she said.”
My colt thinks this is funny. My filly, a second grader, asks “What’s funny about that?” and he sneers, “You just don’t get it.”
And then I’m thinking do you get it? Because, if you did, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be casually retelling the joke to your Dad. At least, I hope not. Keep that stuff hidden away from your parents like it’s supposed to be. Ignorance is bliss.
He’ll learn that the hard way. (t.w.s.s.)
Happy trails.
________________________________
11.5 miles @ 7 minute pace yesterday.
Long run of 15 this weekend followed by a final long, long run of 21 miles sometime midweek next week. Taper begins a few days early as Mrs. Nitmos and I have big weekend plans next weekend!
Friday, April 30, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Faux Fatty
I swear I’m not body conscious. At least, not of my own body. Mrs. Nitmos knows that I’m an ass man. She’s taking kick boxing right now, in addition to twice weekly runs, for which I applaud enthusiastically. I’d be most happy though if television was filled with Reebok EasyTone shoe ads. I don’t even need the ridiculous laugh-track laden “shows” in between. Just give me gratuitous Reebok ads all day long. There, I said it. I don’t care what you think of me. Go ahead and call me an Ass, man.
Though I’m not overly body conscious, I’m always tuned to my weight especially when it comes closer to race day. There’s no doubt that carrying a few extra pounds is a heavy burden to bear (rim shot, please?) for 26.2 miles. I have a race day weight I like to hit….or, at least, be very near. How did I select this weight? Did I study BMI scales or aerobic capacity vs. weight charts? No, I just picked it out of thin air. Or, rather, it picked me.
As I progress through a training plan, my sour ball and rum consumption becomes inversely proportional to my long run distances. As I arrive at marathon taper time, I’ve usually shed about 5-6 pounds of weight since the beginning of the plan. How do I know this is the best weight for me? In short, I don’t. In long, I’m a believer in the free form running cliché about “listening to your body.” Ugh, I can’t believe I typed that. I’ve been running long enough – and read enough blogs – that I’ve learned to HATE that phrase. But there it is. I eat better. I run more. I feel “fit”. The pounds come off and stabilize right around the same number for every race. So, that’s my race weight. I didn’t pre-determine it. It just happened. I didn’t drive myself to a number on the scale.
I don’t believe in dieting. Let me clarify: I believe in a proper nutritional diet but not “dieting”. No Atkins. No South Beach. No Weight Watchers. No Binge-Purge. Those are a bunch of short-term schemes designed for the lazy and/or a strong gag reflexers. Whenever someone tells me they are on Diet X, I may be smiling and nodding on the outside but, internally, I’m thinking that’s nice but why don’t you just get off the couch and start being active and eat healthy?
To be fair, I think a lot of the diet plans do recommend physical exercise along with the diet. But you know as well as I that in this quick fix, pop-a-pill American culture, the diet might be followed but not the exercise. For example, if folks ask me what training plan I follow, I usually say that I follow a version of the FIRST program. That is, I run three days a week…with almost no cross training. Is that FIRST? No. Is that a “version” of the FIRST? I doubt the FIRSTy people would think so.
There are handy dandy charts and graphs out there to demonstrate how the loss of a few pounds impacts race performance, all other things being equal. Since it’s a “study” and on a “chart”, it must be fact so I won’t quibble. I just know that, as a race approaches and my belt has to be taken in a notch, I feel fitter and faster.
In fact, I usually start coming down with a case of the Faux Fatty syndrome. Every meal plumps out the belly. I can see it, cradle it, tickle it, and dig lint from it. There’s a cute little round belly. It’s there. If you poke it, I would giggle then call the cops because you shouldn’t be touching me there. You’re not a high school guidance counselor. I must have put on a few with that post long run binge of chips and cake. Then, I step on the scale and whaddya know same weight. I didn’t get fatter. Just full. Nothing a good book and thirty minutes on the toilet won’t cure. It’s amazing that, when you drop a few pounds, anything in your belly makes you feel like a bloated pig.
I like to think that my marathon race weight comes the natural way. Mileage goes up; weight goes down. I stand before the mirror and see a gaunt, emaciated refugee and think yep, must be time to race!
Do you have a goal race weight? How do you approach racing and body weight? Or are you just annoyed that, after the opening paragraph, I didn’t talk more about asses?
Sicko.
Happy trails.
Though I’m not overly body conscious, I’m always tuned to my weight especially when it comes closer to race day. There’s no doubt that carrying a few extra pounds is a heavy burden to bear (rim shot, please?) for 26.2 miles. I have a race day weight I like to hit….or, at least, be very near. How did I select this weight? Did I study BMI scales or aerobic capacity vs. weight charts? No, I just picked it out of thin air. Or, rather, it picked me.
As I progress through a training plan, my sour ball and rum consumption becomes inversely proportional to my long run distances. As I arrive at marathon taper time, I’ve usually shed about 5-6 pounds of weight since the beginning of the plan. How do I know this is the best weight for me? In short, I don’t. In long, I’m a believer in the free form running cliché about “listening to your body.” Ugh, I can’t believe I typed that. I’ve been running long enough – and read enough blogs – that I’ve learned to HATE that phrase. But there it is. I eat better. I run more. I feel “fit”. The pounds come off and stabilize right around the same number for every race. So, that’s my race weight. I didn’t pre-determine it. It just happened. I didn’t drive myself to a number on the scale.
I don’t believe in dieting. Let me clarify: I believe in a proper nutritional diet but not “dieting”. No Atkins. No South Beach. No Weight Watchers. No Binge-Purge. Those are a bunch of short-term schemes designed for the lazy and/or a strong gag reflexers. Whenever someone tells me they are on Diet X, I may be smiling and nodding on the outside but, internally, I’m thinking that’s nice but why don’t you just get off the couch and start being active and eat healthy?
To be fair, I think a lot of the diet plans do recommend physical exercise along with the diet. But you know as well as I that in this quick fix, pop-a-pill American culture, the diet might be followed but not the exercise. For example, if folks ask me what training plan I follow, I usually say that I follow a version of the FIRST program. That is, I run three days a week…with almost no cross training. Is that FIRST? No. Is that a “version” of the FIRST? I doubt the FIRSTy people would think so.
