Frozen Throat Chronicles: Episode 2

Note: Though I have no intent to make this a regular running series, this is, at the very least, a sequel. If Alvin can do it, so can I. Go here for Episode 1.

Episode 2: The Chest Rash

In the last episode, an exceedingly handsome man went out on an ordinary four mile run when Old Man Winter attempted to choke the very life out of him with his own loogy. By the time he returned home, Captain Esophagus was born.

There’s something about stitching on moisture wicking clothing that just will not mesh. Since our hero returned and discovered his true identity, he poured through a library of superhero movies to determine his next step. Spiderman, Iron Man, they all go about the business of creating their costumes. And so it was that Captain Esophagus set about with sketch pad, dramatic music, and a montage of scribbled drawings and rejected ideas littering his floor.

A giant “E“ stitched on his marathon race shirt? No, an “E” is a failing grade and one with which the good Captain was all too familiar. How about a nickname, like Spidey, for citizens to yell out as he ran by? But the only nickname in which he was regularly referred did not inspire confidence or strength. Plus, “dumbass” was too long for the shirt.

Finally, he settled on an open throat with a stuck loogy dangling in the back. This was, after all, his moment of birth. Or re-birth. And this, the time of his afterbirth.

The stitching of the loogy filled throat scratched across his chest as he laced up for another mid-winter run. In hindsight, it was not a good idea to stitch into his moisture wicking shirts. He would need a lot of soothing gel post-run. But if a chest rash is the only price he’d have to pay for greatness, well, then he’d do it. For the people…who needed Captain Esophagus.

It was 12 degrees out. Too cold for mortals. His first steps were tentative. The crisp crunch of icy snow underfoot announced his arrival. Five miles to go. A test of wills.

I know you are out there Old Man Winter. I feel your frozen breath.

He ran on. His chest rubbed raw from the hero logo emblazoned on his shirt. A car horn beeped. A group of teenagers apparently wanted to wish him well by repeatedly calling him by his nickname. He tried to correct them, “It’s Captain Esophagus, please.” But the teens just laughed along with him, though the Captain was not aware of the joke, and pointed at his shirt.

“What’s that?” They asked through giggles. “Is that an ass with a piece of crap in it? Are you Captain Colon Blow?”

“Now that would be a ridiculous name for a superhero…” The Captain, with hands on hip, corrected but the teens were already careening down the road and out of sight (though he did hear the unmistakable shout of ‘Captain Dumbass awwaaayyy!’ amidst the cackles.)

Alone again. Two miles to go. His knuckles and fingers were frozen making it no longer possible for him to play air harmonica to the soothing sounds of one Hue E. Lewis broadcasting through his mp3 player. Maybe Old Man Winter did not want to tussle again? Maybe the colon, er, frozen throat loogy logo was scaring him away?

Like a shadow racing across the ground in front of the setting sun, the frozen air instantly numbed his tongue, throat, and then esophagus. It came suddenly. His panting breaths immediately turned asthmatic. He felt as if his lungs were going to collapse like Lindsay Lohan’s acting career. His steps became labored. The bright sun reflecting off the snow made him disoriented.

And that’s when he came. A swirling cloud of snow rose from the ground directly in his path at the next intersection not more than a hundred yards ahead. He formed like a towering pyramid. Pointy hair, bluish tint, elongated nipples, shrunken penis, all the signs of extreme cold were there. Old Man Winter threw his head back and thunderously laughed. His belly violently shook the steel cage of his ribs. Inside the ribbed prison, the Captain could see Jimmy Buffett in his Hawaiian shirt screaming and reaching for our hero to save him.

Captain Esophagus stopped, took one deep drag of the icy winter air, and, like the Mandelbaums before him, decided it was Go Time. He defiantly stared into Old Man Winter’s blue eyes and hacked up a big spit. And took off again, lowering his shoulder, ready to run full steam into the frozen giant.

As he approached, he could feel his throat freezing to the point of suffocation. He did not know if he’d make it. But our hero was determined for the stitched shirt and rash not to have been in vain. He picked up the pace. He was going to fartlek into Old Man Winter. Jimmy Buffet screamed between mouthfuls of cheeseburger. Captain closed his eyes and braced for impact.

Just then, the careening car full of teens plowed through the intersection directly into O.M.W. just ahead of the hero. Old Man Winter instantly dissipated as if a thousand interlocking fireflies had suddenly dispersed and scattered. Buffett’s tan feel to the ground in a crumpled heap but his body disappeared with the rest of Old Man Winter.

“Where you headed now Captain Colon Blow?!” The envious teens yelled. “Your shirt needs a laxative…”

Captain Esophagus attempted to correct the misguided youths again but they were already too far down the road, their car seemingly fueled by sneering insults and incorrect hero logo identification. These are Rohrschach failures, the hero thought.

Captain Esophagus approached home. He was now 2 for 2 over Old Man Winter. And, based on his superhero understanding, there would not be a third encounter as every villain only gets to come back once in a sequel. He had conquered winter for the people. Everyone would be free to enjoy a mid-winter run!

He walked up the front porch steps and took one deep drag of the now refreshing winter’s air basking in victory. Five miles accomplished. Winter defeated! Again! A thick, gooey spit balled up in his throat. This time, Captain Esophagus confidently swallowed the food residue.

But, half way down, he choked. The flap of cartilage that directs food away from his lungs was frozen open! He gasped and spit until he regained his composure and breath.


His epiglottis was frozen open. Air and food were callously being directed to the same location. A new threat.

Off in the distance, an evil, gleeful cackle echoed…Captain Esophagus’ work was not done.

Epiglottis Man approached.

Happy spitting.

Coming January 2011, Frozen Throat Chronicles 3: The Paralyzed Larynx!
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5 miles on Tuesday. 7 miles on Thursday. 12 miles this Sunday. Then official training begins!

The Planless

So here I am a week before officially starting my training for my next marathon. I still haven’t put together my plan. I’m sure I’ll slap something together at the last minute. I do my best work when under pressure and after much procrastination. It’s netted me a number of “participant” ribbons and a staled career after all. Obviously, my system works!

I have high hopes for the Bayshore Marathon. It is the site of my reigning PR. It’s largely flat course with only a few rolling hills through certain sections. If the weather is right – it’s on the bay shore and thus open to wind blowing in off the water – it’s a great course for a fast time. Plus, in years past, I’ve had great success in convincing Mrs. Nitmos to go to Hooters post race for beer and wings. I don’t particularly care for the wings but, you know, its Hooters and its fun to watch Mrs. Nitmos deal with all that is Hooters just because she’s trying to be nice about things for my sake. It’s this kind of cashing in on favorable circumstances that make me such a great husband and an overall pleasure to be around.

I’d like to set a new PR in the marathon. This is the Y.A.K. and PR’s are the goal for the next 11 months. I’ve always wanted to qualify for Boston under the non-age graded standard. In other words, a time under 3:11. I’ve qualified twice in the 3:12 range which works for folks like me in the 35-39 age bracket. In fact, the next Boston I can run is April 2011 and this Bayshore would count towards that. Since I would be 40 in April 2011, I really only need a sub 3:21 now to qualify. Hooray for middle age! If no race ending calf cramping, that SHOULD be in the bag. (jinx?)

I think I need to shift my normal training paradigm. I’ve done just enough in the past to qualify but, literally, I’m running on fumes to get to the finish. If you know me at all, this isn’t surprising. I often do just enough to get by. But if I want to do better, I need to shake things up and embrace a new training regimen. I’ve resisted logging extra so-called “junk”miles in the past. It seemed like unnecessary wear and tear on my body when I was able to (barely) reach my goals without it. But now my goals have changed and I need to get faster. Do I need more miles? Do I need more speed work? Do I need more beer served to me by women wearing socks as shirts? I think…Yes and Yes and most definitely Yes.

Since I don’t have Bill Squires sending me work-outs scribbled on restaurant napkins, I’ll put together this training plan – like all the rest – on my own. The bulk of my prior long runs have been in the 15-16 mile range with only 2-3 runs of 20-21 miles before the marathon. I’m going to bump that up to where the bulk of my long runs are in the 17-18 mile range with around 4 long runs in the 20-23 mile range. Plus, I’m going to add a second “medium” distance run a week in the Nitmos-patented Limbo style. The question is whether or not this is enough of a change to shave another 3-4 minutes off my best time. I've kinda stalled out in the 3:12 range with my current plans.

The basic structure will look like this:

Tuesday: 5 miles/speed work/ intervals
Wednesday: 7-10 miles/easy run
Friday: 10 miles/Limbo run
Sunday: 15-23 miles/long run/fartleking through-out

That’s the tentative plan. It has me running about 8-10 miles more per week on average with more speed work at "medium" distances. Considering my life style, kid demands, and general slothfulness, is that enough miles to shave another 3-4 minutes off my PR?

The numbers themselves haven’t been plugged in yet. I’ll get to that….some day.

I still have a week to go.

Happy trails.
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Sunday long run: 11 miles @ medium hard effort of 7:11 pace. 43 degrees!!

Cold.

