Randumbery VI: Home of The Original

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

First, there is no substitute for The Original Randumbery. After the Indiana Jones movies came out, did anyone really need the Allan Quartermain series? Does anyone remember the Allan Quartermain films? There were two. They made a sequel. So, the recent Half-Fast v. Feet Meet Street hubbub started when Vanilla attempted to Quartermain me with his Rundum Thoughts post. Everyone knows I have the market cornered on semi-regular random thoughts posts through-out the entire world wide web. Let’s face it, it’s such a unique concept that no one could possibly have come up with it on their own. I believe that thunderbolt hit me while I was crafting a race report in mile by mile breakdowns in my entirely original way that I do. Little did I know then that I’d be Quartermained in both my race report structure AND random thought posts.

On with the show…

Racevine

There is a new runner friendly website in town. You may have heard about it already. If you have, then it appears I’ve been pre-Quartermained and I’ll be contacting my attorneys. It’s called Racevine…and you should be humming along with Marvin Gaye “I heard it though the racevine.” This site is designed to be a one stop spot to learn about details of your next race. It features reviews from folks who have participated in the race. You’ll no doubt discover a few secrets that the official race web sites really didn’t want you to know about their race. (i.e. This course is a lot harder than they let on. And the person who handed me the medal gave me the stink eye.) You can – and should – post your own race reviews as well so others may learn from your failure experience. It’s easy to navigate and you can annoy others by constantly singing that you “heard it through the racevine.” Catchy, right?

Thanks but…

Believe it or not, I’m usually quite pleasant and polite to strangers. I even feel vicarious embarrassment when I see someone else do something embarrassing. Rarely, for example, would I clap for the person who dropped their tray breaking all of the plates in a cafeteria. I always avert my head to laugh when one of my filly’s teammates swing the t-ball bat so hard that they wrap themselves around slugging themselves in the back of the head. And mall fatties? Sure, I might think ‘do you really need to double fist those Peanut Butter Parfaits’ but I never say it. I do all of the laughing behind these people’s backs (and on this blog) which, I think, somehow makes me a better person.

But I was challenged the other day. My colt was practicing his pitching. I was catching. This takes place on our front sidewalk. He overthrew one that got behind me and bounded away down the concrete coming to a rest in the direction of an approaching runner. Of course, I was hoping the runner would stop, pick it up and throw it back (something I sure as hell wouldn’t do; pace killer!) so I took a few of those obviously stilted and slow strides in the direction of the ball to try to entice him to get it. He did. Nice guy. I smiled, held open my glove, and waited. He took a few steps and then...kept walking towards me. Awk-ward. Hand delivering the baseball? That’s a little too personal for my tastes, no thanks. He probably sensed my heebie-jeebies. Maybe by the downturn cringing frown that spread across my face as if I just watched a family dog get run over by a tow truck. Then, he stopped, looked at the ball, and chucked it. He was no more than 20 feet away, a completely manageable throw for a full grown adult human male.

I have never seen a ball thrown more poorly. His arm kinda hitched mid-throw and it took off roughly 15 feet into the air over my head and into a tree. It rattled and bounced against the tree limbs like it was making its way down the Price is Right Plinko board. Oh, I tried to catch it. I could already feel my face getting red due to his embarrassment. I followed the ball as it bounced back and forth trying to line myself up to where I thought it would come out.

Thud.

It hit the ground again about halfway between me and him. Even through his sun glasses, I could see and feel his humiliation. I wanted to say “Sorry” and “Better luck next time” or “Half way is better than nothing” but instead, I croaked out a “Well, thanks. Appreciate the help.” He stammered and muttered something about ‘no problem’ but we both knew that was a lie. Clearly, it was a problem.

As he resumed his run, I turned to throw the ball back to my colt with a huge grin on my face. This was too funny not to laugh out loud. I returned to my catcher’s crouch and watched him run off at right angle surprised he was getting the whole left, right, left, right thing down with his legs without tripping.

Banned

I’m not going to spill the details but we’ve been busy recording another podcast. If you don’t know who I mean by “we”, you must be a new reader. I’ll leave it to you to rummage through my archives to find out who constitutes a “we.” Besides, there’s some good shit in there and you should do it anyway (careful, there's few posts describing fruit falling from my anus. Fair warning.) Some of you will no doubt be expecting me to call one of the participants Mr. Quartermain but I will refrain. It’s been awhile. More details to come.

And that, my friends, is how Randumbery is actually done. In novella form.

Have a great weekend!

_________________________________

A one mile 5k training time trial and 8 mile "long run" (or is that a medium run?) on tap for me this weekend. Keep working hard. It's racing season!

The Shirtless Coalition

I’m going to use this format as my way of coming out of the closet. The clothes closet, that is. Or, in this case, the no clothes closet. I’m not talking about streaking. These guys cover that. I’m talking about the distinctly male issue of whether or not it’s okay to go shirtless on a summer day’s run.

I’ve seen a recent up tick of blog posts about this topic (mentioned here and here for two but elsewhere also, I’m sure) and the general theme is, no, a man shouldn’t run sans top. It’s considered bad form. It’s cocky. It’s frowned upon. Well, I’m announcing that, on warm summer days, I run without my shirt.

I’m here. I’m shirt-free. Deal with it.

The shirtless male runner is one of the few prejudiced against groups remaining in the United States these days. Nobody - and I mean nobody - has it worse than us. And we’re tired of it. Though we wear no shirt, we have every right to the road edges and sidewalks. Though you can see the glistening pools of sweat on our chests and treasure trails, we are entitled to a friendly passing runner greeting. If we stumble and fall over a popped up slice of concrete, do we not bleed?

Do the folks who condemn the shirtless male runner also condemn a shirtless female runner? I think not. No, they encourage it. Double standards!

I know, I know, you are probably thinking, ‘Nitmos, of course you are allowed to run shirtless. My God, those granite chiseled pecs!’ And I get that. When you hear “Beefcake!” shouted at you several times over the course of a leisurely, topless June run, you start to think you are immune to the scorn of the Anti-Shirt Choice establishment.

But I have to support my less well developed (or overly developed) bare-chested brethren (or sistern – really, we ALL encourage that.) We are HERE. We are SHIRT-FREE. DEAL WITH IT!

Have you ever felt the warm summer air pass over the dimpled convex bumps of your exposed areola?

Have you ever let the flood of chest sweat run unimpeded down to your gray running shorts, dampening them in a triangular pattern that makes it appear as if you’ve wet yourself?

Before you head out for a run, have you ever had to inspect your torso and shoulders for flaming, ripe whiteheads to explode (these reflect in the sun and blind passing drivers)?

If you answered No to any of these questions, quite simply, you haven’t lived.

Vote now to show your support for the shirtless runner. We are HERE. We are SHIRT-FREE. Deal with it.


Would you have me wear frilly tassels on my summer runs? Would that make you feel more comfortable? I could swing them around in exotic, nipple-bending circles for your amusement.

I realize that my chest hair is sparse. In fact, my areola’s are dotted with a ring of single hair follicles laid out like Stonehenge. The sweat runs down the shaft of each strand and lingers on the end like a bulb on Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree before jettisoning to the sidewalk or onto the back of a passing dog. It’s not all glamorous but it’s the price I pay to be topless and happy during summer running.

I’m taking a stand. I refuse to acknowledge the scorn from the Anti-Shirt Choice crowd. I will be running sans top ALL SUMMER LONG. Even during chilly rain storms.

I propose that this July 4th all of the Shirt Choicers out there burn a moisture wicking short sleeve running shirt in protest. Susan B. Anthony, Cesar Chavez, and Ghandi (yes, I said GHandi) have nothing on us. Please leave your supportive thoughts in the comments.

WE ARE HERE. WE ARE SHIRT-FREE. DEAL WITH IT.

But what’s up with those dudes with the skimpy little split leg running shorts that ride up their hip? Ewww, gross.

Happy trails.

The Ever Expanding Oval

Why does my local track resemble an aging males prostate?

As a late 30’s male, I’m only a few years away from regular visits to Dr. Jellyfinger. Now, however, my prostate means nothing more to me than a distant health warning such as Alzheimer’s, dementia, and Wilford Brimleyism.* But I feel like I’m getting to know my future prostate right now. 400 meters at a time.

I’ve been doubling up on my weekly track interval work-outs in an effort to reach my SOS2 goal of sub 18:00 5k. Right now, I’d say there is, at best, a 50/50 chance of meeting that goal (which, ironically, is the same percentage of an enlarged prostate in men over 50.) I’m doing 800’s on Tuesday and 400’s on Saturday. Those 400’s will turn into mile repeats real soon.

I arrive at the track all fresh faced and spunky. Just a kid, really. Still wet behind the ears and full of piss** and vinegar.*** I’m looking to knock out a reasonable 6x400 with one lap cool downs between each. Shouldn’t be too much trouble right? Really, that’s a total of 11 laps around the track. Not even three miles. An elderly man could eat a heaping bowl of warm Quaker Oats during that time. I can certainly burn some rubber around this oval.

