Hip, Modern Half Marathon Time Trial

Yes, I have to admit, that I’ve been caught up in the hoopla…the spectacle…the marriage of a man of some repute. The cheers, the tears, the years together. Oh, and the beers. Lots and lots of beers. It’s been everything it was billed to be: dramatic, hopeful, grandiose and filled with suits and gold blinge. I haven’t been able to rip my eyes from the TV! It’s been quite a festival of love!

Of course, I’m talking about the NFL draft. What did you think? Royal wedding? Er, no. Wake me when Hugh Hefner gets married. USA! USA! USA! (For the record, my Lions took Nick Fairley, DT, out of Auburn. And now they are married together for a whole career…or, at least, the length of his rookie contract. I wish them well. Maybe I’ll send a toaster.)

Will you be my defensive tackle?

To celebrate this fine occasion, I decided to do a little half marathon time trial. My race is almost exactly one month away. Just far enough away to start panicking and fretting about my undertraining but far enough to not really care that much either. I still got time. My split personalities work great together: one is laid back and nonchalant while the other excessively compulses over every little detail. They usually cancel each other out and I sit back and drink beer oblivious to the inner war within my subconscious. I feel mentally drained but not something that another Schlitz can’t fix. Plus, I’m never actually compelled to action. Is there a more exhausting word to say than “action”?

Here’s the thing: Today’s half marathon time trial would consist of 9 miles at goal pace. I realize that 9 miles does not constitute a “half marathon” but I’ve long been a proponent of adjusting the distance down from the tiresome current distance, 13.11 miles, to something more PR-friendly like 8 or 9 miles. So far, my emails, tweets, letters, manifesto’s, threats, and disgusted harumphs have gone unanswered by the World Half Marathon President. A man can only Harumph for so long before he gives up and grabs another Schlitz. They stubbornly cling to this whole “a half marathon is 13.11 miles” thing. What is the old saying “something something unchanged is something doomed something failure”? Yeah, take THAT!

So, if they aren’t going to reduce the distance, then I’ll need to actually reduce my time to get that PR. What a bummer. Everything always has to be the hard way, doesn’t it?

I targeted 9 miles (or, the “new hip, modern half marathon distance”) at 6:40 pace. For you math whizzes, that would be an even one hour. Nine miles @ one hour. Then, spend the rest of the day watching coverage of the marriages of large men to their football clubs.

How’d I do? Well, as William and Kate might say: Brilliant!

9.0 miles
59:41 time
6:38 pace

Under the new hip, modern half marathon distance (soon to be adopted), I would have just set a PR by 28 minutes! What a huge PR! Bully for me!

Oh, look at that, the Detroit Lions are proposing to a rugged looking linebacker. Always brings a tear to me eye. sniff sniff Time for a Schlitz, a smile, and, maybe, just a few tears. A guy can't help himself sometimes.

The NFL sure does love just right.

Happy trails.

Rainy Runday Afternoon

My dog and I are a lot alike.

I realized this the other day as my dog jumped up from the total snorefest she was enjoying by the picture window and eagerly pranced over to me with ears erect just because I shifted a bit in my chair. She detected movement within her delta waves, assumed I was getting ready to take a walk, and hopped right up to let me know she’s totally up for it. Too bad for her that I was just executing a subtle Lean Right to open up room for a fart dissemination. The chair creak gave me away. This didn’t stop her from staring at me for another ten minutes with this hopeful anxiety expressing itself through an exhausting pant. It looks a lot like this:

I will do this until you walk me.

Then, I started nervously pacing the house out of sheer restlessness (and boredom). My usual intra-home itinerary consisted of living room, kitchen, check food shelves for something to eat, swing by front door to verify things were still fine with the driveway, and back into living room to change a handful of channels aaaaaand repeat. I noticed my pooch, eyes intently following, would meet me at the front door whenever I veered that way.

“What’s the matter, pup, is there a fire in the barn?!” I’d condescend and ruffle her rigid ears.
-No, asshole, I want to walk. Outside. Like the other dogs I see going by my picture window while you pretend to not watch Teen Mom. Ever hear of an umbrella?-

It was drizzly out. No hard rain. I could have thrown on a poncho and took her for a walk. I had lots of energy to burn. I had missed my weekend long run due to excessive amounts of youth soccer games, rain, and 35 mph winds. After several laps, I realized that not only did the dog want a walk but I needed a run. I could totally sympathize. I was way too energetic for a normal Runday afternoon. Here she was dependent on me for some energy-releasing, high-quality walking. And here I was staring out the window at 35 mph winds, rain, and stuck at home with a 9 year old that would be left unsupervised if I made a run for it. Literally. And this is no regular 9 year old. Ever read Junie B. Jones AND Judy Moody AND Ramona books? Yeah, put those characters together plus some Dennis the Menace and you have the impish qualities of my pre-teen firebrand. She cannot be left alone or there really will be a fire in the barn. We don’t have a barn but I’m pretty sure she could make one and then burn it down before I finished not watching Teen Mom.*

So, I continued to pace; the dog continued to meet me at the door. She didn’t get her walk; I didn’t get my run. I looked into those increasingly sad, brown eyes and said, “I don’t think it’s happening today, girl.” But I wasn’t sure if I was talking to her or to myself.

We both let loose a deeply disappointed exhale and wandered back into the living room. Before long, we were both curled up contentedly licking ourselves.

My dog and I are a lot alike.

Happy trails.

* I really don't watch Teen Mom.

Soccer Hooligans

Our weekend in three photos.

It was another wet and muddy weekend on the pitch for my soccer hooligans. Despite that sun in the background, you can see the field conditions plastered all over their uniforms. My filly took on one of the best teams in the area in her age group and managed a 3-3 tie (probably should have won, in fact!) She netted two goals and a big smile.

My colt's team lost a late heartbreaker 5-4. The team had mud "war paint" on their cheeks but, by the time this photo was snapped, it had worn away.



