Sweep The Leg

Wherein I unveil my new race mantra. Can you guess?

There was a time when I enjoyed kicking the crutches out from under a casted loser and watching them flail to the ground as if they could prevent gravity by flapping their arms and screaming out. Better yet, those dudes with the white canes and red tips like a candy cane where all the peppermint ran to the bottom? They’d go straight down with a flour sack thud making no attempt whatsoever to break the fall. They didn’t even see it coming. Hilarious. I’d stand over their helpless, struggling bodies and breathe in their potentially broken-armed wails through my nostrils (and out the mouth – I’m not a Neanderthal). For a while, I was convinced that the cries of the weak fueled my soul like blood feeds a vampire. Sure, the spitting was unnecessary but I liked to think of that as my ‘cherry on top’.

That was then. That was a hobby. It’s not much fun anymore now that I’ve matured. I still do it but it’s an empty, hollow, felonious experience these days. It’s done more out of a sense of duty. If I don’t knock the walker over, who will? Look around at all of the upright becaned, it’s a lost art.

I was reminded of this tripodal abuse when watching The Karate Kid, the original 1984 version, at home with the kids the other day. We try to watch old 80’s movies as much as possible: Back To The Future, The Breakfast Club, Hardbodies, Hardbodies 2. I feel terrible that the kids today are growing up without realizing that anything can be accomplished within a two minute Huey Lewis musical montage.

What does The Karate Kid have to do with running? Well, let’s just say I’ve been thinking a lot about my races this summer. Since I’ve been running, I’ve never experienced a situation where my race results were so…off…my training times. It’s been eating away at me since the Bayshore Marathon in May. Literally, eating away…at my joints, apparently. My training times this year have been great – best ever – so what gives on race day? I’m falling short of my PRs every single time.

The hero of The Karate Kid, Johnny of the Cobra Kai gym, faces a similar struggle in the movie. Despite the fact that he is clearly the most gifted karate tactician, he is beaten by a punk upstart from New Jersey who is mentored by a mystical occult wizard that can heal his charge with a magical pain-suppressing touch. The kid is clearly under trained and has no business competing with Johnny but, somehow, he lands an ethically questionable Crane Kick to end the championship match. It’s an interesting movie in American cinema as, most often, our films focus the bulk of their time on the hero of the film (ala Rocky) overcoming obstacles to a victorious conclusion. In this one, the hero, Johnny, barely appears and, when he does, typically loses the physical conflicts set up for him. It plays like a modern tragedy and against the grain of other sports related movies of our time. No matter what the hero does, no matter how hard he trains or how bad he wants it, he cannot win. Sisyphus, push that boulder! It’s like Jimmy Chitwood rimming out every shot in Hoosiers.


In running, my enemy is the clock. I want to beat that sumbitch. I want to beat it bad. I’m training hard like Johnny at Kreese’s dojo. I can hear Bryan Adams’ “Hearts on Fire” in my mind’s ear while intervalling around the track. I can hear that great coach, Kreese, shouting STRIKE FIRST. STRIKE HARD. NO MERCY with his outlandishly dimpled chin. When races roll around, I am ready. I am ready to run hard. If need be, I am ready to bully new students with a generally frail physique. Canes? Consider them toppled.

But then I’m yawning at the start line. I’m relaxed; I’m confident. Hell, I’m bored. Where’s the fire? Am I overconfident? Did I leave the burning hearts on fire at the track? I’ve arrived at each 5k and marathon this year thinking a PR was in the bag only to come up short. Immediately after finishing, I’m left with a confused feeling of what just happened? like I took a sudden – and ethically questionable - Crane Kick to the head.

As I watched the final, tragic act of The Karate Kid unfold, I realized what I was missing: Sweep the leg. Johnny is forced to counter the mystic’s illegal paranormal healing tactic, under Kreese’s expert orders, by sweeping the under trained puppets already injured leg (i.e. attacking his weakness. Smart strategy, no?) in an effort to win the match.

SWEEP THE LEG. Sweep the frickin’ leg!

That’s it! On race day, you have to come prepared to push farther than your training. Backed with adrenaline and untapped energy, you CAN and WILL do more than your peak training levels indicate – if you are willing to SWEEP THE LEG. To go to that extra level. Run angry. Run to maim. Run to WIN.

I’ve been showing up at races thinking that all of the work I put on the track and roads made the race result a foregone conclusion. Like folks were going to be maimed just by my very presence. The truth is, I haven’t been running to win on race day. I haven’t been prepared to push a bit harder, to pass my normal bounds of exhaustion, to SWEEP THE LEG both figuratively and, in a few cases, literally (I had my chances on some pimpled high school kids along some back roads, believe me). I’ve been sweeping the canes at local malls for years. Why haven’t I been sweeping the leg – albeit in a metaphoric sense - on race day?

When you arrive at the starting line of a race, you have to assume that the clock is operated by a sorcerous Japanese cheater willing to use supernatural healing methods to keep you from your goal. And every other runner is a potential Crane-wielding Daniel-san. Are you willing to push the boundaries past your training to obtain your goal? Will you SWEEP THE LEG? Starting immediately, this is my new race mantra. Sweep the leg, sweep the leg, sweep the leg. I’m going to arrive at each race assuming that I’m under trained. I’ll need to bring all of my training –and more – in order to achieve my goal. Legs will be swept. Spitting may occur. If need be, pony tails may be tugged violently backward (I doubt Kreese’s philosophy is gender specific). Exposed Achilles of lead runners may be stomped. I’ll assume that my training is inadequate and that I’ll need to push harder.

Sure, you might be floored by an ethically questionable Crane Kick mid-race, like Johhny, but at least you went for it, right? Besides, what are the odds of most folks landing that kick?

Don’t be a Johhny in your own race day tragedy. Run to win. Sweep that leg.

Happy trails.

You Have An Incurable Disease!

How ‘bout that to greet you on a Wednesday morning?

That’s what the doctor told me yesterday as I sat there giggling and knocking his reflex hammer against my knee over and over. I love how my knee jumps involuntarily while I thump away at it with the little rubber mallet. Thump Thump tee-hee Thump Thump. Does this place have any sugar-free suckers?

I had been into the doctor’s office a few times now for exams, needle pokes, x-rays, and a semen sample (I did that one on my own. Turns out, it was unnecessary and they were quite pissed especially since I didn’t have a cup or anything. Sorry!) I hinted at some joint related issues I was having way back in this I is Old post. (Use caution when clicking the link as it contains an old dude in a purple Speedo.) Then, I figured I was just cold, old and creaky from a long winter inside.

But then spring and summer came and my finger joints were still swollen and creaky. Each morning, I could barely bend them until I got into the shower and the warm water loosened them up leaving me with just a nagging, low-level ache the rest of the day. Two weeks ago, my left index finger remained swollen, extended and unable to bend for 48 hours. Every time I spoke, the kids thought they were getting a lecture the way I was pointing at them. It was great for picking my nose and ass but not so much for clutching and pinching once an extractable item was located. Ever try to flip another driver off with a swollen, extended index finger? It doesn’t work. Everyone thought I was giving them the peace sign…with cursing malice. It causes confusion more than anger which makes it completely ineffective.*

Finally, after some postponements, I went back to the doc to see what the tests showed. I already knew what the tests would show. This is the age of the internet and Google. You can’t surprise us anymore. The doc is just a dude with a hip white jacket, cool rubber mallets, nice house and the ability to prescribe drugs. In short, a drug dealer…with a rubber mallet.