Mrs. Nitmos and I are bigots. Climate bigots. She hates the cold weather. I hate the wind. When you live in a temperature-challenged climate like Michigan, you learn to appreciate a warm string of days the way Cleveland enjoys a championship sports team. They both come around so rarely that you can hardly believe it when it occurs.

I can deal with the cold. I don’t like it but, for me, it just means another long sleeve race shirt to layer on. Mrs. Nitmos hates the cold. Hates it. She sneers invectives at the thermostat on a daily basis. I’ve found her outside on the patio threatening the thermometer with mercury drainage if it didn’t start rising dramatically. (The kids’ splash pool is right under it so it wouldn't go to waste.)

Nah, the cold isn’t a big deal. I can layer up and run. Zero degrees, 10 degrees, 20 degrees, whatever. That’s why they made winter running gear. Post-run with the sweat chillies, I just throw another broken, ex-racing greyhound in the fire to warm up by rubbing my hands over the crackling bones. -- OK now, before you judge, I feel I should explain. Understand that I’m all about solutions here on F.M.S. Some of you like to focus on problems. I’m sure you’ve heard about this issue. The greyhounds’ racing days are behind them. Used up. What to do with them? Mrs. Nitmos and I are cold. Pop! Light bulb goes off. Send away for some greyhounds! We are warm. I believe that’s called ‘killing two birds with one stone.’* If you don't like it, what are you doing about it? -- No, the cold weather isn’t my thing.

I hate WIND. Yesterday, while many of you were entertaining yourself with the bio of Rocko the thong artist, I escaped for another 7 mile lunch hour run. It was a Michigan-pleasant 30 degrees…until you turned into the wind. Then the icy, wind-aided, needles cut through my North Face jacket and long sleeve thermal sub layer. Penetrated my stretchy band toned exterior and roared through my torso and out the back like a soul-ripping poltergeist. I felt like I was running through a swimming pool as every step was labored and resistant. The wind brings my climate bigotry to the fore where it erupts in profane climate Tourette’s. “G** d*** wind!” “Motherf*cker!” “I hate the f*ckin’ wind!” All of these were shouted as the wind blasts battered me from the front. The cursing swept away to the tender ears and shocked faces in the three school zones I passed.

Starting February 1st, I’ll begin my official training plan for the Bayshore Marathon (though I haven’t created it yet). Half of the training will be done in less than optimal temperatures. All of it will be in less than optimal wind patterns. Around here, springtime is merely a cauldron of swirling winds that, no matter which direction you turn, seem to somehow STILL be head on.

This is a way of life in these parts. Deal with the cold. Deal with the wind. Often, deal with both. If you want to run, there’s no sense complaining. Just suck it up and do it.

Besides, you can always throw another greyhound on the fire when you get back. Heck, even two. Believe me, you can get more than one in. That’s why God made broomsticks after all.

Happy trails.

*Or ‘two greyhounds with one poker’, whichever you prefer.

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For those concerned, rest assured that no greyhounds were actually harmed during the creation of this post. It’s plenty warm in here and has been for the last half hour. I don’t support cruelty to animals. Never have. Never will. I have a dog of my own and she is terrific (if not slightly flammable.) Pets are to be loved and enjoyed. I encourage each of you to find your own methods to fuel your furnace and also help solve a critical crisis like greyhound abandonment. It was through trial and error that I discovered greyhound combustibility in the first place. (FYI: Hamsters are like dried leaves. No good.)
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7 miles @ easy 7:00 pace. This weekend, plan for 11 miles. Maybe 12. We'll see.

Rocko

I have to admit that I wanted to get another post out here as soon as possible. That photo in my last post is increasingly giving me the willies. I don’t mind if it gives you the willies but me? That will not do. We are all into German thong erotica, I know, but there’s an essence in that photo that leaps off the page and threatens to haunt our dreams. Besides, it took me several months to pry the eastern European traffic off of this blog when I posted a picture of someone with Hello Kitty band-aids on his nipples back in 2008. Well, welcome back eastern Europeans!

I think my favorite part of that photo – and we all have a favorite part, no? – is the interesting choices the photographer made. It’s almost as if he said “Rocko, we are going to take some chances here today. Nothing is TOO embarrassing for you. Your humiliation can know no bounds. What I’m after is for the straps to sling over your shoulder as if they were tree branches and you jumped into a Speedo from a higher branch and are hanging there with an increasingly violent wedgie all the while sporting a mustache and an indifferent ‘come hither’ gaze.” Almost there! Work it…work it. Now tilt your head and pretend you don’t look totally ridiculous. Got it! Click.

At first, I thought it was just a creepy, funny picture of an old dude. But now I’m starting to see the photographer’s vision here. Notice how the thong straps run just outside of the areaola and the watch face points directly at the camera. The straps could have easily concealed the mipples…but didn’t. Why? It’s almost as if the photographer is forcing us to confront our inhibitions by juxtaposing them with the constantly moving watch hand, or “time”. We may get older…we may start doing things we regret to pay our rent at the retirement village…but we are never comfortable with an elderly man in a thong wedgie gazing suggestively at a camera. No matter the time. No matter the era. There’s a lot of layers of seductiveness in that photo. Ladies, feel free to peel them back and analyze. Plus, as an added bonus, if you stare at it long enough, it works like the video from the movie The Ring but, in this case, your soul merges with Rocko’s thong and becomes part of the thong-soul-quilt. Get your reservations in early, I suggest, or you might not get a good seat, if you know what I mean.

But this IS a running blog so I guess we should turn our attention away from disturbing seniors with ass floss and to the sport we all know and love. To that end, my five miler yesterday was the most carefree of the early year. A thaw has melted most of the running paths around here. Very little ice. I started at 7:18 pace and worked down mile by mile to a 6:32 pace before calling it a day. It was so nice to run without Yaktrax and without multiple layers that I just might go out for 6-7 more miles today too.

The uncharacteristically mild weather lately has made me dream of an early spring. Of blooming flowers and runs in shorts sans hat and gloves. Of dehydration and long run calve cramping. In short, a chance for me to break out my purple Speedo and run free again.

Guten Tag!

I is Old

I don’t have one of those cute cat pictures from wherever those cute cat pictures come from to illustrate my subject line. I’m sure there is one out there for “I is Old” in the land of hilarious cats with subject-verb disagreement line tags. I’m just way too lazy to look one up. So, deal with this instead:

Should you accessorize this with a watch?

For whatever reason, every January and February I become seasonally old. The other months of the year I feel exactly my age. After the new year turns however, I start limping around and groaning with every knee bend and finger twitch. The aches and pains just don’t go away. Every morning, my finger joints are sore. No kidding. I haven’t had sore finger joints since I was thirteen and Madonna released a new video. (ba dum dum) My knees are tender. My shoulder is still strained from a stretchy band related accident 6 weeks ago. Kids are listening to entirely inappropriate music these days. And why are their pants hanging so low? And who ate my oat bran? And what time is Murder, She Wrote on?

This would be a good time to make a classless Alzheimer’s joke too. But, I won’t. Instead, I’ll ask a simple question: How many of you know someone who calls Alzheimer’s disease “Old Timers”? Seriously, is it so hard to get the disease name right that it has to be twisted to a like sounding, stereotypical slang? My boss giggles and says “Oops, I forgot about that….must have Old Timers” about once every meeting. To which, I roll my eyes, press my finger on the mute and mock her by saying "It’s Alzheimer’s, dumbass" and thank Wilford Brimley that she’s several states away. And my mute button works.

Anyhow, I forgot what I was going to say. I have a vague recollection but can’t quite remember…

So what’s with the seasonal old disorder? Or S.O.D.* Do any of you experience this phenomenon? Maybe it’s unique to us cold weather states. I wake up and just about every joint I use for exercise (and some I don’t….huh?huh? is this thing on? rimshot please) is achy and/or swollen. Since my office is in my basement, two painful, limping, stair rail propping descents of the staircase are in order before I can begin my day. I take a deep breath and look at those stairs like my grandparents must have looked at my low riding car when I came to take them to the bank to sign over their social security checks. Like, there’s no way I’m coming back from down there. (Or getting those groceries he promised.)

As the day wears on, the joints loosen up and my S.O.D. retreats. Usually, by the fifth hilarious one-liner from Will Smith at Carlton’s expense, I’m feeling pretty spry and I can ascend one flight back up to the break room** for some coffee with minimal groaning and only partial rail leaning. In fact, by evening, I feel 38 again. But the next day, I again wake up geriatric and increasingly bitter. It’s like Groundhog Day but Mrs. Nitmos is way better looking than Andie McDowell.

Maybe it’s the cold weather. My body is telling me to take a break during winter. But I’m telling it that I want to get a jump start on this coming May’s marathon so it will run on those frozen over sidewalks and do the slippy dance across those ice patches. It will stretchy band and crunch away every evening. I missed out on registering for Boston 2010 but I will not miss out on Boston 2011. If my nemesis can run with replaced knees, I can certainly run through S.O.D. It will not beat this fella.

There’s six weeks to go until the end of the cold and S.O.D. calendar here in my part of the world. Approximately 20-25 runs. Approximately 25-30 doses of Biofreeze. About 50 Advils. And another 36+ servings of bifidus regularis in my morning yogurt. Magically, as the temperature climbs, I’ll again return to my normal physical age. Mentally, of course, I’ll still be the sophomoric, vulgar blogger more appropriate for someone half my age and without kids. But, mind you, I do the judging around here and not you.