I believe she is in the house getting a brownie. I hope that's not brownie on her shorts. They kind of look like that famous poopy-pants marathoner's shorts, don't they?

Being that this is soccer, I'd like to point out that there was no rioting in the stands or drunken brawls ending in fires and arrests. It was a mostly docile crowd though my son's English coach did have to tell a parent to stop yelling at the ref at one point. Score one for the English!

I got drunk later that night.

Kidding.

I've been drunk all day.

Happy trails.

Boston 2011: A Postscript

POSTSCRIPT, dateline 4/21/2011, F.M.S. Studios: My last post about the non-World Record World Record at the 2011 Boston Marathon generated some interesting comments. First of all, how dare you be more interesting in the comments than I am in the original post. Don’t you know the proper rules of etiquette when dealing with a host? If my post is going to be hastily conceived and sophomoric, your comments should be ill-considered, poorly researched and, at most, freshmanic. Secondly, I know my own special brand of snark isn’t always detectable by the naked eye upon read through. I operate on an entirely different snark plain than most. It can be easily confused for serious opinion when just the opposite was intended.

To be clear: Having run the challenging Boston course, I can say, from firsthand experience, that the net downhill is not much of a benefit. It’s not like the course starts on higher ground and just gradually slopes gently down to the finish. There are hills. And bumps. And slopes. And general dipsy-doos through-out the entire 26.2 miles. Even though you end on lower ground than you started, your quads and calves have run a gauntlet of torque and submission. It’s fair to say that the Boston course keeps you on your toes with its different challenges on different parts of the course. For comparison, I’ve run Chicago. Chicago is largely flat. It is a much easier course that, I do believe, QUALIFIES for world record time ratification. How can an easier course qualify when a universally accepted tougher course cannot?

I also realize there are rules, regulations, qualifications and governing bodies that have measuring devises and satellites and guys on bikes with chalk rollers that control all of this and that the serious elite marathoners know this in advance. Or should. Still, my point was that, somewhere along the way, COMMON SENSE must prevail. Boston is, perhaps arguably, the premier marathon event in the world. Certainly one of a very few, anyhow. How can a time run on its course NOT be a World Record qualifier?? Have you ever heard ANYONE suggest that Boston is an easy course? Just the opposite, in fact. Isn’t that actually part of its allure besides the tradition?

So, my basic issue was not that this was a surprise to any of the winners despite my playful wording. It WAS a surprise to me however. Important People with Titles and a part of a Governing Body can point out stats and measurements and net downgrades and tailwinds all they want. I’m talking about COMMON SENSE here. And, look, my COMMON SENSE has way more bolded, capitalized letters than your Governing Body. Every race course is different. Every course presents its own challenges. Some are easier than others. Heck, some are specifically advertised to let you know that it is “the easiest course to qualify for Boston.” Obviously, not every course can be ratified for a world record just because it is 26.2 miles for, as Vava observes, someone will go out and establish a marathon descending Mt. Everest or, as I’d call it, “The Tuck and Roll Marathon”.

But wouldn’t common sense tell you that THOSE are the races NOT to qualify? Those are operating beyond the fair spirit of the athletic event and record books. Sheesh, let’s have a bit of COMMON SENSE and get Boston ratified already. There is nothing intrinsically “easy” that should prevent Boston from qualifying for a world record.

Descending off my soap box….before my ALL CAps key fails. oops, look at that, it already did.

happy trails.

_______________

Why are mile repeats so hard? Things are slowly rounding into form. You can’t force speed into a place that doesn’t fit….I know this even as I bang my square legs around the oval track. Ugh.

3x1600m (800m cool downs) at 6:00, 5:59, 6:00 respectively. The hopes for 5:55’s died by 800 meters.

Maybe I made my legs trapezoidal as they start on their journey from square to round to fit in the speed oval. More banging away to come…what comes after trapezoid. Rhombus? Or vice versa?

Boston: The Ultimate Fun Run

Does anyone find it just a little ironic that the Boston Marathon – with it’s rigid to-the-second qualifying standards and reputation as the Big Enchilada of all marathons drawing world class competitors from around the globe (i.e. Kenya) – cannot ratify a time set on its own course as a world record?? It has too much of a net downhill and there may be a tailwind. USA Track and Field told Reuters: “Boston marathon performances cannot be ratified as world records as the course does not satisfy two of the criteria for world records.” I wonder if one of the requirements is: Cannot be set on the world’s most famous marathon course.

I just assumed that Boston, with its reputation as a challenging course and the standard-bearer for certification at courses around the country, would be World Record Qualified (WRQ). I’m sure this is no surprise to many of you but, frankly, this is news to me. (Also, we landed on the moon!)

Why am I pointing this out? Unless you live in a cave (i.e. Ohio), you know that Kenya’s Geoffrey Mutai pranced to the finish Monday in 2:03:02 destroying the official world record by 57 seconds (2:03:59, Berlin, 2008). He had time to re-tie a shoelace on Boylston St., if need be. Or lie down on a plush leopard rug right before crossing the line to pose for a sexy photo. THAT’S how bad he pwned Haile Gebrselassie’s official record time. In fact, with a time like that, you have to wonder what took Haile so long.

There seems to be something terribly wrong when the premier event for a sport cannot ratify its champ for world records. What if the Super Bowl champ could not be crowned because they determined that the football used in the game was made of llama skin rather than the tastier, less-spitty cow? Congratulations, you won! Sorry, but we will not be able to confirm your victory in the record books. Wrong ball skin.* What if NASCAR decided to go the other direction at Daytona? Same distance but a bunch of right hand turns instead of left. Nope, no speed record for you. Thanks for coming out and spiking beer sales in the mid-Florida area though. Here’s your money, trophy, and giant ASTERISK to carry around. Clean up your chaw stains on the way out, please.