“You have an incurable disease.” He said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Stop playing with the fucking mallet for a second. Did you hear me? You have rheumatoid arthritis.”

“Cool. Do I get to park up front now? ”

“If we don’t put you on medicine, your finger joints might become so damaged that they’ll curl up into a claw…” And he makes two curled up claw hands to demonstrate.

“Like Hawkman?!” I ask, barely able to contain my enthusiastic smirk. I start making claws of my own, my eyes wide with wonder and excitement.

“Get the fuck out of my office.”

The truth is, I wasn’t so much kicked out of the office as held for ransom in the lobby until payment could be made. A bunch of aged, arthritic seniors surrounded me with their walkers hissing and threateningly stabbing at me with clawed hands.

I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis though, fortunately, it is considered a mild case at this time. RA is considered an incurable disease though sometimes the symptoms can go into remission for years on end and, in odd cases, disappear entirely forever. I don’t intend to be a “long term” patient. Besides, what does a doctor know? I was once told I had another incurable condition: Herpes. You know what? I cured it. I didn’t treat it (or tell anyone about it) and it just went away. The only things that remind me that I once had it are the occasional cold sores on my lips and itchy, burning genitals. But that only happens periodically and Mrs. Nitmos now shares these sympathy “after effects”, as I call them. Bless her heart.

So, for the short-term, I’ll be popping some weekly pills and continuing to run, run, run. I haven’t missed more than two scheduled runs all year. Fortunately, the symptoms have largely left my feet alone except for some tenderness in the small toe joint. But who uses their small toe joint anyhow?

How did I get this? The causes of RA aren’t entirely clear but there seems to be some genetic disposition to it. But no one in my family has it.

As I sit here in my basement playing with the rubber mallet**, I think back to the I is Old post and the first symptoms I was experiencing. What is that nestled quietly, in smaller font, at the end of that post? A note about reading two Beardsley books! My nemesis. The man solely responsible for undermining my 2008 Boston Marathon. He’s done everything in his power to keep me from a rematch in 2011. Has he started…biological warfare?!

BEEARDDDSLLLEEYYYY!!!!

Happy trails.

*But I think slashing their tires probably cleared the matter up.
** Yes, I took it.
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I am concurrently training for a half-marathon and 10k for the end of September. I have been invited to join the Dance with Dirt 100k relay team in September as well but I may have to pass due to soccer coach obligations.
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Speaking of which, prepare for more soccer stories in which, despite my expert coaching, my team continues to under achieve.
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Anyone seen Vanilla/Ian?

I'm A Little Teapot

Short and stout
Here is my handle…

Actually, I wasn’t the little teapot. It was Mrs. Nitmos.

She wore this for a 5k this past weekend. I’d like to say that she just did this on her own and that all of the other runners thought she was crazy but, the truth is, it was a Costume 5k put on by a film festival. She looked completely natural amongst the Batmans, Spidermans, Supermans, cast from Up, Thelma and Louise, crew from Gilligan’s Island, and Indiana Jones. It was her husband that looked out of place.

I didn’t wear a costume. That’s right, I’m a fuddy-duddy. Want to fight about it?

It’s been years since I wore a real costume. Roughly, fourth grade, I believe. I don’t even remember liking it back then either. Maybe because those little bungee strings that tied around the molded plastic masks (think 1970s-early 80s, people) use to snap back before I got the Jimmy Carter face on and then got wrapped in my hair (thick, shaggy – think 1970s-early 80s, people) until it threatened to pull the hair out in bunches at the root level. All of this work to dress up like a one-term president, with lust in his heart, to get bits of candy from neighbors that, on the other 364 days of the year, I spent riding across their lawns and pissing in their bushes? No thanks. I left costuming behind for good around 1982 and haven’t looked back.

Still, I recognize that other adults get into it for Halloween or Costume 5ks and that’s all cool with me. But one thing I’ve noticed, if you don’t join them, they get angry. I counted no less than five comments, ranging in severity from playful teasing to sneering derision, regarding my choice not to wear a costume. If I don’t wear a costume, am I not human? If you prick me, would I not bleed? Apparently, the answer is NO. Pricks.

I wasn’t the only one without a costume. There were only about 120 runners and roughly ¼ of them were sans costume. I wasn’t really worried about my time for this race. It took place at 6 PM after a day of boating and eating and walking. Usually, by 6, I’m ready to get my drink on not run a 5k. Plus, there was on overall mood of festiveness, rather than ego destroying intensity, that pervaded the starting area.

When the gun sounded, I immediately found myself in a group of four runners in the lead pack though I’m pretty sure I was the only one in possession of a high school diploma. Only one of us had a costume: Batman! Before the first mile, one runner dropped off leaving me to chase the two leaders, running shoulder to shoulder, by about four steps. First mile: 5:49. The pace was faster than I expected especially since Batman isn’t known for his speed. I kept warily eyeing his utility belt to see what might grapple out of them in the direction of my knees.

After the first mile marker, Batman, clearly toying with us in mile 1, took off and left me and the other guy behind like a couple of Jokers. He increased his pace. I wasn’t about to do that. He was gone and I immediately declared him the winner. But the other runner seemed to be laboring: big huffy breaths, Raggedy Andy form. Maybe second for me? I passed him at the halfway point. By the two mile marker, I couldn’t even see him anymore. One of the cyclists leading the race would circle back to me periodically to encourage me to catch up to the leader. Easy to say when you are sitting on a $1500 bike and wearing way too much spandex.

Batman was so far ahead – at least 45 seconds – and the third place runner was about 30 seconds behind me, that I actually relaxed my pace content to run it for second.

And run it in I did onto the finish line red carpet in front of the beautifully restored State Theatre wherein everyone’s favorite liberal, Michael Moore, was presenting some films at that very moment. They handed me an Oscar – much overdue in my opinion – and showered me with applause.* My time was 19:03. My worst 5k in over two years but I didn’t really care. This race wasn’t about time. Even if I had set a PR there was no way I was catching Batman anyhow.

I settled along the race course to watch the costumed runners come in. A few minutes later, Mrs. Nitmos came through to the finish. Be advised that Mrs. Potts is not moisture wicking. Sweat was pouring down the teapot. She confided to me that, at the two mile maker, she almost passed out from the heat of the night (about 84 degrees) and the heat of the costume (about 156 degrees). Mrs. Potts also doesn’t come with a nutrition pouch or water holder. In fact, combined with the hot tea, it really isn’t a runner friendly costume. Maybe Brooks or Asics can take up the cause and make it more efficient for running? At any rate, she did a great job representing the costumed half of this marriage and finishing 6th in her age group of 19 runners!

So my Oscar now rests on my night stand as a gleaming, erect monument to running a sparsely attended race (I highly recommend!) in which you can finish second overall because none of the top area runners show up . Some of you may even think I shouldn’t take home an award when I didn’t bother to dress up for a costume 5k. Well, all I can say is…

…Here is my spout.

Happy trails.

*If “shower” and “smattering” are the same thing.

Numbers Lie

I was able to get a last minute entry into a local 5k this weekend.

I wish I hadn't. I'm not even going to dignify the "race" I ran with a report. Horrible, just horrible.