March will free me from my S.O.D. so I can pursue, pain-fee, my Y.A.K. during this YotA! WTF? LOL, that’s a lot of acronyms. Now, it’s time to end this post and push Publish and ascend the stairs, slowly and painfully, like a man in his 60’s. Its times like these that I ask, what would Brimley do? WWBD?

He’d enjoy his morning BM.

And I will too.

Once I get up these blasted stairs. Brimley help me, that’s a long ways to go…Never mind. Too late.

Hon, I need my "accident towel" down here. /shouts up stairs

Happy trails.

*Yes, 2010 with be the year of the acronym! Or YotA, for short.
** kitchen
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This Week In Running (TWIR) notes:

5 miles, 6.5 miles, 10.1 miles and 5 miles again all outside, no Yaktrax! But no speed intervals either. So sad.

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A few of you inquired if that was really Dick Beardsley that commented on my last post. I have no way of knowing for sure. I'll let you know when I receive the lawsuit as I believe each incidence of slander would be itemized. In the meantime, I'm preparing as I just finished reading Duel in the Sun and I'm currently into Staying The Course: A Runner's Toughest Race. Know thy enemy.

Life On The Puke Threshold

Special thanks to Viper for bringing this delightful phrase into being.

He stood on the edge, toes curled over the precipice looking down into the abyss. The waves, gurgles and rumbles came from his abdomen….

Yesterday I bundled up in my North Face running jacket, running pants, hat, gloves and Yaktrax covered Asics for a typical midweek lunch hour run. It’s easy for me to run during my lunch hour for that is when Yes, Dear is on and that is not much to miss.

The footing was unsteady. Each stride sunk back about two inches in the partially packed, over-plowed sidewalk snow. It was like loose beach sand. The Yaktrax did their job. I did not slip even a step over the 5 mile course. I did, however, sink backwards slightly with each stride. Garmin (p.b.t.n.) did not do its job. It did not record the extra distance I needed to make up from each slight retreat. I must have run at least 5 ¼ miles…maybe even 10. Who can really tell what with all the negative distance being racked up?

The sun was reflecting brightly off the sea of winter white as I passed the dormant golf course. It was as beautiful as something that burns your retina to the point where you can only make out hazy objects surrounded by a celestial aura could be. I don’t wear sunglasses. Why you ask? Would you ask Matthew McConaughey to put on a shirt? Would you suggest James Earl Jones use a voice box?

I trudged through the sandy snow recording my worst minute per mile pace in well over a year. Time did not matter. This was about battling the forces of nature. I’m not one given to hyperbole, as you know, but the thought occurred that the climbers on Everest might have it rough during the annual May ascent but they are walking. I was running. Scoreboard.

Sometimes when I run, especially when my retinas have been destroyed and I’m left to blindly listen and guess at the safety to cross an intersection, I imagine myself running against an imaginary foe. My imaginary friends cheer me on from the sideline. I’m amazingly fast in my imagination. My lungs are fueled by the wind created by a 1000 flapping angels. My heart pounds with the proud, rhythmic beat of a Chippewa tribal ceremony. My legs still flail in this crazy distinctive high knee kick I seem to do. Even an imagination isn’t perfect.

When the last mile approached, I kicked it in. Damn the loose snow. My shadow lies in front pointing the way to the finish. I have just finished reading Duel in the Sun so how could I not imagine Alberto Salazar breathing down my neck. I realize this ironically put me in the role of Dick Beardsley but, in my imagination, I was a more cooler, less monstrous version. I could not see Salazar’s shadow but I knew he was there.

I sped up. Heart pounding with the insistent, climatic beat of the Ojibway ritual. Angel wind expelling from my mouth in gasping huffs. Snow flinging behind me from the Yaktrax. Half mile to go….quarter mile to go…just a little further….

A feeling of nauseousness started in my stomach. The undulating waves crept up my chest and into the back of my throat…

Like Beardsley, I gave into the unseen shadow. Salazar won. Again. I pulled back and jogged the last 1/10th of a mile to the edge of my driveway. The cold air had made me dizzy and asthmatic. (Beware of breathing too much angel!) The blinding sun made me lightheaded. The shifting snow had worn the calve muscles. The last mile, in 6:50, had nearly carried the day. Nearly.

I sucked in a long, slow drag of crisp winter air and pushed back the rolling, choking sickness that had tried to fight its way out. I backed away from the threshold. I’ll see you again another day, another run.

Happy trails.
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Yaktrax! 5.0 miles at a winter handicapped 7:41 pace.

P.S. I’m so glad I restrained myself from over dramatizing a fairly regular five mile run.

Big Arthritis At It Again

I’m not one to demonize a company or industry like the media has done to the harmless tobacco industry by derisively referring to it as “Big Tobacco”. Sure, like tobacco companies are trying to cook up schemes to get people hooked on their product. Riiiight. There’s no dastardly villain here twirling a mustache between drags of Virginia’s finest puffed through the skull-pipe of a recently drowned kitten. I went to a tobacco company once and they were so nice they gave me the first hit cigarette for free! So stop all of this industry bashing by using the “Big (insert industry name)” tomfoolery you Big Jerks.

No, I won’t participate in careless generalized name-calling and aspersion casting.

But I was leafing through the Daily Finance as I normally do in my free time (when my issue of Sexy Calves and Bodacious PR’s is running late) when I ran across this article ("Do Running Shoes Make Us Run The Risk of Injury?") about how our running shoes are gulp! dangerous for us to wear. A study by some eggheads with high falutin “college degrees” claims that:

Overall, the study finds that while today's running shoes do a good job of protecting the foot, wearing them dramatically increases pressure in three lower-extremity joints -- the hip, knee and ankle -- when compared to running barefoot. For example, researchers note that wearing running shoes while running leads to an average 54% increase in what's called hip internal rotation torque, pressure that may increase the risk of osteoarthritis in the hip joint.

It goes on to say in all of its fancy multisyllabic words that:

With all the runner's out there -- the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics says more than 7% of the U.S. population regularly runs for exercise -- the increased potential for osteoarthritis is a big concern. There's no cure for the degenerative joint disease, the most common form of arthritis, which costs about $186 billion a year in the U.S. to treat.

In other words, our running shoes are literally giving us arthritis. I read this article and was shocked. I even did a spit take with subsequent mouth agape drooling to emphasize my level of shockedness for Mrs. Nitmos. I immediately started feeling sheepish – maybe even full scale lambish – since I’ve spent a lot of time encouraging relatives to run or, at the very least, use running shoes as regular footwear due to their comfort. I was a pawn, an unwitting shill, for Big Arthritis.

I felt used…like an empty bottle of Viagra.*

All this time, I’ve been fitting to a nice comfortable running shoe to lessen the impact to my joints. I’ve been conscience of biomechanics. I’ve openly mocked non-runners for their arthritic joints merely by running past their houses with my non-arthritic hip joints swinging easily (and seductively I might add). No wonder they always shouted “Dumbass!” at me. No wonder they threatened to “run me down with their car if I ever shit on their lawn again.”

They were trying to help me. To warn me of the dangers running is doing to my joints. In sum, to awaken me to the threat from Big Arthritis. I run. I get arthritis. Big Arthritis sells me expensive drugs to ease the pain. I’m hooked. You’re hooked. We’re all hooked on arthritis.

All of these thoughts flooded through me as I continued reading the article….until I came to the end:

One person who might be eager to talk to Brooks is Kerrigan herself. The mom of three daughters, who are also runners, is working on a shoe design that she says better responds to the natural movement of walking and running...Kerrigan isn't the only one looking to reinvent the running shoe...(emphasis added by me)

Ok. Sooooo the study from the person trying to reinvent and market a new running shoe concludes that current running shoe designs cause arthritis.

I’m not going to cast aspersions – I hate that after all – but maybe, just maybe, Big Arthritis is being set up as a faux villain to jolt runners into accepting an entirely new footwear design?

Game on. I await your move Big Shoe.

Happy trails.

*from Big Penis.

2010 in Preview: Year of the Ass Kicker

No, this is not another lame-o Year in Review. Yawn. How prosaic. We look forward here at F.M.S. Our eyes are always on the destination not the travel worn path. When we drive a car, we look at the road ahead not the rear view mirror. When running a race, my eyes follow the course yet-to-come not the courses past. Sometimes, mid-paragraph, we even switch from a plural voice to a singular voice hoping you’ll buy into this as some sort of dramatic mass movement rather than the declaration of an unusually handsome guy sitting in his basement with a computer trying to avoid work which his employer expects him to be doing rather than writing inane run-on sentences with so many editorial errors and unexpected and completely inappropriate ellipses and parentheses ()appearing without explanation in the middle…of a sentence that appears to have no ending so I just…keep typing and typing until we feel the point has been made and we can no longer continue switching speaking voices the way he has been doing without really pissing everyone off. To summarize, my “preview” is better than your “review” because it has a “p” in front of the word review.*

Apparently, I’m jonesing. I need more chipmunk.**

I don’t care that the official animal this year for the Chinese New Year (beginning Feb. 14th) is the Tiger. Tigers are cool. In fact, they’rrrrre GREAT! It’s not the year of the llama so I’m good with whatever. As long as the llamas don’t get a year…

I don’t follow the Chinese New Year animal designations anyhow. Their animals have a lot of lead in them, from what I’ve heard, which makes them unsafe for children and, let’s face it, too heavy for runners. Runners, and their race gear, are notoriously lead-free.