There are handy dandy charts and graphs out there to demonstrate how the loss of a few pounds impacts race performance, all other things being equal. Since it’s a “study” and on a “chart”, it must be fact so I won’t quibble. I just know that, as a race approaches and my belt has to be taken in a notch, I feel fitter and faster.
In fact, I usually start coming down with a case of the Faux Fatty syndrome. Every meal plumps out the belly. I can see it, cradle it, tickle it, and dig lint from it. There’s a cute little round belly. It’s there. If you poke it, I would giggle then call the cops because you shouldn’t be touching me there. You’re not a high school guidance counselor. I must have put on a few with that post long run binge of chips and cake. Then, I step on the scale and whaddya know same weight. I didn’t get fatter. Just full. Nothing a good book and thirty minutes on the toilet won’t cure. It’s amazing that, when you drop a few pounds, anything in your belly makes you feel like a bloated pig.
I like to think that my marathon race weight comes the natural way. Mileage goes up; weight goes down. I stand before the mirror and see a gaunt, emaciated refugee and think yep, must be time to race!
Do you have a goal race weight? How do you approach racing and body weight? Or are you just annoyed that, after the opening paragraph, I didn’t talk more about asses?
Sicko.
Happy trails.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Rungasm
Long runs like that come few and far between! As you know, I’m not given to hyperbole – everything you see and read here is exactly 100% real – but I felt like I could run ALL DAY Sunday.
Considering the happy dance I was doing two weeks ago after my 20 miler, the 22 miles this weekend had me little nervous. I’m all about the post long run endorphin rush and smug feeling of satisfaction of a job well done. But when that is served with a side of muscle spasms…well, it somewhat diminishes my general feeling of invincibility.
This time, homeboy here made a plan and, more importantly, stuck to it. I targeted an overall training pace of 7:25/mile with slower first 5 miles and faster final 5 miles. You know….ease into it instead of going out too fast and then holding on for dear life over the final 5 miles. It’s a training run for chrissakes!
AS GWB would say, “Mission Accomplished!” Except, in this case, the mission actually was accomplished. Twenty-two miles @ 7:22 pace (2:42 time). The first mile was the slowest; the last mile the fastest! Post-run, no happy dance and no spasms. In fact, I felt pretty good and had no problem jumping right in the car and driving an hour to my colt’s soccer game (a 6-3 win with colt knocking in a goal and an assist).
So what makes the difference between a good long run and a bad long run? The weather conditions were almost exactly the same. For the 22, I stopped one extra time for water. I took it a bit easier at the beginning of the 22. Other than that, really, the only thing I did different was pop some Tylenol after 13 miles as a cramping preemptive strike. Could it be that simple? Or, more likely, is it just one of the mysteries of the human body? There are good days and bad days and you’ll just have to roll the dice to find out which today is.
I was flying high the rest of the day. Damn, if I could bottle that long run come race day – and all long runs for that matter – and sell it I’d finally be able to pay off my running shoes bill. As I was gliding into home with a 7 minute finishing mile, I could feel the testosterone surging through me. I ran inside and to the closest mirror sure that I had sprouted a mustache somewhere along the run. There was no way a run could be that studly without developing a Burt Reynolds mustache. No ‘stache though I’m pretty sure I had two new chest hairs.
The rungasm built slowly over 22 miles. Had I rushed things like normal, I may have peaked too soon (within 5 minutes…at the half mile mark, I guess). Instead, the endorphin euphoria lasted the entire day.
Is it wrong to have a cigarette after a solid long run?
Happy trails.
_________________________________
It’s soccer season again in these parts. For some reason, soccer plays twice a year (fall and spring) whereas every other sport has just one season. The filly had an exciting come from behind 2-1 victory due, I’m sure in no small part, to my 4th quarter strategy tweaks. I’m not going to say I won the game for them…but I’m pretty sure they didn’t win the game without my assistance, if you know what I mean.
Meanwhile, the colt posted victories of 10-0 (2 goals/1 assist) and 6-3 (1 goal/1 assist) and remained in first place. Over the last 10 games, he’s knocked in 14 goals and sent 12 more balls over the crossbar (grrrr) and watched at least 10 Manchester United games on ESPN2. Rooney!
_________________________________________
22 miles in 2:42:02 @ 7:22 pace.
Considering the happy dance I was doing two weeks ago after my 20 miler, the 22 miles this weekend had me little nervous. I’m all about the post long run endorphin rush and smug feeling of satisfaction of a job well done. But when that is served with a side of muscle spasms…well, it somewhat diminishes my general feeling of invincibility.
This time, homeboy here made a plan and, more importantly, stuck to it. I targeted an overall training pace of 7:25/mile with slower first 5 miles and faster final 5 miles. You know….ease into it instead of going out too fast and then holding on for dear life over the final 5 miles. It’s a training run for chrissakes!
AS GWB would say, “Mission Accomplished!” Except, in this case, the mission actually was accomplished. Twenty-two miles @ 7:22 pace (2:42 time). The first mile was the slowest; the last mile the fastest! Post-run, no happy dance and no spasms. In fact, I felt pretty good and had no problem jumping right in the car and driving an hour to my colt’s soccer game (a 6-3 win with colt knocking in a goal and an assist).
So what makes the difference between a good long run and a bad long run? The weather conditions were almost exactly the same. For the 22, I stopped one extra time for water. I took it a bit easier at the beginning of the 22. Other than that, really, the only thing I did different was pop some Tylenol after 13 miles as a cramping preemptive strike. Could it be that simple? Or, more likely, is it just one of the mysteries of the human body? There are good days and bad days and you’ll just have to roll the dice to find out which today is.
I was flying high the rest of the day. Damn, if I could bottle that long run come race day – and all long runs for that matter – and sell it I’d finally be able to pay off my running shoes bill. As I was gliding into home with a 7 minute finishing mile, I could feel the testosterone surging through me. I ran inside and to the closest mirror sure that I had sprouted a mustache somewhere along the run. There was no way a run could be that studly without developing a Burt Reynolds mustache. No ‘stache though I’m pretty sure I had two new chest hairs.
The rungasm built slowly over 22 miles. Had I rushed things like normal, I may have peaked too soon (within 5 minutes…at the half mile mark, I guess). Instead, the endorphin euphoria lasted the entire day.
