Running the Numbers

There are two kinds of runners: The jerks that beat me and the losers I beat.

I kid, I kid. I like to do that. Don’t get your compression shorts in an awkward snag.

Runner Spike is currently evacuating his training log bowels all over his last few posts. If you are in to the numerical scatology scene, it’s fantastic! There are maps, paces, distances, elevations, graphs, charts, Spam, and decimals as far as the eye can see! Oh my, clean up needed at La Casa Nitmospants. For a numbers nerd like me, it’s like heroin in the eyeballs….like watching a group of llamas get run over by a riding lawnmower…

Lurking underneath his numbers dump, there’s a deeper conversation about the importance numbers and statistics are to a runner. Or should be. And one of the things I do real well is take someone else’s post, modify the discussion slightly, and present it as my own original idea. Do you think those endless economic term papers I wrote in college came out of my own alcohol-addled brain? Mama didn’t raise many llamas.

I think he’s suggesting that it’s better to be one of those hippie runners, that wear tie-dye shirts and over-sized headbands and tell everyone how running is so great “because, like, you get to commune with nature, man, and that’s an awesome thing…especially after smoking a box of dried Gu Tri-berry while rockin’ out some Phish”, than a number/Garmin/third decimal place spreadsheet fanatic. The reason I think that’s what he thinks is because it would so conveniently set up the rest of my discussion. Plus, I’m hiding behind a pseudonym and general protection of critical commentary on the internet has already been defined by the courts.

There are two main types of runners: The numbers obsessed and the numbers indifferent. The numbers obsessed are usually meticulous training log jockeys, PR chasers, and/or time goal setters. If you’ve graphed your pace/distance over a period of time just for fun, you’ve given yourself away. The numbers obsessed usually track every run through a Garmin or Garmin-like device. They read the results like tea leaves searching for the magical secret to speed and/or distance. The thing that makes them happy are PR’s and more appealing times to plot on the log – even if they have to go to four decimal places to get it.

The numbers indifferent are hippies. (I kid, I kid. Don’t get your bong in a knot.) The numbers aren’t the scene, man. It’s about the feeling of the motion….the wind through the unkempt hair…the hard, rough pounding of pavement under bare feet…the tunes, man, THE TUNES. It’s all about pushing yourself based on how your body feels. It’s not about the digits, man, don’t harsh their vibe with your Stalinistic Garmin. If you’ve ever created a blog post and dropped in the runner cliché “listen to your body” more than once, you’ve given yourself away. The numbers indifferent just care about the FEELING running gives them. ..the endorphin release…the thrill and satisfaction from physical exertion. And Doritos, man.

To be clear, these aren’t disconnected categories. Within every runner, a little bit of both philosophical sides exist. The numbers geek (guilty!) truly enjoy the feeling of the run, the sweat, the fatigue regardless of the statistics. Like taking the occasional hit of recreational crack, they’ll unstrap the Garmin and toss aside the over-priced shoes The Man made them buy. They’ll shuffle China Grove to the top of the playlist. They’ll run just by feel letting the air rush through their sensibly styled hair. They’ll revel in the motion and the physical exertion. When the carefree run is over, they’ll feel happy and refreshed and wonder, maybe just a little, what their pace would have been had they had their Garmin. But then it’s back to business…training logs, pace charts, DATA.

Whether they care to admit it or not, the numbers indifferent runner also occasionally checks the stove clock – the Kenmore Ironman edition – when they return from a particularly gnarly run. Then they turn on reruns of Mama’s Family and get stoned. I kid, I kid. Don’t get your Nick at Nite in a huff.

Both sides exist in each of us but there is usually a predominant force. I’m numbers obsessed. I don’t care what self-proclaimed “purists” think about that. I reconciled long ago that I’m overly competitive. I once sent the Chutes and Ladders game piece of the Little-Blond-Boy-Frolicking-In-His-Striped-Shirt flying into the wall because, dammit, he would NOT STOP GOING DOWN THAT STUPIDLY LONG SLIDE ON THE #87 SQUARE. (I’m not allowed to play Chutes and Ladders anymore.) I derive enjoyment from chasing numbers. It’s a tangible, competitive goal I can pursue in my otherwise normal suburban life. No apologies to the numbers indifferent. I love me some numbers. I love ‘em violently.

There’s no right or wrong type of runner. YOU decide what role numbers play in your experience. One way doesn’t make you more PURE than the other. It’s all about whatever gets you out the door, feeds your soul, and keeps you moving. It could be Garmins and spreadsheets or bare feet and Doritos.

Eventually, for me, I could see the pendulum swinging back from the NUMBERS side to the FEEL side as I get a little older and tire of the PR chase. But, then again, maybe not. (Does one “lose” their competitive spirit??) If - or when - that time comes, I’ll still be a RUNNER in every sense of the word.

I’ll just have shaggier hair and a penchant for quaaludes.

Happy, like, trails, man.
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Your turn to speak up.

I Fired My Coach

I fired my coach today. This came after studying my post-February year-to-date totals. It’s a drastic step but something had to be done. Review the data with me and I think you’ll agree that it was necessary.

First of all, my total mileage is down 30% at this same point as last year. 30%! That’s about the same amount as Charlie Sheen’s sanity level.