For me, 2010 is the Year of the Ass Kicker. The Ass Kicker is a lead-free, fire-veined being with overly sensitive nipples and a vague aroma of spaghetti and Alberto VO5 Strawberry Essence. He shits fruit and arm wrestles mannequins to a near draw. He can shoot-the-moon at least once every five games in Hearts because no one noticed that he passed off his low hearts and loaded up on spades. He is modest and empathetic to all but believes everyone else is inferior and should stay the fuck out of his way with their stupid problems. He runs races to set PRs. In short, he kicks ass by going all out in training and racing in the little time he has to devote to each activity.*** If you match any of these characteristics, you might be an Ass Kicker too.

If you are still with me, this is the Y.A.K (Year of the Ass Kicker, if you weren’t paying attention). Fitting, I think, since the yak is a form of bovine and my running team is called the Steers, a castrated bovine. Plus, according to the Wikipedia entry linked here, the yaks “dried dung is an important fuel.” Word. I’ve been using that for years.****

In the Y.A.K., I vow to:

· Refine my training by adding a day of running each week and detailing my currently haphazard approach to speed work.
· Set a new marathon PR. I’ll run more miles during training than ever before.
· Break 18 minutes in the 5k.
· Sign up for an ultra marathon.
· Race more.
· Sign up for a team relay event with friends/family. The last relay was a lot of fun!
· Not give in to easy excuses to skip a run or cut short some intervals.
· Approach the Puke Threshold many, many times. My toes will feel at home curled over the edge.

Basically, I want to make 2010 my best year running ever! Here’s where I’m at inside the Nitmos noggin: The Greek statue of Ares may not change over time but the American chiseled Nitmos does. Homeboy here is turning 39 and my left knee and right shoulder are letting me know that recovery time is counted in weeks (even months) rather than days. I’m going to war this year with running races. (queue Rocky theme) Time for me to lift an elderly trainer and drunk uncle in a giant wheel barrel, grow a fantastic beard, and outrun a Mercedes full of cold war era villains. (end Rocky theme)

Going forward (queue non-threatening muzak Michael Bolton), 2011 and beyond may be about running for fun more and running for PR’s less. So, I want to make this a highlight year. One I can recount to grand kids some day as they nurse my destroyed knees and change my colostomy bag (I eat lots of fiber!)

You, too, can join me and become a YAK. Let’s lock horns and make 2010 the best year ever! By years end, those that take on the YAK challenge may find themselves honorary members of the Steers Long Distance Project…after we cut your nuts off*****, of course.

Happy trails.

Oh, sorry…(end Michael Bolton).

*This applies to many situations. Isn’t being “phat” better than being a “hat”? I thought so.
**I feel foolish sitting here with a rubber tube tied around my arm bulging the veins and no chipmunk. If I had a nickel…
***Also, he seems to have a penchant for run-on sentences and overly descriptive, nonsensical definitions of imaginary beings that no one reading this cares about. In fact, he feels the need to continue the description in a footnote that no one reads anyhow except AFTER reading the enter blog entry which, by now, makes this footnote make no sense whatsoever.
****Pre-run, with oatmeal.
*****Or remove your ovaries, whichever applies.
__________________________________________

Recent work-outs:

YakTrak Tuesday = 5 miles
YakTrak Thursday = 6.5 miles
Treadmill Sunday = 9.5 miles

Shame Cycle

I have a confession. I’m not proud of it. In fact, no one would blame you if, after reading it, you immediately jumped out of this blog and deleted F.M.S. from your (priority) reader. Even having to type this makes me feel dirty and shameful like the first time I read Half-Fast. Ready? Here goes:

I paid real cash money to see Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel.

If the first step is admitting you have a problem, well then, at least that’s through. When do I have to call all my relatives and friend (acquaintance, really) and make amends? Most of my relatives like to shoot things with various weapons (or suffocate a skunk by filling a covered cage with exhaust fumes from an ATV – true story I just heard over the holidays. Merry Christmas!) If I explained to them that I paid money to see Alvin and some chipmunks, they’d probably respond “Like from a blind or something?” And then drink more Blatz and continue being completely visible in camouflage.

Maybe I’ll skip amend making.

And here’s where it gets worse. Two years ago I innocently paid real cash money to take the kids to the FIRST Alvin and the Chipmunks. No one could blame me then, right? New movie. Theoretically, it could have been good. It wasn’t (of course). I wanted to claw my eyes out 30 minutes in. I remember leaving the theater that evening in 2007 and saying to Mrs. Nitmos that I would never, ever see another one of those stupid movies. Not on DVD. Not on TV. Not, God forbid, a sequel.

But there I was last Saturday paying hard earned money once again. In fact, I compounded the problem by paying real cash money – not just for our family – but for two of the kids’ friends as well. Their parents must have shut the door on us after child pick-up and slide down the door howling with laughter. Suckers! But paybacks are hell. I’ll make sure they take MY kids to this future abomination.

As the lights dimmed and the little squealing chipmunks appeared on the screen (prompting my first waves of nausea and regret), I settled back and mentally reviewed my year in running and prospects for 2010. An addict often blacks out at the height of their addiction. This is as close as I was going to get. Between internal 2009 reminiscences and 2010 planning, I was interrupted only once by a 45 year old man laughing hysterically when one of the chipmunks performed a dutch oven on his guardian. Funny. Not the movie, of course, but that a man that age could actually find that funny. Everyone knows that dutch ovens stop being funny after the age of 35.

The six hour long “movie” finally ended. I managed to feel my way back out to the car, which was considerably difficult what with the two 8 inch ling forks sticking out of my eyes. I vaguely recall jabbing them in somewhere around the 20 minute point.

I’ve seen two of these horrific creations. I fear that I’m stuck in a shame cycle. If they make another, will I go? I hate them but apparently my body needs them. I’m addicted to bad chipmunk related movies. Why, oh why, couldn’t I have become addicted to the designer vampire drug? My supply would be bountiful. Instead, I’ll probably need to wait two more years for more chipmunk.* The real disappointing part of this particular addiction is that I don’t have hilarious stories about running down a highway naked or throwing up on a salad bar to bring some color to the experience. I’m left with flat jokes and thin plot development and that's all.

Some of you have survived strenuous marathons, physically exhausting ultra marathons, demanding triathlons…I have seen two Alvin and the Chipmunk movies. I believe I have demonstrated my superior endurance.

Hi, my name is Nitmos. I’m an Alvinholic. It’s been five days since I last used…

Happy trails.

* And the street value of chipmunk is astronomical. Especially in winter when the supply is low.

The Gift of Unrestrained Violence

I didn’t have time to create another classic holiday themed, Nitmos related Christmas song for you folks like I did last year. I’m sure you went ahead and did one on your own this year right? Right? Maybe “Nitmos the Runman” or “Nitmos is Runnin’ to Town” or “Silent Nitmos”? The last one would be the most appropriate. Things have been silent around here lately. I won’t make excuses. Let’s just agree that you’re to blame and move on.

I’ve spent the last two weeks in a wine-addled state of semi-consciousness. This time of year, rum is my usual intoxicant of choice. I find it goes with everything – particularly well with black outs. Not sure why but I got a taste for the grapes awhile back and I’ve been dumping Merlots and Cabernets and Chiantis done my gullet like a dehydrated marathoner. If they made wine flavored Gu CHOMPS, I believe I’d eat those too. Mrs. Nitmos made me agree to stop using up our mini Solo cups by pouring a dozen or so an inch full of J. Lohr Cabernet and, every trip into the kitchen, throwing one back down my throat and the other over my head, crinkling both cups, and tossing them onto the floor for the volunteers* to pick up.

Winos are funny. Who didn’t think Grady from Sanford and Son was hilarious? Good Goobley Goo! I remember him rubbing the booze onto his gums with his finger when he could only get a drop from the bottle. What a lush! But, let me tell you, it works. Swab the inside of that nearly dry bottle of Dynamite Merlot with your index finger and brush those last few drops onto your gums. Grady was a wise, wise man.

As the days have turned to weeks and different flavored aromatic bottles have passed by my lips, I have had time to consider my place in life. Literally, I believe I’m one foreclosure notice and used appliance box away from being officially labeled a wino. Instead, I’m just the eccentric dude that never leaves his house except to scuffle across the street in slippers to retrieve the mail. Or run.

Last evening I was about 3 glasses into a Cabernet as I surveyed the wreckage of my living room following another Christmas day: toys still in their packaging, remains of wrapping paper tucked into corners, empty wine bottles turned into pencil holders by the kids. My filly was playing with some iCarly figurines Santa had brought her. Their heads are interchangeable with the bodies so that the girls can wear different outfits. Only, the toy came with four torsos but only two heads. Quickly, my filly turned this into a decapitation/zombie game in which the headless torsos starting coming after the iCarly’s with heads and ripping them from their torsos.