I've been training great all year but, for some reason, my heart just isn't into the actual races. I've consistently posted slower race times than training times in three consecutive events. I don't have race day anxiousness and excitement anymore. I find myself literally yawning during countdown.

File this under Numbers Lie:

Final results:

Overall: 21st of 1130
Age group: 3rd of 56

Yippee! Another coffee mug.

You won't be seeing a final finish time posted here as it sucks (compared to what I know I can do - I realize others would like to run my time but I'm speaking only of my own personal competitiveness with my past self). If I had posted this exact same time in either of the last two years, I would have finished no better than 40th overall. In a weird twist, this year's entry numbers were down as was the level of competition so my finish standings look way better than they should be. Don't be fooled, the numbers are lying liars.

I seem to be finishing higher up in my age group for both 5k's this year despite running slower times than the previous year. I figure if I get another 30 seconds slower next year, maybe I'll win my age group!

I'm on vacation now. Another 5k coming this Saturday.

Happy trails.

My Filly in Three Acts

I don't have any mildly clever alliteration for my Friday post title. Sorry. You can make one up if you like and mail it to me somewhere in the future where I might be interested in such things. I can pick your suggestion up from my holographic mailbox as I'm pretty sure those would be available about the time I cared. I thought I'd pop in real quick and share three amusing stories from my 8 year old filly. She's a spirited gal and one never knows what she'll say. She's called a department store Santa fat to his face (to be fair, he was), constantly tells her brother he smells like cheese (the family dog apparently smells of spaghetti), and seems to have a mild form of hair Tourette's, in which she feels compelled to loudly express her opinion about the hair style of everyone she passes. Mostly negative groaning with a taken aback, crinkled face.

She's the wild card in the family. Go out in public, you don't know what random stranger you'll be apologizing to.

But she's also pretty sweet as illustrated in this series of one act re-enactments of recent true life events.

Scene: Living room, 10 PM, ordinary night, post Filly bedtime.

Filly comes bopping down the stairs and stops on the fifth step from the bottom.

Filly: Hey, I saw a rocket ship out my window.

Me, perplexed: You did?

Filly: Yeah, it went zoooom across the sky. (Making a horizontal sweeping motion with her arm.)

Me, destroying her childlike wonderment: No, that was probably a shooting star.

Filly, disappointed: Oh.

Me, to the rescue: Did you make a wish? You are supposed to wish on a shooting star.

Filly, pausing in reflection: Um, no, I like my life how things are.

And back up the stairs she goes.

Don't think her mom and I didn't share one of those pursed lip, tilted head sighs of parental satisfaction. We did. Youda thought someone sprayed us down with lemon oil the way we were lip pursing. That alone made up for at least ten hair related public verbal assaults.

Scene: My basement (i.e. office), yesterday, mid-afternoon.

I'm busy attempting to solve the country's BIG GOVERNMENT health care related payment crises. Filly is busy trying to stuff a one-armed Aragorn, the future Middle Earth king (her brother's old "action figure" - not a doll!), into a red convertible with a perky gymnast Barbie. Aragorn, even minus an appendage, is just not fitting. His scabbard keeps getting caught on the door handle. (I hate when that happens...huh, huh...double entendre! Can a fella get a rim shot?!)

Frustrated, Filly flings (<-- alliteration!) him aside.

Filly, in Barbie voice (which is higher pitched and more needy, for some reason): I'm breaking up with you!

Callously discarded Aragorn lies there silently offering no resistance with his one arm.

Filly, still in Barbie voice: C'mon, Ken, you're my boyfriend now.

She stuffs him in the car and off they go.

Warning to future boyfriends: You better fit in the car.

And finally...since I'm now working from home and the kids don't have to go to summer camps, the kids have been spending a lot of time together. And that means one thing: Fights and general disharmony. After a particularly hard day of my Filly comparing the Colt to various aroma's of Wisconsin's finest, she says to me:

Scene: Home, morning.

Filly: When I have kids, I want a girl and a boy so I can ignore the boy like Colt does to me. I won't play with him.

Me: You're not going to play with your own son?

Filly, emphatic: Nope! I'm not going to love him.

Me, stunned: Ooooo-kay.

Later that night, Filly, apparently conflicted over this comment, pulls me aside and whispers:

Filly: If I have a boy, I really will love him and play with him. I was just kidding.

/Curtain.

Yes, Spray me down with lemon oil cuz I was a lip pursing motherfucker once again.

If I were to go four acts, I had another amusing tale of her diligently taking care of a fledgling bird fallen from its nest one ENTIRE day. But that one ended with me flicking its ant-riddled corpse off the end of a spade shovel into the bushes late at night and then lying to her about how it magically got better and flew away in the middle of the night.

I'll stick with the three acts and all the lemon your lips can purse.

Have a great weekend!

Happy trails.
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I may have another 5k coming up on Sunday. I failed to pre-register so I will wander in on Saturday hoping spots are still available. If not, no sweat off my back (literally). The age group prizes are a coffee mug. I already have two of those and have no need for any more. I'm the only coffee drinker in the house.

However, I am pre-registered for a 5k coming a week and a day from today. If you're lucky, you'll get a long-winded, overly detailed duo race report....sometime. This one sometimes gets political because the race is put on at the TCFF which is run by this guy. Plus, the race is a movie costume race though the only costume I'll be wearing is that of an obnoxiously handsome man with a generally sarcastic disposition and unusually sensitive nipples. Mrs. Nitmos will be running as Mrs. Potts. Ever see an over-sized polyester tea kettle get phenomenally sweaty?

A Taste of Hobo

My 2010 Cherry Festival 5k Race Report

Remember how I mentioned back in the winter that this would be the Year of the Ass Kicker? PR’s, PR’s, PR’s would flow like NBA free agents to South Beach. Yeah, well, something happened on the way to the start line. This is quickly turning into the Year of the Sack Kicker. My nuts, your race aaannndd KICK. The Cherry Festival is my oldest and dearest race. It’s the first race I ever trained for and, at the time, foolishly thought I’d do once and then wrap up the running career and return to basketball. I believe I even wore a cotton t-shirt for that inaugural race. Cotton! What a noob! I remember someone talking about a “Garmin” in the starting chute and I honestly thought they were referring to a character from Disney’s Pocahontas movie (the raccoon?). If someone had offered me some Gu, I would have punched them in the face, blew my rape whistle, and started screaming “STRANGER! STRANGER!”.

This year would mark my 10th running of this race. I did miss one year – 2007 – after I qualified for Boston the first time. After the BQ, my inflated ego and constant self-congratulating interfered with my ability to register for a local festival “race”. It just seemed so beneath me at the time.

But enough nostalgia, you came here for a riveting race report and not a trip down memory lane. Most of you know already that I can make a race report longer to read than it was to run. And that includes a marathon report.

My 5k PR is 18:22 set at this same race last year. This year, I went all Six Billion Dollar Man in training at the track. Since the Bayshore Marathon over Memorial weekend, I intervalled longer and harder (t.w.s.s) than ever before. It is PR or bust for every race. I missed my marathon PR by the equivalent of 1.5 seconds per mile. The goal for the 5k was to (1.) PR and (2.) Break 18 minutes. Number one seemed all but assured based on my training times and number two (tee—hee) seemed a 50/50 proposition.