Is it wrong to have a cigarette after a solid long run?
Happy trails.
_________________________________
It’s soccer season again in these parts. For some reason, soccer plays twice a year (fall and spring) whereas every other sport has just one season. The filly had an exciting come from behind 2-1 victory due, I’m sure in no small part, to my 4th quarter strategy tweaks. I’m not going to say I won the game for them…but I’m pretty sure they didn’t win the game without my assistance, if you know what I mean.
Meanwhile, the colt posted victories of 10-0 (2 goals/1 assist) and 6-3 (1 goal/1 assist) and remained in first place. Over the last 10 games, he’s knocked in 14 goals and sent 12 more balls over the crossbar (grrrr) and watched at least 10 Manchester United games on ESPN2. Rooney!
_________________________________________
22 miles in 2:42:02 @ 7:22 pace.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Forget Me Lots
Sometimes I envy people that have suffered blunt force trauma to the head. They’re so lucky…though they probably don’t know it. Or they knew it, then they forgot it, then they knew it again, then, well, you get the picture.
I used to play basketball with this guy who was all elbows and knees and sweat. If he was on your team, you loved him. He’d dive headfirst into the middle of group of guys fighting for a rebound, arms all akimbo and knees honing in on everyone’s groin. Inevitably, he’d flop out the other side sprawled on the ground either with the ball or holding a wad of someone’s chest hair. But if he was on the other team, you hated the dirty sonofabitch and took every chance to cheap shot him.
Then one day he went racing towards the basket and, maybe because he didn’t run into anyone to slow him down, he came out the other side at full speed and crashed head first into the cement wall a few feet out of bounds. He was groggy and called it a night but otherwise seemed just fine. When he woke the next day and could barely move his left arm and then somehow made it into the office but couldn’t remember how and didn’t seem to know anyone’s name or what time it was, he was taken to the hospital. Severe concussion. Permanent short term memory loss.
I’ve run into him in the office occasionally over the last few years and he always knows he knows me but can’t exactly remember how. Every time I see him, I reintroduce myself and he chuckles and warns ‘don’t be surprised if you have to do this again next time I see you.’ And I do. I’ve “met” him about six times since.
If this was a non-running related site, this would probably be the end of the story…or maybe the set-up for a heartwarming finish in which he elbows me in the chops and says “Hey, Nitmos, it’s you!” immediately before I shove him into a wall (again). Then we hug and exchange blueberry pancake recipes. But this is Feet Meet Street and heart-warming doesn’t belong here. So instead I’ll use his permanent disability as a set-up for what I really want to talk about today: running and short-term memory.
Saturday was long run day. My first twenty miler for this marathon prep session. I’ve been building with some solid 17 and 18 milers in recent weeks so twenty didn’t seem too daunting. But there’s just something about that ‘20’ number isn’t there?
I kept pretty much to the planned pace (7:20-7:25 per mile) coming in at an average 7:19 even after the Angry Run Hating Wind tried to turn my return trip into resistance training. Then the fun started. Post-run, I was doing the happy dance in the shower. Not that happy dance but the happy dance born of tired and thirsty legs and muscles that would love to contract in a violent, involuntary manner. That good old pre-cramping feeling! How I missed you!
I do this to myself. On training runs, I barely drink any water. Two stops for a Gu and a quick guzzle to wash it down in 2 ½ hours and 20 miles? Yeah, probably not enough.
After the shower, I stood in my bedroom in my birthday suit watching my Detroit Tigers beat up on the Indians again completely afraid to sit down. And not because of getting one of those wet butt marks on the comforter. Heck, even lifting a leg to take a step sent the raised foot into a contorted twist as my big toe attempted to connect with the heel. I’d stomp that foot down and press it into the floor working that cramp back out. Some water….some Advil…some Biofreeze….after a half hour of this naked happy dance, life returned to normal. I was able to dress and sit down. My big toe seemed content to remain at the bow of the foot.
At the time, it was complete misery and I wondered why I did this to myself. I had a happy childhood. I once threw a spade shovel like a spear at my oldest brother in an attempt to impale him during an argument but everyone does that right?* What’s with the self abuse?
By that evening, I had forgotten all about the ½ hour of post-run torture and was already mentally planning my week in running ahead. And looking forward to my 22 miler in two weeks.
It’s important to have short-term memory loss as a runner. Forget the pain of the last run. If you are doing intervals, forget the misery of the last interval. Forget the pasty white thigh of the dude in the side split running shorts. Forget everything except why you love being out there in the first place. Move forward…think positive. Really, what’s a half hour of twisting, knotting leg discomfort in the course of a day?
A little short term memory loss can be a good thing. If you can accomplish this without a significant blow to the head, more’s the better. If not, I’ve gotten pretty good at the hammer toss.
Now, if only I could remember to hydrate better on those training long runs…
Happy trails.
*I didn’t hit him. The aerodynamics of the curved, unbalanced blade of the shovel threw off the trajectory sending it into a pile of dirt nearby. I stole his Vern Ruhle baseball card instead.
I used to play basketball with this guy who was all elbows and knees and sweat. If he was on your team, you loved him. He’d dive headfirst into the middle of group of guys fighting for a rebound, arms all akimbo and knees honing in on everyone’s groin. Inevitably, he’d flop out the other side sprawled on the ground either with the ball or holding a wad of someone’s chest hair. But if he was on the other team, you hated the dirty sonofabitch and took every chance to cheap shot him.
Then one day he went racing towards the basket and, maybe because he didn’t run into anyone to slow him down, he came out the other side at full speed and crashed head first into the cement wall a few feet out of bounds. He was groggy and called it a night but otherwise seemed just fine. When he woke the next day and could barely move his left arm and then somehow made it into the office but couldn’t remember how and didn’t seem to know anyone’s name or what time it was, he was taken to the hospital. Severe concussion. Permanent short term memory loss.
I’ve run into him in the office occasionally over the last few years and he always knows he knows me but can’t exactly remember how. Every time I see him, I reintroduce myself and he chuckles and warns ‘don’t be surprised if you have to do this again next time I see you.’ And I do. I’ve “met” him about six times since.