Is Boston just a glorified Fun Run? Here I am busting my butt trying to “BQ” when, all this time, there was no chance of me setting the world record at Boston? What was I working so hard for? I’ve been playing rope-a-dope with the top Kenyans and Ryan Hall, et al, by never posting an official marathon time better than the 3:12 range. Lying in wait - like Mutai’s pre-skinned leopard - for my chance to pounce, blowing past the field in a stunning 2:02 at a future Boston. And now what? No friggin’ record? You can shove your laurel wreath up my Johnny Kelley if you know what I mean. I’ll save my world record effort for a race that cares.

Perhaps Boston should worry less about everyone else’s BQ and more about their own WRQ. With all of the recent Boston controversy over qualifying times, I’m starting to think that Boston is like the one sober friend of the promiscuous race slut at the bar who is busy BQ blocking everyone else. Then, come to find out, she’s a MAN.

Despite the non-world record World Record, the 2011 Boston Marathon was an exciting, record-setting race. Ryan Hall, 4th overall, set a non-U.S. record U.S. record. America’s Desiree Davila finished two non-qualifying seconds behind Kenyan Caroline Kilel for the women’s title in one of the most fantastic finishes ever. And I doubt any of the competitors heard the WR-DQ sad trombone playing in the background as they held up their trophy and reviewed their race splits. Congratulations Geoffrey and Caroline! You won the world’s most famous Fun Run!!

It was only later that they got the asterisk attached to their time. And the Boston crème pie to the face.

Happy trails.

* Is it just me or do I say this entirely too frequently in my life?
_________________________________

I’ve been following Thomas, from Diary of a Rubbish Marathon Runner, who achieved his goal of sub-3 hour marathon this past weekend in Vienna. Go there and read his report. It’s pretty darn good. Congratulations to Thomas!

Congratulations to Nate who bested 3 hours at Boston! Here’s his recap.

Waiting for Sean’s exciting Boston report here.

And, of course, Spike’s Boston should be rolling in soon here.

Randumbery Goes Arm Pit Digging

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.

It just feels like a Randumbery kinda day doesn't it? In the 80’s – ‘member those? - there was a weird series of subversive movies making the rounds called Faces of Death. It spawned several sequels. It was really inappropriate, as I say to my kids now, but at the time we could feel our teenage rebellious innards embiggen with every knock of the mallet on the monkeys skull and every mouthful of brain a diner eagerly gulped down. Monkey brains, a delicacy in some parts of the world! It was one of the scenes, one of the more subdued scenes in fact, in the Faces of Death “films”. But you had to be in the mood to sit through it….much like sitting through Randumbery. I’ve decided for you that you’re in the mood.

Your Pancreas Looks Fat

As the owner of a daughter, I’ve become more aware of the societal pressures on female body image. It struck me in the face the day my then seven year old filly lifted up her shirt to show her rail-thin, rib cage exposed, near starvation level stomach and pronounced “I think I’m getting fat.” After I picked my lower jaw off the floor, I then launched into a series fawning compliments about how perfect she is and how she could eat at buffets for the next two years and no one would notice and that, though her belly button area could lose a millimeter or two, let's be honest, her stomach was perfect size - overall (almost no one will notice the millimeter or two) – for someone her age. Some of that may or may not be true but I’m sure I acted like a real buffoon with all of the over-exaggerated, self-esteem building compliments to combat the spector of anorexia looming behind her.

She looked at me like I was on crack. I eyed my fourth fudge stripe cookie suspiciously and put it away.

I think Stephen Colbert’s recent “The Word” summed things up pretty good. It’s well worth five minutes of your time. Pure genius comedy. Love this:

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
The Word - Buy and Cellulite
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor & Satire Blog Video Archive

How Quickly You Metabolize Quizno’s

The 115th Boston Marathon is Monday. There’s part of me that wants to be there and part of me that’s glad I’m not. I sure as hell didn’t want to have to train through this gawdawful winter. One of my favorite memories of the 2008 Boston Marathon was learning just how quickly my body could take in a solid food through the mouth, process it, and then spray it out my anus in pure liquid form. Total time? About twenty minutes. Long –time readers will recall my unfortunate choice to eat a taco from an airport taco stand in Washington D.C. while awaiting the connection to Boston.

Bad decision. I couldn’t hold anything in for two days. I walked around Boston with an eye towards each restroom as my body continually rejected food. After 48 hours, I figured the bug must have passed so I gambled and ate a few big bites of a Quizno’s sub. Then I ate another. Then I turned slightly green. Then I thought I was Paul McCartney for four minutes. Mrs. Nitmos asked how I was doing and I said “Let it be, let it be.” After a few minutes of gently sobbing with my face in my palms, I headed into the Quizno’s bathroom and sprayed down their stall like a fireman putting out a porcelain fire.

Maybe I was still sick. Or maybe Quizno’s is the perfect laxative.

Hella Sounds

Our good blog friend John Frenette from HellaSound has new music available. It’s original running music synced to YOUR pace and designed to burn calories. Have you checked it out? He has several songs in his catalog as well as a free song that you can check out to see what it is all about (according to his email blast).

John so graciously provided the intro music for our upstart podcast, Banned on the Run (currently experiencing production delays, cost overruns, rewrites, rehab, and general apathy), at no charge. How did we repay him for his time? By using it 2-3 times and then not podcasting anymore. Since none of the BotR crew are going to pay him for his time, the least YOU could do is buy a song or two from the guy. Go there.

Going Down

Yesterday’s race pace eight miler was accomplished at 6:43 pace. That’s better than last week’s 6:47 pace but the destination is 6:35 pace. I need to go down more (t.w.s.s.)

I’ll be at six – that’s 6 – soccer games this weekend for the kids. Who would have thought standing on the sidelines eating popcorn, chatting with other parents, and shouting “You gotta want it!” with popcorn shards spitting out of my mouth could be so exhausting? I don’t know why the kids are complaining.

Happy trails.

Am I a Runner If I Don't Get Runner's World?

I’m going to let my Runner’s World subscription lapse. I’m not cancelling it in some sort of angry huff. Nothing’s getting punched. No one’s getting set on fire (this time). This is a big step for me because I normally do many things in an impulsive huff which garners numerous Stern Looks and the occasional Right To Remain Silents and the odd Put Down The Gas Can Or We Will Shoots.

