So Do Washing Machines

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Little Lights Aren't Twinkling

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

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

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

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

The little lights aren’t twinkling.

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

The little lights aren’t twinkling.

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

The little lights aren’t twinkling.

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

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

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

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

Happy trails.

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

Dead Mill

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Where Did Arm Wrestling Go?

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy trails.

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

Full Nipple Erectus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy trails.

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

Age Degraded

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy trails.

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

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

Randumbery X: May I Be Chosen By The Claw

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

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


The Claw

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

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

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

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


The Beautiful Game

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

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

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

Torn ACL’s in t-minus 17 days…


Home

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

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

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

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

Happy trails.

Boston Ain't 'All That'

Trust me, the last thing I intended to do was add yet another unsolicited opinion about the Boston Marathon into the deep blue muddy murk of the interwebs. But the very volume of opinions compels me to…throw another one on the pile. You know, for posterity. Won’t someone think of the children?

From someone who has run Boston, let me let you in on a little secret (assuming you haven’t already run it yourself): Boston ain’t all that and a bag of potato chips. Beardsley’s lips to your ears.*

Now, before I hear the outcry, let me be very clear: It’s a perfectly nice race in a perfectly nice city with a perfectly interesting course and perfectly terrific crowd support as well as being perfectly well-organized and I had a perfectly good time experiencing it. But it’s not, like, PERFECT, you know?

I’ve held a BQ for the past four possible Boston Marathons but only exercised the option once in 2008. I’ve made no secret on this blog of the desire to return but, if you paid attention, it wasn’t because BOSTON IS THE BEST RACE EVER AND I WILL DIE IF I DON’T DO IT AGAIN. No, I’d merely like to ‘correct the record’ and exonerate my poor race time by posting a better one. In short, when someone asks if I’ve run Boston, I say yes but then cringe for the inevitable ‘what was your time?’ follow-up. See? Nothing intrinsic about the race or the city itself, I’m being purely selfish. Altruism, thy name is not Nitmos.

I get why most runners want to run Boston. It’s the Top Dog. It has the rigid qualifying standards. It has the history. Prestige, prestige, prestige. I had Boston fever and I don’t blame you one bit for a burning desire to BQ so you can go too. I’m not trying to convince you otherwise.

My thoughts on the Boston Marathon came into focus a month ago – the weekend before registration, ironically, where I had every intention of registering first thing Monday morning – while down in Detroit for a marathon team relay with some friends and Mrs. Nitmos. We were discussing running and marathons as a group and one of my friends asked me straight up, if I only had one marathon left that I could run, which would it be. The question caught me off guard. I simply never thought about it like that before. I mumbled something positive about every marathon I’ve ever run while trying to come up with an answer. One marathon to pick? I couldn’t answer because I’ve only run 8 at 6 different locations (2x Chicago, 2x Bayshore, Flying Pig/Cincinnati, Disney, Detroit, and Boston). Not much first-hand experience from which to choose. I think I ultimately settled on Chicago just because I love the city and it was the home of my first and third (and most memorable) marathons.

But the name I didn’t say surprised me. It surprised my friend too who followed up with, “Not Boston?”

I was stunned for a moment. And then the clouds parted and a light shone down on me…maybe it was one of those cartoon light bulbs coming on over my head or maybe Beardsley was sending me an illuminating lightning bolt from atop Mt. Runmore. No, not Boston! Huh, go figure, I guess I never defined what that race meant to me before.

Boston is like the popular girl in school. She’s the prom queen, the head cheerleader, and the class president all rolled into one right down to the Marilyn Monroesque beauty mark on the cheek. From a distance, it’s perfection personified. All the guys want to get with her. But maybe, one day, you do get with her. It was nice, terrific, everything you thought. You are laying there satisfied with ruffled hair and a filter less Pall Mall hanging out of your mouth looking down at Prom Queen Boston’s head on your shoulder. You know what? That "beauty mark" looks more like a flat-out mole. And is that a hair sticking out? Does she shampoo with VO5 because that hair smells like floor cleaner sprayed with Strawberry Essence? Well, it was nice…but I gotta go. And on the way out the door, you are thinking about that cute little band geek flutist named New York that shared your love of bridges during a long discussion on the bus the other day.

The point is…Boston is certainly something to strive for but don’t beat yourself up - or the race up - for not being able to register if you couldn’t get in this year. You might be missing out on the race medal and the prestige of running in an exclusive club but you are not missing out on some orgasmic race route and some unrepeatable race experience. At least, I don’t feel that way and I think most people believe my opinion is the only one that matters, right? I’ve had better crowd experiences in Chicago. I’ve had more smiles in Disney. While the turn onto Boylston St. is certainly one of my favorite race memories, the view off the bridge to Canada overlooking Detroit is, surprisingly, equally as memorable. But, admittedly, I’m not very emotional. I don’t spill tears when crossing finish lines. Those are reserved solely for the birth of children and stepping on nails.

So, enough already, with the blog posts (like this one) complaining about Boston’s charity runners and/or justifying their registration process. Blah blah blaggity blah popular girl blah Boston blah blah. I know, it’s easy for me to say, I’ve already had her. But, since I have, I can tell you that Boston is a perfectly good race…but with a hair hanging out of the mole just like many other less hyped races. In fact, the marathon right in your hometown may be just as memorable in the long run (double entendre intended) though you may not get as many high-fives from your friends when completing it.

So, if you could only run one marathon for the rest of your life, which would YOU choose?

Now, I’m off to go ask out New York. She might turn me down once…maybe twice…but I’m pretty sure she won’t say no three times.

Happy trails.

*Beardsley never said this (as far as I know). Remember: Snark makes up 80% of this blog.