If this was a non-running related site, this would probably be the end of the story…or maybe the set-up for a heartwarming finish in which he elbows me in the chops and says “Hey, Nitmos, it’s you!” immediately before I shove him into a wall (again). Then we hug and exchange blueberry pancake recipes. But this is Feet Meet Street and heart-warming doesn’t belong here. So instead I’ll use his permanent disability as a set-up for what I really want to talk about today: running and short-term memory.
Saturday was long run day. My first twenty miler for this marathon prep session. I’ve been building with some solid 17 and 18 milers in recent weeks so twenty didn’t seem too daunting. But there’s just something about that ‘20’ number isn’t there?
I kept pretty much to the planned pace (7:20-7:25 per mile) coming in at an average 7:19 even after the Angry Run Hating Wind tried to turn my return trip into resistance training. Then the fun started. Post-run, I was doing the happy dance in the shower. Not that happy dance but the happy dance born of tired and thirsty legs and muscles that would love to contract in a violent, involuntary manner. That good old pre-cramping feeling! How I missed you!
I do this to myself. On training runs, I barely drink any water. Two stops for a Gu and a quick guzzle to wash it down in 2 ½ hours and 20 miles? Yeah, probably not enough.
After the shower, I stood in my bedroom in my birthday suit watching my Detroit Tigers beat up on the Indians again completely afraid to sit down. And not because of getting one of those wet butt marks on the comforter. Heck, even lifting a leg to take a step sent the raised foot into a contorted twist as my big toe attempted to connect with the heel. I’d stomp that foot down and press it into the floor working that cramp back out. Some water….some Advil…some Biofreeze….after a half hour of this naked happy dance, life returned to normal. I was able to dress and sit down. My big toe seemed content to remain at the bow of the foot.
At the time, it was complete misery and I wondered why I did this to myself. I had a happy childhood. I once threw a spade shovel like a spear at my oldest brother in an attempt to impale him during an argument but everyone does that right?* What’s with the self abuse?
By that evening, I had forgotten all about the ½ hour of post-run torture and was already mentally planning my week in running ahead. And looking forward to my 22 miler in two weeks.
It’s important to have short-term memory loss as a runner. Forget the pain of the last run. If you are doing intervals, forget the misery of the last interval. Forget the pasty white thigh of the dude in the side split running shorts. Forget everything except why you love being out there in the first place. Move forward…think positive. Really, what’s a half hour of twisting, knotting leg discomfort in the course of a day?
A little short term memory loss can be a good thing. If you can accomplish this without a significant blow to the head, more’s the better. If not, I’ve gotten pretty good at the hammer toss.
Now, if only I could remember to hydrate better on those training long runs…
Happy trails.
*I didn’t hit him. The aerodynamics of the curved, unbalanced blade of the shovel threw off the trajectory sending it into a pile of dirt nearby. I stole his Vern Ruhle baseball card instead.
Friday, April 09, 2010
Why Do You Blog?
It’s time to sit down on Dr. Nitmos’ couch and look deep inside you. Get comfortable; relax….have a glass of wine. Let’s do some real introspection here. Forget for a moment that the couch is in the back of this windowless van and that I insist on listening with my shirt off…You’re falling into a deep (queue mirror ball), deep (Barry White), sleeeep.
Alright, that’s pretty creepy so forget I said that. In fact, I’m taking this clown make-up off right now.
The question is…why do you blog about running?
Have you ever really thought about that? There are so many interesting topics in the world: politics, sports, religion, books, scholarly research, Tiger Woods’ infidelity. Why running? We all complain about how Runner’s World seems to dust off the same stories year-in, year-out. If they’ve run out of topics, what makes us think we have more to say?
Of course, blogs are personal stories. Some folks use them as a shared training diary. Others like the social networking aspect. Some gather or suggest tips for better running. And some – yours truly – appreciate a forum in which the timing of a bowel movement can be the start of Act III in an exciting three part race recap. It’s hard to work something like that into a political discussion.
Maybe the better question is what do you hope to get out of your blog?
As I read (but not comment*) your blogs, I think the reason runner’s blog usually fall within a few general categories.
1) Social connections. Going against years of widely accepted warnings, some of you are looking to meet other runner’s (or “internet strangers”, let’s be honest) to become friends. If you take running out of the equation, doesn’t this have the makings of an after-school special? No, No, NO don’t go to the park. DON’T GO TO THE PARK TO MEET YOUR INTERNET FRIEND. This is definitely not me. I’m pretty sure most of you are figments of my imagination. The few of you I’ve “met” have been after I ate a basket of shrooms and washed them down with mescaline. Right after I met you, I met Jim Morrison and we did a Native American dance in the dessert. (<-Not a typo.)
2) Information seekers/givers. What better way to avoid snapping your own hamstring than to hear the story about how someone else did it, right? And then leave one of those ‘listen to your body’ comments everyone hates afterwards to really twist that frayed hammy end on them. This isn’t the reason I blog but I think this is the smartest and purest reason to do so. There is a lot of useful information out there with firsthand accounts from other runner’s. Whether it be race details, training successes (or failures), or nutritional ideas, there is a stream of data flowing for the curious runner. The trick is to identify the wheat from the chaff. Find a good source, hook it to your vein and settle back and let the info flow. Find a bad source and you just might be mainlining the guy who answered ‘c’ to every multiple choice test question to “improve his odds”.
3) Puffery. Most of us think running is pretty special. That’s why we do it. And that’s why we spend extra time blogging about it. We all like to proudly trumpet our accomplishments just as we delight in sharing our tales of personal defeats. There’s a lot of exaggeration, metaphors, and the occasional biblical allusion deployed in this area. Highs are described as orgasmic and lows can be organ-grinding. A unicorn makes an appearance. There’s a truthful story in the kernel but it is surrounded and served with midgets atop polar bears fighting an army of Ben Affleck clones. It’s fun. It’s light-hearted. It’s a lot better than Daredevil.