I’ve done barely any speed work since December. Sure, it’s been snowy but I could have at least fartleked the dry pavement parts right? It’s like I’ve halted production on speed altogether like I’m a top-rated, though inconsequential, sitcom with a steady stream of increasingly bland one-liners.

Inspirational speeches? None. No ‘build me up buttercup’. No Adrian motivation before the big fight. No freakin’ wind beneath my wings whatsoever. Not once have I been called a 'warlock' or told that I have 'tiger blood in my veins' and those are two of the four things people primarily describe about me.*

How’s my training plan going? Well, I’ll let you know that once I find one. I’m scriptless. My coach hasn’t written a training plan since last May’s marathon. He’s so over confident that he feels like, at this point, the miles just kinda write themselves and I’m just going to laugh my way around the track.

And how about a tender massage every now and then? I don’t need oil and candles but a nice compliment about my complexion sure wouldn’t hurt, you know? I fella likes to hear that every now and then. It’s like he’s forgotten about me and is already on to his next conquest.

Forget about a diet. I’ve indulged in enough fudge strip cookies to make a Hollywood coke party think ‘whoa, that guy has had too much.’

All of this has taken place directly under the supervision of my old running coach. I can overlook the 30% decrease in mileage. I’m training for a half marathon now whereas last year it was a full marathon. And the winter has been a little harsh. But this coach seemed to be content with my 6 pound weight gain, 50% increase in wine and beer consumption (year over last), and 80% increase in Sons of Anarchy reruns. Couple that with my 40% increase in Cabin Fever coming out in the form of a series of eye-rolling “Dad jokes” foisted upon the helpless children, with no remote, and you’ve got a serious problem on your hands.

He had to go. It’s too bad because he sure was a handsome little devil. Funny too. We had really similar personalities. It was like looking in the mirror.

I think I’m going to hire this other coach I’ve seen around from time to time. He’s a bit more of a curmudgeon. He likes to flip the bird at other drivers. He’s likeable but in a completely insulting and offensive way. He says things publicly like “kill ‘em all and let someone else figure it out” and “what’s up with the hunchback?” a little too loudly for my tastes. He thinks babies are useless for interval training unless it’s to create a hurdle in lane one. He appreciates a few drinks but likes to confine it to Saturday night. And don’t get him started on the weather. That’s unacceptable excuse #1.

He’s also what I see when looking in the mirror though, as we know, the mirror reverses the image. He’s a Bizarro me and I think that’s what I need right now.

Plus, he’s promised to make me a runner with the equivalent ability of two and a half men three men.

It’s time to get serious. Run on, warlocks!

Happy trails.

*Others: asshole and douchebag.

Randomly Richer!

The Drawing for the CSN Stores $70 Gift Code/Card

The Gods of Generation, Lords of Luckytown, Rulers of Randomness have been fed their input and returned an output. Thirty-four hopefuls prayed at the altar of divine chance but only one could walk away $70 gift code virtual dollars richer. If you did not win, it’s probably because your soul was found to be lacking. I’m not trying to over-dramatize the random number generator (from random.org) but I truly believe that it measures your entry against your very qualities as a human being. If your number was not returned, you must ask yourself ‘why’. What is wrong with you that you were not chosen? Is it personal hygiene…the hair cut? Both? Probably….and a whole lot more. When’s the last time you called your mother for chrissakes??


That’s right, the number returned was ‘20’. Twenty is a good, solid, wholesome number. No hyphens. Easily divisible by both 10 and 5. Heck, it’s even topical in nature. Twenty is the first two digits of our year. The twenty dollar bill features Old Hickory himself, Andrew Jackson, famous for taking on the power of the banking industry during his Presidency. And just try to compose a list of your Top 20 favorite FMS posts without it!

Plus, it’s the very amount I obtained, in addition to the offered $50 amount, with my humiliating acts at the Ft. Wayne Super 8. Shudders.

A quick check against the entries reveals that comment #20 belongs to CANYONCAIRNS. Though (she?) doesn’t have word verification, she did correctly answer the question about where the quote came from – Reality Bites – indicating a detailed reading of the ENTIRE entry rules post including all asterisks (which contained the ‘easy out’ for those worried about the word verification requirement.)

I was tempted to just award the $70 to Debbie for going with another Reality Bites quote: “There’s an IQ prerequisite but there’s no secret handshake.” If you count “IQ” as one word, the quote totals exactly 9 words and, therefore, eligible for the contest. Plus, it’s a pretty good life philosophy, isn’t it?

But, sorry, rulez are rulez.

I did enjoy the other 9 word philosophies from several of you. Very creative. I guess you aren’t all mindless chimpanzees! Congrats!

CANYONCAIRNS, please contact me at the email shown under About Me on the sidebar to claim your $70 prize.

The rest of you? Time for a good hard look in the mirror I guess.

Happy introspecting.

Bad Break-up

In happier times, we went together like marathons and nipple chafing: She with her four voluptuous curvy mounds; me with my taunt, sweaty, exhausted muscles working hard to earn her respect. I felt both vigorously alive and hopelessly overwhelmed navigating the succession of her mounds, each more physically demanding than the last.