I just don’t think I get much value out of Runner’s World anymore. I’ve had the subscription for at least four years – probably longer – and I dutifully read every issue. It didn’t take long before I realized, as all RW readers eventually do, that most of the features are souped up retreads like a TV sitcom. (Hey, have you ever seen a family sitcom in which the father of the family is a bumbling idiot and his put-upon wife has to suffer all his foibles wearily but gladly? Sure you have. It’s every sitcom.) I guess I’ll go without the biannual Secrets to My Best 5k where Expert A basically confirms what Expert B suggested six months earlier (and the years before that with Expert C, D, E, not F, but G. F was a real bozo.). I like the food and nutrition sections but I don’t do the family grocery shopping and, when I’m in a restaurant, I can’t remember what they said about this piece of fish versus this other piece of fish anyway. Mmmm, mercury! Maybe? Who knows.

But what will I do without the latest show review? I guess continue to ignore them as I always did. The same shoes, just the newer version, receive the Editor’s Picks every time anyhow.

Some of the magazine covers are cool. I mean, the magazine covers with Kara Goucher and the other female running glitterati are cool but then they go and spoil it with all the male posers with painted on abs. Jump back into your Abercrombie & Fitch catalog fellas. No one needs that. I’m in the book store often enough. I can put down the magazines in the high upper left hand corner of the shelf and wander over to see who’s on the RW cover (as long as I don’t expire the five minute wait loitering limit they imposed - for me.)

I don’t have anything against Runner’s World. In fact, the feature articles are often entertaining. I love reading about the history of the sport though, if I’m being honest, there isn’t nearly enough runner on runner knife stabbings.* Who doesn’t like to read about the former Boston winners and Olympic champions? Articles on runners who have overcome significant injury, disease, war, and thresher accidents make some issues into the Hallmark Channel of running magazines. But those stories only occupy 3-4 pages. Is it worth it to subscribe to an entire magazine for 3-4 pages a month? I can cherry pick those off the shelf whenever I’m facing a long car ride or, since it’s only a couple pages, a short car ride to the liquor store.

I feel like I’m turning in my Official Runner Badge by letting my subscription go unrenewed. Aren’t we all supposed to subscribe? If I don’t have a subscription , do I become some sort of rogue, unlicensed bandit. Do I have to turn in my moisture wicking clothes and wear *gulp* cotton?!? Or worse, Ian’s cargo shorts?

If I don’t have Runner’s World, do I not read, er, run?

Runner’s World is a quality magazine although I think they may have reached a bit with the name. World? Nah, there are lots of running events in the world that they don't cover at all. Maybe Runner's City or Runner's Municipality or Runner's Tri-County Area but "World" might be a bit of a stretch. Although I do think it IS especially handy for the new or returning runner. For me, I’m just not getting a lot of value out of it anymore. It’s like when I cancelled my subscription to Bazoombas when I realized I was more of an ass man. Someone would find Bazoombas helpful, just not me. I didn’t try to impugn the entire Bazoomba community. I just stepped away quietly.

The subscription will passively expire in July. I will passively fail to send in a check for another subscription. Until then, I’ll continue to enjoy the nutrition advice. Who knows, maybe after six times reading it, I WILL remember what kind of fish to eat. Then, without fanfare, RW will suddenly stop coming like so many Bazoombas before it.

Unless they get aggressive and send me more unwanted issues and – God forbid - a BILL, then it’s time to get out the ole gas can.

Happy reading.

*Would it kill them to include the phrase “and he let him bleed out on the sidewalk” in just one race recap? Honestly!
_______________________________

Good luck to Boston bounders Sean, Spike, Aron, and anyone else I may have missed. Looks like perfect weather. No excuses. Go get 'em!

But don't eat any airport tacos. Trust me.

The Mandelbaum Plan

One of my favorite personal trainers is Izzy Mandelbaum. I haven’t had a chance to work with him directly but I’ve long admired his training philosophy.

This is not one of those coaches with an “online certification” from a magazine or the University of Phoenix (or equivalent). This is an actual, no messing around, I’m-here-to-bust-your-back old school muscle puller. No task is too big for Izzy. Thus, no task is too big for YOU. Izzy would rather wind up in a hospital than be told he cannot accomplish something. In the absence of all common sense, his approach makes the most sense.

I wish my coach was more like him. Instead, I’m stuck with this ruggedly handsome, surprisingly charismatic, never passed a mirror that didn’t need to be gazed into, impossible to please wanker. Whereas my coach, employs a “sensible” step-by-step approach to turning up the speed and distance over a prolonged period of time, Izzy would have had me going from 6:30 pace intervals to 4:00 within the same work-out. In fact, as soon as I accomplished one 800 at 3 minutes, he would have lifted his bullhorn, shouted “Time to turn it up a notch!” and demanded a 2 minute interval. That might be just the kind of crazy I need right now.

Here’s how the year normally progresses for me: I start slowly due to the long winter, finally getting up to acceptable speed around June/July, feel pretty strong into September/October and then precipitously fall off the speed wagon when the temperatures grow cold again. It takes so long to get back to where I was before that I can only enjoy it for a few months before I’m sliding down the back side again. Sure, who doesn’t like to slide down a back side – know what I mean – but you know what I mean.

This approach has kept me injury free for over eleven years of running but, I think, it’s also stagnated my race times. Every year around this time, I’m fighting just to get back to where I was last year let alone improve my overall performance. In summation: Winter sucks and I should move.

Or I should go with the Mandelbaum Plan. I normally run my 800’s in a high five minute pace (5:45-5:55). I’ve envied the low 5’s for awhile now from the safety of my 30 second, puke-free buffer. In fact, one of the strongest runners in Michigan trains up and down my same running routes. He’s a regular challenger for the overall win at statewide 5k’s, 10k’s and half-marathons. I see him busting out smooth and easy low fives all the time. Occasionally, he even smiles and nods (or is it sneers and mocks?) as I run by under the weight of middle class debt and anxiety. One can only go so fast with a metaphorical banker attached to one’s back whipping one's haunches like a working donkey. (Humans have haunches right?)