4) The Diarist. I don’t know if it is lack of imagination or lack of motivation but some blogs I read are like a recipe: 3 miles at track; ¼ mile repeats; 2 cups Gatordade, stir, serve cold. Nothing more. The blog is more of a training log like the one I keep in my nightstand. Nothing wrong with that but awfully dry and bland for the rest of us. It doesn’t need explosions and trampled llamas but would it kill you to include at least one tasered Affleck? Most of the diarists seem content just to log their runs, remain guarded and secretive, but still seek some validation from other anonymous runners. I usually view the Diarists as pupae, budding bloggers, in which some will develop into promising laser shooting butterfly bloggers. Keep your eye on these guys to see what comes out of the cocoon.
5) Motivation seekers. This one I really don’t get. Do you read running blogs? I’d say about 2/3 of them are filled with excuses for why someone ISN’T running. Hell, I even posted one earlier this week. If I relied on running blogs for motivation, I do believe I’d quit running altogether. But some of you claim to get motivation from reading them so…bully for you!
So which one are you? You all know me. I’m pretty serious and fact-based around here so I’d have to fall into the Diarist category. Besides, I normally pick on Schwimmer not Affleck.
Happy trails.
* Some may have noticed that I've severely cut back on my commenting over the last few months. I still read quite a few blogs while I'm "paying attention" at teleconferences but I don't make the extra effort to respond as much. Sorry. I'm expecting a full shipment of witty, but juvenile, comments to stock up my comment whorehouse soon.
_________________________________
My first 20 mile training run for this marathon session comes....tomorrow. Hooray!
_________________________________
CONGRATULATIONS to Hello Kitty Mystery Runner and fellow Steers LDP team member for completing the Croom Fools 50 miler in 9 hours last weekend. Enjoy your award.....a coffee mug. (Queue sad trombone) You've always been a Fool in my book with or without a coffee mug.
Alright, that’s pretty creepy so forget I said that. In fact, I’m taking this clown make-up off right now.
The question is…why do you blog about running?
Have you ever really thought about that? There are so many interesting topics in the world: politics, sports, religion, books, scholarly research, Tiger Woods’ infidelity. Why running? We all complain about how Runner’s World seems to dust off the same stories year-in, year-out. If they’ve run out of topics, what makes us think we have more to say?
Of course, blogs are personal stories. Some folks use them as a shared training diary. Others like the social networking aspect. Some gather or suggest tips for better running. And some – yours truly – appreciate a forum in which the timing of a bowel movement can be the start of Act III in an exciting three part race recap. It’s hard to work something like that into a political discussion.
Maybe the better question is what do you hope to get out of your blog?
As I read (but not comment*) your blogs, I think the reason runner’s blog usually fall within a few general categories.
1) Social connections. Going against years of widely accepted warnings, some of you are looking to meet other runner’s (or “internet strangers”, let’s be honest) to become friends. If you take running out of the equation, doesn’t this have the makings of an after-school special? No, No, NO don’t go to the park. DON’T GO TO THE PARK TO MEET YOUR INTERNET FRIEND. This is definitely not me. I’m pretty sure most of you are figments of my imagination. The few of you I’ve “met” have been after I ate a basket of shrooms and washed them down with mescaline. Right after I met you, I met Jim Morrison and we did a Native American dance in the dessert. (<-Not a typo.)
2) Information seekers/givers. What better way to avoid snapping your own hamstring than to hear the story about how someone else did it, right? And then leave one of those ‘listen to your body’ comments everyone hates afterwards to really twist that frayed hammy end on them. This isn’t the reason I blog but I think this is the smartest and purest reason to do so. There is a lot of useful information out there with firsthand accounts from other runner’s. Whether it be race details, training successes (or failures), or nutritional ideas, there is a stream of data flowing for the curious runner. The trick is to identify the wheat from the chaff. Find a good source, hook it to your vein and settle back and let the info flow. Find a bad source and you just might be mainlining the guy who answered ‘c’ to every multiple choice test question to “improve his odds”.
3) Puffery. Most of us think running is pretty special. That’s why we do it. And that’s why we spend extra time blogging about it. We all like to proudly trumpet our accomplishments just as we delight in sharing our tales of personal defeats. There’s a lot of exaggeration, metaphors, and the occasional biblical allusion deployed in this area. Highs are described as orgasmic and lows can be organ-grinding. A unicorn makes an appearance. There’s a truthful story in the kernel but it is surrounded and served with midgets atop polar bears fighting an army of Ben Affleck clones. It’s fun. It’s light-hearted. It’s a lot better than Daredevil.
4) The Diarist. I don’t know if it is lack of imagination or lack of motivation but some blogs I read are like a recipe: 3 miles at track; ¼ mile repeats; 2 cups Gatordade, stir, serve cold. Nothing more. The blog is more of a training log like the one I keep in my nightstand. Nothing wrong with that but awfully dry and bland for the rest of us. It doesn’t need explosions and trampled llamas but would it kill you to include at least one tasered Affleck? Most of the diarists seem content just to log their runs, remain guarded and secretive, but still seek some validation from other anonymous runners. I usually view the Diarists as pupae, budding bloggers, in which some will develop into promising laser shooting butterfly bloggers. Keep your eye on these guys to see what comes out of the cocoon.
5) Motivation seekers. This one I really don’t get. Do you read running blogs? I’d say about 2/3 of them are filled with excuses for why someone ISN’T running. Hell, I even posted one earlier this week. If I relied on running blogs for motivation, I do believe I’d quit running altogether. But some of you claim to get motivation from reading them so…bully for you!
So which one are you? You all know me. I’m pretty serious and fact-based around here so I’d have to fall into the Diarist category. Besides, I normally pick on Schwimmer not Affleck.
Happy trails.
* Some may have noticed that I've severely cut back on my commenting over the last few months. I still read quite a few blogs while I'm "paying attention" at teleconferences but I don't make the extra effort to respond as much. Sorry. I'm expecting a full shipment of witty, but juvenile, comments to stock up my comment whorehouse soon.
_________________________________
My first 20 mile training run for this marathon session comes....tomorrow. Hooray!
_________________________________
CONGRATULATIONS to Hello Kitty Mystery Runner and fellow Steers LDP team member for completing the Croom Fools 50 miler in 9 hours last weekend. Enjoy your award.....a coffee mug. (Queue sad trombone) You've always been a Fool in my book with or without a coffee mug.
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Whorehouse Experience Needed!
