Shadin' Away Again in Margaritaville

Be sure to drink your Ovaltine! Yep, you’re reading the first line of another commercial.

Well, not so much a “commercial” as a “product review”. And not so much “Ovaltine” as “Jimmy Buffett sunglasses”. Seriously, I have no idea how this ended up in my Inbox. I was offered a free pair of shades from an obvious Jimmy Buffett affiliated sunglass company called Margaritaville. They must have caught wind that I like to drink lots of rum, swing in hammocks, wear flowered beachwear, waste away again (and again and again)* and hate to squint. Since they gave me my selection of eyewear, the least I could do is offer an unbiased product review right?

This was an interesting product to receive free in exchange for a review. First, it only vaguely has anything at all to do with running. There are sunglasses made and marketed specifically for athletes. These are not those. There are blogs devoted to Jimmy Buffett, island life, or general interest in cheeseburgers and/or paradise. This is not that. To my knowledge, I’ve never mentioned Buffett or created much discussion of sunglasses in any way. Yet, there it was…an email offering a free pair of $150+ sunglasses. Why? I don’t know but I know better than to - what’s the old saying? - look a gift Jimmy Buffett in the mouth.

Sunglasses and I generally don’t get along. We are a bad mix…like Jerry Sandusky and tickle fights.** My face, while initially sculpted by angels but finished rough-sawn by the Carpenter, is a tough match for most sunglasses. They are generally too wide, too round, too douchebaggy for my smallish, angular skull. In fact, one of my hobbies is trying on sunglasses at nearly every store we enter that sells them. Somewhere, the perfect match exists…if only I could find it! I usually leave as disappointed as Mrs. Nitmos after our own tickle fight. I knew right off that ordering online was going to be tricky. I selected the Cayman model as it looked to be one of the smaller lenses but had the highest potential to make me look like Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino. (I don’t care what Abercrombie and Fitch says about me either, Mike. Word.)

That’s the Cayman model I received above. You won’t find a picture of me wearing them. As usual, they are too big for my face. I look less like The Situation and more like Ponch from CHiPS. They came in a nice little dry textured case (which makes me lick my fingers every time I touch it). They are as light as Erik Estrada’s coiffed, feathery look. I could see where they would be very runnable if you wanted to do that. You can barely feel them on your face. Like The Situation himself, there’s almost nothing to them.

They wear well. They shade well. They smell, well, like nothing in particular but that’s hardly important. What’s important is that Jimmy Buffett can wear them, The Situation can wear them, Erik Estrada can wear them. Hell, even YOU can wear them and pull it off. Me? Not so much.

The sunglasses are obviously a quality product. I’m sure you can find something at Margaritaville that’ll work for you. At the very least, I found something myself…a newly ignited desire for another ChiPS reunion. (Duh Duh Da-Dat Daaaahhh.) But, seriously, light, high quality, a little palm tree outline on the frame…

But now I’m just repeating things like a trained parrot.

Happy shading.

*And again and again and again.
**too soon?

American Wins NYC Marathon!

…if finishing 6th counts as “winning” (duh). But what was I suppose to announce: A Kenyan Wins A Marathon? Yeah, right, I guess I could bury that headline right below Sky is Blue, Tootsie Rolls Are Delicious Little Gobs of Fecally-Reminiscent Goodness, and Guy Fieri Annoys Mankind. That’s not “news”. “News” is something, you know, new. But with all of the sensationally awful news coming from Penn State these days, it’s hard to get an eye-grabbing headline out there.*

Meb Keflezighi finished 6th in New York last Sunday with a time of 2:09:13. That’s pretty good. Not Dick Beardsley good. He ran a 2:08:53 at 1982 Boston (aka “Duel in the Sun”) however, as I’ve established, he’s a Gu shooting Runzilla that patrols Heartbreak Hill shredding runners’ calf muscles. As far as I know, Meb does not have a Godzilla lower body nor shoot lasers and Gu from his eye sockets so, considering his disadvantages, that’s a pretty solid effort.

What will it take for an American – heck, a Canadian (don’t snicker) or a European – to win a marathon major? Do we need a Rob Sloan kind of effort?

Maybe New York is just waiting for…ME.** A natural born American hasn’t won New York since 1979 (Bill Rodgers). Meb (2009) and Alberto Salazar (3 times) won it since but, like Obama***, they were born elsewhere and later became Americans. I was born in Michigan. I have all of my teeth, never played Spin the Bottle with an unattractive relative, and, during two winters of my youth, spent an inordinate amount of time on a snowmobile. I’m as American as excessive flag waving and an inflated sense of entitlement. So, why not me? I feel like I’m entitled. U-S-A, U-S-A!

One little problem. You see, after the whole Boston dust-up this year where they reworked the entrance requirements (i.e. tightened the standards forcing all of us to work harder), I figured it was the first domino that would eventually sweep through all of the major marathons. Every large, popular race would re-evaluate their registration process/entrance requirements. New York, known for its exhaustive lottery system, also has a backdoor entrance. Well, I’m a backdoor kind of guy.****For 2011, a man of my age could automatically qualify and avoid the lottery by running a half marathon in less than 1:30. Really, just 1:30? Really. So, bingo, I knocked off a couple of 1:26-7ish’s this year preparing for the 2012 registration. Based on 2011 standards, I was NYQ’ed!

You can see where this is going right?

That’s right, sons of bitches changed the standard for 2012. I knew it was probably coming but hoping they wouldn’t adjust for one more year. Or, at least, it’d only drop to 1:27. To auto-qualify for 2012, now I’d have to run below 1:23 in a half marathon. 1:23? Am I a fucking ROBOT? Who does that? Do they not realize how many Tootsie Rolls I’ve been eating? Jesus H. Beardsley on a popsicle stick…that’s quite a requirement change.

They’ve also renovated the traditional lottery system so, if you were interested, you better check the new requirements. All of these changes seem designed to specifically keep me away from their marathon. Clever...a more subtle version of a restraining order. I guess they’re not interested in a natural born American winner. And, make no mistake, I was coming to win.

Well, I still want to run NY just to put another notch on my Asics so…I could chance it in the lottery or roll up my sleeves and make my dreams a reality through my sweat, determination, and solid Midwestern work ethic.

In other words, lottery, here I come!

Happy trails.

*Could I suggest another though? How ‘bout “Man Continues Abusing Children For Years After All Notified Adults Have Met Their Legally Obligated, Contractual Reporting Requirements So, You Know, Not Their Fault”.
**See how I casually pivoted the conversation back to me? Don’t like it? Screw you, it’s my blog and narcissism reigns around here.
***Take it easy, just throwing the Tea Partiers a bone.
****You know what I mean.

Tootsie Roll Challenge

I believe I professed my love for Tootsie Rolls a few weeks back buried deep within this post concerning my love for …spite (and anus waxing). If I need remind you, I believe Tootsie Rolls are little gobs of fecally-reminiscent goodness wrapped in a fun little pull and twist package! But, to be clear, the order of things I love from that post should go:

1. Tootsie Rolls
2. Spite
3. Anus waxing

Folks often get #1 and #3 mixed up and I advise you not to do so. The pull and twist open meets with substantially different results. Trust me…you do a 1-3 year stretch for orphanage arson and tell me they’re the same.

I was going to present a lengthy sonnet in Shakespearean iambic pentameter to really describe my fascination with the rolled Tootsie but said fuck it so all you get is a lousy haiku. Suck it, sonnets!

Tootsie Rolls are sweet
I Am Not Above Murder
To Obtain This Treat

With Halloween behind us, the Tootsie Roll supply is at its yearly high right now in the Nitmos home. We had pre-Halloween candy sales, Halloween, and then post-Halloween candy sales. I shook the kids down the moment they walked in the door Halloween night and confiscated their Rolls. There’s so much of this stuff coming into the house lately and disappearing that I’m like the John Wayne Gacy of Tootsie Rolls. I don’t even have to wear the clown make-up while eating them. I mean, I don’t have to…I just do that for fun.