Enter race morning.

There’s a little park right across from the community college from which the race begins. We park, poop, and warm-up in this empty space whilst the masses scramble to get inside a smelly port-a-john a ¼ mile away. I was feeling especially poop-weighted that Saturday morning as the hamburger I had the evening before was suffering from separation anxiety with my colon. Usually, the only thing greeting me, as I enter the cemented walls of this spacious shit shack, is the reassuring aromas of defecations past. Not this time. A scraggly bearded hobo was busy washing up at the single sink. I paused for a moment, deciding whether or not to flaunt my well-housed appearance next to his bag of returnable cans, and then passed by and into the stall.

With one eye shooting down, the other two nervously peered through the door crevice at my vagabond bathmate careful not to tap my foot. Apparently done washing (a futile effort if ever there was one), he began reapplying his tattered clothes one at a time. The giant hole of his t-shirt was covered by the long sleeve shirt, whose own giant hole was located in a different spot. In all, four layers went on though I doubt any area of hobo was covered by more than one layer at a time due to his holey patchwork Dalmatian apparel.

I squeezed; he grunted. I ridded myself of waste; he reattached it. And the smell? Oh, the humanity! The room quickly filled with the odor of rotten eggs, beard tangled garbage entrée residue, and disappointment. I could taste it on my tongue as he clanged the bags of cans against the wall and squeezed them through the door with a metallic scrape. Seven varieties of lice left spinning in the air like a less funny, potentially communicable Witch Hazel.

I finished up and headed over to the start line eager to wash away the hobo taste dancing across my tongue like Gavroche in the Paris slums.

The plan was to run the first mile in 5:40-5:45 and the second in 5:45-5:50 and then, from there, something below 6 for mile 3 and gut it out to the finish.

Those plans evaporated with a first mile of 5:49.

Egads, my over confidence was showing. I thought I’d stroll through that first mile before the real work began. Nitmos, you are a cocky ass.

The second mile passed with a certain slappy-footed Lurch chasing me down. How someone can run a race with the bottom of their feet performing constant, rhythmic high-fives with the pavement is beyond me. I tried to move away but he followed right on my heels…then he passed me…then I passed him…then he passed me again. I think he wanted to work with me to push each other to the finish but, secretly, I just wanted to get away from the SLAP SLAP SLAP. The second mile passed in 5:53. Strike two.

The third mile finishes up along the parade route. The villagers stare at you from their lawn chairs patiently waiting for the inflatable cartoon characters, adorable children waving from floats, and attention-seeking politicians. They think we’re crazy; I think they look silly sitting in a lawn chair beside the road three hours before the parade begins.

Third mile: 6:00 even. Strike three!

As always, the course is a bit longer than the actual prescribed 5k distance and I covered the last .11 miles (according to Garmin, .16 miles) in 55 seconds (last year, 43 seconds!).

No PR. No sub 18 minutes. Just another kick in the Sack.

I grabbed some water and waited for Mrs. Nitmos (running her second 5k ever!) to come in. I drank and drank but, no matter how much I drank, I couldn’t get the taste of lost dreams, disappointment and, just maybe, restaurant waste slurry out of my mouth. A missed PR tastes a lot like hobo.

All was not lost, however, as a weaker race field left me with second in my age group. I’ll be able to house that medal in a place where I have a documented history of mortgage payments!

I’ll chalk this up to a bad race and prepare for the next 5k…hopefully with considerably less hobo.

Numbers? Yes, numbers:

Official time: 18:37
Official pace: 6:00/mile
Overall place: 42nd of 2,149
Age group: 2nd of 69

Happy trails.
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Congratulations to Mrs. Nitmos for posting a second race PR of 23 seconds! No hobo for her.

Soccer Anyone?

Been watching the World Cup? We have. Over the last few days, our house – specifically, our TV – sounds like it is the nest of a very large swarm of bees due to those annoying plastic horns the spectators incessantly blow during the game. I’ve had to mute it a few times just because the sound was starting to make me swat at my ears, pull my knees up to my chin, rock back and forth, and mumble about our new bee overlords. I actually found myself longing for the soothing sound of Dick Vitale’s craziness displayed through his over-cooked hyperbole and 80’s catch phrases. Heck, I’d even settle for Brent Musburger refusing to call Iowa the “Hawkeyes” but instead calling them the “Hackeyes” during college football telecasts.

On second thought, I’ll take the plastic horns over both Vitale and Musburger.

The Nitmos’ family’s very lives have been saturated with soccer lately. If we were a vanilla cone and chocolate dip was soccer, somewhere along the line we must have ordered a double dip of chocolate. We have reached the age where the fun little kid sport has turned political involving adults with an agenda.

Over the past week, here’s what has been going down: My colt will be in the seventh grade. He is considered a U13 player (for those uninitiated to these classifications, ‘U13’ simply means ‘13 and under’). At U13 level, the kids can start trying out for ‘premier league’ teams that compete statewide for state titles/trophies/cups/honors/better Popsicles. There are two main local premier league teams in my area. One, Team A, has been around awhile and has been top dog and actually does challenge for the state cup every year. The other, Team B, is the upstart and has only been around three years and is still building name recognition and developing their program. Team A likes to win. Team B would like to win but is more interested in developing soccer players.

My colt tried out for both this past weekend. And here’s where the politics come in. Team A is run by a coach who serves double duty as the Director of Coaching for the club level teams (a step below premier) where my colt has been playing for the past three years. He knows my colt well. He knows my colt’s team well as he has attended practices and games and provided personal additional training. The expectation, by him, was that the kids good enough to move on to a premier team would move from the club level, under his supervisory umbrella, to his premier team.

Guess what? Kids make decisions for many different, unexpected reasons. Every one of the kids that tried out and made both Team A and Team B’s premier teams – including my son – selected…Team B.

Dong punch delivered to Team A coach. Cue sad trombone.

This went down on Sunday. You should also know that Team A scheduled their tryouts on Sunday at the exact same time as Team B (even though Team B posted their times first) in an effort to cut Team B off at the knees. A pissing contest…a stare down…whatever you want to call it. And Team A lost it.

And so, Sunday night at 10 PM, we are sitting around trying to relax after a busy weekend of criss-crossing the town, placing phone calls, answering emails related to various tryouts. A team has been chosen; stress relieved.

Riiinnnggg!

My home phone rings. Is there a fire or something ‘cuz it’s 10 PM?!?

It’s the coach from Team B. Are you sure your colt is signing with us? I need to know for sure because we are holding more tryouts tomorrow and I need to know how many spots are left to fill on my roster. Before I can answer, my cell phone, set to vibrate (for many deep pocket personal reasons), starts shaking across the table. I tell Team B coach we are 100% committed and hang up. I listen to the message left on my cell phone. It is the coach from Team A. We want your colt on Team A and I’m told he may be choosing Team B. I’m certain our program is better than Team B and that we do better statewide in tournaments.

Too bad, so sad, my colt and his friends are part of Team B.

If that were the end of it, that would be fine. Instead, I received two more emails and two more phone calls from the Team A coach before noon Monday. The phone calls started getting more confrontational, guilt trips were deployed, the hard sell was on. They were rebuffed. My colt feels more comfortable with Team B’s coaches and is not switching.