To Sticker or Not To Sticker

I see the little white oval 13.1 or 26.2 (or even 70.3 and 140.6 for the tri guys) stickers on the back of cars all the time. It normally provides me just the hook I need to express some road rage. You know, something like “You can run a marathon but you just can’t seem to get through that traffic light can you asshole?!” Or, “Maybe you should spend less time running and more time learning how to drive!” I’m pleasant to be around. I like butterflies and double dip Neapolitan ice cream.

The irony, of course, is that I’m an avid runner but, when I see those stickers and I’m in a bout of head-throbbin’, artery-bustin’ road rage, the stickers provide the perfect outlet.

Besides that, they are perfectly innocent and unassuming and I don’t mind them. Look here’s one now:

It’s nice to be proud and, maybe, just a bit braggadocio about the accomplishment. There’s nothing wrong with that. Heck, it’s much better than seeing all those tobacco-stained stickers proclaiming that someone can ‘have their gun when they pry it off their cold, dead fingers!’ Or Calvin and/or Hobbes peeing on a corporate logo. (Did the cartoonist really license his product so it could be seen shooting urine onto Ford symbols all across America??)

While stuck behind a particularly vexing 26.2 stickered SUV the other day, I was thinking about what distance we seem to consider important enough to advertise on a car sticker. I’ve seen many 26.2’s and a few 13.1’s. Rarely I encounter a tri guys 70.3 or 140.6. You know what I’ve never seen? Has anyone ever had a 5k or 10k sticker?? I’m not kidding. For some – especially beginning runners – this is a daunting distance. A car sticker is a symbol recognizing your own individual achievement. Do they just not make 5k stickers? Or do folks think it’s just not impressive enough to display on the back of a car? For that matter, what is the appropriate distance to proclaim to the world through a sticky adhesive?

If you are just starting out, can you put one of these on your Volvo?


Maybe you’ve made it onto the street and want to shout to your community how far you’ve gone now:


Now you’re cookin’!


But why confine it just to running. Wouldn’t this be a top seller?


I live in a college town. I bet I could clean up with this:


And, let’s face it, this one is probably all to true for a lot of folks:


Fortunately, I don’t have any need for this sticker. But for some of you males out there, I’m sure you could use it:

For now, I’m stickerless. I don’ t have a 26.2 sticker. In fact, I don’t have any stickers…mainly because I eventually sell my used vehicles and I don’t want to have to scrape a sticker off the window to prep it. But, also, it’d be a little embarrassing to have this sticker on it when someone came to take it for a test drive:


How ‘bout you? Do you sport a running sticker? And have you noticed me in the rear view mirror using it as a weapon against you just prior to the middle finger?

Happy trails.

The Hooker Layaway Plan

Note: My female readers may prefer to read "hooker" as "gigolo" in the following passages. One small way in which F.M.S. fights to end sexism.

Sometimes I feel hungry but I don’t know what I want to eat.* I’ll open the fridge and take a peek. Too many fruits and vegetables and it just doesn’t feel like a fruity/vegetable type of moment. So I’ll wander over to the pantry: crackers, cookies, and chips. No, no, and no. I’ll walk back into the living room, stare at the TV for a moment, and then walk back to the fridge and try again. Same shit. Go figure. The magical grocery fairy hadn’t come yet.** I might do this lap three or four times in a row. I just can’t make up my mind. There are plenty of choices; I just don’t want to commit to one.

This type of indecision is causing me problems with race planning. Some of you may have noticed that races – particularly half marathons and up – are selling outs months, even years, in advance. The Boston Marathon 2011 sold out in eight hours! Other races are opening registration a year in advance…and selling out within two weeks (or less). We are in the midst of the Second Great Running Boom. Race directors must feel like movie producers releasing another Twilight sequel (i.e. we don’t even have to try anymore. They’ll come anyway.)

And I can’t decide what to eat within the next ten minutes. How am I supposed to commit to a race eleven months away?

But that’s exactly what we have to do now. If you aren’t already scheduling your 2011 races, it might already be too late. Most of the spring half and full marathons are already filling up. Some fall 2011 marathons are open for registration.

There are a lot of tempting races out there but I have no idea what I might feel like at this time next year. It’s like picking out a hooker and placing her on a layaway installment plan. A year from now, you may not want that same hooker. But you’re stuck with her now. You made the commitment. You’ve paid the fee. In ten short months, what fun you’ll have! Unless, a few months from now, you prefer that hooker over there…

As an aside, I realize that the preceding paragraph may have sounded extremely sexist.*** However, you should know that I attended a small liberal arts college for two years and was one of only two men of 30 students in a History of American Women course. I’m pretty sure the other guy was just trying to get laid. I was there so that I could learn to drop some Elizabeth Cady Stanton on your asses! Suffragettes, yo!

So even though I can’t decide between a plate of nacho chips & salsa or a midget-sized Kit Kat bar, and I can’t decide if that uncomfortable lower abdomen pressure is a fart or a shit, hell, I can’t even choose between Team Edward or Team Jacob, I need to pick out my 2011 races?!

Oh, Elizabeth, why am I being put through such suffrage? Didn’t we stand shoulder-to-shoulder against such hostility so I wouldn’t have to pick out my hooker now?

That being said…here are the likely candidates. Peanut gallery, feel free to chime in if you have any strong feelings about any of these potential races. Right now, I’m just perusing the red light district doing a little window shopping. Before long, I’ll need to see the Madam.

Spring Ladies

Martian Half Marathon (April/Dearborn, MI)
Country Music Marathon (April/Nashville, TN)
Cleveland Half or Full Marathon (May/Ohio)
Bayshore Half Marathon (May/Traverse City, MI)

Fall Ladies

Chicago Marathon (October/Illinois)
Grand Rapids Marathon (October/ Michigan)
New York City Marathon (November/New York – at least, join the lottery)
Indianapolis Monumental Marathon (November/ Indiana)

There are also a few other gnarly looking hookers races I’m considering. They look questionable but….might be okay. Any other suggestions in the greater Midwest area would be appreciated.