I start on my first 400 meters. 400 meters later, I come to the end and hit the lap button. Okay, not bad. About where I want to be time-wise. Cool down lap. Nine laps to go…

And then the next lap seems slightly larger. There’s no way that was 400 meters again. More like 420 or 430 meters. I was running a bit harder and yet I came in a few seconds slower. The oval has enlarged. I was running fast but there is no way I caused enough heat for the track to expand. I’m capable of many things but sudden track prostatism isn’t one of ‘em.

Sure enough, every lap seemed just a bit longer than the last. Interval four? Easily 450 meters. My form was rapidly deteriorating. I was hunching and muttering to myself and even had the sudden, misplaced desire to play bingo.

As I re-entered Earth’s atmosphere and rounded the corner on my final lap, I felt like a big, fat walrus. A walrus with a belly full of traditional breakfast foods and sporting a Taftian facial growth. Orf, orf, orf, I was going to make it to the finish line, orf, orf. I don’t care if the track had expanded to 14,000 meters by the eleventh lap (sixth interval). No exaggeration.

In the end, I came close to my goal of maintaining an average pace of 1:20 for the 6 intervals. I clocked in at 1:22. Considering the way the track enlarged, I was pretty happy with that. All of my summer 5k’s would be point-to-point, more like an intestine than a prostate anyhow. Very little chance for enlargement. So, I’ll be that much further ahead.

As I cooled down with one final lap (surprisingly, already back to 400 meters), I took stock of some symptoms I was experiencing: Increased thirst, dry mouth, fatigue, blurred vision. Maybe I was using the wrong Wilford Brimley analogies. The track didn’t enlarge like a prostate. I didn’t want Quaker Oats, even if it is the right thing to do and the tasty way to do it.

No, based on those symptoms, maybe I have Diabeetus?

Happy trails.

* Senior onset of over-sized mustache, suspenders, and cane shaking anger. Also, to those who googled ‘Wilford Brimley’s prostate’, welcome to Feet Meet Street! You belong here.
** The track bathroom is always locked.
*** I like cole slaw.

Mrs. Nitmos 12, Treadmill 1

Since I previously reported that Mrs. Nitmos had been soundly defeated in her first match with the treadmill, I felt she was owed a public update. You’ll recall that in her first experience, she wound up jetting into the wall behind in a crumpled heap with my mp3 player bouncing to a rest several feet away. If you don’t recall this, we’ll wait while you click the link and refresh your memory.

After Mrs. Nitmos read this, she was highly amused. She got this weird grin on her face and just kept staring and staring at me and asking me things like “ever hear of Lorena Bobbitt?” (Answer: No. Is she a successful treadmiller?) and “have you ever been set on fire in your sleep?” To be honest, I didn’t find it quite as funny as my uneasy laugh conveyed. It was a bit unnerving really. Usually I find self-immolation hilarious too. Non-self immolation? Not as funny.

Sadly, she reminded me – after that last incident – that I forgot the single funniest part of the treadmill pwning: her pants had become tangled on the treadmill handlebar causing her to hang awkwardly off on one foot for a brief moment before the complete and total ejection. I will say again: where’s a closed circuit video camera when you need it?! And how could I have missed this part of the tale in its retelling? It sounds like the only thing missing was someone going whup whup whup nyuk nyuk nyuk during the event. Oh, wait, I was doing that.

She’s been back to the gym many times since then. Not once has she ended up slamming into the wall behind in a hilariously comedic tumble. In fact, I’m pretty proud of her. Without any goading from me, she’s even started running a few miles on the mill. She’s doing this all on her own. Sure I make little tsk tsk sounds and critique her stride, overall form, and hydration technique all the while staring at a stopwatch to measure pace but what else would you expect? Since starting several weeks back, she’s knocked several minutes off her per mile pace. Snot rocketing? A work in progress.

There’s even been talk of Mrs. Nitmos and I, along with some others, joining together to run the Detroit Marathon 5 person relay this fall. How cool would that be? I could once again display my majestic stride in a public forum. And Mrs. Nitmos would be safe from reverse mid stride ejection while on an immobile asphalt footing. A win-win.

Go, Mrs. Nitmos, go! You’re the next Lorena Bobbitt! (Am I referencing this correctly?)

Wanna Hear Something Gross?

Since the internet seems to be awash with mimicry, I thought I’d try out a new, completely unique feature called Wanna Hear Something Gross? Of course, by “hear” I mean “read”. You get that, right? This feature is sure to appear semi-regularly and completely without warning. Kinda like my spastic colon.

My kids are going to summer camps now that school is out. At the end of each camp, they get to swim at a public pool. Now, we’ve warned them many times not to touch anything with their exposed skin or we’ll cheese grater it off when they get home. The motto is You touch it, you lose it.

So, my daughter and I are sitting on the recliner last night reading another chapter in the Junie B. Jones series. She had just gotten out of the shower. Her hair is still a little wet but smells like fresh lilacs just as the shampoo promised. While reading, she reaches down and pulls a Band-Aid off the bottom of her foot. No big deal. Band-Aids are designed to come off. Except, we didn’t put one on her. She had no cut. This is the point where she remembers, hey, there was a Band-Aid next to the pool. I must have stepped on it. And there was blood on it.

After several minutes of dry heaving, I went for the cheese grater.

Have a great weekend!

Slave to the Grind

Your Semi-Weekly Vanillian Attack Response:
Before our regularly scheduled post, a quick response to the weird fixation Half-Fast seems to have with all things Feet Meet Street these days. First, I’m happy that Vanilla, the banker, besides puffing stogies and gleefully observing your disappearing home equity in a plush smoke-filled office somewhere, is taking his much needed tax payer bail out money to spend the time spell checking my referenced historical figures. Try this one: Charles Keating, banker. Did I get it right this time? And for good measure, I’ll throw another disgraced historical figure reference at you: Dick Nixon. Nixon once infamously stated that “when the president does it, that means that it is not illegal.” Applied here, when Nitmos spells it that way, it means it is not incorrect. I might be clothing myself in a mismatched Ghandi (yes, I said Ghandi) – Nixon cheap analogous suit but you are still walking around under a panda carcass pal. And everyone knows skinned, suited pandas aren’t moisture wicking. Score!

Now, on with the show…

My dominatrix training schedule has me tied up doggy style with a big red ball in my mouth. It’s been beating me in the rear with a riding crop and forcing me to call it Daddy. I’m slavishly hitting my Tuesday 800’s, Thursday tempo runs, Saturday 400’s and Sunday long runs in pursuit of my SOS2 goals. The schedule says to do it so I do it. The pain feels sooo good.

And now my knees hate me. Specifically, my MCL’s are pissed. Just for good measure, I think I have a spate of runner’s knee also. Fortunately, everything I read about runner’s knee is that there is not much to do about it other than R.I.C.E and stop slavishly following a training plan. Well, one out of two ain’t bad. Since I usually have a day’s rest between runs, I’m able to revive the knees just in time to destroy them again at the next scheduled track session. Then, I RICE ‘em again that night. What? Where are the holes in this plan?

Recently, though, it has gotten pretty bad. After back to back days of hard runs, Mrs. Nitmos and I took the kids to see Up on Sunday. I took one look at the long flight of theater stairs we were to climb and felt immediately Hugh Hefnerian. Up I went….slowly, painfully. Down I went for popcorn…slowly, painfully. Then back up to watch a cartoon about a spry old man who drags his house, with balloons, to South America when I wasn’t even sure I could drag my 38 year old ass back down the stairs again. I’d be happy with a balloon ride out to the parking lot. (Sidebar: Up was good. It’s probably my favorite balloon-carrying-a-household-object movie since Danny Deckchair.)

On Monday, my knees were still burning with fire so I decided to unshackle the chains and take a break from the training schedule. Tuesday? Nothing. No 800’s. Just me, Mrs. Nitmos, an evening watching my colt win his soccer league, and a late evening complaining to the cable company (Comcast) about their crappy cable (Comcast) and how it went out with seven minutes to go in game 6 of the Stanley Cup Finals (or, as I call it, being “Comcasted.”)*

I enjoyed the extra day break. I enjoyed it too much. I felt guilty so I returned to Mistress Training Schedule last night when I probably could have used a longer break. And she was pissed. I only did 4 x 800 but the last two felt like Mistress T.S. had me saddled up and furiously beating my haunches with the crop like Mine That Bird in the homestretch at the Kentucky Derby.** 800’s? 2:48, 2:53, 3:00 (who’s your daddy?), 3:00 (I said, who’s your daddy?) Horrible.

My goal is to average 2:50 across the intervals (roughly 5:45 mile pace) so I’m not quite there yet. But, the pain, oh, the pain felt so good. I love it a little rough. My knees are sore again. I iced them down last night again. I think I was treated rougher for taking a day off.

I’ll keep going back. I can’t quit her. However, based on where this is heading, I think we need to agree on a safe word.

Happy trails.

* I encourage all Comcast customers to complain at the first sign of trouble. They throw credits around like flying underwear at a Tom Jones concert. Or so I’ve heard.
** The gratuitous nipple pinching I did on my own. Feel the burn. Try it yourself in the last 100 meters of the final repeat.