If even that was the end of it, that would be fine. But it just so happens that I am the coach for my filly’s U9 club level soccer team under Team A coach’s supervision. Ack-ward. Her tryouts were yesterday and today. Guess what topic of conversation comes up every single time I see Team A coach? He’s now resorted to telling other parents, loudly enough so I can overhear, how annoyed he is that he lost so many kids to Team B.

Yes, it’s been an interesting few days. I feel like, at some point, I missed an opportunity to go all USC and ask for a car to seal the deal for my colt's team placement.

Soccer. Politics. Tug’o war involving seventh graders. The ugly side of sports.

I can only imagine what these World Cup players went through off the field to get where they are at today.

But forget about all that. Watch the World Cup. Enjoy the world’s best players. Blow your damn horns.

Happy trails.

Opportunity Lost

My 2010 Bayshore Marathon Race Report

Have you ever crossed the finish line of a race, happy to be done, but confused about how you got there? That is, confused about how the race unfolded in terms of pacing and overall time? That’s what happened to me on Saturday. After over 26 miles, I sprinted the final 100 meters on the high school track to the finish line and broke the imaginary yellow tape (someone must have inadvertently knocked it down before me), grabbed the medal dangling from the volunteer’s arm, and wandered toward the exit. I wasn’t even out of the finishing chute before the questions started.

Why did you run that race so slowly?
How did you misjudge your pace this badly?
How could you sprint that fast at the end when you should have been exhausted?
Why is that guy with the back hair not wearing a shirt?
You are going to hate yourself for this.

Alright, that last one wasn’t really a question but I was thinking it all the same.

It was supposed to be unseasonably warm. At race start, I was expecting 70 degrees with rising temperatures to 80 before the finish. I had visions of the 2007 Chicago Marathon where, like an innocent foal, I said Fuck You to the 85 degree starting temperature and ran my race at normal pace….and then fell apart in complete fetal-positioned, thumb-sucking dehydration after 14 miles. No, I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Smart pacing was the key. Pull back at the beginning – like I did on my last few 20+ mile training runs – and hold a steady, comfortable pace much farther perhaps even through the end of the race. This was how I was going to beat the heat. You may recall my sudden switching of goals from this to that right before the race as a reaction to the ugly, ugly warm forecast.

As the starting gun sounded (which sounded remarkably like a man shouting GO!), it was 57 degrees, just a bit north of “perfect”. But the heat would come right? There were still 3+ hours to go and several sun-exposed portions of the course to traverse. Keep to the conservative plan; keep to the conservative plan. These thoughts were repeating in my subconscious so much that I began to think that I accidentally had Rush Limbaugh playing on my MP3 player. Keep to the conservative plan. Ditto, I said. And did it, I did.

I ran easy and chatted with a younger fellow trying to BQ under 3:11 in just his second marathon. We came together at mile 3 and held shoulder-to-shoulder through the half-marathon marker. My plan was to cross the half in 1:34:30 and try to hold the same pace as long as I could from there on out.

I came through in 1:34:33. Bing-freakin’-o.

I felt great. I felt like I had an abundance of staying power. I was the marathoning equivalent of Ron Jeremy and four Viagra. Maybe this conservative plan wasn’t a bunch of voodoo runnernomics. Maybe it would become my new race theory: Nitmosnomics.

It was warm but not WARM. After the half, I should have re-evaluated my pace and time goals. The overwhelming heat was not materializing. It was still in the low 60’s with a cool breeze coming in off the bay and, after the half, it was now at my back.

But I ran on at even pace. Mistake. There is one tough stretch between 18-20 miles that contain the few incline/declines ranging 20-30 feet but also correlates with the most sun-exposed portion of the course. Get through that and it’s all flat and shady to the end.

After the half, I dropped and ran about 15 yards behind the BQ-aspirant who was now pacing along with another runner. Like Ron Jeremy, he was apparently not opposed to having multiple partners during a marathon, er…whatever, I lost myself in the metaphor. At 18 miles, he dropped off to the side and, as I passed, I attempted to cajole him into latching back on with me. But his wad energy was blown. I knew he’d need an hour to rest and watch ESPN before returning to pace.

I stopped briefly just before the 20 mile marker to meet Mrs. Nitmos who was holding Gatorade, Gu Chomps, and some Biofreeze. I slather on the Biofreeze in the 20 mile range these days as a pre-emptive strike against calve cramping. Between miles 19-22, they cruelly do not provide an aid station so I took the bottle of Gatorade with me. There would be no free water hand-outs during this stretch. All part of the conservative plan, I thought.

After 22 miles, my legs got heavy, as expected. After 23, the left calf started twitching again intermittently. I kept running. I no longer stop to stretch when the pre-cramp twitches begin.

In the end, my legs held me hostage. Cardiovascular-wise, I felt great. At 23 miles, I determined I was going to make one last push to the finish. I was not exhausted. My head and heart said I could knock out at least one sub 7 minute mile and shift the race back on track and into PR position. I was only behind my plan by about one minute. I still felt like I could run all day but the legs were having none of it. I simply could not get the legs to move faster. Signals were sent south from the head down to the toes but the response was “No go.” Threats were made. No go. Visions of chainsaws cutting through flesh and bone post-race were imagined. Still No go. Very frustrating. My legs had a gun to my head and they weren’t giving in. I guess this is the price to pay for training for a marathon on the cheap (i.e. average mpw in the high 30’s rather than 50-60.)

Mentally, I had checked out for miles 25 and 26 as I knew I had blown my ultimate goal of sub 3:10. The questions were already starting. I had followed the conservative plan so why did I have a time deficit?? Theory and reality were at odds.

Pace chart for posterity (mile/pace):

1 7:17
2 7:21
3 7:17
4 7:11
5 7:09
6 7:13
7 7:16
8 7:07
9 7:11
10 7:13
11 7:10
12 7:17
13 7:51 (closer to 1.1 miles as they adjusted the marker for the half-mary)
14 7:15
15 7:09
16 7:11
17 7:10
18 7:14
19 7:24
20 7:41 (pit stop to see Mrs. Nitmos)
21 7:10
22 7:41
23 7:29
24 7:43
25 8:07 (despair)
26 8:08 (anger)
Final distance 1:04 (due to course adjustment in mile 13, not sure how far over 26 this was)

The crowd was roaring for the runners. I hit the track and kicked it in. My 100 meter pace was 6:15 per mile. I crossed in a full pissed-off sprint, grabbed my medal, realized the guy with the back hair was Ron Jeremy, and thought opportunity lost. Nitmosnomics had, inevitably, failed me.

The Year of the Ass Kicker, for this race, was little more than a Derriere Patter.

Ending temperature was 65 degrees. Heat was not an issue. My failed plan was too conservative. I should have knocked a minute off the first half and another minute off the second half before the 20 mile mark. Fiddlesticks.

Numbers? Yes, numbers:

3:12:56 time
7:22 pace

88th of 1500 total finishers
14th of 153 in age group

Missed a PR by 38 seconds. I now have an infamous history of 3:12:XX race times. Goody, goody, gumdrops.

I will now be searching for a fall marathon for which to register.

I did, however, BQ again for the fourth consecutive year. I have every intention of running Boston one more time in 2011 so, at least, there’s that. I also think that, with the fear of washing out a race and NOT BQ-ing taken out of the equation for future marathons, I’ll be free to employ a more aggressive race strategy. It plays with your mind to think that, if I kick it in, I might just fall apart and not get that BQ. Or, I could just run steady and get the BQ. This is the last race I will think that way. From here on out, it is PR or Bust, baby.