Lately, I’ve been passing this local star and thinking to myself: Think you’re better than me, huh? Yeah, that’s it. It’s go time. Step aside string bean. And then I accelerate waaay beyond my comfort zone…for about 10 glorious seconds before collapsing in exhaustion. Aaaaah, my back….my hamstrings…my pancreas. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.

Or was it? It’s said that “practice makes perfect” and maybe that’s true. I doubt Izzy would give up after a few ruptured hamstrings and one minor heart attack. Maybe I need to “take it up a notch” a bit more often? How often can a hamstring snap anyhow? Doesn’t a build up of scar tissue eventually make it stronger than before? To that end, I decided to ignore my current male order coach and listen to my Inner Izzy during last night’s run. I started my 8 miler in the low 7’s pace, after two miles turned it up a notch to the 6:50’s for a few more, and then cranked up a few more notches down to 6:30’s for the last several miles. The final ½ mile was pushed to a 6:15 pace just to please Mr. Mandelbaum. I was tired but it was, in fact GO TIME so what could I do? I normally would have kept this run at a consistent 6:50-7:00 pace for the duration.

Any time you step outside of your comfort zone and spike your training time/distance you are rolling the dice and risking injury. But Nitmos v.2010 and Nitmos v.2009 think they are better than me. Well, it’s go time!

Or maybe I just picked the wrong day to stop sniffing glue.

Happy Izzying.
_______________________________

8 miles @ 6:47 pace.

Shades of Yellow

Some see the world in black or white and some see shades of gray. Some of you annoyingly chipper folk see the world in rainbow swaths like a bag of Skittles. You, of course, can screw off and take your glowing personality to a commune, hippie.

I see shades of yellow. I’m officially out of winter maintenance mode and looking to regain lost speed created from a few months of fudge stripe cookies and remote control molestation.* This means that my workouts have gotten harder, more sweat is produced, and my urine has become a deeper, more electrifying shade of yellow. It’d be nice to look into the toilet bowl and enjoy the water show without judging the level of my hydration but, for over-analyzers like me, that’s just a way of life.

Oh, look at that, I need more water.

My bizarro coach, that devilishly handsome brute, has been on my case recently to get rid of my winter baby fat. It might be fun to poke at and giggle, like the Pillsbury Dough boy, but it sure doesn’t help me get around a track any faster. I feel every fudge stripe by the third 800. Maybe playing Ring the Large Intestine with a Delicious Chocolate and Graham Treat wasn’t such a good off season hobby. My coach reminded me of this after my 4th interval yesterday as I cooled off with heavy breaths and a few dry heaves. He poked me in the belly, whispered “How’d that feel, chubs?” and sarcastically giggled. Cheeky bastard.

Wow, it looks like liquid gold!

My speed is nowhere near where I want it to be at this point in the season. I’m suddenly thinking a PR in the half-marathon this May probably isn’t going to happen. I’m still about five pounds over fighting weight. I’ve really tried to clean-up my eating habits. Mrs. Nitmos and I ditched the kids this past weekend and, thus, ditched the horrific corporate restaurant chains, for a nice little local dinner. I bypassed the steak and baked potato and enjoyed a delicious grilled salmon with green beans as part of my quest to eat better. Of course, the salmon was resting against a hunk of prime rib and what was there to do but eat that too? I wasn’t raised as a prime ribist.**

I need an eclipse pinhole viewer to look into the bowl. I may need an IV.

I had a hard go last week. I turned every planned tempo and easy long run into a game of beat the clock. I tried to force feed some speed back into my system through culture shock. Eight planned-tempo-turned-hard miles one day then eleven “easy” miles became two easy, nine hard. Voices were telling me to Take it easy and Back off. I did this all under the watchful gaze of my coach – what does he know anyway – and now, I think, he’s laughing at me.

Coach, my urine has been dark yellow lately. I don’t think I’m hydrating properly.

Or maybe you’re just a wimp, he responded. You gotta want it! Yig-wee, damrite. By now 4 x 800 (400 meter recoveries) under 2:50 pace should be as easy as consuming five finger ring fudge stripes one by one. Instead, my legs were heavy, my mouth dry, and there was a bit too much wiggle in the abdomen. I finished up in the low 2:50’s for each but did not meet my plan. Even though we’ve moved from the Joy of Sixes to High Fives, my coach was displeased.

As I trotted out my final easy 400, I could feel his harsh judgmental gaze following me around the track. I self-consciously pulled my flopping shirt down over my exposed gut like a teenage girl with a muffin top and skinny jeans at the mall. By the time I completed the intervals, my coach wore a self-righteous smirk that mirrored my self-loathing grimace.

What shade do you think your urine will be now, boy? He barked.
I dunno but I bet a dark yellow.
Then we better keep running you until it turns up red.

He’s really starting to get pissy with me.

Happy trails.

*The “2” button has rubbed off and I’m told the remote, between sobs, has accurately shown a local detective how it has been touched on a little stuffed remote dummy in the police station. Sketch of my thumb pending.
**being discriminatory to prime rib.

'Not Harmful Enough'

Apparently, the radiation I’m inhaling is fine. Don’t worry about it. At least, that’s what the voice on the radio told me.

I was in the middle of an aggressive eight miler last night (Limbo Run) accompanied by the local alternative rock station streaming hard thumping angst into my brain and out my stride when interrupted by this news story. Local scientists, armed with some sort of blinky light, bippity-bop box with a spinning gyroscope attached (one assumes), had detected a slight uptick in the amount of radiation in the Michigan atmosphere due to the disaster in Japan. I’m huffing and puffing along, gobbling vast quantities of air as a runner hog tends to do, while listening to this. It caused a slight hitch in my huff. Of course, the kicker was the pronouncement that the levels detected were deemed ‘not harmful enough’. For what??? They didn’t say.