Vanilla Hates America

Ghandi had his critics too. I believe they were called “the English.” I’m not comparing myself to Ghandi - despite his impressive record of accomplishments, I’m better looking – but we do share something in common: Persecution by an Englishman.

I don’t know what started the whole flap F.M.S. has going with Half-Fast these days. Like most of you probably assume, I’m the innocent victim of an unprovoked attack. It appears that Vanilla has taken my “words” and interpreted them “literally” to mean exactly what I “meant” to say. Figures. I would expect nothing less from that guy. If you can’t count on someone to misunderstand perfectly worded sarcasm, what can you count on?

I was on my flight to lower Cameroon to bring internet access to nippleless Cameroonian orphans* when I was texted the news of the shameful Vanillian attack on yours truly. By the time we landed, I was in a full panic thinking about the possibility that the orphans, recently connected through a rudimentary dial-up connection, might have stumbled upon Half-Fast and been mind poisoned by his truthfully slanderous comments. I rushed to rip the phone line from the 56k coconut tree.

Too late. I could see from their tear-filled orphan eyes that, besides the whole missing mother and father thing, they had just been handed their worst swift, bloggy punch to their foodless guts.**

“Why does Mr. Vanilla hate you St. Nitmos?” Frung-nuk clucked in Cameroonish.
“Is his heart blackened by all the Pandas he waterboards?” asked Wani-luk.
“Vanilla used to be my favorite baking extract but now…now…it’s chocolate.” sobbed Nitmette.***

I promised the children that my work would go on. Of course, it’d be more difficult and slower now due to the time needed to defend myself from Vanilla’s mean-spirited, llama-esque attacks. Once dial-up is established, we were going to work on high speed….and then wireless. Followed by nipple-forming plastic surgery. And then planting crops for food. Now, it’ll be doubtful if we can get the wireless established before starvation kicks in. Forget even about the nipples. Nice going Vanilla!

As I sat on my nippleless Cameroonian orphan chair, drumming my fingers on the foreheads of the two designated armrest orphans, I considered the best way to respond. I could engage in childish name calling and match fire with fire (dickwad? toolbag? really?). I could turn the other cheek, demand an unwarranted apology, and engage in an attention seeking hunger strike. Or I could respond by placing myself even further on a pedestal (can you all even see my feet anymore?) and make thinly veiled potshots all the while attempting to appear high minded and above the fray. I chose the latter two. Except, I won’t be doing the hunger strike, per se. The orphans will handle that. They’re used to it.

I definitely won’t be engaging in name calling either. That’s too, I don’t know, English somehow. Instead, I thought I’d dangle an olive branch in an attempt to bring this whole kerfuffle to a resolution. We must have common ground. It’s just a matter of finding it. Hmmm, let’s see…

Nitmos likes…

America. Born here, raised here. Looks up to George Washington.

Vanilla likes…

England. Born there, raised there. Thinks Benedict Arnold is a “team player.”

Nitmos likes…

Helping orphans through computer networking and basic furniture creation education.

Vanilla likes…

Depriving orphans of basic needs. And wearing Panda skin suits.

Nitmos likes…

Doing his part for the national and world betterment through important volunteerism.

Vanilla likes…

His career in the world economy strangling banking industry. Finds your depreciating home values “funny.”

Nitmos likes…

Cuddling puppies and kittens.

Vanilla likes…

Punting puppies and kittens for height and distance.

Well, I’ll have to continue to make a list because clearly there’s still no common ground. I’ll keep trying. I’ll keep to the high road. My new motto is “I’ve never made persecution look so good!”

I suggest you visit Half-Fast and let Vanilla know how much you like George Washington also and ask why Vanilla, the banker, hates America. For my Canadian friends, I say “Go Team North America!” High five!

Now back to constructing my wholly original post – in my unique bullet point style – about my latest weekend escapades…Run well and drink well.

Happy trails.

* Carrying forward the work of Ghandi
** Oh, yeah, they are hungry too. One thing at a time people.
*** Don’t ask.

Renee Zellwegger Likes To Run

I decided – out of the clear blue sky – to do this segment in which I feature a celebrity caught in the act of running. The problem here is that, unlike other folks, I’m too lazy to actually find a photo of the featured celebrity actually engaging in the act of running. Now, this particular celebrity might not be as glamorous as, say, Anna Kournikova. And maybe this photo isn’t the best example but here is Renee Zellwegger not running:

Why did you feed me a lemon?

However, here is a post from fitsugar.com talking about her running addiction. Unfortunately, her addiction seems to be confined to treadmill running and, apparently, Advil (which explains Me, Myself and Irene.) My favorite part of this referenced fitsugar.com post is that they also used the word “copious” which I just had occasion to use in my own last post. Bully for copious!

To be fair, Renee looks much better when wearing make-up and worked over by a team of celebrity fashionistas. However, I still think she always seems to have this odd look on her face as if she just sucked on a lemon, no? To me, she defines “Hollywood beauty.” As in, “if she weren’t in Hollywood and just some regular person working at a grocery store, she wouldn’t be a beauty.”

She does look okay decked out in red and vogueing for the cameras. I find it odd that she’d choose a red carpet event to flex her lats though:

You are under arrest for treadmill abuse.

I’m not sure she "completes me" – only Mrs. Nitmos is allowed to do that – but she might parabola me. (I challenge fitsugar.com to work in ‘parabola’ in their next post.)

Keep on runnin’ Renee Zellwegger!

If you think this all sounds familiar, like there’s something more behind this post, an inside joke or something, no, you’re wrong. It’s just a regular ole post by me. Move along, nothing to see here.

Have a great weekend.

Happy trails.

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My 400's still aren't up to snuff. 5 x 400 @ average 1:23 pace (I had planned for 1:20 pace). I cannot shake this upper respiratory illness. Perhaps I actually do have swine flu. Maybe I shouldn't make fun of people. See? It's all coming home to roost.

Tomorrow: 4 x 800 @ 2:50 pace and Sunday LR around 8-10 miles.

The Hunted

I’m not one for purchasing race photos anymore. For the first couple of marathons, I bought a few of the official photos and now they’ve disappeared into a drawer next to the race medals never to be seen again. When I’m 80 and dealing with bad knees and blood in my urine, I’ll probably take a look at them and sigh wistfully. Then, I’ll look at my withered testes and sigh wistfully again.

Besides, as some of you have pointed out, I wear pretty much the same outfit in every race. It’s awfully hard to distinguish one race from the next when I’m wearing either my red race shirt or blue race shirt and dark blue shorts, with a back drop of bucolic Midwestern charm, in every single photo over the past four years.

I understand the desire to buy the photos – as I said, I have a few myself – because it captures a moment in time and helps to illustrate a story or refresh a memory. It’s your own little souvenir, or monument, of the accomplishment. Or, you might think you just look really cool Schooling Some Fools and want to submit it as evidence for doubtful friends.

Instead of sinking money into race pictures, I’ve erected an actual monument to, well, me. I had a full size statue commissioned to stand at my front door. It’s me wearing my traditional race clothes, with my left foot on a basketball, my left arm flexing skyward displaying my 22 inch gun, my right hand holds a book (The Collected Works of James Joyce), and I’m viewing the book with a sorta bemused, contemplative scholarly stare as if James Joyce couldn’t possible write anything I couldn’t decipher. Mrs. Nitmos and the kids are groveling on the ground and clutching my powerful right leg, arms extended, reaching up towards me as if a simple glance from me would carry their souls to heaven. It’s simple, powerful, classy and understated. It was very expensive but I think it really spruces up the outside of my mobile home. My neighbors, ten feet to my right and left, are extremely jealous. I hear them mocking it every night through their paper thin walls (unless there is a tornado in progress drowning out their envy.)

However, the recent Bayshore 10k photos are a little different than most. They revealed an actual story to tell. I was surprised to see a series of photos showing me locked in a Duel in the Mid Morning Partly Cloudy Sky with a fellow age grouper. I spent all day* working away in MS Paint to bring you this pictorial tour of my last race. Enjoy.

We pick up our tale somewhere after mile marker 5. It’s time for the finishing kick! Though I did not know it at the time, the person in the photo below is in my age group. He stands between me and First Loser (I would ultimately finish second in my age group.)

Note: He did not have a circular purple painted face. His image has been modified to protect his shame.

Notice the intimidation at play here. Could I possibly get any closer? Are we Siamese runners joined by the…well, never mind. I like to play an asshole on this blog but – could it be – am I actually a real life asshole on the race course also? Jeez Louise, give this guy some room. There’s a whole open road here…

I am hunting him down. I, the lion, am tracking my antelope. The flinging sweat that almost certainly is landing in my gaping mouth obviously does not dissuade me. (Remember, I had copious amounts of nose mucous that day so I was forced to be a 100% Mouth Breather for the race.) Can you hear my foot steps? That’s the sound of second place getting ready to pass you by.

What’s the deal? Take a closer look at these three preceding pictures. Note the positions of our arms and legs. Are we…synchronized running? Or am I mocking him by copying his exact movements directly behind him? Look carefully at my expression in the picture above. Looks like some mocking going on doesn’t it? I seem to be saying “Der, der look at me running too slow to hold on to second place, dum di di der der.”

And I was.