Awhile back, I posted about Mrs. Nitmos’ job in the human resources profession. The entire post came about because of a client who checked the “Spreadsheet” box under computer skills because he had once worked in a hotel maid service…spreading sheets. It seemed so unbelievable to some that, in the comments (and besides all of the usual personal attacks on me), there was mention that the anecdote sounded “apocryphal”.
Of course, at first I thought she mistyped something. That’s not a word right? Turns out, it is…and it means “of questionable authorship or authenticity” or “erroneous”. In other words, I think I was being called a liar. It took me 16 months but I finally got around to looking the word up in a dictionary. I’d post an indignant response to the commenter but I believe her blog has disappeared. Way to run off and hide from the sharp wordsmithing you knew would eventually come your way!
Well, if you didn’t believe that one, you are not going to believe this one so get ready to get your apocryphal on.
Mrs. Nitmos receives resumes by the bucket full. Clearly, most people don’t bother to spell check or match a subject with a predicate in a sentence. Or wipe the brownie smudge off the paper. Or change their professional email from sextool666@hotmail.com to something less…suggestive. They must be too busy finding work to waste time with these little details.
Within every bucket is a peach of a resume. She recently received a resume, several pages in length, from a fellow that decided to use some sort of online resume building tool. You know, the kind where you enter answers to questions and then it spits out a neatly formatted resume at the end of the process. Sounds like a good idea…if you follow the directions. Instead, this gentleman decided to print every page shown on his screen including the computer prompted question with his answer typed into the response box before moving to the next page. Yep, that sounds good. Print.
But that’s not the worst part. Since he clearly didn’t make it to the end of the instructions, he failed to review his final, formatted resume for spelling and content. Why bother right? He already had all of the page prints. Just staple them together, send ‘em off, and wait patiently by the phone with drumming fingers for that V.P. of Marketing position sure to come calling.
The call came in from Mrs. Nitmos’ office. But it was to follow-up on one of his resume response questions.
Mrs. Nitmos: I’m just calling to confirm some of your responses on the resume we received.
Client: Yes.
Mrs. Nitmos: Under skills, you responded with “extensive whorehouse experience.” Was that your intended response?
Client: That’s not a skill? BOO-YEAH, just kidding. No, seriously, I’m a sex tool.
Okay, I made up that last response by the client. Instead, he was embarrassed and horrified...that he had made that mistake in two different places on the page print resume. He meant “warehouse” but apparently some other spelling was on his mind.
Then, there are the names. Mrs. Nitmos received a resume from a woman with the first name “De-a”.
Mrs. Nitmos: Hi, is this “Dea” or “Dee”? I’m sorry, I don’t know how to pronounce your name.
De-a: It’s pronounced “Dedasha”.
I’m not kidding. The dash wasn’t there for window dressing.
I’m proud of Mrs. Nitmos. She’s fighting the good fight in this tough economy. She’s on the front lines trying to find unemployed people work after the greedy bankers have turned them out of their homes. If an employer needs a person with extensive brothel experience, she has someone for that. If an employer requires a person whose hyphenated name is meant to be phonetically pronounced, she has someone for that also. She has someone for everyone.
And I’m not being apocryphal.
Happy trails.
________________________________
The choking chest phlegm would only allow for 2x800 @ 2:50 pace with an extra 400m at 1:18 thrown in. Six miles last night. Nine for tonight...if it ever stops raining.
Of course, at first I thought she mistyped something. That’s not a word right? Turns out, it is…and it means “of questionable authorship or authenticity” or “erroneous”. In other words, I think I was being called a liar. It took me 16 months but I finally got around to looking the word up in a dictionary. I’d post an indignant response to the commenter but I believe her blog has disappeared. Way to run off and hide from the sharp wordsmithing you knew would eventually come your way!
Well, if you didn’t believe that one, you are not going to believe this one so get ready to get your apocryphal on.
Mrs. Nitmos receives resumes by the bucket full. Clearly, most people don’t bother to spell check or match a subject with a predicate in a sentence. Or wipe the brownie smudge off the paper. Or change their professional email from sextool666@hotmail.com to something less…suggestive. They must be too busy finding work to waste time with these little details.
Within every bucket is a peach of a resume. She recently received a resume, several pages in length, from a fellow that decided to use some sort of online resume building tool. You know, the kind where you enter answers to questions and then it spits out a neatly formatted resume at the end of the process. Sounds like a good idea…if you follow the directions. Instead, this gentleman decided to print every page shown on his screen including the computer prompted question with his answer typed into the response box before moving to the next page. Yep, that sounds good. Print.
But that’s not the worst part. Since he clearly didn’t make it to the end of the instructions, he failed to review his final, formatted resume for spelling and content. Why bother right? He already had all of the page prints. Just staple them together, send ‘em off, and wait patiently by the phone with drumming fingers for that V.P. of Marketing position sure to come calling.
The call came in from Mrs. Nitmos’ office. But it was to follow-up on one of his resume response questions.
Mrs. Nitmos: I’m just calling to confirm some of your responses on the resume we received.
Client: Yes.
Mrs. Nitmos: Under skills, you responded with “extensive whorehouse experience.” Was that your intended response?
Client: That’s not a skill? BOO-YEAH, just kidding. No, seriously, I’m a sex tool.
Okay, I made up that last response by the client. Instead, he was embarrassed and horrified...that he had made that mistake in two different places on the page print resume. He meant “warehouse” but apparently some other spelling was on his mind.
Then, there are the names. Mrs. Nitmos received a resume from a woman with the first name “De-a”.
Mrs. Nitmos: Hi, is this “Dea” or “Dee”? I’m sorry, I don’t know how to pronounce your name.
De-a: It’s pronounced “Dedasha”.
I’m not kidding. The dash wasn’t there for window dressing.
I’m proud of Mrs. Nitmos. She’s fighting the good fight in this tough economy. She’s on the front lines trying to find unemployed people work after the greedy bankers have turned them out of their homes. If an employer needs a person with extensive brothel experience, she has someone for that. If an employer requires a person whose hyphenated name is meant to be phonetically pronounced, she has someone for that also. She has someone for everyone.
And I’m not being apocryphal.
Happy trails.
________________________________
The choking chest phlegm would only allow for 2x800 @ 2:50 pace with an extra 400m at 1:18 thrown in. Six miles last night. Nine for tonight...if it ever stops raining.