But this is the danger season for those of us who like to watch my figure. Pre-Halloween, Halloween, post-Halloween, Thanksgiving, post-Thanksgiving leftovers, Hanukkah, Christmas parties, Christmas, Kwanzaa, excessive drinking to get through the holidays, New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day football, there are some serious weight-bearing days ahead. Tootsie Rolls are just the start. My six pack abs turn to a half barrel kegger by mid-December. I no longer have to ask if that was a fart or a shart. Come December, it was a shart, definitely. If I get through a December day with anything less than three pair of underwear, it’s a win. The wallet in my back pocket is replaced with a travel size case of wet wipes. You get the point. I shart. A lot.

So, as a time chasing runner, how do I combat this? Years ago, I used to basically take December and January off. I’d run sporadically but a week or more may go by before I’d brush the crumbs off my chest and find my running shoes (usually being used as a beer cozy somewhere). Then I’d burp my way through three miles – miles that were previously quite easy – and then settle back in for more sloth and gluttony. This became too hard to keep bouncing back from each spring if I wanted to set new PR’s so there is no more taking December and January off. The gluttony still takes place – oh, I gluttony the hell out of December, believe me – but I put the slothfulness away.

With my Tootsie Roll consumption at an all time high this year, I decided I needed some additional motivation to keep this confection from clinging to my belly and slowing the legs. Turned sideways, they may look like little ab muscles on the outside but, believe me, they don’t take up residence in the gut that way. I’m still going to eat a truck load of them. So just how many miles do I need to run to keep things in check?

I figure one track lap interval = one Tootsie Roll. Or, you may consume four Tootsie Rolls to each mile (4:1 gluttony ratio). My Sunday long run will net me at least 40 Tootsie Rolls as a reward.

I challenge you to find your own successful Gluttony level. Snack size Snickers, Baby Ruth, and Butterfingers may have a slightly different consumption:miles ratio. You’ll need to figure this out by yourself. I suggest you eat lots of them but also keep running. The point at which you look in the mirror and don’t exhale in disgust saying Damn, I’m getting fat is probably the correct ratio. Eat up! Run on! Post your results! We can create the world’s largest candy consumption to miles gluttony ratio science experiment.

I’m planning a meager 4x800 (2:45 pace) at the track today. With cool down laps, that’s 11 total laps. If I don’t consume during the cool down, I figure I can unwrap and double fist 8 Tootsie Rolls between my fingers while I run. That’s one for each lap of the track, two for each interval. They'll be poking out of my knuckles like a set of Willy Wonka brass knuckles. By the time my intervals are complete, my fists will be empty. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Remember, there is no reason to deny yourself delicious snacks. Where there is a will, there is a way. Whether it be candy or beer or orphanage arson, there’s a mileage equivalent that can balance against your running. You just need to burn find it.

Happy trails.

Hood To Coast: Two Minute Movie Review

Before I get my Ebert on, I’d like to remind everyone that I refuse to deploy the cliché “fine folks” to describe the company, person, or mysterious emailer that gives me free stuff to try out and review. Sure, the people that give me things are quite often “folks” and I’m also sure they are probably “fine”. But I try to avoid blog clichés so you’ll never see “fine folks” together in a single review sentence (outside of this tortured explanation, of course.) I even wrote about my feelings on this extremely important matter previously. Take a trip down memory lane. Now, on with the show…

I received a copy of HOOD TO COAST last week in an unmarked, standard issue post office padded envelope. Naturally, I assumed it was more of my regularly scheduled shipments of pornography. Instead, it was an actual movie: one I call a “Curtains Open” feature!

If you don’t know, Hood to Coast is a 197 mile relay journey from Mt. Hood to the Oregon coast. It’s billed as the world’s largest relay race with around 1,000 teams and 12,000 runners being stalked by 2,000 transport vans. Most of us have run some form of relay so you know what they are all about: camaraderie, sweaty people rubbing shoulders in vans, crazy costumes, and far too much discussion about each others’ pooping habits. Also, lots of high fives, “woo hoo’s”, and side split running shorts revealing pasty white thighs.

This movie has all of that. This movie also has mothereffin’ llamas. No kidding. When you watch, take note at around the 52 minute mark as a relayer passes a group of those filthy, unpleasant devil-beasts. Funny how they always turn up around races and runners isn’t it? Filthy llamas.

Here’s where I go full fledge Ebert on you: I liked the movie. As you know, F.M.S. uses a non-standard 666 Llama Scale for movie/book reviews. I’d score this a nice high 590 llamas out of 666.

What it did right: Let’s face it, races courses are just a collection of roads, concrete, signs, and distances. Sure, some race courses have more intrinsic character than other courses but, ultimately, they are still just inanimate objects. Based on the title, I was a bit skeptical that I would be in for a bit of over dramatizing of the daunting course itself. What really gives a race its life are the people who run it. The energy, the fun, the excitement come from the people lacing up the shoes and bounding over that concrete and distance. Each has a story. Each are motivated for a different reason. The directors wisely chose to focus their attention on four distinct groups of relayers and their reason to be at this event on this day race than the course itself.

The movie follows each of these groups as they discuss their motivation, their preparation, the race, and the finish. One group is running in memory of a recently deceased father-to-be. One group – a bit obnoxious in my opinion – is an aging group of men dealing with their declining running abilities. Try not to roll your eyes too hard as they squirt down every female runner that passes them with a water gun while forcing them to run through a “power arch”. I sprained an eyeball. Another group features an older woman who had collapsed and needed to be revived at the same event the previous year. And, finally, a group of computer animators/ artists with little to no experience running take up the challenge of the course.

By focusing attention on the specific groups, the course itself becomes a constantly looming background feature to the characters. As with any good documentary, you become involved with these peoples’ lives for a few moments. You cheer them on (or, for the “Dead Jocks”, you passively root for a flat tire.)

What the movie could have done better: I love comparing us “regular” runners to the elites (i.e. their training, their approach, their mental confidence). I don’t think it diminishes what the rest of us do to prepare for a race. I don’t think it minimizes our accomplishments. In fact, sharing the course with the elites is often a thrill and one of the unique features of running. The Bowerman Elite relay team, the favorites, made a brief cameo in the film but I would have loved to see more of them. It would have been fascinating to see the approach the different groups take – and how they handle the rugged challenge – to go from Hood to Coast. Even though the movie is not about “times” and winners and losers, it is about people. And the elite runners are a differently wired people than the rest of us. That contrast could have been more fully explored.

Though she probably wouldn’t admit it, even Mrs. Nitmos seemed at least casually interested in HOOD TO COAST. At least, she didn’t run screaming from the room like she does when I review my weekly mileage splits with her. Runners will enjoy it. Non-runners should at least be interested in the story of the four groups tracked long enough to hold them to the finish. Check it out!

In addition, the flick left me motivated to buy, and retrofit, a rape van into a super awesome relay bus and start heading West. One more relay group; one less rape van! By my math, that’s mighty fine, folks.

Shit.

Happy trails.

If You Are Dressing Up For Halloween...

...remember, not all costumes are for you. Choose wisely in this day of cell phone cameras and internet exposure.

Holy VHS tapes, Venom! Careful...his Spidey Sense...of Diabetes is tingling.

Either The Smurfs or the Blue Man Group fired their make-up artist. Shame.

Awww, cute kid...with the worst parents ever. I guess it's better than dressing her like a stripper. In a few years you can file for emancipation.

Okay, kind of a funny costume actually. But she could really use a Brazillian. And a floss.


Dude, at least scrub off the liposuction pre-surgery lines before becoming The Flash.

Nice furniture. Where's the lava lamp?

What will I be wearing? To be honest, I'm pictured in the photos above but I'll never tell which one. Okay, okay, I'll give you some hints: (1) I'm a bit bashful and (2) I like rainbows.

What will I actually be wearing this Halloween? Nothing, I'm an adult. Halloween is for children. However, if I were to wear a costume, I'd prefer it to be something like zipperhead here:

Happy Halloween!

Patience and Persistence

Wherein I dispense my single greatest running advice.

Most of you know that I look with sideways glance, pursed lips and skeptically cocked right eyebrow* at amateur running coaches with their neat looking online coaching certificates. I’m not going to go in to All The Ways that I think coaching should best be left to professionals. And those seeking coaches should also probably best be left to professionals (or overachieving amateurs.) You’ve read it here several times already. It’s one of my Go To targets when I need something fun to ridicule because I have no doubt that it ruffles some feathers as, ultimately, all running bloggers become coaches.** Besides lame metaphors, llama hatred, and mildly amusing sarcasm, feather ruffling is what this blog is all about after all. Suffice to say, I think amateur runners should be encouraged to explore, investigate, and experiment on their own to learn their abilities – what works for them – and discover their path to success without an amateur coach stealing their journey.