The rest of you, start picking out your dates now! You don’t want to be left on the sideline or, worse, out with some eHarmony leftover. Elizabeth and I didn’t fight for that, yo!

And you can save your sympathetic comments towards Mrs. Nitmos. I am a keeper and she is lucky to have me.

Now, did that grocery fairy stop by yet…

Happy trails.

*Not purple jelly beans. I covered that already.
**Mrs. Nitmos
***If it did, then my plan worked!

Purple Jelly Beans

I have a bowl of delicious jelly beans. I like jelly beans. They make me feel happy when I eat them. Not heroin in the eye balls happy but, you know, regular average-dude-with-too-much-credit-debt-working-a-dead-end-job happy. That is to say, sullen punctuated by brief periods of complacency. I blindly rummage through the bowl and enjoy an orange one or black one. Hell, even the pinks are okay. I’m secure enough to admit it. I won’t be composing lengthy sonnets or holding boom boxes up outside the jelly bean manufacturer’s door any time soon but I’d consider sending an inexpensive Thank You card or, at the very least, include an homage to them at the top of a blog post.

The point is I really like jelly beans. Except the purple ones. What the fuck is up with those? Seriously, talk about ruining a perfectly good assortment of jellied candy. What exactly is that flavor? Chalk? The hardened physical manifestation of the ennui of disappointed runners?

But that’s what you get with a mixed bowl: Mixed results.

And, finally, three confusing paragraphs in, we get to the point of today’s post: A review of my much ballyhooed 2010 Year of the Ass Kicker. You’ll recall that 2010 was going to be the pinnacle of my running career. I planned to stand on a mountain of defeated PR’s and pound my chest skyward in an open blasphemous, triumphant challenge to whatever spiritual being to which you subscribe. If I graphed my running speed, this would be the year at the top of the ascending line immediately before the sharp downward turn (see: economy, 2001). Starting in 2011, I planned to – get this – run FOR FUN. Crazy, I know. Maybe I had injected some of that heroin in the eyeballs when I wrote that post.

As with all things connected to F.M.S., the pomp and bluster with which it was presented did not meet the reality. In short, my 2010 Y.A.K. plans deflated like air rushing from a balloon with one of those comedic squeaky noises and ending with a flatulence-resembling rumble. Or, cue sad trombone, whatever your preferred sound effect.

The 2010 Y.A.K. had some successes...but more purple jelly beans than expected.

In summary, I had vowed to:

-Refine my training by adding a day of running each week and organizing my speed work. (Partial credit: I ran a bit more sporadically but did get some structure in my speed work.)
-Set a new marathon PR. Run more miles during training. (Partial credit: Missed my PR by 38 seconds due to poor pacing in the last 10 miles. Did run more miles though.)
-Break 18 minutes in the 5k. (No credit: Training indicated it was possible but...PURPLE BEANS!)
-Sign up for an ultra marathon. (Nope.)
-Race more. (Nope.)
-Sign up for a team relay. (Credit!)
-Don’t give in to easy excuses to miss a run. (Credit! Barely missed any scheduled runs this year so far.)
-Approach the puke threshold frequently. (Credit! This summer, I was on the edge frequently.)


My half-marathon PR and generally successful interval training were delicious orange and red jelly beans. I ran more miles this year (already!) than any previous year (mmmm, black beans.) I enjoyed Life on the Puke Threshold. But I paced too conservatively in the second half of the marathon and ended with a mouthful of purple. And those 5k’? More purple beans. More ennui.

It seems that my running this year can be summed up by continuing the tiresome analogy: In training, I enjoyed the varied jelly delights with lip smacking joy. In races, I mostly consumed purple.

If you are thinking that this sounds awfully like a year in review – in early November – you’re right. I probably won’t race again before the end of the year. My jelly beans are in the barn. And, more importantly, I beat everyone else’s yearly review before it became cliché. First! Stay tuned for my 2011 goals post which will undoubtedly be better than yours. Or, at the very least, FIRST!

Now, off to see how the purple jelly beans feel when injected directly into the eye balls. They didn’t feel too good when kicking me in the nuts.

Happy trails.

Asicshole

Let me fill you in on a little secret I recently learned: that “s” in Asics? It doesn’t stand for “soccer”.

I love my Asics. I’ve been running in them for years now. I think I started with the GT2090’s (was that a shoe…or just my Swiss cheese memory?) placed on my foot by a running specialty store clerk. A celestial light beamed down. Doves flew up around me in a sweeping arc. My feet were saved! I’m sure I paid too much money for them because I bought them from…a running specialty store. Since then, of course, I’ve found a source for buying the 2100 series shoes at half price (as long as you don’t mind wearing last year’s model – and you don’t get the doves and light) which is to say not from a running specialty store.

Like most, I follow the usual rules of Running Shoe Life Cycle: 1. Run for 400 or so miles. 2. Transition them to every day walking shoes. 3. Place them in a retirement home (lawn mowing shoes) and finally 4. Garbage (dog shit caked to the bottom.) This usually works quite nicely…unless you deviate from the norm.

My deviation came in the form of a request to fill-in on a friend’s co-ed soccer team. By the time I was done, my recently transitioned (stage 2 life cycle) Asics 2140’s looked like this:

I’m pretty sure that hole wasn’t there before I ass kicked all over an indoor soccer arena. The shoes have a nice breathable mesh but I don’t recall the gaping, exposed ventilation system on the outer edge. Someone’s ass must have a hunk of Asics mesh stuck up in there. Sure, it’s somewhat nice to have my little toe flopped out of the shoe like it’s lying on a sundeck while the other four toes hibernate inside. The four larger toes have long been jealous of the runt. But it does make me look like a refugee.