Then, my unfocused eyes moved over to my colt busy playing a PS3 game on the TV. He received the new Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 game. He’s only (nearly) 12 but apparently Santa thought he could handle the mature subject matter. Between vino gulps, I watched as he gleefully shot up an airport full of civilians, throwing grenades, shooting up luggage, pumping a few extra rounds into an already bullet riddled corpse. Later, he called in an air strike on a Burger Town restaurant.

Watching my kids act out violence with their Christmas playthings as I drifted into a alcohol-induced haze, I couldn't have been prouder. This is what fathering is all about.

Santa is funny. In this time of peace and joy and goodwill towards men, he brought my house the gift of unrestrained violence. I’m not a pacifist but neither am I a war hawk. If this was the 60’s, I’d probably be at the flower power demonstrations but I wouldn’t be placing daisies into the barrels of rifles. I’d be there for the party only, listening to music, layering venereal diseases, and verbally condemning The Man, man. Fortunately, one of my strongest character traits is disassociation. While leaning towards peacenikery, I can simultaneously celebrate my colt’s successful destruction of a burger joint with a high five. Watching my filly’s headless figurines haunt the headfull, I’m merely reminded of the guillotine in A Tale of Two Cities. Disassociation: It’s what I do best.

My orgy of Roman-themed grape swilling will be coming to an end soon. Some friends will be coming by to raise some glasses, rat-a-tat a few unfriendlies with a thermal scope assault rifle, and welcome in 2010 on NYE. After New Year’s, I’ll leave the wine behind and return to being the modest, lovable, non-wino Nitmos you all revere.

Until then, Happy New Year! I will drink a toast to each person who comments!**

*Apparently, the “volunteers” aren’t quite as volunteery as I thought. Plus, I’ve never had an actual race volunteer call me a “stupid, drunk, sonofabitch.” As far as I know.
** Oh, who am I kidding? I’ll be drinking whether you comment or not. Frankly, you've all received about a half dozen toasts each by now anyhow.

What Inspires YOU?

If you are in the upper half of the U.S. (or all of Canada), it’s getting cold. Races are fewer and farther between. You find yourself checking the thermometer for apparel requirements and considering if Yaktraks are appropriate (they are). It’s the unofficial off season. Your next race is probably still a whole season away.

So, what now?

This is the time of year to take some internal assessment of where you are at as a runner and where you want to go. Reflect on 2009 and plan for 2010. And eat too much cheese.

I haven’t finalized my thoughts on 2009 yet. It feels incomplete somehow. I ran only one marathon and it was a non-competitive fun run. I had planned so many other races that, for one reason or another, never came to fruition. The new web site I had hoped to launch? Still a collection of scribbled ideas sitting under my employers more pressing work demands. Register for Boston? Didn’t do it and now it’s no longer possible. 2009 was a good running year for me in the sense that I enjoyed the work-outs, fine tuned my weekly training regimen, and developed a greater understanding of what my body can and cannot handle at 38 years.

But races? Not much to show except a PR in the 5k and Half Marathon. Nice but I expected more challenges, more opportunities to test myself.

So, as I forge onward into winter running in long pants, hats and gloves, I look forward to a more definitive 2010. More races and results that reflect my level of training. Also, more FUN.

First, we have to get to 2010. There’s long, cold nights to deal with. The temptation is powerful to leave the Asics in the closet when the thermometer reflects sub 20 degrees. What I do now does matter though. These are important weeks. Important miles. I don’t want to backslide. Neither is it necessary to move speed and distance to a higher level right now. Maintain, maintain, maintain. Make 2009 count.

Times like these, you need to find inspiration from wherever you can. Articles in Runner’s World or a good book (I really liked The Perfect Mile). This is a good time to hook up with another runner to cajole each other out the door when it is too easy to say ‘not today.’ Whether it is the goal time at a spring race or just the desire to hold your current fitness level, find some way to become inspired.

I recently found inspiration from an unusual and unexpected source. As I’ve mentioned before, I coach my daughter’s second grade girls soccer team. After the official outdoor season, most of them continued on with me to an indoor season. Unfortunately, we were the only group of U8’ers (8 and under) that signed up. The girls had to play U9 and U10 teams. On top of that, these teams were not “recreational” like ours (U8 only plays rec league in our area) but competitive travel teams filled with girls committed to the sport through hours of practice. We were up against it, for sure. A win looked unlikely. How would they handle the inevitable lopsided losses?

Sure enough, the girls’ first two games did not go well at all. The losses were ugly. They stopped keeping score at some point in the first half (once one team goes up by 8 or more). But, then something happened. Even in the first two losses, our team fought hard to the final minute. They never gave up. They came back to the bench still smiling and ready for more.

In the third game, another loss, the score was kept the entire way. A loss….but closer. The following week, they would play the same team on back-to-back days. The first game ended with yet another loss, 8-0, but it was their best effort yet. Long periods of the game went by with even play. The little U8’ers, at an obvious size and experience disadvantage, were playing even with the dedicated U9/U10 team for increasingly longer stretches. The next day brought the same team. But this time the score was tied 7-7 with about eight minutes to go. A few late goals by the other team ended the upset bid but our girls were excited. They were working hard and seeing results.

The season just concluded. There is no magical fairy tale ending. They lost every game. However, after getting beaten soundly in the first two games, the team improved a little bit each week until the other teams had to really fight to win the game. I couldn’t have been more proud. They played hard. They had fun. It was a great experience.

Ultimately, the team benefited from taking the focus off the big picture: The scoreboard. Instead, we worked on little things. We worked on getting our non-attacking defenseman positioned correctly every time. When we had that, we worked on the forwards more quickly closing the gaps when the other team’s defense was trying to move the ball. Pieces and parts of the game. Bite-sized portions. The girls felt like they were having success even when the scoreboard reflected otherwise.

I’ve taken a lot from the experience to apply to my own training. I tend to focus on my time goal for a race while training. Sometimes it seems daunting and almost de-motivating. I’m going to start focusing on the smaller pieces that will lead to the big picture time goal. How can I modify my training plan to align to the race goal? Instead of 6 x 800’s, maybe I’ll do 8 x 400 just to mix things up. Can I shave a few seconds from each 400 or 800 lap? Maybe I need to hydrate more and earlier during a marathon to help fight the late race cramping. There are parts of our training that come together to form the whole race day results.

My daughter’s team found a way to be successful outside of the normal constraints imposed by the win-loss record. A positive attitude. Small improvements in specific areas. The courage to take on the challenge.

It’s not about the TIME. It’s about what you do to get there. I’ve found some inspiration to keep me going during these cold days and dark evenings.

I hope you find yours.

Happy trails.

Randumbery VIII

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.

Banned On The Run

…Now with 96% Less Handsome!

There is a new Banned On The Run podcast. Go there and hear it now. Do that and you can be just like me! (i.e. Bewildered, confused and wondering what the hell happened…followed by feelings of shame and regret. In other words, like a typical Friday evening with Mickey’s malt liquor.) One thing you won’t hear is me. I took my handsome and didn’t phone in with it. I was too busy using my handsome powers to battle global warming.*

Though I’m not there, the other three do a great job of being….present. I’ve always felt their strongest attribute is attendance. Go hear their attendance! I believe the subject of running is even broached haphazardly on one or two occasions. Matt has promised a $20 gift card for the winner of the podcast contest.

Still thrivin’

Like many others, I also received a free thriv shirt in the mail. I had every intention of writing them a nice review. But then I see that every Tom, Dick, and Ian got one and already wrote a review so, really, what’s the point? However, since they gave me a free shirt, I’m going to at least mention them and link to their site. I might even do it twice.

Here’s a nutshell review. Generally, the first quality I look for in a running shirt isn’t bamboo. That’s what I look for as a torture device when presented with the hands and fingernails of prisoners. ** So, trying to sell me on BAMBOO IN YOUR RUNNING SHIRT! wasn’t as eye grabbing as Marketer McAdman probably originally envisioned. My nipples, upon hearing this proclamation, pulled a full turtle and tried to force a concave areola situation.

However, the shirt is soft. Like obscenely soft. Like I’m-pretty-sure-I-committed-a-sin-with-it soft. Mmmm, soft as a….oops, sorry, I prematurely metaphored.

In sum, it was a cool shirt. Comfortable. Nice to run in. My nipples came out of their shell. However, I’m a big time sweater. If I was a huge fat guy, I’d be the type that sweats when I eat. I already sweat eating Sweettarts. The shirt absorbed the sweat but didn’t really wick it away. So, a few minutes into the run, I have a large ole sweat stain in the middle of my chest. No big deal to me but those that like their sweat to fly off onto the pavement – or person – behind you, you may be outta luck.

Well, there, I guess I did review it after all.

Looking Ahead

Future races! No Boston? No problem. Marathons are like opinions.*** There’s no trouble filling up my dance card. The endless possibilities for 2010 are doing the ‘white man weeble’ inside my head. Bayshore Marathon in May? Yes, please. Perhaps this is the year I do the Dances with Dirt 50k? How about a return trip to Chicago, my favorite city, in October? A runner with a blank calendar and a race schedule is a dangerous thing.