***"The road of life twists and turns and no two directions are ever the same. Yet our lessons come from the journey, not the destination.” Don Williams, Jr. (American Novelist and Poet, b.1968)

*** “Focus on the journey, not the destination. Joy is found not in finishing an activity but in doing it.” Greg Anderson (American best-selling Author and founder of the American Wellness Project., b.1964)

So, far be it for me to offer up unbelievably sage running advice right? Wrong. I’ll need four Philadelphias to tell you why. My hypocrisy knows no bounds. I talk out of both sides of my mouth so much that I can harmonize these conflicting thoughts like a grade A Philadelphia street corner a cappella group. But bear with me as I think you’ll also see I’m not robbing you of your journey like some sort of Philadelphia street corner mugger. Nor am I overloading you with unwanted running advice like so much cheese on a Philly cheesesteak sandwich. Philadelphia! Four! (Wish you would have written that paragraph, amirite?)

If you are in it for the short term, a quick one off marathon and done, hire your running coach. If you have money to burn, hire your running coach. If you are so incredibly lazy that you can’t spend ten minutes of your time doing a few quick Google internet searches, hire your running coach. If you can’t motivate yourself to set down your remote and lace up the shoes, hire a running coach. If any of that applies to you and you still really feel you need a coach, give me twenty minutes and I’ll put together an impressive, official looking Coach certificate. I charge $75 an hour. Email me. When your marathon is over, you can have the certificate and now you’re a coach too. (I’ll write my name on it in pencil for ease of transfer.)

But here’s my running advice for you budding long term runners, presented in total alliterative form: Patience pand Persistence. Here it is again in much clearer partial alliteration: Patience and Persistence. That’s it. You’re welcome. That’ll be $75.

Oh, but what does that mean?

You want it in alliteration or regular? Let’s go regular. ‘P’ jokes are only funny for so long. If running is part of your lifestyle – if you do it regularly and intend to continue for the foreseeable future – you’ve already developed your Persistence. It’s a habit. Like a good postman, you do it in rain, snow, heat or gloom of night. Whether you recognize it or not, you’ve probably already adjusted your training based on your training and/or race performances. You’ve done more speed work. You’ve added hills. You started wearing magnetic bracelets and offered a pet as a sacrifice to Dick Beardsley. Internet? Oh, yeah, you’ve been to Hal Higdon, McMillan Running, Complete Running. You have a subscription to Runner’s World. You read blogs. For some reason, you’re even reading this blog. In short, you know where to find the information you need. It’s all out there. Running coaches don’t have some secret stash of knowledge. This isn't the DaVinci Code. There's nothing hidden under the Johnny Kelley statue. Then you mix and match and try things out. Persistence, you haz it.

Now, I’m going to stop right here because I can already here the 3 hour marathoner snorting derisively and saying, Nitmos, you don’t know what you are talking about. I needed a coach to fulfill my dreams. You, sir or madam, are an overachiever and in the top 2% of runners. You are not the target audience. You are not like the rest of us. You want to pay for a coach to get you into the top 1.9% bracket? Knock yourself out (but I’m guessing you don’t hire some dude or dudette with an online coaching certificate.) In my head, that’s how the conversation goes, anyway.

For the rest of us amateurs, our persistence will pay off through our…patience. That’s right, patience. I know the ultimate goal for a lot of runners is to get from A to B as fast as possible (implied: without pooping self). And sometimes you want something so badly that you speed up the process by increasing mileage too quickly or doing more interval speed work than your body is prepared to handle. Or mentally beating yourself up if improvement isn't going as fast as you hoped. You want to PR a race in two months. You want to BQ at your next marathon. In other words, forget the patience, like Violet Beauregarde, you want it and you want it now. But if you attempt to grow more quickly than your body can reasonably respond, you’ll pull a Krispy Kreme. Sure, it’ll work for awhile – remember when Krispy Kreme’s were all the rage? – but then it may just fall apart in the form of injury or frustration or a Rick Perry campaign.

Patience. It’s good enough that your race times are slowly going down - even if it is falling slower than you had hoped. Remember, you are persistent and you can be patient. It's downward trending. I always wanted to BQ and got lucky doing so in my second marathon. But I didn’t place all of my hopes on that race so I wouldn’t have been disappointed if it didn’t happen. I knew my training was getting better with each passing week, month, year. I would be patient. I would be persistent. It would take what it took but I would get there.

Stand back and look at the big picture of your running, your abilities, and how things that was so hard are not so hard anymore. It doesn’t look good over the last few months? Then stand further back and take in more of the big picture. Heck, if you need to, back up all the way to Philadelphia (!).

Patience and persistence, baby. When I get frustrated with my training, I always remember those words. They soothe me like a nipple suckling baby. And, see there? I didn’t rob you of your journey. You’ll find your own path to your goals and you’ll be the richer due to your uniquely personal introspective journey. This even applies to you goofy barefoot bastards.

But if that’s not good enough – things need to happen quicker and you believe someone is holding a secret cheesesteak of knowledge just past your outreached arms - email me and I can turn around and email back a training plan for you in about ten minutes and 12 mouse clicks. Fee, as always, is $75.

Happy trails.

*You may score ten points for Gryffindor if you tried this at home – before reading this footnote.

**Running Blogger Life Cycle:
New Runner -->Run Blogger -->Improving Runner -->Running Coach

Where are you in the cycle?

Runner Punished For Thinking on His Feet

I know we are supposed to be all Over The Moon over the preggo that finished the Chicago Marathon on Sunday then squirted out an 18 year tax credit a mere few hours later. I know this because everyone is discussing it ad nauseam like it is some morality play that needs to be debated endlessly. Then we can decipher your position and figure out who watches Fox News and who watches MSNBC based on where you come out. I love taking sides on relatively inconsequential, non-important issues that don’t concern me. Did you hear about the woman in Ohio that planted her tomatoes next to potatoes IN THE SAME GARDEN? CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? Discuss.

Besides, I’ve birthed an eight pounder myself immediately following the 2008 Detroit Marathon and it barely made news. Of course, mine didn’t provide a tax break and wasn’t nearly as cute, I’m sure. His name – Nutty Cornhead – might have turned some folks off too. (That’s why I left him in the Port-a-John. He wasn’t a keeper.) So, big deal, right? Everyone shoots something out of their posterior post-race.* I just feel bad for the folks who were not only ‘chicked’ but also ‘birthed’ (and possibly ‘episiotomied’?) at the finish. How’d you like to get beat to the finish line by a rush of amniotic fluid among everything else?

No, I don’t really give a crap about Preggo Runner and Her Fabulous Birthing Adventure. There was another marathon story playing out elsewhere in the world on the same day that was far more interesting. I give a crap about running innovation. I’m not talking about the current minimalist fad.** I’m talking about true innovation. Take, for example, Rob Sloan. Rob Sloan knows that running marathons are hard. It’s a looong way, after all. Hell, 26.2 miles is basically like running two half-marathons consecutively. Two of anything back-to-back is ridiculously hard. Ever eat at two buffets consecutively? See two Twilight movies back-to back (when even one is more than most can take)? Give attention to both of your kids in a row? Grueling.***

So Rob knows that marathons are difficult, taxing, and dangerously anaerobic. And maybe he has a bit of Thomas Edison in him. Maybe a dash of Steve Jobs. Was he satisfied with reading by candlelight? No, he invented his own electric light. You see, Rob got to mile 20 of the Kielder Marathon. Rob was exhausted. But Rob still wanted to finish. He wasn’t going to continue using his legs, lungs, and basic human decency like a fool. That’s not how an innovator works. Rob searched for another way…another solution…a better method to achieve a goal for the common good – or his own personal glory – whichever came first.