“Not harmful enough”? Are there three scarier words – besides “Pauly Shore Presents” – in the English language? That “ENOUGH” just hangs on the end of that sentence fragment doesn’t it? I was raised with classic Midwestern values so I prefer NO radiation in my air just like I’d prefer no mercury in my water and no Snooki on my TV. Apparently none of those things are happening any time soon.

I like to order a nice piece of salmon when Mrs. Nitmos and I head out for an evening of decompression from the kids. But I can’t just look at the menu and order salmon. I look at the salmon’s description, how it is prepared, where it came from, and consider the cleanliness of the restaurant and guess as to whether or not they know how to properly store and prepare this delicate dish. (I may have low level OCD. I’m hoping the radiation cures it.) Then I recall the articles from Runner’s World that warns you against certain types of salmon (Atlantic Ocean, I believe) due to suspect fishing methods and pollution. But, of course, I can’t recall exactly what I read. Did it say NOT to have this type of salmon…or this was the SAFE one? Usually, I say Fuck It, eat it, and wonder deep into the night if I just ingested poison.

I’m pretty good though at compartmentalizing my fears. I’ll never go to a psychologist because, if he opens that one door near the back behind those old Dostoevsky novels, a shadow of anger and fear will come rushing out that’ll end with me chewing on his scapula bone, like stripping the chicken from a drumstick, while crouched at the top of his bookshelf moments before being tazed and landing with a thud on the floor. I told you not to go in there. So the fact that I’m being slowly poisoned by every needful inhale will get shoved under the door of the dark room along with every other nauseating memory and unhappy fact. It’ll probably come to rest next to Giving Grandma a Back Rub.

I can only do what I can to stay alive and remain healthy. I can run. I can eat (reasonably) well. I can crunch and stretchy band my evenings away rather than couch and potato chip it away. I can sacrifice llamas and drink their blood to fuel my strength. Or do that just to blow off steam. All of this is within my control. And, in the end, that still may not be enough. We are all subject to the whims of external forces. Air currents, corporate pollution, an inattentive driver, roving packs of revenge-seeking llamas: these are things that can undo all the done up effort.

It’s pretty hard to be healthy these days. The air may or may not be poisoned; the drinking water contains toxins; my running shoes are unnatural and I should be running barefoot. My parents are still convinced that my running caused my arthritis. And who hasn’t heard that ‘all of this running is going to ruin your joints’? Damn, it seems to me that runners – marathoners particularly – are the unhealthiest people on the planet. After my next race, I’m going to check myself into the hospital to get my radiation and mercury levels tested and, what the hell, get some x-rays to see how my running shoes have ruined my knees.

Or maybe I’ll just forget about all of it and keep on doing what I do. Sure, fleeting thoughts of air pollution will creep in from time to time as I gasp my way up a tough hill. I can ignore the teenager leaning out his car window shouting “Run faster, asshole!” before screeching off down the street. My post-run water will come strained through the Brita filter. I’ll take all of the negative and shove it deep into my little dark room behind those old books.

The door labeled ‘Not Harmful Enough’.

Happy breathing.
_________________________________

I realize the folks in Japan, the Pacific Ocean, and the western states have it worse than us Michiganders. This is something I’m both horrified and thankful for. However, you don’t call yourself “Michiganders” so, really, who deserves a telethon hosted by Kanye?
_________________________________

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Dear Speed Work

Dear Speed Work,

I love our Tuesday dates but I have a small, teeny tiny list of grievances. I think we’ve been seeing each other long enough to air these out in an open and honest forum, right?

First, and I hope this isn’t too direct, why are you such a fickle bitch? One day, you are easy to please and the laps just pass on by with both of us getting a good workout in. I enjoy your sultry ovalness; you relish the pounding of my feet. I leave healthier, happier and faster. The next, well, it’s an absolute slog. It feels like my legs have a pair of hungry, desperate orphans attached. Why do you have to make it so tough on me? And why don’t you warn me before I get to the track as a little friendly heads up that the Oliver Twist twins are around? Please, sir, can we have some more speed?

Is it so much to ask to cut down the amount of wind smacking me in the face around the first turn? I mean, really. EVERY TIME??? I know your home football team isn’t that popular so your stands weren’t built very wide or high but, heck, is that the fault of the runners? How hard is it to gently re-direct the wind so it is continually at my back? Or, at the very least, create a windless vacuum within which I can complete my speed session. You’ve become very selfish.

And you can plead innocence all you want but I KNOW that you make the track slightly larger after every lap. I’m doing 800 intervals but, really, don’t we both know that the second 400 meters is more like 450 meters? Clever trick. At first, I thought I might just be a little out of shape but, I checked in the mirror, and it’s not me. Is this more of your passive-aggressive nature coming through? I can hear you chuckling through my gasps, chokes, and sobs as I finish my third 850 interval.

I won’t blame you for the prolonged cold spell. That’s not your fault. But who placed that discarded green sweatshirt, crumpled in a heap in lane three? At first, I thought Oh, someone left a sweatshirt. After my second 800 and second tussle with the cold, biting wind in my face after turn one, I felt like the sweatshirt was put there on purpose. You know like, I don’t need it because I’m so hot but look at you in your hat, gloves and wind pants that flap and snap like a Sunfish jib sail coming about. By the fourth interval, it was pretty clear that the green sweatshirt was mocking me. The wind was frickin’ BLOWING in my face – if I had MC Hammer parachute pants I believe I might have taken flight – but that damn green sweatshirt just sat in its insolent, motionless heap. It was completely unaffected by the wind. And, yes, that was me that spit at you before my last 400 meters.

And finally, when will you get the water fountain working? I realize this has nothing to do with the track itself but the entire show – the track, the wind, the cold, the green sweatshirts, the water fountain – all need to come together to perfectly execute my symphony of speed. You don’t even give me false hope for water. I can see the pipes that were removed for winter have not been restored yet. How am I to complete my last 800 with the vision of a water oasis if there is no water? That’s a key part of the water oasis vision. You want me to suck my own spit from the green sweatshirt, don’t you?