If you are a race and desperately want a special appearance from Nitmos, better get your request in now!

Suck it!

Seriously with the vampire movies. They suck. And they don’t suck blood.****

The Refattening

Usually, this is the time of the year when I begin to rebuild my Cheeto Layer. Halloween always kicks off the cold weather refattening. But, oddly enough, I’m actually in peak running shape right now…with no race on the schedule. Go figure. You’d think 45 mini sized Butterfingers in two weeks would add a pound or two…

* It’s working!
** My weekend volunteer work.
*** Which are like assholes.
**** You need this footnote? They suck ass, okay?

The Basement

So about that blog….

Things have changed around the Nitmos basement.* You may have noticed that I don’t blog much anymore. Maybe it’s the cobwebs and lingering smell of water leaks past rotting my brain. Or maybe it’s the instant access to my extensive cereal collection. Whatever, the ole blog has settled in somewhere south of dog walking and Yes, Dear reruns on the list of work distractions.

In the office, things were beige. And boring. The only link to anything non-work related was the interwebs. Somehow, Blogger had escaped their tight fisted site clamp down. So, being a man incapable of concentrating on anything for longer than 4 ½ minutes at a time, this blog and its compatriots were a perfect match. I make you laugh. I chuckle awkwardly at your feeble attempts to make me laugh. Then, I click away and bound down the distraction superhighway to the next destination all the while surrounded in beige and the distant murmur of interoffice conversation.

But the dynamic has changed now.

The beige is gone. The walls are a shade called “marble pedestal” which, I think, suits me perfectly, no? ** My dog sleeps at my feet as I work. I smell basement mold instead of Cube Farter’s ass burps.***

It’s too quiet in the basement so I’ve taken to flipping on the TV for background noise. The TV is behind me so, unless I twist around, I can’t actually see what is on. But I hear the not-so-distant murmur of flimsy plot development…with a laugh track. The channel of choice? Why TBS, of course. All of the 90’s classics! My new office is filled with Zack, Screech and Slater from Saved By The Bell, The Fresh Prince, Greg and Kim of Yes, Dear, Raymond and his crazy mother that Everybody Loves, The King of Queens and his bitchy wife, and baritone-voiced Bill Kurtis telling me about various American Mysteries (this is on A & E but I’m allowed one channel change.)

Now, through-out the day, I learn valuable life lessons served to me in bite-size comedic one liners lasting no more than 23 minutes….unless Zack drinks and drives, in which case it may require two episodes for us to reach the climatic moral.

In short, what I’m saying is that blogging is no longer my primary time suckage. I run. I dog walk. I eat cereal at odd hours. I listen to bad TV. You’ve all been replaced by Yes, Dear. And you, over there lurking but never commenting, you’ve been replaced by According to Jim. And Vanilla? He’s Robert from Raymond…which makes me Raymond.

Because, as we know, everybody loves Nitmos.

Happy trails.

* office
** If you don’t have an image of me as Discobolus ready to throw, then you haven’t been reading this blog for very long. You have lots of homework.
*** Which is a draw I think. I sometimes miss his game of Guess My Lunch.
_________________________________

Race update. I’m swirling with emotions right now. I’m a cyclone of disappointment and relief. You see, I had every intention of running the 2010 Boston Marathon…in my heart. But my head – and more importantly, my wallet – have been warring over the idea for months. I’ve dumped lots of family cash into running over the last few years and I was hoping to squeeze out one more big expense. If only the mean ole bankers weren’t in charge of the world….

Through apathy, the decision was made for me that I will not be doing Boston next spring. Registration has closed. I’ve known it was coming but I chose inaction. Which is a bit passive aggressive no? So, I’m relieved that the battle within is over. I will save money. My banker will be happy. Disappointed I am (in Yoda speak) at the conclusion. However, I think it’s probably the decision I think is best at this time.

But there will be other years…another Boston down the road.

Contorted Hamlet

It’s getting cold out. Just cold enough where I have to actually give a moments thought to the age old Shakespearean paradox : To short, or not to short. Or something like that.

40 degrees. Constantly. Just chilly enough where you’ll be pretty cold for the first few miles in shorts but pretty warm during the last few miles if you wear pants. What would Hamlet do?* Here’s several reasons, prefaced in the great Hamletian tradition, why I hate cold weather running.

The Slings and Arrows of outrageous bloggers…

I hate putting the wind pants on. First, it covers my legs and, fuck, I got nice man legs. I think a few of the more masculine ladies would even be pretty envious. These babies should be high kicking somewhere on Broadstreet rather than covered in nylon and trapped in heat and sweat on a lonely mid-Michigan road. I don’t care if you think less of me since I dared to suggest that I’d make a terrific show girl. I’m comfortable and confident in my me. Besides, it’s not the fantastic legs that should open me up for scrutiny. It’s the lipstick.

To run, perchance in long pants. Ay, there’s the rub…

Second, I can’t stand the clichéd swish-swish sound of the pant legs as they rub against each other during the initial stages of the run. Probably not a problem for the less developed hamstring set amongst us but, for me, very annoying. Then, half way through, the pants are clinging to your legs with moisture and you entertain thoughts of stripping down right in the middle of the sidewalk and tossing them aside. And then being arrested (again) for indecent exposure.

To grunt and sweat under a weary run…

Third, it’s all about the nipples, man. They get cold when the wind blows head on. I’m not a turtle, little fellas, you can’t come back inside. Stand strong. Stand proud. This time of year reflects my nipple length/mileage inverse relationship. The longer the nipples grow the fewer miles I log. One or the other; you can’t have both. Sure, I’d love to be the guy with one inch nipples knocking out 50 miles per week but it’s not gonna happen. Rage on Midwest fall, rage on. At least give this fella some tassels.

And lose the name of action

Finally, I am a runner. That is what I love. That is what I shall do. Though the thermometer drops, the pants raise, the nipples extend, I will not die by the cold steel sword of winter.

To short, or not to short? It makes no difference. Either way, I’ll be out there running. It’s a simple answer. I will not be deterred. Hamlet, what an indecisive wimp. You can’t make up your mind and then you go swinging swords and flinging poison? Someone has ish-you's.

He wasn’t a runner.

Happy trails.

* Besides stab and/or poison any and every body after a prolonged period of introspection.

The Lunch Runner

First, a brief note on the post title. It is a more clever – and possibly more accurate? – play off the best seller titled The Kite Runner. I wouldn’t call it an homage to that title. More like an improvement. Waiting for my call from Oprah. And a future VH1 Where Are They Now? special. Movie rights? Yes, please.

Today, I’m going to be ‘that guy’. Not the guy with the unshaven face, permanently congealed to Adidas wind pants, walking the dog at all hours of the day. The guy everybody assumes doesn’t have a job and what a lazy sack of llama dung he must be and why does his lovely wife put up with him. And how many days in a row now has he worn those same gray wind pants and maroon sweatshirt?

I’m already THAT guy.*

No, I’m going to be that other guy. The guy running at noon. When others are racing to pick up their McDonald’s fat burger before their lunch hour expires, they’ll pass a certain hirsute runner knocking out a few miles. They’ll think ‘man, I really shouldn’t eat this Mickey D’s’ as they view my majestic stride and mesmerizingly taunt pecs that bounce once – for that is all they need to release their kinetic energy** in one quick snap out the nipple tops – with every foot fall. They’ll shove delicious salty French fried num nums into their holes and console themselves with the incorrect conclusion that, ‘sure, it’s easy for that guy to run. He’s unemployed. He’s one step up from a bum.’

My filly has already called me a hobo. Did I mention this? True story. My first day working from home, in fact. We were heading out the door for the drive to school and she viewed my whiskered chin (that may or may not have had a Frosted Flake shard caught in the lower southeastern quadrant), assemblage of mismatched, well-worn casual wear, and complete lack of time-angst anxiety on my face and innocently asked, “Dad, are you a hobo now? Cuz hobos don’t have jobs.”

I laughed (and immediately decided not to stoop down to retrieve the half-smoked menthol cigarette butt from the sidewalk – what a waste, right?) and explained to her the complex corporate financial maneuverings that led to the path in which daddy doesn’t shave or shower anymore. I’m not unemployed…I’m just de-officed, I concluded. She smiled – what a sweet condescending smile – and asked to be dropped off two blocks from school. Which was fine. I had kicked a rock next to the cigarette butt in an effort to conceal it during my corporate dynamic dissertation and was eager to retrieve it. Another bewindpanted Dad was walking his dog with a full beard (!) in the area at the time and that unemployed sonofabitch was not going to get it if I could help it.

Soon I’ll be lacing up for my inaugural lunch run. I’ll run by offices. I’ll run across busy intersections with folks hurrying to various business appointments. I’ll run by schools where my filly’s friends will ask ‘Is that your dad?’ and she’ll respond ‘No, that’s just some hobo I think.’ I’ll smile and wave as she turns and cries in humiliation.

I’ll do five or six miles. Just long enough to load up 15-20 emails to my Inbox. I’ll return sweaty and satisfied with full intentions to shower. But I better check the emails first. One leads to another and another and, before long, the sweat has dried and the nostrils don’t even recognize the stank. What’s the point of cleaning up now? Time to pick up the kids from school.