Unfortunately, we left the view of the cameras before my glory/his shame could be recorded as I devoured my antelope. I imagine it looked something like this:

Stomach full of prey, I bounded to the finish searching…searching for the first place and fastest, antelope. I could not find him amongst the thicket of runners. His race shirt and sweat patterns allowed him to blend in with other age groups. So I growled to the finish content with only one race day kill.

Those were some cool race photos. In comparison, they almost make my lawn statue seem needlessly braggadocios.

Almost.

Happy trails.

* If you define “all day” as “20 minutes.”

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Good night and good luck to Marcy at I Signed Up For This?!?

Yes, We Are THOSE People

You know the kind…those families that seem to be dragging their kids around from sporting event to event every night of the week. The family that is never home between 6-8 pm, Monday through Friday and sometimes on weekends. That’s us. We permanently keep camp chairs in the trunk. After all, the kids might be sweating their ass off running after various balls for our amusement, but that’s no reason for us to stand for an hour. I’m not the one playing.

“C’mon, run harder. Get after it.” I hiccup between mouthfuls of ice cream. ”Stop embarrassing Daddy.”

There is a six week time frame each year starting in May through the middle of June where we are out seemingly every single night to go to soccer practices or games and baseball practices or games. It’s crazy, really. I feel bad for the kids. On the ride home, it’s all I can do to gently ease up the volume on the radio to drown out their mournful pleadings for rest. It’s so…depressing. (By the way, an overly loud toe tapping remake of “Signs” by Tesla can be the perfect tonic to back seat whimpers and whines. Though I don't recommend Tesla for longer than 3 minutes at a time.)

For you childless folk, heed this advice: the most beneficial skill you can develop is to convincingly pretend that you have a hearing loss. As they express their most ardent wishes over a steadily growing radio volume, you can watch in the rear view mirror as your kid’s face transforms from sincere hopefulness, to frustration, to acceptance, and, finally, to bitter resignation when you don’t appear to recognize their feelings. It’s wonderful really. I like to think that I’m teaching them Daddy’s personal career path encapsulated in one car ride home (minus the “sensitivity training” of course.)

Which is why I found it surprising when my 11 year old colt asked to participate in a youth triathlon this past weekend. Hmmm, there must be a hole in the schedule somewhere that is allowing sunlight to blast through. Clearly, one of his sports team dropped the ball and didn’t fill up our Saturday evening.

The triathlon involved a 150 yard swim, 3.75 bike, and 1.2 mile run.

Just to give you an idea on what kind of people we are, the kids were already signed up for the annual Michigan Mile race Saturday morning. I documented last year’s event here. Both the colt and filly ran well again this year. My filly finished 6th overall in her age group but was the 2nd girl. My colt finished 9th this year but, like a chip off the ole block, struggled with (stomach) cramping for the entire race. Not sure if magical Biofreeze works on the abdomen though.

So, our Saturday evening was somehow open. Sign up he does for the triathlon. He would be the first in my family to do one. Besides, until this event came up, we were in danger of leaving the kids to occupy their time with their own imaginations for an entire evening. Shudders.

The daunting event would be the 150 yard swim. Six lengths of a standard pool. I know I couldn’t do that but, oddly, I had no problem dropping the kid into 14 feet of water for him to do it. I went out for more ice cream.

I’ll be damned, the little bugger did all six laps with only a few rest breaks.

The biking seemed to be a breeze also.

The running went pretty good but the stomach cramps came up again. He was looking pretty worn and hungry as he started his second lap so, as I sat in my camp chair, I used my newspaper to shield the fresh bowl of popcorn and large soda I had from him as he panted on by. I’m not cruel.

My colt finished the triathlon and even had enough energy to bike the 1.5 miles home afterwards with his medal draped around his neck. (No room in the car for him and his bike what with the camp chairs and popcorn and all.) He did it! He’s the family’s first triathlete! It brought a tear to my eye. Either that or I rubbed my eye with a finger filled with popcorn salt.

About two more weeks to go before we can put away the camp chairs for a summer of unscheduled activities. But for these six weeks, we are THOSE people. The ones eating pizza out of the car on the road to a practice…the ones turning friends away from our front door because it’s Game Night…the ones getting borderline verbally abusive towards the volunteer teenage referee, just looking for some on the job experience, when he clearly blows a call because he’s from the Planet Dumbass and must have flow here in his rocket ship, the Headupyourass V, without bringing his glasses.

If you see us on the road racing weary kids to their next event, don’t judge. It’s only temporary. For six weeks, we are THOSE people. After that, we return to being regular ole those people. The kind that others describe as “cartoonishly vulgar.” It’s hectic but the kids love it.

At least, I never hear them complain.

Signs, signs, everywhere signs....

Happy trails.
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Sunday: 10 miles @ 7:04 pace (1:10:39)
Tonight: warm-up, 5 x 400 @ 1:20 pace, cool down.

Con Man

Shhhh, let’s bring the room down a few notches. Can I get a blue circular light for some serious talk?

I don’t write many serious posts so, if you prefer, feel free to fling boogers at the screen or do a hilarious cursing Tourette’s impersonation while reading this if it makes you feel more comfortable.

Today, I’m talking confidence. No, I mean CONFIDENCE. Lately, I’ve come across a number of posts and overheard a number of pre-race conversations where a runner says something to the affect that they’ll ‘never run that pace’ or they’ll ‘never be able to BQ’ or they’ll ‘never be able to run a whole marathon’ or they’ll ‘never have such sexy man legs as Nitmos.’ A bunch a nattering nabobs of negativism.*

With that attitude? You’re right! However, three of those four examples are doable with the right plan, proper motivation, and a positive, confident attitude. (Forget the legs. You couldn’t craft smooth lines of granite like mine if you hired the best and brightest from Beverly Hills.)

So, let’s focus on Attitude which begets Motivation and Training which begets CONFIDENCE.

If you are going to be any kind of competitive athlete – certainly running against your own personal goals qualifies – you need to have a certain amount of healthy CONFIDENCE. Not the faux arrogance I throw around this blog weekly. I’m talking real CONFIDENCE born from a marriage of a positive attitude and hard training.** You can’t show up at the start line of your race merely hoping to achieve a time goal when the pitch forked satan is jabbing you in the Doubt Sensors and cackling maniacally. You have to believe it. And real belief only comes from the weeks or months of work that took place before race day.

When it comes to running, I believe anything is possible. If someone asks me if I think they could run a marathon, I immediately respond ‘yes, but not in those jean shorts.’ Or someone says to me ‘I don’t think I can beat my PR’ for a race that is still weeks away, I say ‘sure you can – if you stop being such a pusillanimous pussyfooter.’ I’m not suggesting that merely wanting something leads to race day CONFIDENCE and success. You have to start with the positive attitude. The I CAN attitude. Then, put the plan and training in place. Through the ups and downs of training, maintain the I CAN attitude. By the time you show up at race registration, you’ll be brimming with CONFIDENCE and spewing self affirmations like a Tourette’s afflicted Stuart Smalley.

But it all starts at the beginning. Don’t hobble your self with self doubt and negativism. You can reach your goal given enough time, planning, a bit of luck, proper attitude, and $19.95 sent to me, here, monthly at Feet Meet Street for your dose of daily affirmations. It seriously makes me cringe every time I hear someone start off with 'I don’t think I can…' what? What have you already determined you can’t do? As an example, I’m so arrogant that I think I could do a 2:45 marathon if I didn’t have these little things called a full time job, full time family, and a penchant for sweets and beer and late night television. That’s okay. I’m not going after that goal by choice. But, keeping with the theme of this post (CONFIDENCE and positive attitude), I still believe I could get there if I tried.

Try it some time. Catch yourself before you start to say that you can’t achieve your race goal. Then, back up. Set a realistic goal. Allow enough time. Tell yourself you CAN and WILL. Then put in the work.

When you arrive at the start line, you can chuckle at all of the other runners getting their doubt sensors jabbed by the shoulder devil. You’ll know that you have lowered your chance for FAIL to small, uncontrollable factors such as weather, injury, swine flu, or – as the registrations threaten – death.

You will fly from the start with full CONFIDENCE that the goal will be yours. It has blossomed and developed from the itty-bitty confidence fetus from weeks ago. (Maybe insemination was simply reading this post?)

Behind you, slogging away with devil dipped shoulder, the hopeless, hysterical hypochondriacs of history will meander to their fate.

Happy trails.


* Where have you gone Spiro Agnew?
** I have no idea about the gender roles each of these play so don’t ask. If I were to guess, I’d say positive attitude would wear the dress.
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I can honestly say that I never, ever expected to make Spiro Agnew a vocal point for a blog post. Another item off my bucket list! I’m on a roll. Now, who knows any good quotes from Idi Amin?

HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND!!

Steady As A Yo-Yo

This was a swirly, twirly, goopy Memorial weekend.

Friday

Three hour drive north to Traverse City. The beginnings of a sinus infection had left my throat sore and my normally angelic voice croaking like Harvey Fierstein. I had just bought the new Green Day album so I was singing/croaking out loud all the way up while green glops of sinewy fluid slung onto the dashboard and my family as they covered their ears and eyes in horror. Their steady pleadings to Stop Singing Like That and Stop Snotting Up The Family only goaded me to crank up the volume and sing-phlegm louder.