I hope we can work this out. I intend to see you all spring, summer and fall and it’d be really nice if we could get along. What I’m saying is….it’s not me, it’s you. I’m a perfectly tuned speed machine. I’m quite sure that the long winter layoff from any meaningful speed work had no effect on me whatsoever. It’s you that’s to blame. You and your ever expanding oval. You and your filthy, contemptuous discarded sweatshirt. You and your annoying wind patterns. You You YOU.

As you can see, I’ve come here in an open, honest and non-judgmental fashion hoping to work things out. I hope you’ll make the changes necessary so that we can have enjoyable Tuesdays together.

In other words, stop being such a bitch.

Love,
Nitmos

Tresseled

tresseled (v.) (1) To create a façade of integrity that hides fraudulent ethics (2) cloaked in a sweater vest (3) the feeling of soul-crushing defeat created in a Michigan football player after losing another game to Ohio State

Jimmy Two-Face

Can you use it in a sentence, please?
I told my mom that I found a home for the orphan kittens – she was so proud of me -but really I drowned them in a tub, to the amusement of my imaginary friends, to loosen their skin so I could turn their skulls into bongs. I tresseled my mom. Go OSU!

If you haven’t heard of him, Jim Tressel is a successful University of Ohio State college football coach. Outside the state of Ohio, he’s been officially exposed as a liar and rule breaker with a win at all costs attitude. He’s the “Pete Carroll of the Midwest”. However, within Ohio, like Garmin itself, he is still considered infallible. There is no sense arguing with an Ohioan on this matter. It would be the same as telling me Hilary Swank is not hot.* Until recently the rest of the world, which may not have been paying close attention here, here, here, here, and here, thought he was a fine upstanding professional operating at the top of his craft. In fact, if you wanted a college coach to write an inspirational book filled with Bible stories and motivational thoughts for #winning, then he might have been the go to guy. Hey, looky here, Go To.

Now, of course, the sweater vest has been ripped off revealing the seedy underbelly of deceit and pecksniffery.

I was pondering this hypocritical public image vs. self-serving guile the other day. Barry Bonds is still on the run with his fancy lawyers fighting steroid allegations. Lance Armstrong, let’s face it, has been backpedaling for years now under a cloud of unproven allegations. Heroes once lauded for their athletic accomplishments seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time in court rooms these days. I don’t want to start unsubstantiated rumors but I might have seen Michael Jordan travel with the ball every now and then too.

A few months back, Runner’s World had an interesting article about Eddy Hellebuyck, an American marathon champion and confessed performance enhancing doper. It was shocking because we simply don’t hear that too often in the running community. Doping? That’s for huge-headed baseball sluggers and rubber-legged cyclists. Cheating? That’s for Senatorial college coaches with little to no fashion sense.

We cheer on our marathon champions like the hyper-trained, well-coached, perfectly tuned runners we know they are. They have abnormal dedication to the sport. Maybe their genes are better suited to distance running than the rest of us. Perhaps their internal balance and biomechanics are simply superior. In short, they are a perfect cocktail of physical and mental preparedness. They train extraordinarily hard and we both envy and applaud them for their accomplishments. And not one of them wears a sweater vest.

But are we being deceived? What if you woke up tomorrow and discovered that world’s great marathon champions failed tests for performance enhancing drugs? Their victories were unearned. Their times were drug-aided. As a runner, would it matter to you that the sport you love has been tarnished?

Running makes such a strong, natural connection with the amateur athlete in part because the elite of the sport aren’t pampered, multi-million dollar athletes. They aren’t in rap videos pointing at gyrating booty. They normally aren’t on our boxes of Wheaties (even though they probably should be). In fact, if you participate in a popular marathon, there’s a good chance one of the elite runners will be participating in the very same race at the very same time. When’s the last time Kobe Bryant was in your pick-up basketball game? Elite runners seem just like the rest of us…just better at running.

There’s something pure and natural about the sport as well. Of course, all runners joke and laugh about the hidden costs (race & travel fees, shoes aren’t getting any cheaper) but, at its core, running is still just about you and your movement. Nothing more. You don’t need others to play a game. You don’t require pads or helmets or fancy uniforms (though I would suggest most of you need to wear a shirt, please.) It’s about how your body moves and what you can make it do with applied training. Running is the foundation of almost every sport. It’s the link that ties them together (except for you, bowling, but no one really considers you a sport.)

I’m not naïve to think that there aren’t, or won’ t be, elite runners willing to obtain their goals by cutting some corners. It would be tremendously disappointing. It’d rock the sport the same way cycling and the 100 meter sprint have become clouded. Like it or not, when the new 100 meter Olympic champion is crowned, how long does it take you to wonder if he/she's on steroids? I’d hate to have the dramatic climax of an epic marathon be the drug test administered thirty minutes later. Ryan Hall steps out of the port-a- potty with a cup of deep yellow, dehydrated urine waving to the crowd while a group of men in white lab coats signal “it’s good” with upraised arms. And the the crowd erupts! Folks, it’s official, he has won the marathon…pending second test in a week….

I hope our elite runners are making the correct choices. It’s not just about them and their race. It’s about all of us. When the marathon gun bangs, the elites, the near elites, the BQ aspirants, the ‘just finishers’ and the first timers are all taking off together as one community. I hope the elites are running to win…and not away from a secret.

Run, Tressel, Run...they are gaining on you.

Is there a wolf in sheep’s sweater vest in our midst? Are we all being tresseled?

Happy trails.

*I love outlandishly large teeth disproportionate to the rest of the face. Also, The Next Karate Kid? Awesome.
________________________________

Want to see shame in action? Look, the man can’t even look at his fans – or camera – in the face. Seriously, flip through every page. The shame. The subtitle to this series of photos is: "Strangers caress OSU coach Jim Tressel's back while he's busy writing his next novel about ethics across the face of many footballs."