Back into the wind pants. Another day done.

I’m the lunch runner. I have a job though it doesn’t appear that I do. I exist in my own little world adjacent, but isolated, from everyone else….from normal societal hygiene customs. There are two types of people in the world: Those that wear wind pants to work and everyone else.

The lunch runners wear the wind pants. We may look and smell like hobos but we are not. We run on our lunch hour because we can. We don’t shower afterwards because we don’t have to.

I’m THAT guy.

Happy trails.

* I was explaining my new home-work dynamic to another soccer dad at my son’s practice the other day and he said “I wondered why you haven’t been shaving.” Yes, yes, it has begun.
** You loose pec'ed, slow nippled folks would require 3-4 bounces at a minimum.

Summer of Speed II Post Mortem

Seeing as the fall leaves are committing suicide by the handfuls outside my window leaving my lawn looking like a scene from Jonestown, I guess I should take the time to wrap up my Summer of Speed 2 (SOS2). At least, before it snows.

Now I have an awful habit of making fun of things that should not be made fun of. This might explain why I’m sitting in my home working by myself in a job that requires very little actual human interaction. Isolation! Maybe it’s not a coincidence. So, before we go any further, I promise not to fill this post full of off color Jonestown references. Not Guyana do it.

I am here to review my Summer of Speed 2 goals set back in May when a big, wide, never-ending world of summer was at my doorstep. The summer was my fartlek. I’d pet it and feed it and dress it up in funny sailor outfits and walk it around with a big red balloon and an ice cream cone. You know, normal stuff.

Now, as I look back at my goals and results, I have a sweet but slightly acrid and burning taste in my mouth. Like I just drank some Cherry Kool-Aid with….never mind.

Results? Mixed.

Rhetorical questions? At least one more.

Numbers? Of course, numbers:

SOS2 Goals:

5k goal: 18:00
10k goal: 40:00 (and run my first one ever!)
Half-Marathon goal: 1:29 (and competitively race my first one ever!)

Recorded Times:

5k result: 18:22 (new PR but goal not met) FAIL
10k result: 40:24 (auto PR but goal not met) FAIL
Half-Marathon result: 1:28:53 (auto PR) PASS!

I realize those big red FAILs make the results look very Viperian in nature. But, I have to be honest. I set a PR in all three distances (two are auto PR’s though) but did not meet my goal in 2 of the 3. If I’m allowed one more rhetorical question, why?

[Serious paragraph portion of this post]
FAILure resulted from trying to reach two many disparate goals all at the same time. My training got a bit muddled as one run I was working on my 5k speed, the next run had me focused on the half-marathon, and a third run had me fartleking like a motherfartleker for no obvious reason. I think I stretched myself too thin (something that, if you knew me, would seem impossible) trying to obtain three unique goals all at once. My half-marathon goal was met. I believe my 10k goal would be in serious jeopardy if I ran one again tomorrow (the only result was from May just after announcing the SOS2) judging by leg #2 (6.2 miles) of the Detroit Marathon relay which saw me finish in 39:55 after a 6 mile “warm-up.” However, can’t count it. The point is, the only goal I still don’t feel good about is the 5k goal of sub 18 minutes. Attempting to go from 18:30 to below 18 minutes on only one day of speed work a week was a bit unrealistic. I’m smack dab in the middle of the Laws of Diminishing Returns when it comes to running. I don’t see big improvement gains any more. Instead, the time rock moves only a small amount and only after much straining and grunting and 2-4 sports hernias. I’ll take the PR and keep working at it with the realization that, for a 38+ year old dude with a full time job, two kids, and the weight of being Handsome in America weighing on his shoulders, it may take awhile to get there.
[/End serious paragraph portion of this post]

I’ll spend the winter going over my SOS2 strategy detailed in my patented 22 step process LQ8TMLRARMEMCATMGFMRRK. Maybe I missed a step? I don’t remember fighting a bear (step #18) but I did get into a slap fight with an ornery blue jay. Could that be it?

It’s grade time. Last year I received Pi. This year, a Lethal Weapon 2.

Mildly successful but ultimately forgettable

Until next year, consider the SOS complete. I may still jump into a race before the end of the year (I got my eye on a pretty little 10k in early December, for example.) In 2010, I may need to mix up my training regimen to re-energize my summer. A whole new paradigm to inject some life in this stale format. Something like…SOS3???

Yes, I’ll keep drinking the Kool-Aid until F.M.S. is stiff as a board.

Happy trails

Hellbus! Mrs. Nitmos Wins!

The Detroit Marathon Relay Race Report

Bottom line: Detroit did!

Things have been moving in a weird other worldly time warp around here. Officially, I am “working” from home. How perceptive of you to notice the qualifiers attached to “working”. (See, there they are again!) Unofficially, my “work” consists of me tidying up the basement, building a cheap Sauter brand desk, running my TV cable lines (priority!), and exhausting at least two cans of Lysol all over the strange oozes along the floor trim which I’m pretty sure contain the swine flu origins. At least, when I dabbed my finger into it and tasted it, it sure tasted like the swine flu. A lot like chicken. And now, my index finger, tongue and bottom lip have herpes. Is that a symptom?

This past Sunday, me, my brother, a friend and the lovely Mrs. Nitmos took to the streets of Detroit for a run. Now, it’s not unusual to run while on the streets of Detroit. That’s often how it’s recommended that you get from point A to point B on the city tourist guide. However, this was for a relay race.

Here’s the team breakdown: me, my friend (a one time marathoner but multiple time 5k and 10k’er), my brother (first race ever – didn’t train any further than 2 miles and not since July), and Mrs. Nitmos (first race ever and – despite a hip injury – was able to get in good training.) You may recall that our fifth relayer had to pull out when he selfishly shoved his face into an ATV dash and tree while tossing his co-riding daughter to the side to save her from injury. Jerk. Hope your selfish ribs and selfish broken jaw heal.

We knew we’d finish but were not too optimistic of a top time. Not that it mattered. Since we were in the “Open Mixed” category which requires three penises and two uteruses (at a minimum), we were expressly told that we could participate but not place. As a team, we were one uterus short of official qualification.

Legs 1 & 2: 12.2 miles (Me)
Leg 3: 6.6 miles (Friend)
Leg 4: 3.0 miles (Mrs. Nitmos)
Leg 5: 4.4 miles (Brother)

The great thing about a relay is sharing the event with friends and family. But, unlike other relays where everyone piles into a sweatlodge magic bus filled with stank and communicable diseases, this relay involved the team members taking separate buses to their assigned leg start and then waiting patiently with strangers for their teammate to arrive. You really only see your teammate in passing. And through the magic of cell phones.

I must admit that I lucked out. The first two legs are the most scenic: over the bridge into Windsor with the oddly beautiful sight of downtown Detroit off on your left*, through cheering Canadians**, and then back into Detroit by way of the underwater tunnel, around Joe Louis arena, and up into Corktown to Michigan Avenue arriving back near the finish line area for the leg #3 exchange. No bus ride for me!

I had put 4 hours down as our expected finish time – anticipating someone else taking the first leg – which placed me in a pace group at the start going a bit slower than I wanted. After the bridge bottle neck, I had a lot of time to make up in order to make my goal of 7 minute miles. Here are the splits for your perusing boredom:

Mile 1: 7:23 (Not too bad but lots of side to side running around people)
Mile 2: 7:18
Mile 3: 7:56 (Bottle neck as we smash together into one lane for the bridge on ramp)
Mile 4: 7:41 (I’m dying inside…get me over this bridge!!)
Mile 5: 6:13 (Off the bridge and flying down the off ramp in Canada)
Mile 6: 6:40
Mile 7: 6:37
Mile 8: 6:20 (Underwater tunnel!)
Mile 9: 6:20 (Around Joe Louis arena)
Mile 10: 6:26 (Lots of time to make up…get on your horse!)
Mile 11: 6:36
Mile 12: 6:28
Last ½ mile: 2:58 (6:00 pace!)

Officially: 12.2 miles in 1:24:56 (around 6:58 pace)

My Garmin recorded 12.5 miles instead of 12.2. Part of that was probably due to the side to side weaving through traffic.

Friend kept the momentum going and knocked out his 6.6 miles at goal pace (just under an hour) then handed off to Mrs. Nitmos.

The unfortunate part of our leg assignments was that I would not see Mrs. Nitmos on the course. (Fingers crossed for a photographer on her leg!) She completed her 3.03 miles (according to mapmyrun) at goal pace of 10 minute miles! A huge accomplishment for her as she’d never run at all prior to a couple of months ago.

After three hours of waiting, my brother, who had read the newspaper front to back at least three times by then, took the hand off from Mrs. Nitmos. Unbeknownst to her, the adventure was just beginning.

Through all of the exchanges, we kept in touch by phone. I waited at the finish sipping nice warm coffee (it was 29 degrees at the start but warmed to about 40 by the time our last relayer took the exchange) and watching overall winners come in. Friend had just arrived back at the finish when I received word that Mrs. Nitmos was on the bus heading back. I was settling in for a 20 minute wait for Brother to bring us home when….