Oh, I wanted her. I spent years wanting her. She wanted me too. I could tell, when the time came, by the way she eagerly accepted my online payment for future services rendered. No hesitation. No ‘Unable to Display Page’. It was a great relationship while it lasted. Now it appears to be over. I didn’t end it. She doesn’t seem to want me anymore.

I know I haven’t changed. I’m the same ordinary, amateurish shclub that appealed to her once long ago. I haven’t gotten any smarter (see: Jersey Shore); I haven’t gotten any faster (see: fudge stripe cookies); I haven’t gotten any sexier (see:…impossible!). But I haven’t gotten any worse at any of those things either. I’m the same Little Engine That Could runner I always was.

I guess what I’m saying is: It’s not me, it’s her right?

Here we were in happier times:

Remember when I carved her initials in the tree?

That’s all gone now. She’s moved on to a faster crowd. She tells me it’s a crowd I’d have a tough time keeping up with though I’m welcome to try. I understand. You don’t have to condescend to my Garmin. There are eight seats available at the cool kids’ cafeteria table and I’m student number nine, holding my tray full of sad little dried out peas and beefless lasagna(ish) scanning the room for another seat while you try to look away so that I won’t embarrass you in front of your new friends.

You tell me that you are the same that you always were as well. Just that things change and you have different standards you are looking for. But suddenly you won’t accept my online payment attempt. My best is no longer good enough. I won’t get to feel those mounds against my body. I won’t get to prematurely dehydrate between your slopes.

Well, missy, I’ve moved on as well. You won’t see me busting my butt trying to keep up with your crowd. Besides, your new friends are all lame. Is that guy’s hair frosted? Is that a goatee AND a gold necklace? Where’s his Trans Am parked? I look at you now and I just want to guffaw. Guffaw, guffaw, derisive snort, guffaw. And I want my ABBA CD back (the one hidden in the Linkin Park CD case.)

Look what I did to your tree:

You’ll be back. You’ll see. You’re just a fad right now. You’re Bieber trendy. Fads fade and….well, so does fast but you get my point. One day, I’ll be sitting around looking at photos of all my other conquests….mounds much greater than yours…and you’ll want me back. You’ll suddenly think I’m in the fast crowd.

Maybe I’ll take you back. Maybe I won’t. But, for now, we need to see others. I think it’s best for both of us.

When you feel you can lower your standards again, perhaps I’ll pay for your services.

Happy trails.
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Another Unasked For Epinion:

Contrary to the above little fiction, I support the BAA’s tougher entrance requirements. I think they tried to hedge around too much with the “rolling admission” based on how many minutes you beat the standard bullshit, however. Drop that crap and just go with a straight time requirement. From there, quickest finger to the draw on registration day! Look, you can’t please everyone and it is a mistake to even try. Boston is an exclusive race and, based on the current marathon explosion, the demand quickly outgrew supply of available spots. They haven’t adjusted their qualifying standards in like 30 years. It simply makes sense to tighten things up for awhile. It probably should have been done a few years back when it became obvious that the Second Great Running Boom was upon us.

I’d like to know that they put some analytical thought into the qualifying times and the male/female standards, etc. based on actual data. Maybe they have but I just haven’t seen it yet. Why do they think tightening up by exactly 5 minutes will solve the issue? How did the rolling admission process play into their concerns about the entrance standards? It seems a bit arbitrary but, then again, it’s their race so they can be as arbitrary as they want, arbitrarily speaking.

I trust – and expect – that the BAA will revisit the standard every few years. Eventually, the amateur athlete will find a new interest – I’m looking at you competitive jousting – and the demand will shrink and standards eased.

But, if not, better run a bit harder right? That’s one thing you can control.
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There is still time to enter for a $70 Gift Code to CSN Stores (you have until Sunday at midnight, Eastern). As of now, as I suspected, there are only 28 comments on that post. Of those, about 6-8 comments are from people who DON’T want to enter (odd, no?) and people who didn’t read the entrance requirements carefully and disqualified themselves (note: if you don’t have a blog, you can still answer the question I proposed or, at the very least, READ THE ASTERISKED FOOTNOTE - which has already been answered by others - for an ‘easy in’.)

I can't in good conscience award a prize to someone who couldn't read two simple instructions. Sorry. Your odds are good. Enter away!

Yet Another CSN Stores Giveaway!

You’ve heard the expression “everyone and their Nitmos” right? Quite literally, I believe EVERYONE has given away a CSN Stores gift certificate at this point. And now your Nitmos has too. Like losing your virginity - or watching The Bounty Hunter – it’s something you do just once.

After intense negotiations, consultation with lawyers, and a luxurious wine-n-dine getaway at a Ft. Wayne, IN spa/Super 8, we settled on the oddball amount of:

$70

That’s right, no cheap $50 gift certificate around these parts. Your loyalty is worth an extra $20 (and apparently so is my self-respect based on the happenings in Ft. Wayne.) That’s $70 to spend at CSN Stores (csnstores.com). A quick perusal of their website – based on their product categories - indicates that you can get Bed & Bath, Lighting, Décor, and Baby & Kids. I have enough baby and kids at my home but, if I were in the market, $70 for a baby is a GREAT price. I doubt Madonna gets them any cheaper. Once you get that baby and/or kids, they might need a place to play. Then head on over and check out the swing sets available here.