Saturday

I did sign up for the Bayshore 10k. I felt like crap the night before but figured I could muster 40-45 minutes worth of work in the morning and then lapse into a childlike needy state for the rest of the day. My demands would be hot soup, foot rubs, and a soothing tassel-filled belly dance by Mrs. Nitmos.

The Bayshore is a fairly flat, fast course and features a 10k, half and full marathon. I’ve done the marathon but not the 10k. In fact, I’d never done a 10k before. The marathoners depart from the start area first followed a few minutes later by the 10k’ers. Since the 10k’ers are moving at a quicker pace, we get to run up the back of the marathoners between miles 2 and 3 before turning around and heading back.

I had targeted a first mile at 7 minutes followed by a second mile at 6:45 and then the remaining miles below 6:40. The hope was to come in around 41:30 or so. My SOS2 goal is 40:00 for this distance. With the lack of speed training this spring combined with the swirling mucus in my frontal lobe, I was just a curious as you, the reader, are about how this would turn out.

I took off too fast. Again. (In fact, from now on, I’m just copying and pasting those same preceding 6 words into every race report to save time.)

First mile: 6:39 (featuring a first ½ mile of 3:03 before wising up a bit)
Second mile: 6:33
Third mile: 6:37 (turn around and head back)
Fourth mile: 6:33

During the fourth mile, I happened to recognize a passing runner going in the opposite direction. Normally, I don’t recognize anything but the shoes of the runners in front of me. I happened to look left and see Sun Runner passing by and we both managed a Hey-You-Look Familiar finger point (though only mine was with the index finger.) I don’t think I could have croaked out a hello if I tried.

Shortly after that, I heard someone shout “Feet meet street” from the crowd in the opposite lane. I waved, again, as my voice was incapable of mustering a shout. But then I thought, maybe that was just a person who likes to vocally express their physical actions. Maybe after shouting feet meet street, she said now I’m breathing in and out and moving legs or something like that. It was pretty presumptuous of me to assume that it was directed at me.

Fifth mile: 6:34
Sixth mile: 6:09
Final lap on the high school track: 1:19 (5:22 mile pace!)

Judging by the final 1.22 miles, I probably should have paced a bit faster early on and not run such a defensive, conservative race. Call it 10k Beginner’s Nerves. But behold the steady splits between miles 1-5! You could have set your watch by my metronomic pace (as long as you don’t mind your watch being off by a few seconds every 6 ½ minutes.)

Mrs. Nitmos and I sat up in the stands and watched some friends finish. I never did see Sun Runner come in so I thought maybe I had just vaguely taunted some random, unknown runner. I picked up an age group award. Thankfully, the 35-39 AG was considerably slower compared to the 30-34 and 40-44.

Final Stats:

40:24 time
6:31 pace

2nd of 82 in age group
36th of 1419 overall

Then, Mrs. Nitmos and I hoped in the car and headed back south 3 ½ hours to attend a wedding, eat prime rib, make fun of the bride and grooms relatives and friends, and drink the free booze.

Sunday

Back in the car, heading north to Traverse City again for a Memorial weekend cook out. By now, both Mrs. Nitmos and I are spewing green nose mucus and our heads are spinning.

Monday

Back in the car, driving 3 hours home. Each stop along the way empties a handful of sickeningly moist Kleenex into a roadside garbage. If the raccoons get in there, you’ll see a lot of ‘em around northern Michigan with green Kool-Aid rings around their mouth. But that ain’t Kool Aid.

Our Memorial weekend was a blur of spinning, dizzy heads, nose expellants and the physical back and forth between northern and southern Michigan. It’s about as close as I want to come to being a Yo-Yo. I’ve been called a Yo-Yo many times but I’ve never actually resembled one before.

In fact, looking back, the only thing that held steady was my 10k pace.

Happy trails.

And Congratulations to all the Memorial racers! You know who you are…

WTH?!

Not to be confused with WTF?!

Post-Pig, I’ve been eyeballin’ some races to participate in through out this summer. I have a handy dandy homemade handwritten list right on my desk. It just screams I’m So Interested In These Races I’ve Even Taken The Extra Step To Manually Write Them Down. Sure, I could have just highlighted those same races on this Michigan Race Schedule flyer I have tucked beneath my homemade list but the thought didn’t occur to me at the time, so back off. A lot of things occur to me after the fact. I’m a regular Hindsight Genius that way.

I’ll be heading to the location of my ancestral home for this Memorial Weekend. As it turns out, there is a series of races on Saturday including a 10k, half marathon and full marathon. I took a pass on the full marathon a long time ago. I had visions of joining the half marathon but balked at the price ($90? That’s a buck for every minute I planned to run the race! Remember, I’m a cheapskate.) But they do have a 10k also.

I’ve gone back and forth more times than Arlen Specter’s political affiliation on whether or not to sign up. I’m not really prepared for a 10k. I won’t feel 5k/10k race ready for another month or so as my speed work is still in the beginning stages. Yesterday, I finally decided What The Hell, why not? Who cares if I flail about and finish a few minutes off from where I’d like to be? I’m sure I can still inspire a few of you to leave me milquetoast, half-hearted Nice Jobs in my comments right?

Besides, the price is right. As mentioned the half marathon costs $90. The 10k is $25. The 10k is 47.3% the mileage (6.2/13.1 for you math morons) of the half. But it’s 27.8% of the cost. That’s called a bargain. If it applied in this case, I’d buy the 10k registration in bulk. But not everything is toilet paper I guess.

Also, I need a baseline for a 10k. I’ve never, ever, never-ever run a 10k before. I always assumed that folks who run 10k’s are different from me. Maybe they’re hiding a vestigial tail or something. At the very least, they smell like cabbage and have small hands (name that movie.) So, instant PR…and one to shatter later in the summer (if I can stand the smell.)

My SOS2 goal is to break 40:00. For this race, I’ll be happy to limbo under 42:00 quite honestly.

The bottom line: I don’t really have a good reason not to run it.

So, WTFN?!

Good luck to the many, many weekend racers! I hope your race is as big of a bargain as mine.

The Bike in Lane One

A Story of Patient Indignation

I’ve been trying to be more patient lately. For me, this requires a lot of practice. I get frustrated if there is a delay when shifting from Park to Drive before the Drive function engages. Sometimes I rev the engine until it kicks in and I dangerously zoom out of my driveway in the morning, car careening over the dip between the driveway and road, kids banging their delicate heads into the sunroof, and neighbors fleeing back to their porches leaving their newspaper and coffee twirling in the air like Witch Hazel's hair pins.

My TV does this annoying black screen for about 1.5 seconds when you change channels. Before it goes black, it displays the destination channel for a millisecond as a tease before removing it. I can’t tell you how annoying that is when I’m trying to check a game score “real quick” when switching off some crap reality TV program. I’ve trained my eyes to stare at the location where I know they put the score on the screen so I can catch it during the millisecond tease.* I’m just that impatient. I’d hate to have to wait an additional 1.5 seconds to see that score.

Which is why I’m congratulating myself today for the incredible amount of patience I displayed last evening at my local high school track. It was 800’s night! (Not 80’s night otherwise I would have worn my Hall and Oates concert t-shirt, quoted hilarious lines from Magnum P.I., and debated anyone about whether Rambo could take on an alien invasion all by himself (answer: he could))

I’m minding my own business doing these 800’s when some teenagers show up. Teenagers in baggy jeans. Isn’t that fad done already? When are the parachute pants coming back? One of them drops his mountain bike on the edge of the track so his back tire is covering lane one. The lane I’m running in. I spot this coming around the final turn and get immediately indignant. C’mon, dude, move the bike. Have some respect. And pull up your pants. I might even have thrown in a Sheesh, kids these days. Indignation was swirling inside my head.

Surely, as I pass, they’ll see the problem and move the bike. I pass by patiently moving into lane two. I round the next turn and look to the side. Nope. The little s.o.b’s aren’t moving the bike. They continue to jump the hurdles set up in lane seven (while holding their pants up with one hand.) I’m hoping the loose fabric catches the top of the hurdle and one – or more – of them go home with a skinned chin. Or a broken wrist (fingers crossed!)

I come around again. This time, I’ll make more of a show of this to prove the point. I’d love to time it just right so I can bump the tire with the tip of my toe as I jump just enough to send it spinning furiously. The rapidly revolving wheel would certainly illustrate their shame, right? Fearing a humiliating fall, I decide at the last moment to jump over the tire completely, stick the landing on the other side, and proudly bound off down the lane like a gazelle over a road side fence. Even this group of motley, slack jawed pimple poppers could grasp the symbolism of that action.

They don’t seem to notice. Or care. Or both. Instead, they mock me further by standing next to the offending bike and yuck it up about – what I can only assume – is their future plans to become Burdens to Society while I continue to circle a half lap away. By this time, my generic every day indignation has turned to seething indignation, which is a few steps up on the Indignation Meter (one step above righteous indignation). I’m mentally shaking an angry cane at them as I approach the fallen bike again. “Move the damn bike, you little punks. And pull up those pants!”