If you are still here, thanks for reading. Now get on with your life…your runs…your PR’s.

Happy trails.

Unto The Breach

It is marathon time again this Saturday morning. I’ve staged a mental taper intervention and now it is time to get this thing on.

Unfortunately, the weather forecast appears to be uncooperative. I have run in rain. I have run in wind. I have run with snow falling. And I have run in nice, perfect 50 degree weather. On all of those occasions, the runs have been strong and true.

However, like most, my body does not react well to heat. There is ample evidence testifying to my lack of running acumen above the 70 degree threshold. (I hope I do not go to hell for I would have to become a cyclist.) Saturday’s race is calling for heat. Sure, they say low of 57 and high of 80 on race day. That means, it’ll be 57 degrees at approximately 3 am and 70 degrees by 7:00 gun time…and rising. It’ll be a warm one so I’ve already adjusted my carefully plotted race day goals.

Goal #1: Survival.
Goal #2: Attempt to BQ under 3:21.
Goal #3: Do not deliriously hallucinate…unless it helps obtain goals #1 & 2.

It’s a shame, really. All of this awesome training seems destined to be blown to smithereens by weather whimsy. I will do my best to control pacing at the beginning – to refrain from racing against the rising mercury – to prevent overheating, blown gaskets, uncoiled springs, and flying nuts and bolts at the 20 mile mark like a demented cartoon jalopy.

There is a distance to cross. A breach to conquer. Like Indiana Jones during his Last Crusade, I must choose my path wisely before a misstep sends an over sized table saw blade through my race.

My apologies to Shakespeare:

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

Or close the road up with our spiritless runners.

In training there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of a race gun blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger;

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

Let pry through the portage of the head

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it

As fearfully as doth a galled rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,

Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit

To his full height. On, on, you noblest runner.

Whose blood is fet from fathers of races past!

Runners that, like so many Prefontaines,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought

And sheathed their shoes for lack of argument:

Dishonour not your Garmins; now attest

That those whom you call'd marathoners did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to race. And you, good yeoman,

Whose limbs were made on roads and trails, show us here

The mettle of your spirit; let us swear

That you are worth your training; which I doubt not;

For there is none of you so mean and base,

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry ‘Let’s race! Ready, set, go!’

On second thought, clearly Shakespeare owes me the apology. I should have been his editor.

See you post-marathon, after the 26.2 mile breach, dear friends, once more.

Happy trails.

Fine Folks

The fine folks at You know what, I can’t do this. Have you ever noticed that whenever one of us is asked to review a product, we always start out the review by saying the “fine folks of (insert company name) sent me (insert marginally interesting product)” and it was WONDERFUL!!" I read reviews that start like this ALL the time. Heck, I’m sure I’ve even deployed “fine folks” somewhere along the line. But enough is enough.

Fine folks? What makes them so fine? Just because they sent you something for free you feel obligated to call them “fine folks”? If anything, it demonstrates a lack of judgment. When you send me something for free – especially a liquid – you just don’t know what it’ll get mixed with, have dunked into it, or where it will be slathered. I’ve never done a Wordle word cloud for this site because I don’t want to face the reality of ANUS appearing in large, bold letters across the middle. Still, I get free goods from time to time and, if you don’t like the review, who’s to blame really? Wordle?

But somebody sent me something again! Or, rather, they fell into my web. This week’s victim volunteer is cheribundi. They make cherry juice and, apparently, disdain commonly accepted capital letter usage. It was a huge mental hurdle to NOT capitalize cheribundi in that last sentence after years and years of average to slightly below average public schooling taught me to capitalize names. Their website confirms that it is a small ‘c’ so rest assured this was not a comment on their product from yours truly. Watch how awkward this next sentence is without a capital letter.

cheribundi makes cherry juice. I grew up in the self-proclaimed Cherry Capital of the WORLD. It seemed like a good fit. Note on my sidebar the presence of several Cherry Festival races. Me and cherries have a long history together (get your mind out of the gutter). I wanted to like this product right off. They had me at “cheri”. They claim there are 50 cherries in every 8 oz bottle providing you with 2 servings of daily fruit. That sounds great but the 50 pits? Ugh. They rattled around in the bottle like a box of rocks.* Every swig sounded like a mariachi band was playing.

Taste? Very good. A wee bit strong but not too bad. Last year, POM Wonderful sent me pomegranate juice to try and that was STRONG. This cherry juice is merely strong which might explain why POM went with all caps in their name but cheribundi opted for no caps. It has a refreshing taste and keeps the people in my ancestral homeland employed. Plus, as you can see by the breakdown below, there is a secret ingredient to every bottle of cherry juice. See if you can spot it.

I must have left a lot of DNA around those cherry farms while growing up.

I recommend cheribundi cherry juice. For non-conforming grammarians, they deliver a better than expected product.

In short, it is fine, folks.
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Since it is review day, I might as well get this second one out of the way too. I just finished Born to Run by Christopher McDougall and it was a very interesting read. Great story. Interesting science. Some history of running. Some comparison of modern day running to ancient running. Enough evolutionary science to really piss off a certain segment of the society. Again, maybe I’m easy to please today, but I recommend! I’ve had this book on my shelf for a few months but finally picked it up after seeing the local high school track team running barefoot past my house.

Now, some people who have read this have felt inspired to go out and buy, or build, some rubber soled sandals for more primitive, natural running. I did not feel so inspired. At least, no more inspired than I was to buy a guillotine after reading A Tale of Two Cities. I don’t know what the evil shoe companies are doing to our feet but, for now, I’m happy to pay a 3000% mark up for my comfortable Asics just as I am sitting around at night in the glow of my monster high definition television communicating via internet instead of a candle, quill pen, tuberculosis, and a stack of correspondence.

McDougall makes a compelling point about running and how we’ve lost our natural way. While the book was fascinating, the philosophy being espoused caused me to shrug my shoulders and think ‘eh, that’s alright, I’m happy with how things are.’ Besides, instead of trying to run like the Tarahumara, maybe we should outfit them with running shoes and slow THEM down. That’s the Western Way, after all. U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! How ‘bout a McDonald’s too?!

Thus ends two-for-one review day at F.M.S., my fine folks.

Happy trails.

*If you can’t appreciate satire, I’m not going to explain it to you. You’re probably the same person who peels a banana, throws the bone away, and wonders what is left to eat. To be fair to cheribundi though, I will explain it: There are no pits.

As Long As I'm Running It...

I guess I should set a goal, right? The Bayshore Marathon is May 29th. Based on my understanding of the Mayan calendar, today is ten days from race day. (And two years from the end of the world - unless John Cusack is your limo driver.)

I am in full bore marathon taper mode right now. If taper was a drug, I’d be in a black painted room sitting on a urine stained mattress with a rubber tube wrapped around my arm and clenched between my teeth getting ready to inject a warm, recently cooked concoction of taper into my vein. I’m in such a taper haze that I’m swatting at little Hal Higdon’s and Dick Beardsley’s poking me with pitchforks atop miniature smoke snorting dragons. I’m not going to tell you what I would do for more taper but if you understand that I sit on this mattress picking at abscesses through the trapezoidal openings of my fishnet stockings, I think you get the picture.