I’m not going to burden you with a bunch of “follow mes” and “add my websites” and “tweet me” and “come over and clean my gutters” requirements. If you want the $70, there are two simple rules:

1) Leave a comment.
2) Make sure you use word verification for comments on YOUR blog.

That’s it! What? Oh, right, the word verification thingy. You must use word verification on your blog. You didn’t expect this to be too easy, did you? Remember whose blog this is? I’m going to be a jerk about it too. I’ll use a random number generator to draw the winner. You may enter with a comment time stamped now through Sunday, February 27th at midnight. When the generator…generates a number, I will visit your blog and verify the…verification. No word verification, then it is back into the generator to…generate another number. I will continue to be a jerk as…jerkishly as I want until a winner is found. Hey, if you knew what I had to go through to get that extra $20 for you people*, you wouldn’t complain about the lousy little word verification part of this contest.

I guess – and maybe I’m going soft in the waning days of my thirties – I can let you enter the contest WITHOUT the word verification requirement. If you still want in, but refuse to use word ver, your comment should include a "brief justification for the ontological necessity of modern man's existential dilemma" in exactly NINE words. No more, no less. That’s the price you pay for not using word verification. **

So, get crack-a-lackin’ with a comment! Other times when I have run a contest like this, I’ve gotten no more than 30-35 comments due to my low readership so your odds are pretty good. And I didn’t have the verification requirement for those.

Don’t need $70? Well, you must have a job with a bank, Wall Street, or the health care industry and don’t need such hand-outs (unless they come from the government – ba dum dum). You can leave us commoners to our own private little money grab.

Enter once only. (NOTE: Open to residents of US and Canada.) Good luck!

Happy commenting.

*One Night in Nitmos. Roger Ebert raves "...much more disgusting and pudding-soaked than One Night in Paris. Comparatively, Hilton's "film" is PG. Abhorrent!"
**At the very least, correctly identify the movie the above quote comes from.
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The White Death has returned. Or, at least, I hear people complaining about it. I’ve already mentally started spring so I see nothing more than an accumulation of pollen from the blooming greenery. The pollen is 8 inches deep. I’ve used the occasion to get out my pollen shovel and do some cross-training by making little pollen banks at the sides of my driveway and sidewalks.

I hope I don’t have to Return to War with the Mailman over the pollen blockade in front of my mailbox. As Pooh says, “Oh, bother.”

Podium Post #3: Fat is Phat!

I mentioned last week, before my lame thumbcuff joke(sorry for that), that I would like to feature a blog post that I found on the blogwaves that is either funny or interesting or funresting or interfunny or some fractional combination of funny and interesting. Actual percentage of each doesn’t matter as long as it is gluten-free. Now I realize this is a bit pretentious. This assumes that (a) You care what I find funny/interesting (b) The blog writer cares that I featured them and gave them an inappropriately-named award and (c) That you haven’t already read it anyhow because their blog is probably way more popular than mine, for obvious reasons.

Despite all these good reasons not to do it, I’m going to do it anyway. I still own Enron stock.

I didn’t highlight Podium Posts #1 and #2 as I should have but they are tucked into the bottom of my inane ramblings here and here if you care to backtrack.

This week’s recipient of the coveted P.P. is Charlotte from The Great Fitness Experiment. I think the title alone earned a nomination: “Which is Worse: Being Called “Fat” or “Whore”?” Then, throw in a picture of Jesus on a piece of toast and, well, you got a winner! You know my rule: If you can combine fat, whore, and Jesus toast into a single blog post without coming off as blasphemous, the world is your piano and the rest of us are merely differently colored, and sized keys.

Charlotte makes a number of interfunny observations about pop culture and the current discrimination towards the fat. It’s going to be tough to make my usual sophomoric (heck, eighth graderic?) jokes about such an erudite post but, as mentioned, I’m willing to press on and embarrass myself for your benefit.

I’ll link you to read it yourself. It’s pretty phat!

Choice quote #1:

“…publicly pillorying fat people is the modern equivalent of sending away a
pregnant teen until her shame resolves itself. There is a new scarlet letter in
town: it's spelled XXL.”

She even bravely includes a photo of two larger-than-average humans enjoying a ride on a stressed scooter. Of course, she points out all of the horrible things people said about the photo to reinforce the obvious social media harassment that is taking place. Can’t argue with her conclusion. I’ve long felt that being fat, in this culture, is viewed as a crime. If it’s not a felony, than it’s at least a serious misdemeanor (with a side of cream cheese). (Note: Being phat, however, is still awesome! No change there.) However, it might be the most delicious of all the crimes!

Did I feel a little shameful when chuckling at some of the jokes people wrote? Yes. Did I spend more than a few seconds trying to come up with a clever one myself? Yes. (At least he’s not being chicked, amirite? What’s the mpg? 1/8th?) Did I futilely try to find the source of the photo? Maybe.

I do feel terrible. I need a scarlet letter of my own. Perhaps a giant “L”? (For “loser” not Laverne DeFazio.)