Instead, I say nothing. I’m not interested in getting beaten up by a gang of beltless youth. I quietly move into lane two and complete my last few laps.

Did you know that seething indignation is a decelerator? My final two 800’s, once the bike appeared, were the worst so far this SOS2. I spent so much of my time plotting out different scenarios in which I could get the idiots to move the bike that I completely forgot about my leg turn over, relaxed breathing, and focus. They robbed me of my 800’s just as they’ll rob me of my future tax money.

Let's see...bike....run...I’m not a triathlete but it dawned on me, with the intrusion of the bike, that I might have just completed my first “brick” work out. No!? I don’t know exactly what a "brick" is but I’ve heard tri folks talk about a bike/run work out to prepare for their races. If that’s the case, consider my brick cherry popped. You know what? It wasn’t that hard.(t.w.s.s.)

The hardest part of the brick seems to be finding a douchebag teenager with baggy jeans to leave a bike as an obstacle for your run. Physically, it’s not to bad. The bigger challenge is psychologically. Can you balance your patience/indignation?

As I left the track and started my one mile cool down run home, the little troublemakers flopped down onto the infield grass as if their general malaise and asshattery had worn them down to exhaustion. No doubt they wanted to get an idea on what it’ll be like sleeping outdoors on the ground after their parents kick them out one day.

I felt oddly triumphant for not giving in to my (strong) desire to step on and bend the tire rim. My patience won the day! I was tired myself from the three obstacles: the 800’s, the bike, and dealing with their nonchalant, vaguely threatening attitude.

Then it occurred to me: did I just complete a steeplechase?

Happy trails.

* This skill also comes in handy during spontaneous celebrity nip slips that occur randomly on TV. Practice, people, practice.
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Everyone congratulate Sun Runner for the BQ in Cleveland!!

And On The Seventh Day, He Rested (t.w.s.s.)

Show off. What a slyly arrogant way to brag that you’ve run six days in a row.

I don’t wait for the seventh day of the week to rest. I pretty much rest every other day. Sometimes two days in a row even. I guess you could say I’m a Less Is More kinda guy (that’s what she said – beat you to it.) I run three days a week. Every once in awhile, if I’m feeling frisky, I might go four times.

Far be it for me to question the wisdom of biblical precedent but six days of hard running in a row seems a bit excessive. I needs my rest. Besides, I think there’s some room to quibble here. We have two eyes, ears, arms, legs, kidneys, nipples, and lungs. The thing that makes us go – the heart – works alone. Can you say ‘design flaw’? Where’s my second heart? But two nipples? Really? I don’t claim to be All Knowing (just More Knowing Than You) but I believe the door is open for some serious questioning.

Did anyone hear thunder just now?

Since I take a rest day after every run day, I’m usually able to go hard (that’s what she said) every time out. I don’t run so-called “junk miles” (i.e. accumulated miles to inflate the training log but don’t have a defined purpose.) I know there’s a debate in the running community as to whether these extra miles help (or hurt) a runner. I long ago decided that I didn’t need that extra wear-and-tear and, combined with the various kid activities I seem to attend nightly, three days a week will have to do.

That’s why this weekend was so unusual. Probably pretty unremarkable for most but, for me, a real one time Water Into Wine experience. I ran three days in a row! To be fair, I was only planning to run Thursday, Saturday and Sunday but Thursday night soccer practice (and a date with game 7 of the Red Wings – Ducks series) caused me to shift this run to Friday. Viola! Three days in a row for the first time since, oh, I don’t know, 2005?

Friday was a pretty boring tempo run but Saturday saw the first of my 400 intervals! I targeted 1:20 as my pace with a relaxed lap in between. There was a nasty head(t.w.s.s.)wind to contend with whenever I turned north. I felt like I was parting the Red Sea of wind for each half lap. For the first time out for 400’s, I planned 4 x 400. Ease on into it. I’ll increase the intervals each time out. Intervals? 1:22, 1:23, 1:25, 1:23. Didn’t quite hit the target but I blame the wrathful wind god for punishing me for the consecutive days of running.

It was long run Sunday after that. And for this past Sunday, I defined ‘long run’ as 8 miles. Lame, I know. Without the angry wind, I was able to coast in with a 6:57 negative split pace. Adequate, for now (t.w.s.s.)

So, the SOS2 is off and rolling. A bit sloppy, amateurish and clumsy (t.w.s.s.) at first. I cut a few of the runs off prematurely (t.w.s.s.) Basically, I got a lot of work to do. But, in case you were thinking of leaving me snide comments, Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Judged.

Due to rest days, it might take me two weeks to get done what Others get done in one. That’s okay, I’m not omnipotent. I need to work at it. My running is still a little impotent (t.w.s.s.)

Happy trails.
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Soccer Update: My filly completed her short season with a record of 3-2. In games she played, they were 3-1. She netted 7 goals and about 5 more cross bars (or Close But Not Close Enough). Begrudgingly, I congratulated her on a "fine" season. I made sure that the entire team thanked me for the 3 wins and apologized to me for the 2 losses before we broke for the final time. I think I taught them an important lesson on responsibility. They really took it to heart. Several of them were crying while trying to blubber out their apology.

My colt's team is 4-0 with a Goals For/Against of 28-1. How do you punish a team for giving up one goal in four games without seeming unreasonable? I don't know but where there's a will there's a way.

Treadmill 1, Mrs. Nitmos 0

Sometimes you just pray for video surveillance equipment, don’t you?

Mrs. Nitmos has been hitting the gym lately. While not a “runner”, she is an “exerciser.” (Note: Not an exorciser which would be really cool.) Usually, her exercising doesn’t include a treadmill. I can’t blame her. Those things are rotten sonsabitches as far as I’m concerned. I avoid running on them at all costs. When the weather gets real foul in December to February, I might be forced on them three to four times during that stretch but that is it for the year. I find waiting an extra day and shifting my schedule a bit usually does the avoidance trick most times.

Anyway, Mrs. Nitmos decided to pound out a mile on the mill just for kicks. This is where the comedy ensues.

She’s milling away listening to the soothing - not at all shrieky - sounds of Linkin Park on my mp3 player and enjoying a nice run. She reaches for the stop button but inadvertently hits the increase speed button. I never noticed an Increase Speed button on the gym treadmills but she swears it’s there. Probably near the flux capacitor.

You can see where this is going right?

ZOOM! Off the back crashing to the ground and slamming into the wall behind the mill. My mp3 player goes flying. Linkin Park can still be heard being angry about something from the hopelessly tangled ear phones in the corner. Just as hopelessly tangled? Mrs. Nitmos limbs. She claims that she hurt her back and heiny a bit but, though a little embarrassed, otherwise quickly stood back up and pretended she meant to do that by muttering something about “Plyometric training being a real bitch.” In my mind, she was cartoonishly tied up with legs over shoulders and an arm wrapped around the head. Two people had to help her untangle the limbs and stand up.

The good news is that my mp3 player wasn’t damaged (although Linkin Park seemed really pissed off next time I listened to it.) Mrs. Nitmos wasn’t seriously hurt.

The bad news is that the scoreboard now reads Treadmill 1, Mrs. Nitmos 0. And the gym doesn’t have video surveillance for me to submit this to America’s Funniest Home Videos and win $10,000 (or approximately 125 pairs of Asics.)

That treadmill has a little devil in it. Maybe it would be better if she was an exorciser after all.

Happy trails.
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I need some work. 3 x 800 at 2:54, 2:58, 3:02. Ugh, that ain't gonna beat 18 minutes in a 5k. I'm going to do some 400 repeats on Saturday (instead of the planned mile repeats) and then an 8 mile long run Sunday. Speed begins....now!

2011 Should Be Fun!

I won’t turn 40 for another twenty-two months. Lots of time between then and now to still pretend that I’m ‘only a few years out of college.’ And time to figure out ‘what I want to do with my life.’ Eventually, however, 40 will come. I’ve decided to dramatically decrease the number of scatological references I use in my every day conversation at that time. It seems undignified somehow for a quatragenarian.*

Many times, I sit at my desk – smelling Cube Farters intestinally emitted Arby’s residue – and wonder what I’ll do with myself When I Grow Up. I have a perfectly grown-up job that pays the mortgage and keeps my weekends soaked in beer. However, I can’t say that I expected to spend my days mentally categorizing the sound, smell, and, yes, taste of a middle aged man’s mid afternoon gaseous excretions from a distance of eight feet. I majored in Economics for chrissakes (though, to be fair, my minor was Bung Expellents.)

From a career perspective, I might still be holding my nose, both literally and figuratively, and performing the demanded tasks. From a running perspective, my goals and path have never been clearer. I know exactly where I want to go. And how fast I want to get there.

Besides the SOS2 goals and the BQ pursuits and the marathons, I’m looking forward to the summer of 2011. I’ll be 40. I’ll qualify to pursue the USATF Masters All American road running certification administered by the National Master News publication. Why is that important I ask myself rhetorically? It isn’t. Except there is a chart full of numbers that says You Did Something That Some Person Somewhere Decided Was Significant In Some Way. And I really, really love the word Some (apparently.)