I guess it was worth it. We won 14-5. I scored a goal with a few assists. I scared the bejeebus out of a 55 year old woman with two knee braces by charging at her as she fumbled around with the ball at her feet, shouting “Run through the ball. RUN THROUGH THE BALL!!”, before spinning her to the ground as I hustled away with the ball the other direction.

I’m not going to go out and buy shoes to just to walk around in - that would be silly – so what do I do now? Do I make an early transition for my current running shoes (which still have 100 miles or so in them)? Do I keep on wearing them until the second toe pops out on the sun deck? Do I move the shoes into stage 3 life cycle a bit early and just walk around in sandals like I’m a Hippie?

Maybe I’ll keep them around for awhile. I may need to play soccer again. I remember leaving the field thinking that there was more ass to kick out there that I left unkicked. Until I noticed the new hole, I thought some of the opposing players were calling me an “Asshole” during the post-game handshake and I was quite pissed. But then I looked down, spotted my little toe peeking out, and realized that they must have been saying “Asicshole”. I smiled and waved, “Yes, you’re right, my Asics have a hole. Thank you.” To which, they indicated that they saw only one hole by extending one finger in the air. Helpful.

Perhaps there’s a stage 2.5 in the Running Shoe Life Cycle?

That would be the one in which 39 year olds run around in overused running shoes intimidating the Just For Fun co-ed leaguers with way too much aggression.

I can already see the new marketing campaign: Asics! Not for soccer…but they can still kick some ass! Be a real Asicshole today!

Happy trails.
_________________________________

I should provide an update on my filly’s travel soccer team of which, you’ll recall, I’m their Lombardi-esque coach. We did not win the league title. We finished 4-2-2 with the champ going 6-1-1. We beat and tied the champ in head-to-head action so the rest of the league didn’t hold up their end to help us out. Where was their A game when playing the eventual champs? My filly? Eight goals in 8 games. Plus, she assisted the other area travel team in three of their games and put in 3 more goals in 3 games. She does not wear Asics.

Spring, yes spring, the title will be ours!

Runners Are Better Than Charlie Sheen Because...

Runners and Charlie Sheen: Two things that go together like Henry Rollins and subtlety. Who’s to say which is better? One may tear themselves apart slowly, step by step, over 26 miles; another does it over 26 years. Opinions are like bad sitcoms; we all have one. Here’s mine.

Runners are better than Charlie Sheen because…

1. Rarely do you get STD’s from the community race day Gatorade volunteers.


2. Running can be a verb with positive connotations. The other can also be a verb but with less positivity . (i.e. “I took so many drugs that I rented a prostitute, trashed my hotel room, and capped the evening off with an embarrassing mug shot. In other words, I was really Sheened last night.”)


3. If you don’t like the woman race once you’ve started, you can just hire register for a new one. (Wait, maybe that’s how running is the same as Charlie Sheen.)


4. The only “crack” involved is the one you lube to prevent chafing.


5. You can still set a race PR. Charlie is resigned to his lifetime 1986 PR for Platoon.


6. Cramps may shut down your morning race. They take Charlie out for an entire week. (Or, at the very least, make him open up the Rolodex.)


7. When you snot rocket, it doesn’t land on the back of someone’s head.


8. Lindsay Lohan can still pull it off even with a cigarette in hand. Take that, Chuck!
   
9. Your heart and lungs strengthen and expand. Liver bloating = extremely rare.


10. When you run, you may be a role model. When you’re Charlie Sheen, you’re not.


11. BONUS: Running enhances your body’s natural curves and streamlines your physique. Without two surgically implanted cantaloupes on your chest, Charlie’s not interested in you.

MEN!

Happy trails.

________________________________

I’m whiling away the days with a steady stream of 8 mile and under runs with a few intervals thrown in to keep fresh. It’s off season maintenance mode around these parts. Last night: 5 miles at 6:58 pace.

Where Did Devil's Night Go?

I hope you all had a Happy Halloween. Mine was sufficiently merry. Mrs. Nitmos and I are currently enjoying the 40% house tax on the kids’ trick-or-treat candy. The country may be a democracy but this household is crazy dictatorial with a ludicrous flat tax on Halloween goods. It would have been nice to get a few more Snickers but - bad economy and all - I understand.

Before the pirates and witches and Clintons came calling, I managed a nice five mile run through my neighborhood and another nearby. It was late Sunday morning and, as I ambled along the leaf-strewn sidewalks, I noticed something strange. Rather, I did not see something I was expecting. Where were the trees covered in toilet paper? Where were the smashed pumpkins in the middle of the road? And where oh-where were the baseball batted mail boxes and egged cars?

As the leaves crunched underfoot and the future ghouls laughed and played in their yard, I became strangely aware that petty vandalism, tears, and smashed fruit no longer play a part in the holiday.

What is wrong with these kids today?

Devil’s Night was always a much anticipated tradition when I was a kid. We liked it more than Halloween. It was our one chance in a year to get even with the neighbors we truly hated. My brothers and I would put on our navy or black colored clothing and run around the neighborhood soaping car windows so thick that they were no longer transparent, egging the house of the kid who dug up our dead cat (true story), and launching high-arching toilet paper missiles that draped over the highest branches of the neighborhood oak trees. We’d hide in ditches when the patrol car came through and try to elude the parents with flashlights (or run like hell if you were caught in their beam of light – this was some of the earliest fartleking I remember doing.) We didn’t break pumpkins or swing for the fences against the plastic mail boxes but we sure enjoyed the handiwork of those that did. We knew to put our pumpkins inside the garage on Devil’s Night. Some didn’t get the memo.