Street value of taper not influenced by recession!

Eventually taper comes to an end and it is time to race. Taper is marathoning’s cruel joke. You spend weeks – months – building yourself up, mentally prepping, and then, rest….wait…struggle to stay focused. Completing the build during the training plan feels like such an accomplishment that I have to remind myself that peak training WASN’T the event I was striving to reach. Then, I sit around (or, what feels like sitting around comparatively) for a few weeks injecting taper and getting slow and fat (or, what eating too many fudge stripe cookies and watching Lost is doing to my body). I think I’d prefer to take one week off from my peak training week as a cut back week and then dive right into the marathon the following week. Depending on how this marathon feels, I may eschew decades of studies and “experts” advice and do this the next time. I feel like all this taper injecting is causing me to lose the edge I had after my last 21 miler. This bulge in my side: is it fat or a rib? A few weeks ago, I’m pretty sure it was a rib but now…

For those of you whom have been with me for awhile at F.M.S, first I’m sorry. Second, you may recall that I’ve always been a proponent of the multi-pronged race goal plan. I even provided an example – not for the squeamish – in which I met my 5k race goals (numeric, malicious, transcendental, farcical) by ultimately shooting chocolate covered cherries from my anus at the end (my farcical goal, duh). I’m not going to get that elaborate here. Who has the energy? Instead, like the Mr. Pragmatic I am, I’m going to set my race goals perfectly in tune to how I have been training.

Official Bayshore Marathon Race Goals (in ascending level of difficulty):

1. Beat 3:21:00 (re-qualify for Boston 2011 – I get 5 more minutes to lollygag this year!)
2. Beat 3:12:19 (set new PR!)
3. Beat 3:11:00 (always wanted to run a non age-graded BQ time)
4. Beat 3:09:00

Those that have been with me for awhile – again, I’m sorry – know that calve cramping has been my constant nemesis (other than Beardsley). And this is invariably brought on by warmer temperatures. Ten days out, it unfortunately looks like Bayshore may be a little warm for my tastes – possibly in the 60+ degree range at start. I’m keeping my fingers crossed because this training season has gone as well as any of the previous seven marathons. I feel like I should knock off the top three goals – if weather cooperates – with a 50/50 shot at #4.

This is the Year of the Ass Kicker, as you may recall (and again, again, I’m sorry), and this is the first race to, well, kick ass.

Just a few more days of biding my time… Taper? I can quit any time I want. Honest. It’s not a problem. Well Hello, who did you say you are? Candy Finnigan?

Happy taper

These Legs Were Made For Running

So, where was I? I’ve been gone for several days. Did anyone notice? If a Nitmos fails to blog, does it make a sound?

I surprised Mrs. Nitmos with a birthday trip. It’s a special birthday for her so I wanted to do something, er, special. Considering the temperature is once again regularly dipping into the 30’s around here, did I take her somewhere warm with sun-bleached canopies, margaritas, and thong bikinis (and mankinis)? Cancun? Jamaica?

Nah, I took her to a city. A cold and windy city. A city on the same basic geographic parallel as our home. And just to up the ante, we flew in moments after a second bomb scare closed down the streets near our destination hotel. That’s right, New York City! Happy birthday! (Try not to get exploded.)

We stood in Detroit Metro airport watching the coverage of the mysterious ownerless cooler in Times Square hoping to catch sight of our hotel somewhere in the background. And hoping they wouldn’t honor our ‘front of the house’ view request. Somewhere towards the back would be okay after all. Somewhere faaaar away from exploding SUVs.

Having never been to NY before, we did the whole tourist thing. We’re talking Times Square (multiple times – Mom didn’t raise many smart ones), Statue of Liberty, Empire State building, WTC site, subway rides, and a minor communicable eye infection.

Scouting the NYC Marathon course

As a runner, I find that every vacation turns into an advanced scouting expedition for a future race. We were standing atop the Empire State Building and I found myself taking note of the Verrazano-Narrows and Queensboro bridges as well as the location of the 5 boroughs and what I remembered of the NYC Marathon course map. You know what? When looking at the course from 86 stories up, a marathon is a long freakin’ way.

The highlight for Mrs. Nitmos was the Wicked show at the Gershwin. I was able to get tickets close enough where the actors spit wasn’t landing on our heads but yet we could still smell what they had for lunch. The next night we rocked out to Green Day’s new American Idiot show. Loud. Flashing lights. And I was flipped off at least 15 times. Yes, awesome! Green Day’s drummer snuck in just before curtain and sat a row behind us…then disappeared again just before the end.

We paid entirely too much for dinner at various NY hot spots. The delicious taste of ocean trout and lamb chops slide down my gullet with only a tinge of regret for the college my kids won’t now experience. But, not to worry, the key lime pie dessert made me forget completely about it/them. The image of their sad little uneducated faces obliterated by a bulging belly and a gaseous burp.

We were at Monday’s Letterman show. Unfortunately, some American Karaoke reject was signing. He was also close enough to smell his lunch. It smelled like nervousness.

I was most happy to see that there is still someplace in this world that you can buy 5 t-shirts for $10.99. Of course, all of the shirts say I (heart) NY. We didn’t buy any because we didn’t want to commit to that level of relationship with New York. If New York’s best friend passed me a note asking me to check a box if I Liked NY or Like Liked NY, I’d probably check the Like NY box then giggle, try to contain my excitement and slide it back.

Imagine...not standing on the memorial.

We walked pretty much everywhere except for a couple subway rides to the far flung lower Manhattan sites. By the last day, Mrs. Nitmos and I were thinking about running a few miles in Central Park. For us Midwesterners, how often do you get to do this? Well, for these Midwesterners, it will have to wait awhile. It was cold and windy and, frankly, our legs were tired and bodies weary. We walked around Central Park for a couple of hours on sore and dead legs but no running.

I can run for hours but walking can be a real chore sometimes.

All in all, it was a good trip. We didn’t explode. We also came home with red, wind-burned faces which, if viewed with squinty eyes in a bathroom mirror, look quite a bit like a Caribbean sunburn.

Happy trails.
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After 6 days of hardcore taper (i.e. no running), it was back to business yesterday. 6 miles with a 3x800 mixed in (2:47, 2:48, 2:48) and a finishing 400m kick @ 1:16. Taper on!

Rungasm II: The Runwakening

Taper is here a few days early. Now it is time to keep this finely tuned (and eye pleasingly shaped) machine I call my body primed, ready, and refreshed for the Bayshore Marathon on May 29th.

The final long long run (as opposed to short long runs or medium long runs - c'mon you know you subdivide your long runs that way too) was completed a few moments ago. Sweat is dripping onto my keyboard, turkey sandwich, and issue of PlayCalves* just so I can bring you this update in a timely manner.

Twenty-one miles down and it was completed as rungasmic as the 22 miler a few weeks ago. I don't know what it is but the long runs for this training season have gone as smoothly as any so far. The Year of the Ass Kicker is on! Of course, since I'm due for a poor long run, I'm sure karma will bite me in the ass on marathon day in the form of an 87 degree day and 30 mph winds.

21 miles @ 7:15 pace (elapsed time 2:32:24). Negative split! And last mile the fastest in 6:53!

If you are in the mid-Michigan area, be forewarned that another of my rungasms has occurred all over the streets. Chose your steps carefully.