Inspiration rarely strikes like a lightning bolt from the sky. Usually, it slowly, imperceptibly, engulfs you like…fumes from an idling bus. A true genius recognizes the signs (and smells) and follows the path. Rob got on that idling bus on Sunday. Rob rode it to a point near the finish. Rob found a solution to avoid having to use his fatigued legs and lungs and his challenged moral compass. Rob emerged from the bus and hid behind a tree in a wooded area near the course finish like true champions must do. Rob must have felt like Steve Jobs emerging from his garage with the key to future technological advances rattling around his head. Rob had immediately redefined what it meant to “finish” a marathon. Rob waited for the first and second place runners to pass by. He wanted glory but he wasn’t an enormous egomaniac. His ego was merely over-sized. He waited for the one position that would attract the least amount of attention while maximizing his rewards: Third place. Third place would be his Macintosh!

Rob Sloan, executing the strategy only he invented that day, slunk out from behind the tree, rejoined the marathon and finished third! And then, in another brilliant move, decided not to slink away quietly with his ill-gotten gains. Instead, he stuck around for photo ops and interviews in which he proclaimed the course “unbelievably tough”. For those of you who have run a marathon, three cheers to Rob Sloan! In post-Sloanian days, can we really be expected to run 26.2 consecutive miles any longer? No one reads by candlelight anymore. We don’t go backwards in our advancements (see, it says ‘advance’ right in the word advancement.) We don’t take our shoes off again once we start wearing them. We don’t go back to spears once we invented guns. Heck, we won’t go back to guns once we invent laser guns. It’s called progress. And the new standard for completing a marathon is to run until you are fatigued…and then hop a bus to the finish. There’s something charmingly Amazing Racish about it.

But did we embrace this advancement? No. The heartless race organizers stripped him of his medal. He was deemed unworthy. His innovation for completing a marathon was tossed into the dustbin of history. He must feel like the inventor of Betamax. Rob Sloan, unrecognized champion of the everyman marathon runner:

The people's champion!

We salute you.

It does lead me to wonder…if an innovation like the bus-aided marathon isn’t embraced, how are folks going to accept my original concept, the Segway marathon? Time will tell. I’m sure Edison and Jobs had the same apprehensions.

In the meantime…

Happy busing.

*That’s where babies come from right?

**I know, I know, it’s not a fad. Rock n’ Roll and TV are not a fad either even though everyone thought they were at the time. And, sure, eyeglasses are just a human made attempt to correct the natural sight of the eye – FAD! – when we all know that the best way for the eye to see is through its natural state. It cannot be improved upon. Throw down your glasses and crunch them under your minimalist shoes! While you’re at it, throw down your hearing aids and insulin pumps and crush them under a Five Fingered heel! Colostomy bag? Remove that and….gently deposit that in the garbage please.

***Believe me, Chutes and Ladders never gets more fun the MORE you play. I started to see Slides in my nightmares. Thankfully, my kids have outgrown this adult torture game.

All Clear, Full Spite Ahead

As I survey the weeks ahead from the captain’s bridge of the S.S. Nitmos, everything looks clear and smooth. There is nothing – nada, zippo, zilch – on the schedule. Not a race to be found. No fun run. No Halloween adults-dressed-up-on-a-holiday-meant-for-children costume run. No post-Thanksgiving work-off-the-food-orgy run. No Jingle Bell freeze-your-ass-off run. Heck, I don’t even see one of those weird webcentric “virtual 5k’s” being promoted anywhere (at least, anywhere that I can find one to hyphenate into a mocking phrase). I literally have nothing to look forward to except death and taxes…and American Idol.*

I don’t even have to run if I don’t want to. So why I am?

Oh, yeah, that’s because the races are really just lighthouses on the ocean of my running life. I could live a nice anonymous running existence without the races or the blog. Neither drives the running for me anyhow except for as a tool to release the built up pressure of lame, over-boiled nautical metaphors. Believe it or not, I don’t derive any motivation from your snarky comments left to insult or critique me.** I run and blog purely out of spite. I comment on your blogs when I’m feeling spiteful. I definitely race out of spite. And I blog filled with venomous spite. I’m not even going to go with the obvious, cheap joke that I sit around drinking Sprite because it’s the closest thing to fuel my spite. I’m not going to do it. Out of spite, once again.

So, despite the fact that I have no races ahead and no PR’s with which to Jell-o wrestle, I haven’t slacked off on my non-existent training log one bit. I was at the track on my lunch hour yesterday rounding it in perfect concentric 400 meter ovals in the midst of a round of 800’s. The day was warm for a Michigan October. The fallen yellow and orange leaves criss-crossing the football field with every whim of the wind. Sweat was pouring from my brow, neck, and Tootsie Rolled abdomen. I was killing myself out on the track and…I couldn’t think why. Why? Why do this to yourself? There are no lighthouses ahead. I plan to stay in the ocean and eat Tootsie Rolls for the foreseeable future.*** Who needs it, right? I finished the 800’s anyway despite your expectations that I would suddenly quit and jog home. Out of spite, once again.

Well, I need it, I guess. I get even crankier if I take a few days off. I’m pretty unpleasant to begin with but, if I miss a few runs, “spite” will be the least of anyone’s concerns about me. Try “felonious assault” or “llama torture” or “Cambodian orphanage arson”. What am I running for? Uh, perhaps my sanity, my well-being, and my rabid appetite for fudge stripe cookies and Tootsie Rolls (not to say that I’d kick sour balls out of bed for melting, youknowwhatImean?)

I might be swinging in the hammock on the open seas right now, untwisting my delicious Rolls and gulping down the rum and Sprite Coke, but, believe me, I’m still putting the work in. The 800’s are still getting eight hundreded. The occasional 1200 gets twelved. The long runs, as always, are completed at a much faster pace than any running coach would desire (but what do they really know, right?). I limbo the fuck out of a few runs here and there just to show it who’s boss. It’s all clear and smooth sailing.

Eventually, I’ll flop out of the hammock into a pile of crumpled Tootsie wrappers, shave my scraggly beard, wax my anus**** and point the ship to the nearest lighthouse. When the mood strikes, that is. And that mood is spite, once again.

Happy sailing.

*Kidding, I’m an X Factor man, of course.
**By the way, the guy – don’t remember the name - who keeps popping up to point out my spelling or grammatical errors, you understand of course that I spend less than 7 seconds editing. If you would like to be my unpaid editor, call me.
***Seriously, Halloween is hard enough without all of the candy specials going on right now that get your “pre-Halloween” gorge-fest started early. Tootsie Rolls? Little gobs of faintly fecal-reminiscent goodness with a fun little pull and twist open!
****You don’t?
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Postscript: I had meant to punch this little Sea Tale up with a few pirate references. You know, arrrr, thar she blows (t.w.s.s.) and a few references to lubbers and bilge rats, that kind of thing. You can go back and re-read and drop a few Ahoy ye mateys! where you see fit. Hell, go ahead and change the title to A Runners Life For Me while yer at it. What do I care? Now, hand me the second bag of Tootsie Rolls and GTFO.

The Healing Power of a Good Run

I know people that are always looking for a miracle fix-it:

< mocking sneer in lilting fancy-boy voice >
Oh, I have a headache better pop an aspirin.
Oh, no, part of my tooth fell out. Time to go to the dentist for a filling.
I was just hit by a car. Someone call 9-1-1 while I gather the bone shards from my diced clavicle.
< / mocking sneer in lilting fancy-boy voice >

Sheesh…ibuprofen, alloy amalgams, Vicodin, ambulances…folks, these things don’t solve all of life’s problems. Sure, the Vicodin can take you on a distractedly strange and magical journey that lasts a few hours before depositing your tattered consciousness back into the hot stew of your troubles. Well worth it - just to get re-acquainted with Salvador Dali style surrealism if only for a short time - but hardly a miracle fix-it.

You don’t have to go all Anna Nicole if life’s physical and mental woes have you down. See those running shoes over there under the Ab Lounger/coat rack? Go on, put them on. There’s the miracle fix-it you crave. C’mon, just one little step. I’ll give you the first mile free. Try it. I bet you like it. Plus, have you seen all of the sold out marathons? Everyone’s doing it.

Case(s) in point: I was recently struggling with some post-half marathon upper respiratory tightness. I felt my annual chest cold coming on. I went out for an 8 miler. Three miles in, I wanted to quit. I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt uncomfortable and fatigued. Did I quit? Am I not Nitmos? Of course not, I pressed on as the slave to my running log that I am. Facing a few hills and a sharp headwind, it was not going to be pretty. I was wishing I had some Vicodin. At one point, I was wishing that I tripped and shattered my clavicle. But, mostly, I was wishing for the Vicodin (and maybe some Vicodin-flavored whiskey*).