In the morning, we’d walk around the neighborhood and enjoy our – and others – devilment: Annoyed parents scraping hardened egg off their car, kids crying over their broken pumpkins, cracked windows being taped together, and one or two police reports being given with angry gesturing points in our direction.

I guess since Detroit has decided not to burn the city to the ground any longer*, the rest of the country has taken its lead.

I finished my run without sight of one act of traditional Devil’s Night tomfoolery. It seems that Halloween is a one day, stand alone event now. Instead of misdemeanor crimes and tears of sadness, it’s all about costumes, candy, and fun. How sad. Where is the counter balance to this night of joy?

For me, Halloween is about drinking too much, verbally abusing the opposing sports team on TV, and sending the kids to see mommy for their basic survival needs. And someone disconnect that goddamn doorbell!! In other words, it’s a holiday like any other.

Oh, Devil’s Night, how I miss you.

Happy trails.

*Really, what is left to burn? Torching the same burned out warehouse again is just extremely cliché

Procrastination! (A Love Story)

Here are three recent events in the lives of the Nitmii in which my natural inclination towards laziness and do-another-day-ism resulted in a net benefit to me. Rest assured, no animals were harmed in any of these tales. (Wait for those in a subsequent post: Cat-Water Box! (A Torture Story).)

F.M.S. presents: A Chronology of Dawdle

October 17th: Deferred Motivation

Mrs. Nitmos and I took to the streets of Detroit once again for the 2010 Detroit Marathon relay. We were competing in the Open Mixed group which requires no less than two 'outies' and two 'innies' in the sexual organal make-up of the roster. Due to some last minute team member gerrymandering, we were one vag short of the required 'full house' of genitalia to make our team street legal for a run at the division awards. Instead of five – three men and two women – we were four (three men and one woman). As such, I was burdened with two legs, approximately 12.7 miles, of the race. Having no inclination to tuck for one of the legs (and, really if you knew me, the physics would be impossible), there would be no chase for an award.

It wasn’t the distance but the wearisome roster shenanigans that left me in need of motivation as I boarded the bus for Canada to await my start at leg #2 that morning. I would run but I wasn’t exactly sure how hard (t.w.s.s.) I would do so.

I completed leg #2 in less than stellar time. Since I was going two legs, I bypassed the exchange station in downtown Detroit and headed north of the city onto leg #3 with only a passing consideration towards accelerating. As I passed the exchange zone, however, I noticed one fire engine red shirt wearing chap beginning his leg of the relay with gusto. He ran alongside me for a bit after leaving the exchange zone and then zoomed away all hopped up on his fresh legs and obnoxious shirt. I plodded along content to finish the last 6.6 miles at…whatev pace.

But then I started playing a little game to pass the time: Catch the pace groups. When I joined the race, the 3:35 marathon pace group had just passed. They were toast within the first 1/2 mile. By the time we arrived in Detroit at the end of leg #2, I had passed the 3:30 group already.
So, I started accelerating. I could feel the latent motivation returning from my untucked regions surging through my limbs like an estrogen boost injection for a pre-op tranny. The 3:25 group fell and then 3:20 was left behind.

And then fire engine red shirted guy came into view with just under 2 miles to go. As I pulled alongside of him, he surged ahead with a ten second full thrusters on kick. He did this four times in a row clearly trying to fight me off. At this point, I would have knocked over some struggling marathoners (mile 18 for them) to beat this guy. I’m not going to let some one-legger with horrible fashion sense get the better of me.

I pulled ahead again. He charged up next to me again, breathing heavy, and said “Nice job relayer.” I replied with a fake smile “You too." Then, just before I burst ahead one final time, I innocently looked over and asked “Is this your second leg too?” I didn't see him again.

We finished 9th of 210 teams in our category.

October 18th: Frittered Chance

This Monday was Boston Marathon registration day. I knew registrations would be going fast. I took the 18th off from work to recover from the relay and take care of some other errands. I even viewed the BAA website early that morning but passed on registering. A dentist appointment…raking the yard…these things just seemed more important.

That evening, with sparkling teeth and an uncluttered lawn, I logged back in to the BAA website to see that registration had closed. (cue sad trombone) There was a slight twinge of regret for not registering first thing in the morning. But considering the expense it takes to get me, Mrs. Nitmos, and potentially the kids to Boston for 2-3 days minimum, I was conflicted about the whole idea altogether anyway. I’m passive-aggressive that way.

In the end, with registration closed and Boston 2011 out of reach, it didn’t take long before I decided that I was okay with it. A nice clean mouth of teeth and five heaping bags of raked leaves were the alternative instead. You know what? I’m at a place in life where that still seems like a good trade-off.

Besides, Boston Schmoston. When’s the NYC Marathon?

October 27th: Stalled Rake

After the October 18th raking session, the rake was placed away to a life of ease and solitude along the garage wall as a steadily growing pile of leaves fluttered to the ground in the days that followed. I’d look outside, shake my head at the work that needed to be done, and return to my DVR and Sons of Anarchy.

And then the wind came. Heavy winds. And the leaves tumbled down the road. And now I don’t have many leaves left in the yard.

My rake still sits along the garage wall. There are no leaves. My DVR is empty.

I win. But where do the leaves go? I can only imagine my neighbor five doors away that stepped outside for his morning paper only to discover that his yard now has a four foot blanket of leaves draped across it. My advice? Go back inside and put on the DVR. They’ll be gone before you know it.


And finally, an apology. I’d love to have posted more over the last month but, well, it seems I just didn’t feel like it. Will you hear from me again? Maybe when I can’t put it off any longer.

Happy trails.

Mine Is Longer Than Yours

But we knew that already.