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Caesura
Being the songbird of a generation – like Lennon and Lewis before me – is a heavy burden to bear. Expectations. EXPECTATIONS?!? It’s impossible to live up to everyone’s expectations. But somehow I do. Just ask yourself when you’ve ever been disappointed at F.M.S. Okay, maybe those few times – hell, maybe even regularly – but that’s not the point…entirely.
The point is everyone needs a break. Even songbirds. Even songbirds of a generation. After three straight months and a complete 2010 of not missing a planned run, the streak died on Sunday. I foreskinned that this might happen in the previous post.
In musical terms, a caesura is a break or brief pause. Often the orchestra builds to a dramatic point, stops briefly and then resumes. When pulled off correctly, it can be quite striking and memorable and adds to the effect of the music.
We were at the in-laws for Easter. My filly was excited to see what the bunny brought her. My twelve year old colt, on the other hand, sat on the couch with feigned nonchalance refusing to find his basket. We are that age now with him. Middle school and Justin Bieber haircuts. Ripsticks and backward hats. Attitude and non-gratitude. <- see? Songbird!
Dinner ran late. The only thing being resurrected yesterday was my anger for jeopardizing my long run. (Bible humor! Songbird! Hey, sometimes a SoaG can be a little tacky.) However, the truth is that I came down with a cold at the end of last week that had me croaking like Barry White and slurping on Halls cough drops like Amy Winehouse with the new Lifesaver Crystal Meth flavor. By the time we supped and ascended home, it was near dark. I went all diva wrapping my neck in a scarf and proclaiming there was simply no way I could run under these conditions. And get the m%*$#@*ing red Gu packets out of the bowl of Gu or someone’s ass would get fired!
And so I went to bed neck all bound in scarf wearing my eye shades and flowing robe. No run. Not even a single, solitary mile. Planned 14 mile long run? Missed.
Thank goodness it was a cut back week.
By Monday morning, I already started feeling bad. Like I betrayed my training plan. I got so wrapped up in excuses – whether it be Easter or my cold – that I got a bit Iscarioted away. (clever, no?) I thought I’d just make it up Monday night but….no, the rest of the week is pretty busy. I decided to write the long run off as Easter collateral damage. Mentally, I tucked it away and closed the door with a giant mental boulder.
Everyone needs a break. A caesura can be good from time to time. Especially when you over dramatize it like I'm doing. The only expectation to meet is my own. So onward we march…
The caesura ends today. It’s been two days since I missed my long run. (That’s right, not three days, but two days. Scoreboard!) Back in the shoes I go ready to chirp another tune. My first twenty miler of this training season is at hand.
I’m rubbing my psalms together just raring to go. Don’t be afraid to take a little break. Miss a run. Restore some vigor and motivation. It can be good for the mind and sole. Then, hear my song, and get back out there.
Or maybe I’m just preaching to the choir.
Happy trails.
Note: I've mentioned this before but, to those of you new here, every post on F.M.S. is intended to be sung to the jolly, lilting melody of Wheels on the Bus. If you are not doing so, then you are missing the full effect. Go back to the top and sing the post again.
Also, if you read the posts backward, you can make out 'Pre is Dead' in every one. These posts won't sync up to Wizard of Oz ala Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, but, if read end to end, will sync to Me, Myself, & Irene.
_________________________________
Jill, at the aptly named Run with Jill blog, would like you to complete a runner's survey. Help a Jill out, won't you? If not you, then who?
The point is everyone needs a break. Even songbirds. Even songbirds of a generation. After three straight months and a complete 2010 of not missing a planned run, the streak died on Sunday. I foreskinned that this might happen in the previous post.
In musical terms, a caesura is a break or brief pause. Often the orchestra builds to a dramatic point, stops briefly and then resumes. When pulled off correctly, it can be quite striking and memorable and adds to the effect of the music.
We were at the in-laws for Easter. My filly was excited to see what the bunny brought her. My twelve year old colt, on the other hand, sat on the couch with feigned nonchalance refusing to find his basket. We are that age now with him. Middle school and Justin Bieber haircuts. Ripsticks and backward hats. Attitude and non-gratitude. <- see? Songbird!
Dinner ran late. The only thing being resurrected yesterday was my anger for jeopardizing my long run. (Bible humor! Songbird! Hey, sometimes a SoaG can be a little tacky.) However, the truth is that I came down with a cold at the end of last week that had me croaking like Barry White and slurping on Halls cough drops like Amy Winehouse with the new Lifesaver Crystal Meth flavor. By the time we supped and ascended home, it was near dark. I went all diva wrapping my neck in a scarf and proclaiming there was simply no way I could run under these conditions. And get the m%*$#@*ing red Gu packets out of the bowl of Gu or someone’s ass would get fired!
And so I went to bed neck all bound in scarf wearing my eye shades and flowing robe. No run. Not even a single, solitary mile. Planned 14 mile long run? Missed.
Thank goodness it was a cut back week.
By Monday morning, I already started feeling bad. Like I betrayed my training plan. I got so wrapped up in excuses – whether it be Easter or my cold – that I got a bit Iscarioted away. (clever, no?) I thought I’d just make it up Monday night but….no, the rest of the week is pretty busy. I decided to write the long run off as Easter collateral damage. Mentally, I tucked it away and closed the door with a giant mental boulder.
Everyone needs a break. A caesura can be good from time to time. Especially when you over dramatize it like I'm doing. The only expectation to meet is my own. So onward we march…
The caesura ends today. It’s been two days since I missed my long run. (That’s right, not three days, but two days. Scoreboard!) Back in the shoes I go ready to chirp another tune. My first twenty miler of this training season is at hand.
I’m rubbing my psalms together just raring to go. Don’t be afraid to take a little break. Miss a run. Restore some vigor and motivation. It can be good for the mind and sole. Then, hear my song, and get back out there.
Or maybe I’m just preaching to the choir.
Happy trails.
Note: I've mentioned this before but, to those of you new here, every post on F.M.S. is intended to be sung to the jolly, lilting melody of Wheels on the Bus. If you are not doing so, then you are missing the full effect. Go back to the top and sing the post again.