Then, the clouds parted, a ray of sun shone through, and a giant floating clock appeared and ticked…then tocked…then melted in front of my very eyes. Then I remembered that I had consumed some Vicodin-flavored Gu a few minutes beforehand. At any rate, a miracle occurred. An epiphany ephiphaned. I charged up the remaining humps of the hills with frenzied spinning legs, like a teenage boy’s arms fumbling with Anna Nicole’s bra strap, and huffing breaths. At the top, I turned and looked into the valley of abandoned despair. I could see the red little devil-horned chest cold baby floundering on the sidewalk amidst its bioslime covering. He could no longer cling to a healthy body in motion.

I bounded down the sidewalk like a gazelle and never again looked back. Chest cold? No. Lungs tight? No. Breathing labored and fatigued? No. Clavicle intact? Yes. Nipples hard? You betcha (Hi Sarah!), it was cold out.

This same sort of miracle fix-it happened a few days later too. My left foot was throbbing due to some impromptu yard soccer-rugby that the boy and I tend to play. (It involves me trying to tackle/trip/push him while he dribbles the ball in circles around me.) The first mile was miserable. Did I quit? Am I not Nitmos? Hell no, I kept running until I couldn’t feel the foot anymore. I figured I either damaged it severely and it is now numb - so better keep running and deal with that problem later (you know, get as many miles in as you can while you can't feel anything) – or it worked itself out.

Guess what? It worked itself out. No foot pain whatsoever. I must have lost it on the run like that miserable little chest cold baby.

Bad day? Get a good run in. Bad kidney stone? Good run. Bad toothache? Good run. Bad break-up? Good run. Bad cirrhosis? Good run. Whatever your ailment, a good run is the cure. And approximately 1500mg Vicodin**. But, mostly, the running thing.

The only side effect? Apparently, a nasty habit of asking rhetorical questions. How many have I asked in this little blog post? Seventeen.

Happy trails?

Eighteen. Happy trails.

*Don’t take medicinal advice from me.
**I warned you, don’t take medicinal advice from me.
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It's been years since I revisited my Enjoy These Links sidebar (which you probably didn't even know I had there) and, lo and behold, half of the links were either downright dead or no longer updating. I have updated my links. This is not a complete list but, I think, are some of the most consistently enjoyable/thought-provoking/entertaining runner writers (or, exercise writers) out there. Check them out! Yes, I left Half-Fast on there despite the fact that he cares so little about anyone that he isn't even bothering to put a crappy Happy Labor Day! post out there. What an ass.

Mine Got Even Bigger

My 2011 Capital City River Run half marathon race report.

You may remember the double entendre in the post title from such classic prior Capital City River Run race reports as:

2009: Mine is Shorter Than Yours
2010: Mine is Longer Than Yours

Once again, they f-ed me. That’s right, according to infallible Garmin (p.b.t.n*), the already long half marathon course…got even longer again this year. It’s like the race organizers are using some sort of enlargement device to make it longer (and girthier) every single year. Really, it’s unnatural and, the way it weaves all over the place, entirely too veiny. The good news is that, despite the extra inches, I was able to set a new course PR. The bad news is that, due to the extra inches, I wasn’t able to set a distance PR.

To begin at the beginning (a very good place to begin), this was to be my second and, most likely, last half marathon of the year. In May, I set a PR of 1:26:37 on a largely flat, perfectly measured course. Then, per usual, I started getting all braggy about how I’d go ahead and devote my summer to some hard training and come back in September to set yet another PR. If there is one thing I’m good at, it’s telling people about the wonderful things I’m gonna do. If there’s two things I’m good at, it’s assigning external blame when the first thing I’m good at inevitably doesn’t happen. Consider this post my #2 thing I’m good at.

The truth is that, though I trained consistently hard through-out the summer, I didn’t really “up the ante” from what I had been doing prior to the Bayshore Half in May. More like, I put my brain, legs, and training plan pen on auto-pilot and just kinda….kept on going. Same training distances. Same paces. Hell, largely even the same unwashed compression shorts/end table. I wasn’t really expecting to kick ass. But I was thinking about taking a few names though I’d commit them to memory…no need for a Rolodex.

I showed up at the course full of yawns and fecal matter. The yawns were easy to pass. The fecal matter….another story…but not through lack of effort. I was one grunt away from running a half marathon with a spidery hemorrhoid hanging out of my unwashed compression shorts. Did you hear about the Irishman caught recently with 72 bags of cocaine in his abdomen? This is not a joke. There’s no punchline. See, here’s the actual story. And the CAT scan.

And you thought runners were gaunt? Dude, we can see your ribs.

That’s what I felt like with the pressing on my lower g.i. Except, it wasn’t cocaine. Well, it wasn’t all cocaine. There was a fair amount of Chili’s chicken tender tacos, chocolate pudding pie, and Good n’Plenty’s in there. You know, your normal pre-race fuel. I knew right off that this race would be a battle considering the 72 little bags of waste stowing away in my small intestines. I could only hope the course was more in line with the Bayshore distance (13.13 miles) if I wanted to PR. Hey, they redesigned it – again – this year so there was always the chance, right?

I won’t bore you with the mile by mile details except to point out that the key point came around the 7 mile mark. I had been following a group of 7-8 runners - whom I nicknamed the “peloton” - by about 15 seconds. They were marching along at a consistent pace in the neighborhood of 6:30 minute miles. I knew that my PR hopes were pinned to sticking with the peloton. But, man, my little stowaways were starting to get a little rowdy. I wasn’t sure I was up for it. Frankly, I felt like easing off and spending the next 6 miles coming up with a creative excuse to blame for my failure. Even more frankly, I felt like easing off and figuring out a way to get to the finish with no more than 20 stowaways left.

This was my Flight or Fight moment. It came earlier in the race than I expected. I’m happy to report that I chose to Fight, mainly because I received a small bump in motivation from the peloton. The #3 overall female runner was in the group but she had slowly slipped off the pace and I had gradually gained even with her by mile 8. As I moved on past, I could tell that she was using me as a pacer. Nobody uses me as a pacer. Hell, no one uses me at all. I’m the notorious user around here. I felt strangely obligated to carry the pace forward under some sort of unwritten runner’s code of race pacer ethics. So I did. My robot brain overrode the yipping from my lower g.i. and the body went marching along under its monotone command.

My mile by mile splits weren’t nearly as consistent as I would have liked. I think they reflect my waxing/waning motivation. Here they are, for posterity, in all their mundane glory:

Mile 01 6:40
Mile 02 6:43
Mile 03 6:48
Mile 04 6:24
Mile 05 6:31
Mile 06 6:34
Mile 07 6:36
Mile 08 6:31
Mile 09 6:38 (overall time, 59:24 – compared to 59:37 at Bayshore – ahead of pace!)
Mile 10 6:43
Mile 11 6:28
Mile 12 6:30
Mile 13 6:33 (overall time, 1:25:38 – compared to 1:25:51 at Bayshore – ahead of pace!)
Last bit 5:53 pace (1:49 time - .31 miles according to Garmin(p.b.t.n.))

Numbers? Yes, numbers:

1:27:27 time
13.11 miles (Garmin sez 13.31 miles)
6:34 pace

25th of 1630 overall
5th of 106 in age group

No PR. Despite being faster than PR pace through 9 miles and 13 miles, each by 13 seconds, the long, engorged course raped me in the final post-13 miles distance by over a minute. I wasn’t in shape for that extra girth. Still, I’m glad I didn’t prematurely emasculate myself at mile 7 and stayed in the fight. It was, after all, a new course PR! Compare from year to year (according to Garmin):

Year – Dist - Time
2009 13.21 1:28:51
2010 13.29 1:27:43
2011 13.31 1:27:27

They can keep making the course longer but I’ll keep setting course PR’s apparently. Hell, by the time this course measures at an even 14 miles in a few years, I should be able to run it in 1:20, right?

I’ll take my course PR, my half marathon per mile pace PR (6:34), and my little stowaways home with subdued satisfaction. They can keep pumping up that course and I’ll keep setting a personal best on the sumbitch.

Oh, and yes, I spent the rest of the afternoon reading and ejecting stowaways, if anyone was concerned. Lots and lots of reading. Lots and lots of puckering.