Consider this the bookend companion to my other landmark blog post, Mine Is Shorter Than Yours. I’ll warn you upfront, Garmin (praise be thy name) comes in for some gentle teasing, though we know it is infallible and all-knowing. Anyhow, I think I’m safe down here in my basement, within my cocoon of mold spores and spiderwebs, from any celestial lightening strikes.

The 2010 Capital City River Run Half Marathon Race Report

I started this blog a few years back so I feel some weird sense of obligation to post a race report so that future generations can peruse my mind-numbingly dull stats. Posterity can be a pain in the posterior. Does anyone read this blog anymore? Unlikely. But, hey internets, here’s a race report! I’m following the General Internet Rule #1: If you don’t know what to do with useless information, post it online!

It’s been 9 days since I ran this race and 40 days, Garmin (p.b.t.n), since my last blog post. I haven’t been a very good blogger lately and certainly not a very good commenter on your blogs. Does that make me a bad person? No. It’s your fault.* Write something that I want to comment on. All of your race reports are entirely devoid of things dripping in syrup. Shame.

Besides, I’ve been busy working on my screenplay: Feet Meet Street: The Movie. It’s a cross between Dude, Where’s My Car? And Behind the Green Door…except with more dick jokes and a notch or two up on the vulgarity ladder. I’d like to get it turned into a feature film staring Carrot Top**before 2012 if only the studio execs would stop saying things like “You can’t do that with string cheese, that many times, in one movie” and “Did you have a mother?” Answers: That’s called “Saturday” at my house and yes, I had a mother but she recently changed her name and moved away.

But about that race. My Y.A.K hasn’t been going very well this year as I’ve near-missed PR’s in a few 5k’s and the full marathon. A few trifling seconds here and there have undermined a great summer of training. It was put up or shut up time at CCRR. Or another whiny blog post. I was fine with either one, actually. Last year, my Garmin (p.b.t.n.) told me I ran 13.21 miles for this same half-marathon which nearly caused me to miss my race goal. A 1/10th of a mile is a considerable distance when you are cutting it close to the goal time. After last year’s CCRR, I snarkily declared that my half-marathon distance (13.11) is shorter than their half-marathon distance (13.21) apparently which, in turn, spawned several comments calling me a whiner or a wimp (and generated at least three sessions of self-mutilation arm cuttings in the privacy of my bathroom as I struggled to deal with your hurtful comments.)

Well, I’m back. And I’m whining some more. Garmin (p.b.t.n.), like Jessica Biel’s ass, is perfect in all ways. We know that. But it measured the race this year at 13.29 miles. Since there’s no way Garmin (p.b.t.n.) could be wrong, CCRR, j’accuse!

Sure, my Garmin (p.b.t.n.) records .26 miles almost every lap around a 400 meter track but, once again, I assume the track is incorrect, right? If Garmin (p.b.t.n.) is wrong than what, pray tell, makes sense anymore? Is the sky not blue (or gray here in Michigan.) Is Carrot Top not actually funny?

No, Garmin (p.b.t.n.) is correct. I must believe it. As such, it’s clear that the CCRR tried their best to fuck me over again but I overcame.

Here are my gloriously consistent, even slightly downward trending, race splits. To maximize the whining, I’ve even included the finish stats based on the official race totals and what Garmin authoritatively says. That should instigate some insults in the comments (I have my razor standing by if you get in some real good zingers.)

Behold the breakdown of a well-paced, negative split race!

Mile 01 6:46
Mile 02 6:48
Mile 03 6:46
Mile 04 6:35
Mile 05 6:35
Mile 06 6:37
Mile 07 6:37
Mile 08 6:36
Mile 09 6:32
Mile 10 6:30
Mile 11 6:35
Mile 12 6:30
Mile 13 6:31
Last bit 6:03 pace (1:47 time)

Numbers? Yes, numbers:

1:27:43 time
13.11 miles (Garmin sez 13.29 miles)
6:42 pace (Garmin sez 6:36 pace)

37th of 1455 overall
4th of 89 in age group

A new PR by 70 seconds! (drum roll, cymbal crash, and update my side bar.) I’ll take that. I even left the finish area feeling pretty energetic. This was, by far, the smartest race I’ve ever run. I resisted the urge to take off like a shirtless drunk on Cops and paced nice and easy for the first three miles before ever so gently turning up the pace. A positive byproduct of training at near race pace constantly, like I do, is that the actual races feel pretty much like any other run. However, a negative byproduct of that type of training is that I often complete a race realizing I should have pushed harder than my normal training run. I lazily allowed myself to lapse into ‘training pace’ rather than shift to a higher ‘race pace’ gear. I think the 1:27 marker, at the very least, should have fallen…maybe even 1:26. But everyone probably feels that way after a race, right?

I’ve felt so good about this race, that I’ve been consuming an avalanche of sugary sweets that would make Thintervention subjects sweat with envy from their purple, blood-engorged cankles. I can hear my filly’s left over birthday cake shaking within it’s cake container as we speak. I’m coming for you cherry chip cake…just let me get the syrup first.

Happy trails.

*Come on, you expected that.
** Comeback vehicle?
_________________________________

I skipped out on my planned 10k this past weekend and I don't feel bad about it. I'll try to latch onto another 10k down the road before 2010 ends. That PR should easily fall.
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My filly's travel soccer team, expertly coached by yours truly, is in the hunt for the league title at 3-1-1 with a string of home games to go. Can we win? Only if they closely listen to every word I say like I'm Garmin (p.b.t.n.) reincarnated. The filly has pumped in 5 goals in 5 games. She has been earning her dinner...for now.
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Will I post again before the Detroit Marathon team relay in less than two weeks? I'm as curious about that as all of you. Once again, for the relay, Nitmos = two people (which is odd because my ego says Nitmos = 10 people. Maybe the CCRR did the calculation?)