The USATF has issued guidelines for runners – men and women – in five year age groups from 5 km to marathon distance. If you can meet that standard in a documented event, you are a USATF certified Master. Judging by my love affair – and pursuit - with the BQ standard, it’s not so much of a stretch to see how this would appeal to me, right? I love trying to obtain a goal that Someone I Don’t Know has set. (Too bad I don’t also have the same drive when trying to meet Someone I Do Knows goals – my boss – or maybe I wouldn’t have a thick, slowly evaporating cloud of spicy curly fry odor strained through roughly 23 feet of a man’s small intestines hovering around my head right now.) I’m pretty sure that, if you hung a tennis ball on a string 30 feet over my driveway and told me that other folks my age have been able to jump up and grab it, you’d see me out there every day arms extended practicing my leap.

As I look over the standards, I’m fully capable of meeting each and every one of them right now. But I’m 38. There’s still nearly two years of knee synovial fluid degeneration. There’s still a few thousand miles to run. There’s still time for…get those damn kids off my lawn I’M KEEPING YOUR BALL YOU LITTLE PUNKS….

Sorry, where was I?

If you are over 40, you might want to check these standards out for yourself to see if you can gain certification from Somebody. If I can just maintain my speed over the next two years, obtaining the USATF Masters certification will be easier than complaining about Kids These Days. 2011 should be fun!

I hope that makes Someone happy.

Now, where are my shorts and wing tipped shoes, I need to cut the lawn...

Happy trails.

* But perfectly acceptable for a trigenarian so you’ll still see plenty of references to fecally related topics sprinkled liberally here over the next 22 months. Don’t worry.
_________________________________________

My filly's 2-0 soccer team record became 2-1 last night after a 10-4 beat down. My filly? Four goals. I guess it should have been eleven then, shouldn't it? No dinner for her.

Announcing: Summer of Speed II

Now open for business!

If there is one thing I know, it’s never to meddle with a good thing. Keep beating it into the ground until folks want to whack you with a sack full of baby kittens. Thus, I’m compelled to name this summer’s planned, grueling speed sessions the Summer of Speed II (SOS2). If the slogan looks familiar, it’s because last year was the Summer of Speed (I, implied). See? Keep on pounding. I’m like the Dana Carvey of summer running slogans: No joke is too old or tired. Have you ever heard me make a llama joke? Check back in 2017, you’ll here another. Isn’t that special?

Last year, I promised to win age group awards to hug and caress and name the same as my two kids. I did that. I now have a medal and a coffee mug named after my kids. In turn, my kids are now named Cheap Medal and Coffee Mug. My colt, Cheap, refuses to answer to his name but little Coffee-y has a few extra scoops of sugar for the both. (Can I get a rim shot here?) While it’s weird having inanimate objects named after my kids, it’s even weirder trying to carry on a conversation with them. There’s only so many times you can say “You look great today!” without getting any kind of a response, you know?

So what am I after this summer? More mute, standoffish age group awards? Maybe a little something – other than the usual - falling from my anus? Dairy this time? Frozen treats? Nah, I’ll stick with traditional time goals. For now.

GOALS:

5k goal: Sub 18:00
10k goal: Sub 40:00 (and actually run one for the first time ever!)
Half Marathon: Sub 1:29 (oh, also actually run one competitively - WDW Goofy doesn’t count.)

HOW DO I GET THERE?

Run. Run hard. Run often. Threaten things.

MORE DETAILS FOR HOW DO I GET THERE?

1) Lose the Cheeto Layer.
2) Quit job. Leave Mrs. Nitmos and the kids. Live in tent in the park near track.
3) 800’s on Tuesday.
4) Tempo run Thursday.
5) Mile repeats Saturday.
6) Long run Sunday.
7) Repeat, building number of intervals.
8) After a few weeks, beg to return home to Mrs. Nitmos due to lice and squirrel rabies.
9) Retrieve age group medals from garbage bin.
10) Make inflammatory and threatening comments about bald eagles.
11) Explain comments to FBI.
12) Move age group awards into Cheap and Coffee’s room.
13) Continue weekly running schedule.
14) After massive argument, return Cheap Medal and Coffee Mug to their bedrooms and move age group awards back to well-dusted and polished shelf.
15) Turn up the heat on the 800’s and mile repeats to push faster and faster until sessions end in a pile of track side vomit.
16) Make quixotic statements about Captain Stuebing, from The Love Boat, being the messiah to people at the grocery store check out line.
17) Get really into the color orange for awhile.
18) Fight a bear.
19) Make sure there are incremental improvements over every single month in speed/ intervals/overall distance according to my running log.
20) Realize the situation is untenable, find foster parents for age group awards once Mrs. Nitmos makes it clear that Cheap and Coffee are going nowhere.
21) Return to park with poison laced acorns for the rabid squirrels.
22) Kick ass on race day.

See? Simple, easy 22 step process that anyone can do. No one gets killed. Very few get maimed. Some feelings are hurt but time – and age group awards - heals all wounds. Ever see anyone with a Mr. Sad Face while polishing their Hicksville USA Race for the (Important Local Charity) 5k medal? Didn’t think so.

Sometimes I find it easiest to remember things by using an acronym. So, here’s the easy to remember acronym for my patented 22 step process: LQ8TMLRARMEMCATMGFMRRK. You may modify it slightly to tailor it to your individual needs, however, do not remove the position of the bear fight at #18. This is very, very important and will become obvious as you go through the process.

The plan is in place. Now I just have to execute it.

I expect to get faster. This makes me excited.

Schwing!! (Excellent, Party time)

Happy trails.

Michigan Pale

This is the time of the year when the birds return and perch just outside of my bedroom window and squawk that annoying morning squawk they like to do. Morning song, my ass. As far as I’m concerned, they can stay in Florida all year. Traitors.

This is also the time of year where resident Michiganders (or, Michiganians, if you prefer) shed our shroud of seasonal depression and emerge from our defrosted hovels to the bright glowing orange sphere in the sky. It burns our pale skin. I go from translucent white to red quicker than a naughty kids ass.

Speaking of the Michigan Pale, here are some pictures from the Pig. Notice how comfortable we are wearing our pink medal lanyards. Not even a hint of a threat to our naturally ingrained machismo etched on our faces. Sure, when the person handed me the pink medal , I did pause for a moment, wonder if she was confused, consider flexing-talking-about-football-burping all at once so I could get the dark black lanyard with the orange flames which I was sure was back there somewhere before relenting and taking the pink one. I didn’t have the energy to argue. Believe me, if (when) I was sent to the Big House on a ten year arson stretch, I’d be wearing make-up and calling myself Nitmette within 4 hours.

That's my ride home in the background, the show boat Majestic

Of course, me again with the wonderful Mrs. Nitmos.

Photo courtesy of Mike's wife, Fun Guv

I don’t want to steal photos and bring the long arm of the law down on me (see previous Nitmette discussion above) so, if you are really motivated to view more flattering mid-marathon Michigan Pale pictures, enjoy these beauties here (near the half mark) and here(finish) and here(gansta posing).

I forgot to mention the food at the finish. Damn if they didn’t have Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls! Me and Little Debbies have a long storied history. And Swiss Cake Rolls? Puh-leeze, little bundles of heaven. I don’t eat much of that junk anymore though. In fact, the five Swiss Cake Rolls I shoved on my five fingers like little tiny finger muffs – cream oozing out the top - and consumed whole in a manner that would have made the dearly departed Linda Lovelace blush, were probably the only ones I’ll have all year.

The sun is shining, the hell birds are squawking, and the weekend promises to be full of sun. I’ll be busy getting my Michigan Pale off. Hope you will too.

(You know what I mean)

Happy Mother’s Day.

Time is an Albatross

Upon re-reading my last post, I realized that the whole wee wee wee run a marathon for fun and finish in 4:26 thing might have sounded a little arrogant. Everyone has their own abilities and challenges. Everyone has their own personal time goal they’d like to achieve. Though I love to make fun of all of you, I prefer to do it by ridiculing your personal hygiene , your intelligence, or your superfluous use of bullet points.

I realize that running sub 4:30 is a huge challenge for some just as obtaining my own time goals is a challenge for me. And that other runners destroy my PR’s all of the time in every single race.*

But, lest you think I’m getting soft, I would like to remind everyone of some other unique talents I have that are unequivocally better than you. And for which you should feel ashamed.

1. I was once able to recite the entire script of The Breakfast Club by memory.
2. Until a horrible accident left a permanent burn mark near my right thumb, I once set my college dorm record for most amount of dental floss burnt with a Bic lighter in one sitting.
3. I am still the reigning Nitmos Household Champ at living room wrestling. I toss my kids around like, well, how you would expect an adult to toss small children around.
4. I have consumed three consecutive individual size chocolate puddings through a straw (beer aided.)

Top. That.

The Flying Pig Marathon was always about fun for me. It’s a pig marathon for chrissakes. The medal has a pig, front and back, with wings and wearing some sort of bondage mask over his snout as near as I can tell. Fun right? I love mythical creatures. Especially those with wings (Lord, please tell me there is a Puking Unicorn Marathon somewhere.) So, though I trained almost as hard as I normally do, I had almost no mental pressure going into the race. No PR chase. No BQ chase. No pressure. Just run. As long as I follow the official course, I’ll eventually finish right?