Much like that 22 miler, I started slower than normal and held that easy pace for the first 8-9 miles and then just slowly picked up the pace. Eased on into it. No cramps afterwards. In fact, barely any stiffness or soreness at all. I popped 2 Tylenol after 12 miles (like before) and took shorter strides to ease the strain on my legs (I have a tendency to over stride).

I've been searching for my White Whale since the Boston Marathon. Have I finally found it? (Man the harpoons!)

Time will tell but this was a satisfying way to start taper. I feel like leaving $50 on the nightstand for the Run Fairy** to pick up.

As I sit here eating my rapidly soaking sandwich, one thought occurs to me: Maybe...could it be...after 30 years have I finally answered this question? The question that has been on everyone's mind: Is THIS what Willis was talking about?

Have a great weekend.

Happy trails!

* You should see the centerfold. Nice calves...but I think they're implants.
** Maybe not a Run Fairy but a Run "Escort".

Resistance Training, Running, and American Allusions

It’s called wind. Besides the stretchy bands, it’s the closest I come to resistance training when running. And did I mention that it sucks?

It’s one thing to go into a session of planned resistance training…know what you are up against…prepare some scowls and grimaces in advance. It’s entirely different to start out on a nice, wind-free run with butterflies swirling about you and birds chirping their applause as you bounce freely down the sidewalk. And then take a casual little left hand turn and BAM! a wall of wind filling up your cheeks and flipping your hair back like a 1950’s greaser.

Spring is always a windy season around these parts so you kind of expect it. What you don’t expect is for the American flag – the very symbol of our freedom and patriotism – to be a bold-faced liar. I check the wind level against the flags on the nearby school flag poles when I run. If I can’t trust the American flag to tell me the truth, what can I trust? Maybe George Washington didn’t chop down the cherry tree? Maybe Bill Clinton did have sexual relations with that woman?

Case in point, yesterday I took off on my lunch hour for my intervals at the high school track. Technically, I was “in a meeting” according to my public calendar. The meeting was at the track with Mr. Puke Threshold. I head out the door and past my filly’s elementary school. It’s breezy and a pleasant 60 degrees. Blue skies, butterflies, birds, the entire enchilada described above. The school flag is lying as limp as a boy scout leader at a…er, never mind.

I hit the track for 3 x 800 with a bonus 400m finish. It’s nearing taper and I have a 21 miler scheduled for tomorrow so I’m not going to push the interval count. Just trying to keep the legs fresh and primed for the upcoming 5k training after this marathon wraps up in a few weeks. After a nearly two mile warm-up, I arrive at the track and start the first 400 meters. 100m…200m…nice and easy…

BAM! Turn the third corner and smash of wind hammers me in the face. I was looking for Lee Harvey in the press box the way I suddenly went back and to the left….back and to the left…

Dig in. Embrace it. When it comes to running, this is my resistance training. As much as it sucks, the only way to go is to embrace it as a beneficial work-out. Rounding the first corner, the wind relieves again. The liar flag is still hanging limp. Maybe it’s one of those fake flags but, unlike the moon landing flags, this one is frozen flaccid.

Back into turn three and BAM! another sudden gust about knocks me back. I feel like I’m running with one of those cute little midget parachutes on my back. Lower the shoulder and charge like Teddy Roosevelt up San Juan hill. Hang on, it’s going to be a rough ride.

By the time it’s done, I’m cursing at the wind with a steady stream of m-f’ers. The liar flag got a few choice words too. I clapped my hands together and took out two butterflies. And don’t think I didn’t pop the bottom of the bird’s nest sending a few eggs over the side.

Resistance training and running? Yeah, it sucks. Mostly because you don’t know when it’s coming. And also because insects and animals tend to die when it happens to me.

Happy trails.
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3 x 800 @ 2:48 average pace (2:47, 2:48, 2:49). Final 400m @ 1:16.

Tomorrow 21 miles and then TAPER!

Mrs. Nitmos and I depart on a surprise birthday trip for her on Friday. She doesn’t know where she is going yet. Maybe I’ll pop up in a town near you. Keep an eye out.
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The Best.

1918-2010. R.I.P.

Mrs. Nitmos Is A Mudder!

Yesterday, Mrs. Nitmos completed her first start to finish solo race. It was a 5k under a steady downpour. Worse conditions, in fact, than any race I’ve ever raced in over the past 10 years. You know what I found out? Mrs. Nitmos is a mudder.

The race took place at the local community college, Michigan State University. They are well known locally for farming, cows, and beer-fueled riots when their sporting teams win (or lose) high-profile games. I live so close to their animal research facilities that I can often smell the cow and sheep dung wafting over with the spring air across my regular running routes. While this is welcome as a masking agent during my usual mid-run flatulence, it can spoil a summer cook-out. Nonetheless, it is a cute little college so Mrs. Nitmos, as part of an office challenge, signed up to run the race with some co-workers.

The race finished in the decrepit, dated stadium of the school’s football club. Thankfully, their mascot, a cartoonish chap with a broom atop his helmet, was not there to threaten the runners. My colt and filly, filled with tales of the child eating mascot since birth, would have been terrified.

We waited inside the stadium for Mrs. Nitmos to arrive beneath the protection of an umbrella. The rain and stadium rust speckles danced off the canvas and slid to the sticky cement floor around us. To the expected minute, she burst through the tunnel leading onto field and dug hard for the finish. The poorly drained field and loose turf would not prevent her from finishing strong.

She finished in the top 25% of her age group and top half of all runners. I don’t need to be told that it is never a good idea to compare a woman to a horse. But, if I can be forgiven this one transgression, I think it is appropriate: Mrs. Nitmos is definitely a mudder. Despite the downpour….despite the rain-soaked clothing…despite the smell of moist animal dung and recently extinguished couchs from the nearby streets, Mrs. Nitmos charged through to the finish for a new (default) PR.


She proudly wore the colors of the race-hosting school’s rival for the finishing picture. She was exhausted and wet and ready to go home. She had run hard and needed a blanket and a bucket of food and probably a good brushing.

On the way out, we all took cookies off the post-race runner’s table. We were hungry. I don’t care what you think of me. The cookies tasted delicious…like the savory goodness of an ill-gotten grape from the grocery store fruit aisle.

We might have had a Rice Krispy treat also. If so, we might also have discarded the cellophane wrapper to the ground before departing the stadium.

We are pretty sure no one would notice.

Congratulations Mrs. Nitmos!

Happy trails.
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Soccer! My colt’s team experienced a bit of a humbling at the hands of one of the worst teams in the league with a 3-1 setback on Saturday. It’s probably a good thing as his team, annually one of the best teams in the league, was starting to get a big head and took the game lightly. Lesson learned: The other team gets the same type of juice boxes so you better be prepared to play.

My filly, on the other hand, took out a can on a neighboring communities “team”. I say “team” lightly as they appeared to be little more than a group of colliding atoms bumping around with no direction. We had to lend them 2 players each quarter as Team Atom was short-handed. My filly pumped in 4 goals for us in an 8-1 victory. For good measure, she also scored the only goal for the other team when playing against us. So she had 5 goals but a +3 for the game, in hockey-speak.

Randumbery IX

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.
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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!

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.

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.
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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!
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22 miles in 2:42:02 @ 7:22 pace.