Magic 800 Ball

I don’t know what’s so “magic” about an 8 ball but someone – Mattel, apparently - decided it was, so far be it from me to question the wisdom of a toy conglomerate. Besides, the product involves an “icosahedral die floating in alcohol with dissolved dark blue dye. The die is hollow, with openings in each face, allowing the die to fill with fluid.” Sounds magical! Icosahedral balls? Floating in alcohol? Hollow? Filled with fluid? Yep, pretty much describes me. Am I blushing? You may rely on it.

I don’t want to quibble with a company that has supplied us with both Rock ‘em Sock’em Robots AND the 2007 Chinese export toxic toys scandal but a magic “8” ball is not enough for me. Without a doubt. More like a magic “800” ball. When I’m feeling, er, not so fresh, when my legs are tired or disinterested, when my hamstring feels a bit strained, I like to go to that giant oval down the road and knock out some 800 intervals. It is decidedly so.

I tweaked my right hamstring around the seven mile mark during this past Sunday’s 11 miler. Oh, I pressed on despite the pain. I’m nothing if not stubborn and stupid. And handsome. (Reply hazy, try again.) It was still a bit sore on Tuesday as I laced up for my normal lunch hour run. So I did what any conscientious runner with a sore hamstring would do, I hit the track for my regularly scheduled 800’s and completely ignored the twang in the hammy! If I ignore it, does it still exist?

In eleven years of running, I’ve so far been very fortunate with injury: nothing serious. Nothing, at least, that hasn’t been cured with more than a week or two of rest and some extra stretching (and, possibly, an increase in alcohol consumption, which probably doesn’t have anything to do with healing, but why chance it?) You want to know the magic behind my successful injury avoidance? Denial. And 800’s. Seriously, when I’m feeling sluggish or achy, a nice jolt to the system in the form of an extra strenuous work-out seems to knock me back online.

I took to the streets on Tuesday well aware that I could rip that hamstring right up the side of my leg like a fat guy sitting down in comically under-sized jeans. I had a brief moment of doubt as I hit the track as to whether or not the 800’s were wise but my dimpled, isocahedral balls said Outlook good so off I went.

Oh, the hammy barked the first few laps but then settled into a nice dull ache before disappearing completely under a tidal wave of endorphins and adrenaline. Would the sore hammy show up later as I reposed at home with a grape flavored Icee? Ask again later.

Turns out, I completed 6x800 at planned pace with almost none of the post run hammy pain that had plagued me the previous 48 hours. So, it appears that once again I was right and years of dedicated research and clinical analysis was wrong. The best way to overcome soreness and injury? Magic 800’s! It is certain.

In fact, magic 800’s might just be the cure for all of life’s troubles. Canker sores? Yes. Crippling credit card debt? Yes! Snooki?? Yes Yes Yes. Auto-erotic asphyxiation? Trick question – that’s not a problem so it cannot be "solved" by a magic 800 ball.

Would this work long term if you are experiencing O.J. level stabbing pain to the back of the leg? As I see it, yes. Would it work if the pain is milder, say, like a depressed goth teen cutter? Yes – definitely.

Should you follow my advice and throw away your “casts” and surgically implanted “neck halos” for the healing promised by the Magic 800 Ball? Well, if you have isocahedral balls*, like yours truly, most likely.

Otherwise?

Don’t count on it.

Happy trails.

*Or isocahedral Fallopian tubes. I’m not sexist here at F.M.S. At least, not in today’s post.
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Sunday: 11 miles @ 6:57 pace.
Tuesday: 6 x 800 @ average 2:57 pace (10k level 800 pace). The 5k level 800 pace was 2:45ish but it seems, since the distance is larger, the 800’s could be completed a bit slower, no?

Today: Planned 8 miles @ 6:40 half-marathon race pace goal.
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I’m surprised I didn’t receive more negative reaction to my anti-coach screed at the bottom of the last post. Perhaps your silence is a form of protest? Really, I have nothing against coaches. I think everyone…no, no, I can’t get all the way through this with a straight face: Quit your coaches. Now.

The Vacilador

A Steinbeck soaked introspective.

I have to admit, after much ballyhoo and hype, my running has been a bit vacilar this summer. For you rubes not familiar with obscure references to John Steinbeck novels, I’ll let him describe vacilar:

It does not mean vacillating at all. If one is vacilando, he is going somewhere but doesn’t greatly care whether or not he gets there, although he has direction.

Yep, that pretty much describes my running this summer, at least, as far as pursuing PR’s.

This comes from Steinbeck’s “Travels with Charley” which is NOT the book in which the mentally ill man is shot to death for being…mentally ill (among other things). Can you imagine writing that book – “Of Mice and Men” – these days? Sarah Palin would have a conniption fit and demand an apology. Most of you would probably feel better if I ended the literary references right there but you’ll be greatly disappointed. There’s a ton more to go and none of them are Stephenie Meyer or involve romantic, shirtless vampires so try to stick with me.

As I’ve mentioned, I have been out there training and training hard this summer. But do you know what makes this year different than previous years? I haven’t really written out a run schedule since the Bayshore Marathon. It seems, after several years of running now, my body just goes on auto-pilot, puts on shoes at the same time on the same day each week, and heads out the door like I’m Lenny the farm hand used to following orders. Oh, there’s a race coming up? I vaguely have an idea that I should increase mileage at a certain point and maybe do a few more 800’s. But I can’t be bothered to look at a calendar and actually map these things out. I’m too busy petting my rabbits and dreaming of a better run to notice that shotgun aimed at the back of my head.