Happy trails.

*”praise be thy name” for those who forgot

Run Robot, Run!

Folks, we are getting closer to the days when we won’t actually have to run marathons. Behold the creation from the University of Michigan (the leaders and best.) This is MABEL. She’s a sexy running robot.



So now they are building robots with two legs and knees. Knees?! As in “I torn my ACL and will be bedridden for 26 months” knees? I thought the goal of robotic creations was to improve upon the human form to make tasks more efficient, less prone to human injury and fatigue? And so you build a robot with knees? That apparently, as shown in the video, favors the Galloway run/walk system?

I’m told their next generation MABEL will have asthma and adult onset Diabetes. They are going to keep creating new, improved generations until they get to a generation that refuses to get off the couch and prefers to bitch about the weather instead.

I spend half my running time dreaming of robotic wheels to replace my tired legs and these guys are building mechanical knees? I guess it’s still a work in progress though. At 6.8 mph, MABEL won’t qualify for Boston. They don’t have oil flavored Gu there anyhow. Heck, she wouldn’t even age group a local 5k.

There is something to be said for robotic running though. I admit to using a little psychological trick when racing to try to disassociate from my fatigue. I have a half marathon this weekend and I’ll be employing a little Robotic Brain on the course. Inevitably, there comes that point in the race where my breathing accelerates, stride lengthens, and the negative thoughts creep in. I’m at the key spot where the Fight or Flight path will be chosen. In a half marathon, it usually comes around the ten mile mark. I can’t fathom doing another three miles at current pace. I’ve started to become conscious of my own labored breathing. And my arms that once hung loosely by my side are now bunched up, elbows akimbo, swatting at the air with every stride.

When I get to that point, I try to become a cyborg. From the neck up, I’m an emotionless, slave-driving computer. My lungs and legs (and knees!) take direction from the command post. When the body attempts to send signals back to the brain that it’d like to slow up, please, and stop for a Fresca and a scone, the cyborg brain blocks the message and replies with short, authoritative monotone commands:

“Maintain current speed.”
“Relax arms and shoulders.”
“Breathe fuller, easier.”
“Wipe chin spittle. Have some self respect for chrissakes.”

Seriously, it sounds stupid but I really think that way. My body likes to try to quit way sooner than my head. So I’ve become accustomed to simply detaching my thoughts from my feelings. I actually imagine that I’ve stepped out of the tired body and crawled up into my cyborg head. I know my body is fatiguing….but I also know that there is more to give in there somewhere. Maybe a bit more energy in the 4th toe? Check there.

I run the first 10 miles with my body and the last 3 with my head. And I’m living in my head at that point. The body is all rundown and gross and the foundation is leaking. I abandon it like I'm an upside down mortgagee. My head is still crisp, clean and filled with people wearing matching silver jumpsuits and carrying clipboards. In other words, by mile 10, my body is the abandoned home of the average American and my head is filled with bankers walking around holding deeds and blowing their nose on the wads of crumpled cash falling out of their pockets. Stupid bankers.

I’ve been pretty successful at disassociating the pain and fatigue by becoming a cyborg runner. I’ll probably continue with the technique until the day comes when I don’t have to run at all.

Just a few more mph’s on ol’ MABEL and I can get one of them to run the race for me. Have you seen the new movie trailer for Real Steel? It’s like a real life version of Rock ‘Em, Sock ‘Em Robots. Why would robotic athletics be confined to boxing?

Oh, yeah, this is happening. The day will come when I won’t have to run these marathons at all. I’ll wear a headset, sipping a Fresca while sitting on the couch, issuing commands to my own MABEL and she'll herky-jerky step her way through a marathon.

I just hope she doesn’t blow out a knee. I guess.

Happy trails.
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I only half-heartedly trained for the Capital City River Run half marathon. I intended to train hard…and then summer days and summer vacations and Oberon got in the way a bit. So, goals, quick and easy:

a) Beat 1:26:37 and PR.
b) Beat 1:27:43 and set a course PR.
c) Beat 1:28.

I'm hoping for the B goal, realistically. I ran my current PR time back in May but this is a longer (measures 13.29 miles compared to 13.15 miles on my PR course) and slightly more challenging course. So, I’d need to be at least one minute faster just to match my PR time. I’m not sure I’m any faster. I may run exactly the same as in May and barely beat 1:28. We’ll see. No worries, though. It should be a beautiful day for a run either way.
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Side track note: I overheard my colt’s soccer coach discussing fitness with the team and how they should run or cycle on off days. I even heard him explain the term “fartlek” and how it can be used to build speed. You have no idea how weird it is to hear that term in a non-running environment.

Cold Lung Disease

I hate this time of year. Overnight, the weather has shifted. Last Friday was the final “hot” summer day of the year. When Labor Day weekend comes, it’s like someone flips a giant “screw Michigan” switch and it gets chilly, cloudy, and the leaves start dropping. My normally robust balls start cowering close to my abdomen for protection. I haven’t seen the sun in four days. And that was on the heels of a string of 90 degree plus days where the only thing not sweating was your eyeballs but that’s only because they come with their own windshield wipers.You never hear me complain about the summer heat. Sure, I might point out how the warm air affects my running or question how people from the south run in the extreme heat, like in my last post, but never, NEVER do I wish away the summer heat. It’s too precious of a commodity around these parts. To those Midwesterners that complain about running when it’s hot out? I don’t want to hear you complain over the next 8 months about how it is too cold. You wished away the heat so now enjoy the next three seasons and your YakTrax. We’ll see a full day’s worth of sunshine maybe a dozen times now until May and that’s no exaggeration. If you live in a warm climate, remind me what the sun looks like every now and then m’kay? My sunglasses will be as useless as my Members Only jacket.

This state is almost uninhabitable. But at least we are not Ohio.

I am, however, not above complaining about the cold. In fact, I’m a champion Cold Weather Bitcher like most Midwesterners. You’ll hear a ton of that over the next 8 months. And that’s really the point of this post. It’s not exactly “cold” per se either. It’s in the mid 60’s and constantly drizzly. It’s really near perfect running weather. But when you’ve been sucking in hot summer air for the last four months and suddenly your morning long run is 52 degrees with a nippy breeze, your lungs eject the air back out like a cheap Hollywood spit take. Ever spray a passing runner with Gatorade spittle? It’s not as comical as Laurel and Hardy would have you believe.

I attempted another 8 mile “race pace” time trial last night and, per Michigan standards, it was around 60 with a chilly breeze. My lungs were tight, my colon was clogged (don’t eat Frosted Mini-Wheats if you will be running later), and my breathing was labored. The two little shriveled balloons inside my chest cavity simply would not take in enough air to keep the heart rate down and the engine running. My lungs ejected the chilled air. They were as useless as a dog groomer in Korea.

With a few well-timed intersection traffic light breaks, I was able to complete my 8 miles at a 6:35/mile pace per plan. But I double checked the race website and, again this year, they will not feature periodic rest stops with no time penalty. I’m on my own. Again. Their stubborn insistence on 13+ miles – run consecutively – is growing as tiresome as my lame “useless” joke comparisons in this post. But there’s only one more of those to go.

I guess I’ll just need some more time to suck it up - to suck it in. As the temperature drops, it takes a few weeks for my innards to adjust. It’s like when I go on vacation and don’t poop for 5 days. Everything holds on for dear life inside until it has no place to go and falls out like a Titanic victim frantically grasping for a railing. Eventually my colon settles into routine; eventually my lungs will as well. They have 9 more days to adjust until the half marathon. Better get adjustin’. Quickly.

Until then, they are as useless as a Futon store in the Upper West Side of New York.

Yep, good work on those jokes, Nitmos. /wipinghandstogetherpattingselfonback

Happy trails.
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Happy 16 years to Mrs. Nitmos! How she did it, I don’t know. She’s a true endurance wife. I have a few more “useless” jokes that didn’t make the cut to share with you…and consider the ones that did make it, you could be in for a long evening. Here we are in recent warmer times. Can you name this exact location? It's from my recent Florida trip. Not much to go on but a beautiful evening, sunset, some background architecture and our rum flushed faces.

And, yes, that is a Boston shirt. I wear it everywhere. Want to fight about it?

Everywhere Signs

Here’s what I love about Northern Michigan: Signs.