Seriously, this is another example of a well-written, thought-provoking blog post – which the internet should really be about – that you don’t get around here. Instead, you get offensive jokes and cheap word play. And that’s only as funny as a blown scooter transmission.

Her conclusion asks:

Choice Quote #2:

“Which is worse these days: Being called fat or whore?”

Why choose? They can be neatly combined for maximum effect.

Congratulations Charlotte for winning an award you’d probably rather not have. It’s your fault for writing a terrific post. Check it out. Now.

Off to get some Jesus toast with some Leviticus jelly.

Happy trails.

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C'mon fellas, we need some quality writing from the male runners. We've been chicked three weeks in a row!

Sigh No More

I’m done sighing. It’s nearly over.

The Winter Winds that have littered the local lonely runners these last few months seem to be turning its blustery puffs another direction. The snow is melting. The end (of winter) is near. As the snow retreats, the Thistle & Weeds reappear. Michigan is awash in dirty, running water, slush and mud. This is the time of year when we collectively soak in our filthy winter bath water only to emerge fresh and clean come spring.

I love it. I just might wear shorts on my run today. The size of my smile is directly proportional to the amount of exposed deer and raccoon carcasses along the road side ditches. You can have your lilacs and fresh cut lawn; nothing says spring to me like the rancid odor of a two month old, picked over raccoon with empty, gaping eye sockets.

This morning, I stared at my White Blank Page trying to determine how I’d communicate the joy I feel about this 50 degree day. I can feel my inner Little Lion Man growling. Some 800’s are near, finally!

Winter, I Gave You All. But it’s time for us to Roll Away Your Stone and emerge from The Cave. The wonderful world of running sans Himalayan mountain gear is upon us. Sure, I know we are bound to get another blast of cold and freezing temperatures…perhaps another inch or two of snow as well. I realize that I’m tempting fate by celebrating the arrival of spring on February 17th. In Michigan. I don’t care. Define your Timshel. Thou mayest choose to fear the evil past racing up from behind or look towards the glorious future. Awake My Soul, it’s time to run longer and faster!

It’s amazing that we’ve arrived at this point so soon After The Storm. I was about to choke on the noose around my neck. The chair was wobbly; one little kick – or a hard sneeze - would have toppled it and sent me into the dead man’s dance.

But here we are. I’m running today in shorts and 50 degrees. It’s a heat wave. Come summer, this slushy, wet land will look more like a Dust Bowl.

But that’s a problem for another day.

Sigh no more, little lion man, sigh no more.

Happy trails.
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Other Unasked For Updates

Note from the front:
In my last post, I announced WAR with the mailman. The mailman lost. I did not shovel. The snow melted enough a day later that he could find no reason to continue suspending delivery. I got my two days worth of credit card applications and unsolicited insurance appraisals. The mailmen may look imposing in their dress blues but, trust me, they can be beaten by a simple shift in the weather pattern.


Laughter is the Best Medicine:
And beer. Mrs. Nitmos and I attended the 2nd annual Comedy Festival along with some friends of ours over the weekend. I won’t tell you if Jeffrey Ross, Comedy Central’s Roastmaster General, is funny or not. If you find it amusing that he brought an obnoxiously drunk blond on stage and asked her “when the last time you had a microphone up your ass. I mean, today” then you probably get the general flow of the show. Good times, good times. Next year, people, you can attend also. Save the date.

A Microbrew Festival of some sort happened to be going on in town at the same time. This was unfortunate as it turned my favorite local restaurant into a fraternity party. I could smell Axe everywhere. I waited in line 10 guys deep just to use the pisser and, once inside, found two “ladies” using one of the men’s stalls. Where am I? Is this 1990? Am I in the basement of the TKE house?


Deliverance:
Finally, our good friend Viper has “picked” a new blog to tell you everything you want to know about banjers. It promises lots of good information, interviews, news and notes about everything banjo related. Since he’s an interesting writer, it’ll no doubt be a good read even if you aren’t a banjo enthusiast. Go there and support him. At press time, no word on whether the site will discuss toothless sodomites.
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Main post musical references provided by these guys.

At War with the Mailman

"Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds” - Herodotus, about 500 B.C.

I call bullshit.

My mailman and I are at war. I didn’t get my mail for two days straight last week during the Great Snow Event. I was fine with it. We couldn’t even back out of our driveway so I didn’t expect to find a mailbox full of the usual, ZERO PERCENT INTEREST FOR 12 MONTHS! credit card applications and subpoenas. It was a welcome break really. Standing over the trash can sorting 90% of the unopened mail directly into the garbage can be a real chore.

Then, the roads were plowed. Life resumed. My mail box became full again for a few days.

We’ve received no meaningful snow accumulation since last week. If anything, the piles of Snow Event have started to dwindle. But yesterday, I received a note rubber banded to my mail that reminds me that the “approach and retreat from my mail box must be clear for 30 feet in either direction to allow for the postal worker to complete their task.” They even provided helpful little pictures to show me how I’m supposed to shovel my snow in a tapered arch starting 30 feet from my mail box and then again tapering out 30 feet on the other side of my mail box. It’s like a mail carriers delivery parabola – the most inconsequential parabola in parabola history. They conclude by fairly sneering at me, “Your cooperation in this matter is greatly appreciated.”