Also, if you read the posts backward, you can make out 'Pre is Dead' in every one. These posts won't sync up to Wizard of Oz ala Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, but, if read end to end, will sync to Me, Myself, & Irene.
_________________________________
Jill, at the aptly named Run with Jill blog, would like you to complete a runner's survey. Help a Jill out, won't you? If not you, then who?
Friday, April 02, 2010
GOOD...It's FRIDAY!
This has been a busy quarter end. Things are always busy for yours truly at quarter’s end. I’m not an accountant. I’ve been told many times that I won’t account for anything and everyone has been right so far. But my job comes to a climax every three months in one week long flurry of activity. I know what you’re thinking….a week long climax? Who’s got the time or energy?
So I’m happy it’s Friday. I’m not so thrilled with April though.
March was terrific. March was a huge kick in the ass for marathon training. March flew out of here on the wings of a panther with a surprisingly smooth and relaxed 18 miler @ 7:11 pace on Saturday. The next day, very little stiffness (t.w.s.s.). Then, on the final day of my birth month, I continued my slow build on the 800 express with 3 x 800 @ 2:50 pace with a finishing 400 thrown in afterwards @ 1:20 pace. Yes, March has been berry berry good to me.
April? So far, it’s been a kick in the groin. As the winged panther left, the winged llama settled in. Last night might have been the worst run of the year: nine miles of pure unadulterated misery. Chest burning, fever, allergies, and nary a climax to be found. Since I’m a slave to the training plan, I completed every step of the distance though even Garmin had enough and started malfunctioning 6 miles in. Coward.
March also completed 3 straight months of nailing every scheduled run (t.w.s.s.). That may be a first for me. That streak will stop this Sunday as the bunny is going to bring the kids’ some chocolate and me a missed long run, dinner with the in-laws and a 3 ½ car ride. Why does the bunny hate me? I’d rather have the kids’ chocolate. Or, at the very least, a chocolate-covered climax. (I wonder if Mrs. Nitmos will fit in a bunny suit?) I'd settle for a chocolate covered long run. And not in the way I think you think I mean.
I suppose the bunny could hide the kids’ Easter baskets so well that it takes an hour and a half to find them. Then, slip out the door in my Asics as they start wandering around the forest looking for them. Surprise! They were in my locked foot locker in the closet the entire time. I’ll get them out after I shower.
Then they would burst with excitement.
And so would I. (Because of my long run, sickos.)
Damn I’m glad it’s FRIDAY!
Happy bunny trails!
________________________________
130 miles for March. As for April, in the words of the Mandelbaum's, it's time to 'take it up a notch.'
________________________________
Alas, no Chicago Marathon for me. Registration has closed. Combined with Boston, that's two straight registrations that I've passively let fill up rather than take the leap. I'm developing a bit of the 'been there, done that' disease. Now I'm in the market for another fall marathon. Perhaps Detroit again - if we don't do the relay - or Grand Rapids (held on the same day as Detroit for some reason)? Maybe I'm subconsciously aligning the stars (and excuses) to do the Dances with Dirt 50k. (Check out the web site. Doesn't it look cool?) Maybe. ;)
________________________________________
Good luck to SLDP team member Tange (aka The Hello Kitty Mystery Runner) who will be attempting the Croom Fools 50 miler this weekend! Yes, Easter Weekend. In Florida. On lush foliage-lined, heat-trapping trails. 50 miles. Good luck with allll that. I hope the bunny brings you some Biofreeze and an I.V. drip.
So I’m happy it’s Friday. I’m not so thrilled with April though.
March was terrific. March was a huge kick in the ass for marathon training. March flew out of here on the wings of a panther with a surprisingly smooth and relaxed 18 miler @ 7:11 pace on Saturday. The next day, very little stiffness (t.w.s.s.). Then, on the final day of my birth month, I continued my slow build on the 800 express with 3 x 800 @ 2:50 pace with a finishing 400 thrown in afterwards @ 1:20 pace. Yes, March has been berry berry good to me.
April? So far, it’s been a kick in the groin. As the winged panther left, the winged llama settled in. Last night might have been the worst run of the year: nine miles of pure unadulterated misery. Chest burning, fever, allergies, and nary a climax to be found. Since I’m a slave to the training plan, I completed every step of the distance though even Garmin had enough and started malfunctioning 6 miles in. Coward.
March also completed 3 straight months of nailing every scheduled run (t.w.s.s.). That may be a first for me. That streak will stop this Sunday as the bunny is going to bring the kids’ some chocolate and me a missed long run, dinner with the in-laws and a 3 ½ car ride. Why does the bunny hate me? I’d rather have the kids’ chocolate. Or, at the very least, a chocolate-covered climax. (I wonder if Mrs. Nitmos will fit in a bunny suit?) I'd settle for a chocolate covered long run. And not in the way I think you think I mean.
I suppose the bunny could hide the kids’ Easter baskets so well that it takes an hour and a half to find them. Then, slip out the door in my Asics as they start wandering around the forest looking for them. Surprise! They were in my locked foot locker in the closet the entire time. I’ll get them out after I shower.
Then they would burst with excitement.
And so would I. (Because of my long run, sickos.)
Damn I’m glad it’s FRIDAY!
Happy bunny trails!
________________________________
130 miles for March. As for April, in the words of the Mandelbaum's, it's time to 'take it up a notch.'
________________________________
Alas, no Chicago Marathon for me. Registration has closed. Combined with Boston, that's two straight registrations that I've passively let fill up rather than take the leap. I'm developing a bit of the 'been there, done that' disease. Now I'm in the market for another fall marathon. Perhaps Detroit again - if we don't do the relay - or Grand Rapids (held on the same day as Detroit for some reason)? Maybe I'm subconsciously aligning the stars (and excuses) to do the Dances with Dirt 50k. (Check out the web site. Doesn't it look cool?) Maybe. ;)
________________________________________
Good luck to SLDP team member Tange (aka The Hello Kitty Mystery Runner) who will be attempting the Croom Fools 50 miler this weekend! Yes, Easter Weekend. In Florida. On lush foliage-lined, heat-trapping trails. 50 miles. Good luck with allll that. I hope the bunny brings you some Biofreeze and an I.V. drip.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