This appeared a few years ago on the route to one of my normal race destinations. I know what you are thinking. How do they get the bears to cross the highway within those same five miles? Dunno but it sure is a neat trick. I like to stand just in front of the sign wearing nothing but a slathering of honey and my shame (and my Garmin, for obvious reasons). There’s nothing that the sign-following bears can do about it right. Right? Stupid bears.

For the record, I’ve never seen any bears along this stretch of road but I have seen a few mobile homes with stick built makeshift roofs over top. Classy. And so far, the record for number of rusty pick-up trucks parked in the gravel drive of a mobile home with a makeshift roof is…9. C’mon Northern Michigan, you can do better than that! This is the land where “You Can Have My Gun When You Pry It From My Cold Dead Fingers” bumper stickers are as prevalent as Southerners and their “South Will Rise Again” stickers. And speaking of the South…

It’s been a hectic few weeks. Last you knew, I was heading to Florida – in August – for more R & R. This was resoundingly accomplished. Didn’t you get Mrs. Nitmos’ Facebook update titled Patron, Bitches! sometime on August 22nd? Well maybe you should be friendlier to Mrs. Nitmos so you can be Friended to receive updates such as Patron, Bitches! as well as photo evidence of me playing pool volleyball while floating horseback style astride two partial weight-bearing water noodles after several shots and a few Heinekens. Tequila, pool, water noodles, midnight volleyball = advantage Nitmos! You won't find that picture here.

I wish I could share more of my vacation with you but our cameras are now “evidence” and our accompanying friends are now termed “material witnesses”. On advice from council, that’s all I’ll say about Florida other than…how in the hell do you southern folk run in that heat?? I managed three runs in the easy, vacation-friendly 3-4 mile range and worked up enough sweat to match a 15 miler here in mild Michigan. Holy suffocation, David Carradine! I didn’t think “heat” should have a consistency and flavor. My sweat beads dried up while ejecting half way down my torso…due to dehydration. Maybe I don’t feel so bad now when I have to dress up like a Sherpa just to get a few January miles in.

Over Labor Day, Mrs. Nitmos (bike) and I (legs) took in 14 wonderful miles along a scenic rails-to-trails path in Northern Michigan. There’s something pleasant and reinvigorating about a run through the quiet countryside. At least, there is until you come upon this scene:

I don’t want to know who sits in that chair watching the runners…and his bird friends. Feel free to hum the standard Deliverance ass-rape banjo accompaniment to yourself. If that seems like a good place for a fartlek…it was.

And since our Northern Michiganders are so sign conscious, they had the foresight to warn us that some tractors might be working in the area as well here:

And here:
Also here:
Like the bears, I also didn’t see any actual tractors either. And that’s what scares me. If someone is taking the trouble to post these signs, that means the threat is in the area somewhere. So…where are the bears? Where are the tractors? And, praise jeebus, where in the hell is the guy that sits in that yard armchair?

Soo-ee! Oink-oink.

Happy trails.
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Any mention of "signs" brings out my favorite: Who’s the jerk that likes to make fun of slow kids by posting signs rather than taking them to the track for some much needed speed work (apparently)? Oh, that was me.

Have Legs, Will Travel

Well, it’s been nearly three weeks since I took some time off from work and you can imagine how tired I am. How do people work an entire month without taking time off?? It’s not healthy. I don’t have gout but, if I did, it seems like it would start flaring up after a few weeks straight of work. All of that sitting in an office chair just has to do something to the uric acid, doesn’t it? Lesson learned: Don’t go this long without a day off again or risk gout. Time for a vay-kay-shun (or, as I call it, “minimalist working”).

Fortunately, I’ll be bringing my legs with me so there’ll be no excuse to not get a few miles in. Does everyone else try to keep the running going while on minimalist work? Or do you shut it down completely? Just how obsessive do we need to be about this hobby?

We are heading to Florida. In August. Yeah, smart planning, I know. It won’t be warm there, will it? Should I pack a hoodie? My kids kick-off – literally – their fall soccer seasons upon our return so there wasn’t much of a choice. Our weekends will be busy from now until…eternity. Upon return, we’ll drop them off from the pool to the pitch. To make matters worse, we are renting a house in land-locked Orlando, of all places, with some friends of ours and their kids. That means four kids, four iPods they can’t find but is somehow our fault that they are lost, and four sets of lungs we have to worry about filling up with pool water. Just how much beer is there in Florida anyhow? I know Florida isn’t the Caribbean. It’s kind of a minimalist Caribbean, in fact. But, if you knew me, you’d know I’m minimalist lavish.

I know what you are thinking: How do you have any friends and why would they spend a week in the same house as you? Well aren’t you the asshole for asking? Obviously it’s because I’m incredibly charming and my posture is amazing. I think both come across clearly on this blog. At least, my blog coach tells me so. I’ve spent all week shaving the hairs off my back moles. THAT’S how considerate I am. I wanted to do a word cloud from all of the wonderful comments I’ve received over the years to illustrate my personality traits but SOCIOPATH took up most of the results. (You couldn’t even see dickhead running along the side.) It seems you guys are the real problem. Haters.

Whenever we go out of town for any extended time, I tend to cram my long runs and hard workouts in the days before I leave – schedule be damned. During minimalist work, I want to just run some easy miles to keep the continuity but not hammer intervals and tempo runs, etc. So I’ll be heading out for yet another hard run this afternoon (9 miles - four at race pace).

Yesterday I followed up the previous day’s 13 mile long run with some 800’s at the track. If you recall, I just bragged about the 1200’s I was lovin’ on this year but here I am returning to Mistress 800, last year’s track slut. All of that nostalgic talk of 800’s got me randy anxious to try a few again. I figured I’d do 5 x800 meters (400m cool down lap between). Turns out, I pulled a Grover Cleveland. I did the first two 800’s but then forgot what I was doing, slipped into current habit, did a 1200, said “D’oh!”, and then went back to a couple of 800’s to finish up. A wayward 1200m right smack in the middle. In the end however, they were the best non-consecutive 800 intervals I’d ever done. Though Grover Cleveland was too heavy to have been much of a track man, he’d have been proud of my non-sequential abilities.

My legs are packed. My mind is already on minimalist work. Hell, once you get me thinking about antique American presidents you KNOW this boy is ready to party. By this weekend, I’ll be dropping some Taft on everyone’s ass. How much time will I take sitting around the pool discussing this mustache? Much.

President "Stache" Taft

I figure three runs in the 4-5 mile range each should hold me over until I return. Does that sound about right? Who knows, if any crocodiles jump out at me, I might get some fartleks in too.

Anyone else make sure to run during minimalist work? Anyone else pissed that Grover Cleveland threw off the orderly presidential list? I hate asterisks*.

Happy minimalist work!

*unless deployed by this blog.

When Will Races Recognize Street Lights?

I was standing at a street corner yesterday with sweat droplets pouring down my neck, to my arms, hands, and fingertips before leaping to their death on the pavement below when I had a sort of epiphany (ed: that's not the giant drums, right?) . Well, I actually had two epiphanies (ed: that's not TWO giant drums, right?). The first was Damn, I sweat A LOT from my neck. That can’t be normal. But, the second, and more relevant to this post, was the concept of a mid-race break. A sorta “time-out” – a street light, if you will – strategically placed in a few spots during a race that allows the runners a chance to take a deep breather, a sip of water, and maybe a bite of melba toast, just to cool off, without any time penalty.

Crazy? Or crazy genius?!

I’m about a month out from another half marathon so it seemed like a good time for another one of my race time trials. I like to do these as a race approaches just to see where I’m at with training. It serves its purpose as it either (a) confirms that I am right on track or (b) scares me shitless because I’m so under prepared and provides enough lead time to invent an injury or excuse to withdraw without anyone being the wiser. One of my most common responses to someone that asks “are you running in the race this weekend?” is “I’d like to but (enter completely plausible excuse here)….”

I usually go about 2/3 of the distance of the race at the time trial. I feel like that gives me a pretty good idea of where I’m at while bypassing the ego destroying late race collapse amidst a flood of tears and uncontrollable sobbing and abject feelings of failure. I like to save that for the race itself. For a half marathon, I’ll go anywhere from 8-10 miles at my planned race pace.