Not so bad, is it?

Well, I ain’t gonna do it. I didn’t do it.

And I didn’t get my mail today. The mailman has joined the fight! I realize resistance is futile. Ultimately, I need my mail. I need my latest issue of Runner’s World so I can discover the 10 Keys to Your Best 5k (because I’m too lazy to look back at the preceding 46 issues.) Any “victory” I feel is Pyrrhic at best. I’ll destroy myself before the post office runs out of junk mail. But when fighting BIG MAIL, I’ll go without discovering the Pet of the Month if that’s what it takes.* Life is full of sacrifices…

The post office is becoming increasingly antiquated. Everyone knows it. Email, cell phones, netbooks, etc. are making mail delivery as outdated as horseback delivery when the automobile was invented. They even tried to make a movie glamorizing postal delivery and that failed. Remember The Postman? I didn’t think so. It was the bomb Kevin Costner made after the bomb he made called Waterworld. In The Postman, our hero rebels, fights, and survives a post-apocalyptic world jut so he can defiantly…deliver mail?! That was the premise, I kid not. Try not to become overcome with tears. I watched it so you don’t have to. That’s the kind of thing I do for you people.

So what happens now? There aren’t too many chess pieces to play in a Mail Addressee vs. Mail Deliverer stand-off. A fine? How are they going to notify me? How are they going to bill me? How will I know? If this goes on too long, I suppose the subpoenas will eventually turn into arrest warrants. I might need to continue paying 12.99% interest on some of my credit debt when I could be paying 0%.** And how will I know what shoes Runner’s World recommends? Do I assume it is the same shoes they recommended the last time, just the newest generation?***

Is it too much to ask the mailman to reach an extra three inches to drop some letters in a box? Do I have to go out and open the little door too because this would aid the postal worker in completing their task and that they really appreciate my cooperation in this matter? You see the photo. Am I out of line?

I’ll probably just hold off until next week. The forecast promises above freezing temperatures which means melting snow and increasingly expanding mail delivery parabolas. Then, I’ll get my mail; he’ll know I didn’t lift a finger over his little note.

Am I making a big deal out of nothing? Probably, but that’s what you expect around here.

"Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night…”

Rain? Snow? Heat? Gloom of night? Maybe. I bet Herodotus thought he had it all covered. But “lean a couple extra inches out of the heated, cushioned, radio-entertained vehicle”? Apparently, he missed that one. That’s just a bridge too far.

Happy delivery.

*I hope that’s not what it takes.
**Some restrictions apply.
***Safe bet.
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Last week it was Elizathon. This week’s featured Podium Post (i.e. post filled with creativity that rises to a place worthy of a spot on the weekly blog post podium) is from Two Motivate. Help beet-lover Drea name a group of runners. We desperately need one.

(I’m looking for a post each week to feature in the Podium Post section. In the future, I may even bump it to a whole post of my own…if I feel like it. If your blog entries are a dry regurgitation of run stats better suited for a Facebook, Twitter or Daily Mile entry, don’t expect to “win”. If it contains donkey fights and tons of hyperbole, well, you might be in the running!)
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Off to the Comedy Festival tomorrow! How drunk do you think I’ll get Saturday night on a scale of 1 to 10 (drunkest)? I’m guessing about a 7 but I wouldn’t put a 9 past me. Ever been thumb-cuffed? Weird experience. Brace yourself Mrs. Nitmos.

Speed Fiend

I’m Jonasing for some speed. I know what you are thinking and, no, I’m not “Jonesing”. That was not a typo. I’m not quite that bad yet for a full on Jonesing. Instead, I’m a lesser version, a pseudo-imitation-whinier-thicker-browed version. I feel like running fast. I feel like doing speed work. I can’t. This lovable, heaven-blessed blanket of snow is getting in my way. I’m feeling slightly annoyed – not significantly so –but enough to cast sad-faced glances at my snowed in high school track as I pass by for – sigh – another easy run.
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Jonasing (v): (1) To want something, mildly so. (2) To wish you had something but not enough to compel to action. (3) To desire insignificantly (4) To overlook pitchy vocals and caterpillar-browed brothers
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I’m not sure how much progress I’m making with my running so far this year. I’m just spinning my wheels like a car stuck on a sheet of ice (topical simile!) All of my runs are within 10-15 seconds of the same pace. Fortunately, there’s still over three months to go until my half marathon. Plenty of time for thawing, speed work, re-freezing, thawing again, speed work, and another Jonas album. In the meantime, I am in full on Maintenance Mode.

I don’t think I‘ve ever had such a prolonged stretch of base-building, maintenance style running. Usually the weather breaks here and there - the temperature climbs above freezing for a few days - where you can sneak in a nice track work-out a few times during winter. It hasn’t happened since New Year’s Day. And who does speed work when there are football bowl games to watch and left over NYE beer to drink? Heck, I usually spend New Year’s Day alternating between football and walking around my llama-strewn house scratching my unwashed, unkempt hair asking ‘what the hell happened last night?’ while arranging for rides home for the midget with the Tostada chip bowl sombrero.