Brother comes heading into the home stretch! Holy shit we are ahead of schedule. He finishes. We are altogether…except for Mrs. Nitmos.

Where is she?

Turns out, she’s on Hellbus. The driver took them for a spin on the highway completely lost. They should not have been on the highway. Then, back in town, couldn’t find the drop off zone. He’s refusing to open the doors a few blocks away from the finish and is instead circling and circling Detroit searching for the drop zone with an increasingly agitated group of runners who are, by the minute, receiving phone calls from their team that they have missed the finish. Time goes by. Phone calls are made. Mrs. Nitmos informs me that a near melee is breaking out on the bus. People are yelling at the bus driver and threatening him with physical abuse. An hour has gone by (the bus had to drive no more than 3 miles.) I can hear the shouts in the background of our phone conversation and I’m getting a bit concerned for Mrs. Nitmos. She tells me people are pounding on the bus windows whenever they see a street cop to try to get some help to GET THEM OFF THE DAMN BUS. Threats are made. A stabbing seems eminent.

Finally, the bus driver defies his radio bosses orders and opens the door. He tells his boss that he’s afraid for his safety and he’s letting people off. He never did find the drop zone.

We reunite with Mrs. Nitmos.

Despite the Hellbus experience, Mrs. Nitmos seems to have enjoyed the event. The team is thrilled. We ended with these numbers:

Steers Long Distance Project

Time: 3:36:50
Place: 18th(!) of 244 in Open Mixed; 66th of 629 of ALL relay divisions

I’m very proud of Mrs. Nitmos. Hopefully, she’ll consider doing another relay in the future! Considering we had two first time runners, this went about as well as we could have hoped.

Except for the bus ride.

Happy trails.

* Detroit is pretty cool the more you squint at it.
** “Looking good, eh!”

Obviously, I am aware of the 3 fatalities that day. Though I didn’t know any of the people who died, some other parents from my son’s soccer team did know one of the gentlemen. And though I finished near mile marker 12 at nearly the same time as one of the fatalities was occurring at this same location, I did not see or hear about any of it until much later in the day.

Mrs. Nitmos Does Detroit

I have to admit, this post title is a little more provocative than I intended. But I knew that you, the notoriously slack-jawed F.M.S. reader, would never make the connection so I let ‘er rip. Folks, hate to disappoint, but there is more to life than nose-picking, lottery tickets, 40 ouncers of malt liquor, vague references to 70’s era porno and this blog. Expand your horizons. There’s a whole series of vampire themed books out there. And vampire themed movies. And vampire themed TV shows. Cartoons. Anime. Merchandise. Oh, and vampire themed Halloween costumes. See? Lots of stuff.

My one and only first wife, Mrs. Nitmos, is part of our Detroit Marathon (Oct. 18) relay team, the Steers Long Distance Project. We’ll be toeing the line 9 days from now in sunny (overcast) and beautiful (dilapidated) downtown (burnt out) Detroit (not Chicago)! Not only will Mrs. Nitmos be doing Detroit, the entire four person team will be doing Detroit! It’ll be a regular ole gang…never mind.

This will be Mrs. Nitmos’ first race ever and I’m pretty proud of her for putting in the training, overcoming a hip injury*, complaining about having to go for a run, but slavishly doing it anyway and sucking the enjoyment right out of the event. You’re a runner now, hon!

We’ve had a series of unfortunate events leading to this relay: One team member decided to violently push his face into the dashboard of his ATV just to experience broken ribs and a wired jaw. Selfish! After that, our five person team became four. And I became two people** as far as the relay is concerned. One relay member – a non-runner - is hoping to start his training soon so you can guess how his 4.4 mile leg might go. Mrs. Nitmos’ hip injury has finally healed. And then, to top it off, the Detroit Marathon folks made us all run out and buy passports, since the race goes briefly into Canada, and then subsequently (really, at the last possible minute before you would never get your passport in time for the race) decided that only the people actually running into Canada needed the passport. By then, our team had already shelled out the bucks amidst much grumbling about how much this relay was costing. Screwed for being pro-active!

Turns out, after all the musical chairs of leg assignments, I’m the only one that needed the passport as I’ll be doing the first two legs: into Canada over the bridge and back into the U.S. through the underwater tunnel for a total of 12.2 miles.

The thing I’m most excited about is the chance for Mrs. Nitmos to be part of a marathon event rather than waiting patiently for hours on end at a finish line. I’m hoping she gets the full experience: the cheering crowds, the wayward snot rocket, the adrenaline rush, the a-hole spectator who shouts “Almost there!” when you are no where close to being done, and, of course, the grabbing, painful calf cramp. Well, maybe not the calf cramp. I’ll save that just for myself. Apparently.

Though I tease Detroit – it’s an easy target after all – the race is actually pretty cool. And the city itself needs some sympathy. It’s like the punch drunk former champion with cauliflower ears and arthritic hands trying to rise off the mat before the 10 count. You can’t help but cheer it on.

The SDLP will be doing Detroit. Mrs. Nitmos will be doing the north end neighborhoods, specifically. All of us will be leaving with a satisfied smile on our face. After all, who knows if we’ll ever do it again. Who knows if Mrs. Nitmos will ever run another race? Probably not in Detroit anyhow.

Nobody wants sloppy...never mind.

Happy trails.

* Her first runner’s injury. Brought a tear to my eye like when you see your child take his first steps. Or when your favorite college team wins the Rose Bowl.
** This is actually a reduction for me as well since I generally consider myself having the “strength of 10 men.”
_________________________________

Good luck to all of the Chicago marathoners this weekend!!
_________________________________

I see many of you are envious that I'll be working from home from now on. One person asked about the fate of Cube Farter. I'll let him know you were concerned. Yes, me, Cube Farter, all of us will be going home to work. It wasn't just me that was evicted. I've already reworked the family budget to lower the amount spent on gas and shampoo but raise the amount spent on toilet paper and coffee. (Unless I can steal enough supplies before I leave...)

EVICTED!

Hours turn to days; days to week; week to…more than a week. Where does the time go? My eyes have been hovering about two inches away from a bright, flickering computer monitor for the better part of three weeks now. My rods and cones are straining from exhaustion. My retinas have begun to detach themselves. I think I’m developing carpal tunnel for the first time since my teen years when Mary McHotty got that new mini-skirt. Work has been especially worky lately. It has gotten to the point where I’ve begun wearing a spelunker’s helmet on my off hours and redirected the light beam straight down into my eyes just to keep the pupils from dilating. I don’t want them going soft (and wide) on me now.

Every quarter end is particularly busy. I’m not an accountant though with the way I celebrate an unexpected $20 in the family budget you could be excused for thinking that. No, I’m one of the good guys.* My job facilitates people getting paid. Of course, those people are sometimes health insurance carriers or people with illness or terminal diseases but let’s focus on the positive. A $250 check in the mail always distracts one, at least temporarily, from renal disease. Or so I assume. I once won a free Coke from a bottle cap game and completely forgot about my foot blister so, extrapolating that out…

On top of all that, my company has EVICTED me from my plush, 6x6 neutral colored cubicle! In the frenzied quarter end rush, an e-mail BINGed into my e-box telling me to e-getthehellout. In two weeks.

I’m not fired. No, they made it pretty clear that the company has a place for someone with my squared jaw and ample shoulders. (I could tell they were implying this by their choice of the more angular Courier New text type for my email versus the others' Arial.) It’s just that this place is now at home. Or at a local coffee shop where I can be ‘that guy’ sitting at a table for 6 hours sipping a mocha latte and wearing a Bluetooth.

So, on top of finger flying, retina burning, blog depriving work, I’ve also got to pack up my cube, carve out a place at home – which for the time being will be my kitchen table – and move the hell out of the office. I’ve been evicted. My cube has been foreclosed (did you already read the footnote? Bankers are jerks, aren’t they?) I’ve spent the last two days shredding documents like former officials holding torture memos. These documents seemed important when they were at work and stored in my desk. Now that I need to carry them home? Funny. They don’t seem so important anymore.

And now I have to deal with working from home issues. I really don’t need to shower anymore. I can wear my boxer shorts and a t-shirt all day, all night, and all the next day again (and the day after that? Maybe.) Shaving? Not a chance. Deodorant will be optional. I’ll be sitting within feet of my running shoes. Lunch time runs are now a reality! I don’t even have to shower when I get back. I can simply call into my next meeting with salty sweat hardening to my temples like concrete freed from the tired old "non-offensive odor" and "wearing the same clothes on multiple days" social memes.

There are some real advantages to this. Oprah. Dr. Phil. Is Springer still on? I don’t know but I’ll soon find out!

I will miss the anal symphony Cube Farter performs for me every afternoon. But I can create one of my own now. I’ve learned my pinching techniques from the master.

Just me, my dog, my computer and phone, my boxers, my running shoes and no social customs or expectations hanging over my head.

This can’t end well.

Happy trails.

* Incidentally, with all the well deserved negative press health insurance companies are getting these days, let’s not forget who really wears the black hat in this struggling economy. Bankers. We shouldn’t forget about the economy-killing, panda-murdering bankers.