The nice thing about a time trial is that there are no registration fees or timing mats or cowbells or rapidly browning bananas on the food table. It’s just you, local traffic, jeering shouts from passing carloads of teens (who all need haircuts, btw), and street lights. Yes, street lights! It would seem counter intuitive to want a street light in the middle of your time trial. But that would make you a Time Nazi. I, on the other hand, press ‘Stop’ on my Garmin whenever I hit a street light. Time literally stands still. I’m in a chronistic void in which I may suck wind, drip fluids from my neck, and, generally, rest without any time penalty whatsoever.

And I pray for the long 60 second light. Or the intersections that have a separate light for every left turn lane and you just missed (by slowing your approaching pace) your light and now have to wait a FULL ROTATION of the lights. Ohhh shooooot, I miiiisssssed it.

And then eventually the little pedestrian light turns to the image of the walking person, I push ‘Start’ and off I go again feeling absolutely refreshed and rejuvenated. My pace is quicker. There is more room at the base of my neck for sweat to pool until the next intersection.

I normally get stopped at two major intersections during my time trials. Each time, I take a moment to gulp some air, sweat band off my forehead and neck, pinch my nipples (I’m shirtless or “minimalist shirted”, of course) and self-consciously make my pecs dance for the passing cars. I’m an entertainer at heart. When my light comes, I’m off again and, damn, do I feel refreshed. Why don’t they have street lights – or little time free beaks – at races? In fact, they go OUT OF THEIR WAY to bypass the lights with those annoying police officers and volunteers stopping traffic and waving you through the intersections.

BUT I DON’T WANT TO TAKE CUTS. How ‘bout we stop the race and let regular traffic flow, eh? We are living in a society here and a society has rules and I, for one, am willing to follow them. It’s the pesky race directors that are playing God with time and the natural order of things.

I finished my time trial pretty much on schedule – thanks to a few well-placed street lights - and headed in to find my neck squeegee. I don’t think I’ll need an excuse for this race. So far, right on schedule with one more time trial to go.

But it sure would be nice to count on those street lights during the half marathon. Race directors, take note!

8.5 miles
55:23 non-street light time
6:31 pace (planned: anything below 6:35 pace)

Happy trails.

Cry Me a 1200 Meter River

One of my favorite aspects about this whole business of running is that I own it completely. When I don’t hit a planned run, there is no one to blame but myself (and my kids because I’m sure they got in the way somehow). Successes and failures at the races are a direct result of my own efforts. When I look in the mirror after a few grueling rotations at the track, I see my chisel-jawed coach staring back at me and he’s either smugly satisfied, lips pursed with eyebrow-cocked unhappiness, or dreamily leering at his star pupil. I think my coach is hot for me but that’s another matter.

He also doesn’t seem to care when I wake up Tuesday feeling a bit sluggish and needing an extra half scoop of coffee in my Mr. Coffee. According to the calendar, it is track day today and 1200 meter repeats want to take me for a whirl. According to my fuzzy head and engorged lower g.i., it’s coffee time and some quality bathroom reading await. What’s better than the sly wit of some light Nick Hornby reading? How ‘bout Hornby, a full role of toilet paper, and thirty-five uninterrupted minutes on the porcelain?

I don’t feel like 1200 meter repeats today. Sometimes I get to the track and disguise my 1200 meter repeats as 800 meter repeats with a 400 meter half-ass effort and call it 1200 meters. There are usually a few other folks at the track and I’m sure they’ve noticed that my 1200 meters aren’t quite 1200 true, quality meters but, thankfully, they don’t say a word. They just continue running their circles and pretend not to notice but I know they know. How could they not?

My coach notices. And he immediately starts an internal dialogue with me complete with name-calling. I’m a “wimp” and a “scaredy-cat” and “heart hugger”. I’d respond but my heart is pounding in my chest as I continue my cool down lap and I can barely control my breathing. Coach sure knows how to hit the right hot buttons. I’ve been coddling my heart for years and he goes right after it when he wants to hurt me.

I don’t know why I’ve chosen 1200’s as my intervals of choice this summer. Last year I hammered the 800’s and that was fun. I guess one more lap seemed like a nice challenge. That’s the great thing about the mirror coach: you get to figure yourself out as you go. I realized a few years back that I wouldn’t be in the Olympics. They’re all hung up on “qualifying times” and “ability” and “stop sending us emails – you can’t ‘join’ the Olympics”. I’m pretty persistent but my limit comes when the talk of restraining orders and arrest warrants seem more than a threat. So I’ve been content to figure this whole running thing out by myself free from delusions of grandeur. Might as well reap the free Introspective Reward points that come with it right? After awhile, you can redeem them for free Internal Peace and Understanding.

But building up the points comes with a lot of tears at the track. Sweat…tears…snot rockets…blood...spit…phlegmy cough. There’s a river of bodily fluids building at my local track. I don’t know if the 1200 meter intervals have done much for my overall running ability this year but it’s been a nice challenge for me. Once again, I’ve learned by doing. Crazy concept, I know, in this short cut culture. Pretty much everything I’ve learned about my abilities as a runner was through my own investigation so, at the very least, this throws another log on my bonfire of knowledge. It’s through trial and error that you can find your own path and bank some serious knowledge and Introspective Points.

It’s time to hit the track. Well, frankly, it’s time to hit the Hornby then it’s time to hit the track. I’ll shoot for those 1200 repeats. But I may just stack a 400 meter midget on top of an 800 meter person and wrap them with a huge overcoat and pass them off as 1200 meters too. Who can tell? That’ll be between mirror coach and myself. Heck, I may even veer off and do a ladder run today…

Either way, I need to be home by one o’clock. My hiking coach will be here by then.

Happy trails.

Where I Was

Where was I? Well, derp, I was at the film festival!?! I told you that pretty much straight out with my last post. Sheesh.

Sorry to disappoint but Breckin Meyer didn’t valet my car. It was Dustin Diamond and he’s still pretty ticked off about the Saved By The Bell thing. Don’t joke with him. I asked him not to screeeech my tires into the parking spot and he punched me in the neck. Ever have someone punch you in the neck and then hold their hand out for a tip? I don’t know if I felt more embarrassed for him or for me but dammit if I didn’t swish around in my pocket for a few quarters. I considered it payment for all of the hilarious hijinks I enjoyed from Zach, Slater, Screech, and Kelly Kapowski. A sore neck and 4 bits? Any time.

I’m still trying to get my bearings straight this week. I think I answered one of life’s mysterious riddles: What would happen if you drank several Oberon’s and Two Hearteds and then watched artsy independent films every single night of the week? Well, let’s put it this way, if I carried on like that for another day or two, I’d finally get busy on penning a sequel to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. My version would be decidedly less cocainey.

I didn’t run a lick…except to the urinal to make more room. So, I’m making up for it this week and, man, my legs are tired. I’m about as weary as this trip summary. Shall we go to picture form and slightly amusing anecdotes? YES!

We do things differently here in Michigan. Witness the ski lift being utilized in the middle of a summer’s day. Those are my kid’s legs dangling off of there. For Michiganders, a beautiful July day means….time to hit the slopes!

Actually, the chair lift took the kids to the top where they could go down the water slide:

Well, okay, it’s not a “water” slide. Here in Michigan, that would be “a little cart with wheels” slide. No water. We got enough of that shit surrounding us in every nook and cranny of this state. We don’t want it on our slides too.

Instead, we sit in hot tubs on 92 degree July afternoons. What better way to cool off in 90% humidity than a soak in 105 degree water?!? Remember, it’s Michigan. It’s damn cold here 6-7 months of the year. We need to soak in all of the warm we can get to carry us through those few dozen runs in January and February in 15 degrees.

Awww, look at the fam casually standing in a filthy lake next to floating milk cartons. In Michigan, that’s called recycling. Whenever we are done with our milk cartons, we toss them in the nearest body of water and let the tide “recycle”. Look, there goes two recycled cartons now:

My dog was quite content sniffing everything that could be sniffed. When I told her it was time to go, I got this Mrs. Serious Face. Can you see “WTF?” in those eyes?

Mrs. Nitmos says “kiss off” it’s time to dump the kids at the grandparents and head back downtown for more beer and films and hipsters walking around with douchey chin hair and oversized, thick framed rectangular glasses.

That’s right, I didn’t shave last week.

Running related topics resume next.

Happy trails.