But I’m starting to feel that itchy, burning desire for speed. Either that or my herpes is flaring again. Without signs of painful bumps and rash, I’m going to assume it is the speed fiend within growling with hunger.* I’m tired of boring easy runs. I want SPEED. I mean, I’m not referring to the injectable kind. I emphatically denounce recreational drug use. In fact, if you have the methamphetamine kind of speed and thought that’s what I wanted, you should email me using the address on the sidebar so that I can reply in a strongly-worded missive about how much I don’t WANT IT and how you shouldn’t SEND IT TO ME along with a box of 10 ML DISPOSABLE NEEDLES.

It is 8 degrees right now. I’m going to wait until it hits 15 degrees later this afternoon and then slide on my YakTrax and head out onto the snow-covered sidewalks for another easy run. I’ll run past the local high school track, per usual for my lunch hour run, and look wistfully at the stacked hurdles and indecipherable lanes around the football field. I might engage in a heavy sigh if I think the sucking of wind won’t freeze my lungs. It’s sad to think that the only thing keeping me from my beloved 800’s is some crystallized water. It gives life…and it takes it away.

For me, the goal is to make it to March. March is where the thaw begins! March is when the 800’s bloom! March is when my speed fiend is satiated!

But if March turns out just as bad as January and February? Well, forget about Jonasing. I’ll be in full on Biebering.
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Biebering (v): (1) To strongly desire something disproportionately to its actual value/talent. (2) To feel compelled to punch Usher. (3) To be poorly coiffed but able to convince others otherwise by some sort of mass brainwashing.
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Seriously, if you have speed, email me.

Happy injecting.

*But keep an eye on that llama. There is one with bumps and a red rash.
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Mrs. Nitmos and I will be heading north – North, can you believe it after I just complained about winter! – for the 2nd Annual Comedy Arts Festival. Once again, I wasn’t asked to perform (marking the second straight year I was overlooked, unintentionally I’m sure.) We’ll be taking in the comedy stylings of one of my favorite filthy-tongued Comedy Central roasters, Jeffrey Ross. I hope he has great material that I can steal and pass off as my own on this blog next week! Oh, plus add in a hot tub, red wine and delicious seafood and you have the rest of our planned weekend. Jeff Ross isn’t invited to the hot tub…unless he shaves.

Shame Run

I have a YMCA membership. So besides being reminded of the Village People every time I walk in the place, I also have to be surrounded by unapologetically naked old men in the locker room. It’s normally after about the third septuagenarian that rounds the corner from the showers and, while I sit on the bench changing into my running clothes, stands next to me drying the hair on the back of their head with THEIR ONLY TOWEL that makes me sigh hopelessly. Each shift of the towel against their scalp is performed with a hip thrust that creates a mid-section swinging motion – oh, God, a swinging motion! – that brings me a smidgen closer to meeting their Mr. Wanky. I pay for this right? I’m sorry but, if you have only one towel when emerging from a public shower, it better not be wrapped around your head.

Part of me admires a person that is so comfortable in their own skin that they can stand in front of strangers naked as jaybird, free as a…ball, unencumbered by societal values and the long-standing unwritten rules of common decency. To not give a damn what crevice is exposed nor the audience viewing it must be an intoxicating feeling. I’ve been intoxicated; I know the feeling.

But part of me is also sickened and annoyed. I just came in for a run on the treadmill. I’m already feeling shameful about it because I wimped out of an outside run. I didn’t come in to be the unwitting judge of an Antiquated Genitalia beauty pageant. Apparently, my changing stool was front row on the runway. Where’s Cojo? I need my judging abacus.

I only use a treadmill a handful of times a year. Inevitably, every January and February, I’ll sprinkle in a few trips to the Y to get me past those really rough winter days. I always feel a bit dirty about it…like I’m cheating on running. I mean, the belt moves on its own. It’s padded. There’s a giant fan behind me with selectable settings. I’m watching Cupcake Wars. It just doesn’t feel right. It’s like hiring a call girl without a venereal disease. It’s supposed to be a bit dirty right?

I only did 6 ½ miles today. I didn’t feel like the treadmill deserved for me to round it off to an even mile. Fractions! Take that! If you run on a treadmill, I don’t think you should do it the honor of ending on an exact mile point either.

Then it was back to the YMCA locker room and the horrors within.

Normally, I sulk in with shoulders hunched and head bowed manifesting my shame run regret. I get in; I get out. The only thing I see is the feet of the nude old men as they walk across the floor sans shoes stepping in clumps of others’ abandoned hair with every step. Inwardly, my Edvard Munch is going crazy: NOOOO, don’t step there….yuck, it’s on your big toe…NOOOO, don’t step there either….Oh, that one’s attached to your heel. NOOOOO, that’s a Band-Aid, too late. NOOOO….

Today, I took a stand for the non-baby boomers everywhere. I marched in with head held high determined to not bring the shame from my adulterous run into the locker room. Bring on the old naked boomers! I kept my sight line at shoulder height. I half-smiled. I half-nodded. I tried to look distracted with my own belongings. I performed all of the acceptable ritualistic social greetings expected in a men’s locker room. I pretended not to notice when the old naked guy passed back and forth in front of me four times because he kept forgetting things in the shower but couldn't, at least, get his underwear on first. I watched his feet absorb the discarded pubes of others. I watched. I waited. I started changing.