Now, don’t get me wrong, this isn’t my normal modus operandi. I’m an inveterate PR chaser. If the PR is a dude with a broken back being rushed to the hospital after slipping on some ice outside of WalMart, I’m the slip-and-fall attorney speeding after the ambulance. Me and PR’s go together like Larry and girls at the Reagle Beagle.

In fact, I rarely sign up for a race unless I feel there is plenty of time to train to get a PR. I won’t even sign up for the race otherwise. Someone may say, “Hey Nitmos, there’s a half marathon in three weeks. Want to get in on it?” Sure, I could run a half marathon. But I don’t have nearly enough time to properly train to make a PR attempt so “no” I say. I’ll line up a different race.

Weird, right? I think I got wired with a few too many competitive neurotransmitters.

On one of our first dates, Mrs. Nitmos and I decided to play basketball to determine who would have to pay for tickets to an Aerosmith / Black Crowes (hey, they were big once) concert. We played to ten. I chivalrously spotted her five to start the game. What more can you ask? Maybe a little bit of a jump shot, I guess. I was swatting her shots aside like flies at a picnic. Final score? Me 10, Eventual Mrs. Nitmos 5. Scoreboard! She bought the tickets.

I didn’t know how I would feel about Not Competing in an event. I thought it might feel sticky somehow. Turns out, it was a huge relief. And a ton of fun. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to turn into one of those Just For Fun guys anytime soon. But, I think, every now and then, it might be nice to just show up and run nice and easy and throw the time goals right out the window. It was pretty liberating. I felt so loose and relaxed during the race that I really absorbed the experience more. I had some interaction with the spectators and took in the nuances of the course. I had a big ole smile on my face – instead of grimacing in pain – all the way into the finishing chute.

It was pretty cool.

Now, a few days after the race, I feel really invigorated. Refreshed. There was something cleansing about experiencing a marathon free from pressure. Like a deep high colonic cleansing (except I didn’t need to lie on my side and bring one knee up.) Basically, I feel extremely focused again and ready to push myself this summer. I’m not sure I would have felt that had I destroyed myself at the Pig.

Ready, set, go...I’m ready to burn up some miles like so many strands of dental floss.

Happy trails.

* Of course, those “runners” are known as Assholes.

Pigged Out!

The Flying Pig Marathon Race Report

For me, this is an interesting race to report. Typically, the crux of my race reports are based around whether or not I was able to achieve my time goal and the obstacles that posed an impediment. In this case, I was not going for any particular time goal. I had decided long ago to run this one out along with a fellow marathoner friend. In short, I had decided to relax, run, and have some fun.

And that is exactly what I did.

Goals accomplished!

Based on time, this would be the slowest marathon of my seven so far. However, would it be too syrupy sweet to suggest that this one might have led the way in smiles and enjoyment? A regular sugar glazed ham event, if you will? I’m awaiting visual confirmation from the event photographers but I believe I’ll see one of those goofy Yes-I-Do-See-You-With-A-Camera smiles (tee hee) in every photo.

But let’s back up just a bit…

Mrs. Nitmos and I rolled into town sans kids early Saturday afternoon. The non-threatening 1980’s soft pop/jazz of Steve Winwood was playing on the radio at the time. Cincinnati is about a five hour drive for us. Just far enough to wish you had XM radio but not far enough to actually consider buying it. After hotel check-in and expoing, we wandered the near empty Cincy streets for about 45 minutes to confirm our suspicions that this was yet another city-in-transition - like Detroit - caught between it’s industrial past and industrial-less future. Then, we kicked back in the lobby bar for a tall one (I told you I wasn’t taking this one too seriously) as my running partner, Mike, would be arriving shortly.

After a dinner of the most pesto green soaked chicken pasta dinner you could imagine, it was time to head back and rest up for the race. First, though, a quick trip into Walgreen’s for the official Nitmos pre-race Breakfast of Champions: Pop Tarts. As I step to the counter, I hear “Mike?” (Believe it or not, Nitmos isn’t my real name. And, yes, the same name as my fellow marathoner.) There is a person standing next to the counter waiting for a response. My brain is furiously flipping through my internal voice-face Rolodex for a match. No hit. I get slightly panicked. Normally, if an unknown person approaches me and calls me by name, they are either (a) looking to serve (another) summons/restraining order or (b) punch me in the gut.

“It’s S_____.” Pause, Rolodex still flipping.
“sRod.” He says finally. Bingo.

I know sRod. He’s commented here on F.M.S. for many moons. I doubt he wants to punch me. I tense my abdomen muscles just in case however.

And then I have a flash of enlightenment. You people are real! Real live flesh and blood. You aren’t figments of my imagination…nameless, non-existent bits and bytes that have gained self-awareness and, instead of trying to take over the human world ala The Terminator, are content with leaving snarky little comments on my blog. It was nice to meet a fellow running blogger in person.

After brief well wishes, Mrs. Nitmos and I and our partners in crime* are off to the hotel for some shut eye.

The Marathon

The Flying Pig is billed as a hilly course. However, the elevation map deceptively implies that there is just one big hill to crest between miles 6-8 and then it is “all down hill from there.” (A phrase we would be told countless times by a bunch of lying spectators. The Flying Pig leads all marathons in pure, unadulterated liars. Also, one guy, wearing a foamy beer hat, kept promising us “beer just up ahead”. We saw him three times. He promised us that beer every time. Guess what? No beer. Liar.) Truth is, after you ascend the big hill, there is a series of undulating slopes and minor hills over the next 18 miles to the finish.

Mike wanted to keep to 9:10 miles or so for the first half and come in around 2 hours. We didn’t quite keep the pace and managed the half in 2:06. Unofficially, we were shooting for 4 hours. But the elevation map (liars!) promised a gentle downhill slope after the 8 mile mark all the way to the finish (liars!)

The cool, drizzly morning gave way to a little post rain humidity and warmth. And more slopes. Oh, and more liars. Did you know that the “half way there” spot of a marathon isn’t 13.1 miles? No, according to the spectators, it apparently exists between miles 11-16. For over 45 minutes, we continually heard people shout “half way there” at us. Really? Where? In hell?! Liars! Sorry, when I’ve gone 16 and there is only 10 to go, shouting “half way there” is not exactly motivating. Is it too much for a little math? “38.85% - rounded - to go!” would have been more encouraging.

Neither Mike nor I took this marathon as seriously training-wise as the others. Physically, I did all of the scheduled training and, despite my 4 lb Cheeto Layer, was in pretty good shape. Mentally, however, I was never focused on pushing hard for this race.

Still, 16-17 miles in, I was feeling great. We were traveling at a slower rate than I normally run and I could feel this sub layer of energy bubbling and ready to burst. (Or maybe that last Gu didn’t sit right. Either way, something was inside of me that needed to come out.) The Flying Pig features a final timed mile to encourage finish line sprints. With 8 to go, I was toying with the idea of busting out a 6:30 minute mile or so for the end just for kicks.

Around the 17 mile mark, it was clear we weren’t going to hit 4 hours. But press on we did sprinkled with a few walking breaks. It was near mile 19 that I saw my favorite sign, propped up by an apparently catty and bitter woman. In big, bold, mean-spirited letters, it said “Run Faster Skinny Bitch.”

At 20 miles, my quads were starting to tighten from the non-stop rolling slopes but I still felt pretty fresh. I decided to run out in front of Mike a bit to see if I could pace him over the final 10k. He was battling hard and alternating between moments of darkness and bursts of energy. I tried to balance “gentle pushing” against “felonious torture.” He kept telling me to Go Ahead and Take Off. He probably wanted to be rid of his tormentor.

Things got a little bleak in the 23-24 mile range (including the only LSBG comment for the entire race from a water station worker!) but, as usual, we came out the other side. After one more lie (yet another race official telling us “last hill then it is all down hill to the finish” only to see one more hill after that), we spotted the Finish Swine at the bottom of the final slope.

We both finished in 4:26:32. Officially, he finished in 2156th and I in 2157th (of 4014). I like to think that, if the clock went to hundredths of a second, I might have beaten him by a hundredth or so. Just sayin’. We’ll never know.

The LSBG meter finished at an acceptable ‘1’.

Overall, this was a fun event. The course is pretty challenging. It’s probably the hardest one I’ve done. I would not recommend going for a PR or BQ on this course.

Most importantly, I had a great time running this race! I’ll have some thoughts later this week about how throwing away a time goal changed the entire complexion of the event. I was clapping my hands and pumping my fist all the way to the finish. A total blast! In fact, I think I did manage to wee wee wee all the way home (and I don't mean urine soaking my shorts!)

My recommendation for the Flying Pig? Run it for fun. Run it for a challenge. Run it to bathe yourself in every imaginable mildly humorous pig reference you could desire (Can I hear a “snout rocket” from anyone? No?) Run it purely to be astounded at the out and out liars that reside in the Cincinnati area.

Just don’t believe a word anyone tells you.

Happy trails.

* No, this doesn’t mean that I stole the Pop Tarts.

Next post: Thoughts on running a marathon without a time goal.