I have a half-marathon coming up in one month and I just realized that my Sunday long runs should be longer than I’ve been doing. Oops. This weekend, I compared my training log against last year’s training log, since I’ll be running the same half-marathon, and noticed that I really haven’t done anything different either in pace or distance than at this same point last summer. In other words, I’m primed to NOT PR yet another race (though I’m prepared to come in around the exact same time.)

My ambitious Y.A.K. plan provided general direction for the year but clearly I don’t greatly care whether or not I get that PR. Year of the Ass Kicker? More like Year of the Vacilador. I’m going somewhere but, about that PR, eh, who cares if I get there? I’ve been enjoying the journey without regard to the destination.

Maybe I need a running coach* to keep me focused on the destination as well as the journey. Like dim-witted** Lenny, perhaps I need George to provide the dream of a farm loaded with PR’s that we’d get to one day own. In my dreams, the PR’s would gather at my feet clucking and bobbing their little PR heads like a bunch of hungry chicks. I’d feed them with the sweat from my successful runs completed off my George designed training plan. They’d grow tall and plump until I’d feel they are ready to trot out for the next 4-H fair. There’d always be room for more PR’s on the farm as I’d simply add onto the barn or maybe expand the fence range. George would keep me moving in the right direction, to supply me with rabbits, and dreams, and soft, shiny training plans for me to touch…to stroke…to love until OH GOD I DESTROYED THE TRAINING PLAN WITH MY CLUMSY STROKING.

GEORGE!!!

BAM! Thud.

Happy trails.
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*I’m kidding. Unless you are a top athlete, you don’t need a running coach. Seriously, when’s the last time you heard about Softball Guy practicing with his softball coach or pick-up Hoops Guy going to the gym to knock out a training session prepared by his basketball coach? I don’t know what is up with amateur, recreational runners and their “coaches” (i.e. internet certification). That’s as pretentious as, say, quoting Steinbeck while insulting a popular modern writer.
**Sorry Sarah.

Vanilla, Extracted

By now you’ve already read that our popular, though recently absent, blogger Vanilla* has put a coda at the end of Half-Fast and bid us all a possibly-permanent-though-probably-temporary adieu.

It’d be so easy for me to launch into some snide personal attacks and juvenile name-calling now that he’s not here to defend himself. Even by F.M.S. standards, it’d be too easy. So, let’s get on with it…

How many of you think the obvious phonetic similarity between ‘Half-Fast’ and ‘Half-Assed’ was intentional? Methinks he might have had one of those ‘uh-oh’ moments like the one the parents of NASCAR driver Richard Trickle must have had.

The thing I always enjoyed about Half-Fast was his ability to write simply, in a crass and clunky style, in an effort to relate to the trailer park crowd. Trailerparkese is a difficult language but, dar gum, he did it! Most wouldn’t go to those lengths – mainly out of a sense of pride for oneself – but he did and I think he believes he’s better for it. Which is sweet. I think we all can agree that he didn’t deploy nearly enough asterisks/footnotes though.

I’ll most miss the attempts to PR that often ended in failure.** And then the excuses. Oh, man, the excuses were pure gold! It would be funny if not for the fact that his disappointment in missing a PR led to 45 more home foreclosures in the greater Colorado area.*** I believe the general philosophy was: No PR for me; No home for you.

I shared a podcast with him at one time. First it was through the Runner’s Lounge site under the title “Be Funny” subsequently renamed to “Laugh Tracks” and finally, after some thin skin controversy caused us to go independent, “Banned on the Run”. Through all of the changes Vanilla attended every taping and, in every single episode, offered his greatest contribution, whether it be school or work: attendance. He was awfully good at it! Thanks for bringing that to the podcast!

What will my life – hell, all of our lives - be without such regular blog entries as Weekend Splits, (Celebrity) is Running, or Off Track? Not a whole lot different really. I don’t know why I mentioned it.

I’m sure Vanilla would like to pretend that he never ran across F.M.S. or that he agreed to be part of a podcast with yours truly or be the subject of a multi-pronged lawsuit that awarded someone**** a substantial financial settlement as well as restraining order. But if regrets and jury verdicts were candy and nuts, we’d all have a Merry Christmas.

For my part, to be fair, I have a few regrets also. There were a few times I might have gone overboard in the hyperbole directed at Half-Fast. For example:

• It’s been unfair of me to suggest that Vanilla, the English banker, is single-handedly responsible for this country’s mortgage meltdown. There’s loads of circumstantial evidence and a strong, strong probability but do I know that for sure? No.
• I don’t know for certain that Vanilla finds the War of 1812 the single greatest moment in history because “we burnt the White House to the ground”. I don’t even know where that quote comes from but it sure does sound like something he’d say right?
• I regret insinuating that his blog – and by extension his very being – smells of moldy cheese. If there is one thing my parents taught me, it was never to make fun of someone’s personal hygiene choices.

So we come to the end of this phase of Half-Fast. I’m sure it’ll come back again and never truly fade away, no matter how much we may want it, like new Bon Jovi albums.

Some of you might think I’m being harsh. You might say that F.M.S. owes about half – or more - of its readership to his coveted Half-Fast Recommends link list. You might say that he nailed the short form blog entry style with highly readable, witty, and clever entries. You might say that the running blog pantheon is a little more bland today.

You might say a lot of things but then what do YOU know?

I wish Vanilla well in his new endeavors. There’s no one left in the running community to call me a terrorist. What will his future hold besides writing classes (obvs.)? More time to devote to foreclosures? More time for personal hygiene?

Wait…the timing of this is odd. Could it be?!

More hasty MS Paint magic!

Happy trails.

*”Ian” sounds like the name of the lead singer for a British alt-punk band. I call bullshit that he’s a banker. Either that or his name ain’t Ian. Right Carl?!?
**Lord knows I know nothing about that around here.
***He’s a banker remember?
****me