Then, just after I had completely removed all of my clothes, I casually walked over in front of four Brat Pack fans that had paraded before me for the last ten minutes. I dropped my keys on the ground with a reverberating jangle. They all snapped their heads up in my direction. I bent over at the hips - without bending my knees - to pick them up. I was as exposed as exposed could be. Then, in full on right angle, I looked over my shoulder at the stunned Golden Boys, smiled, and slyly said, “I’m pre-Op.”


I didn’t wait for a reaction. I quickly dressed and hustled out to my car. At first, I felt intoxicated but that quickly gave way to more shame. I hate running on a treadmill. It makes me feel dirty.

Young man, there's no need to feel down.
I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground.
I said, young man, 'cause you're in a new town
There's no need to be unhappy.

It's fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A.
It's fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A

Happy trails.
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Here’s a much more thoughtful – and much truer – tale of interaction with a boomer runner from Elizathon.com. I enjoyed it and now you will too. Go here.

SNOWPRAH WINFREY!

Unless you live in a cave or are busy protesting in the Middle East over less important things, you know there is a giant snow storm pummeling the Midwest and eastward. You should know this because the media will not let you forget it. The dire predictions began on Sunday. The hyperbole-laced headlines began Sunday also.

DEATH STORM 2011: The BLIZZARDING!

It’s true that there is a lot of snow out there. It fell last night while I was snuggled with my snookums in our sin bin. When I awoke, I could hear the wailing cries and revolving tires on the stationary cars of the snow stuck and the shovel weary. Their cars were trapped in the 12-18 inches of snow while futilely attempting their morning commute. Their tears and anguish put a bounce in my step. Sipping my warm coffee and taking in the sadness of my snowbound neighbors through my window, I was compelled to shut the front drapes. Who needs to see that? My commute involves 13 snow-less steps and, usually, no shoveling. I yawned, scratched my ass, and consumed some Activia yogurt so I could ‘get my bowels on’ later this morning.

BLIZZASTER!

Mrs. Nitmos is one of the unlucky commuters stuck at home. She’ll work as much as one can in her position from home. Without her employer present, there’s nothing preventing the steady stream of Wife Swap reruns on Lifetime Network. However, with me present, there’s nothing preventing the demands for soup and shoulder rubs while I revert to a child-like state of perpetual whine and neediness. I may have to shovel intermittently for a half hour at a time but that’ll be followed with a good 45 minutes of complaints about my “wrenched” shoulder and charley-horsed flux capacitor. Day off from work? Oh, think not.

SNOW.MY.GOD! (SnOMG!)

I do feel bad for the neighbor lady. Her Oldsmobile is hopelessly encased in blizzard barf. She’s in her late 70’s and lives alone. The snow plow will be making its way through the neighborhood later today plowing up an impenetrable wall of hardened snow at the end of her driveway. Methinks it won’t be a Metamucil day. She’s pretty feisty. I’m sure I’ll see her out there with her tiny shovel and loosely connected vertebrae later this morning. From the warmth of my home office and mounds of Activia, I’ll smile, wave, and pull the side drapes closed. That’s why we were given two hips right?

SNOWAGEDDON!

So far, my internet connection works. There’s no reason I can’t work today…other than it just “feels” like a snow day. Whenever someone needs me on email or instant messaging, I’m sure I’ll be “shoveling”. And by shoveling, of course I mean, completing the job Activia began or watching those Wife Swap reruns over a bowl of soup. Just because I don’t have an external commute doesn’t me I should be punished with work right?

HORROR SNOW!

Running is out for the time being. I got 5 ½ miles in yesterday. That should hold me until Friday when enough paths open back up for the YakTrax to find some footing. Until then, I’m going to stay inside and watch the horror unfold from the comfort of my couch. There’s my neighbor, with ice clinging to his out-of-fashion porn goatee, frantically pressing on the accelerator sending a shower of snow pelting against his siding. Look at old lady Oldsmobile out to give it the Ole College Try with her tiny shovel! Well, she was there. Now I just see the top of a tiny shovel sticking out of a snow bank next to that weird indentation in the snow…

Hey, what happened to the cable?

OH GOD SAVE US, SAVE ME! I NEED HELP SHOVELING MY DRIVEWAY ARGGHGHHHHH!!!!

SNOW FOOLIN’!

Happy sledding.

What's The Beef?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Happy trails.

Die Hardish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy trails.

*Contents of this post may be slightly exaggerated.

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

I'll Show You Mine; You Show Me Yours

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now get clicking.

Happy trails.

*“work”

When She Begins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Social Distortion, baby!

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

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

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

I love that song but it tried to kill me.

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

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

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

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

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

Happy trails.

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

Do You Support Your Local Running Store?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So the little niggling voice can shut up.

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

Happy trails.

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

Preening Glory Seeker Blows Marathon

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

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

This guy did.

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

Not you Terada.

Happy trails.

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

Suburban Freak-Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

FUCK.

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

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

“Dad, my door won’t shut.”

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

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

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

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

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

Happy trails.

The Candy Cane Denouement

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

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

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

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

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

And more this guy:

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

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

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

Happy trails.