You Gotta Want It

I know that sounds like the title of Jack Nicholson’s next romantic comedy but it’s not. Or, at least, not yet. I’m sure he’ll get around to it. You may ask, How Do You Know? Well, it’s a colloquial phrase so…Something’s Gotta Give.

Actually, the phrase “you gotta want it” is providing much comedic relief these days around the Nitmos home. If I were into rhetorical questions, I’d probably insert a “what’s the big deal with this phrase?” right about here. Fortunately, I’m not so I’ll just tell you straight out.

My colt plays premier league soccer here in wet, rainy, population-dwindling Michigan. If you thought parents could be intense at regular youth league sporting events, wait until you start throwing around hundreds* of dollars, driving half-way across the state at 5 AM for a tournament every other weekend, and watching teenage boys learn the subtle art of referee-evading elbow jabs to the neck and mid back. Mrs. Nitmos and I normally just stand and chat with some of the more, ahem, 'relaxed' team parents, applauding where needed but, generally, staying out of the hub-bub.

There is a group of more aggressive parents attached to our team, like most teams, and they let their presence be felt with a series of catcalls to the ref (usually by completely misunderstanding the offsides rule), loud mid-game critiquing of their (or not their!) son’s performance, and an intensity that would scare the smart into Snooki. We like to keep at least a ten yard gap between that group and our group. Guilt by association, you know?! They are just a bi-colored face paint job, no shirt, and a flammable object away from being your prototypical soccer hooligan. Our normal operating procedure is to greet this group with a friendly ‘Hello’, casually check their hands for broken bottles and/or gas soaked rags, scan for the nearest exit in case of riot and then march off ten yards to our Zone of Serenity. Serenity now.

Out of that group, there is usually one voice that rises above. Now, the kids at this level don’t need to be encouraged to play hard anymore. In fact, if you don’t play hard, you just get run over. But that doesn’t stop one team parent from continually shouting “You gotta want it!” every three minutes like clockwork while the kids run around with sweat-drenched faces. “You gotta want it!” Three minutes. “You gotta want it!” Three minutes.

He’s truly become a master at You Gotta Want It. Using only those 4 four (ish) words, he’s able to convey encouragement, hope, anger, disappointment, and condemnation just by slightly changing the tone, emphasis and inflexion of the words. It always starts with an encouraging “You gotta want it!” If a few of our players lose some one vs. one battles, it turns to an angry “You GOTTA want it!” Finally, if the boys fall behind late in the game, you can feel the disgust rising from his belly as he throws his arms up and wails “You gotta WANT it!”

It’s as annoying as it is humorous. Don’t think I don’t take every opportunity to drive Mrs. Nitmos and the kids nuts with it either. If my colt loses, I’ll innocently ask him, “What happened? Didn’t you want it?”

When Mrs. Nitmos had trouble with a cake due to our constantly malfunctioning stove, I wandered into the kitchen, looked at the sunken baked good and stated, “Well, you gotta want it.”

Approaching a yellow light signal, the car in front of me chooses to slow to a stop rather than punch it and make it through. Of course, I flip them off and yell, “You gotta want it…asshole!” (Sometimes you need that extra word.)

Even the minutest thing can be an opportunity to use it. My filly can’t get the remote for the TV to work? “C’mon….you GOTTA WANT IT!”

In fact, the phrase has risen to a level where it’s now one of our much used family acronyms, like F.U., M-F’er, or PTF**:

You Gotta Want It = YGWI or "yig-wee".

Now, You Gotta Want It guy shouts his catch phrase during a match and Mrs. Nitmos and I can look at each other, nod, and say “Yig-wee….definitely a yig-wee moment” without starting an intra-fan bleacher brawl.

The phrase has even crept its way into my running. After a few loooong months of winter maintenance running, I’ve just started to get back into regular speed work. After a prolonged break, those first few track sessions can be grueling. Yesterday, I found myself puffing around the track on the last lap of my last 800 and fighting the temptation to slow when *pop* into my head came You Gotta Want It. I DID want it. Yig-wee, M-F'ers, yig-wee. Everyone needs a mantra. Maybe mine is yig-wee. Suddenly, I had an epiphany. Maybe Yig-Wee Man is right after all. You DO gotta want it. And it IS nice to be reminded every three minutes….that’s less than once every interval after all.

I finished my 800’s and took an easy pace for my mile plus cool down run home satisfied that I must have made Yig-Wee Man proud somewhere. Clearly, he's onto something here. Maybe I'll join his group for the next game and make his solo act a duet.

You gotta want it? Yes, you do. I hope you Yig-Wee your runs as well. That phrase is As Good As It Gets.

Happy Yig-Wee.

*thousands
**Pass The Fudge stripes

The Joy of Six

I love six. It’s such a great number. It was my number when I played tee-ball for Trude’s Hardware as a wee lad. I remember it was my number because there is a cute little picture of me in my blue and yellow Trude’s Hardware uniform holding a bat and wearing a goofy over-sized, straight-brimmed hat (don’t bother to slope the brim for me, I'm good. Thanks Mom and Dad!) with an adorable, slightly mischievous, smile. There’s a giant shiny, ironed-on “6” on my back…the kind of giant number sticker that slowly peels off with each wash. Seriously, it’s priceless. If you saw the photo, you’d purse your lips, go “awwww” and pinch my cheeks. Guaranteed.

I also love six because of its many and varied uses. It’s the perfect way to describe my pack of abs. It’s my favorite number of beers to place on my lap to watch the NCAA tournament (after first clearing the puppy with a gentle arm sweep and yelp). Need to tattoo the mark of the beast on your children? Try doing it with triple fours. You’ll be lucky to get a disgruntled leprechaun. And how else would you know how many possible film roles separate your favorite actor from Kevin Bacon? Want to obtain '36' by multiplying the same number against itself? Yeah, I think you get the point.

Six is good. It’s great in a group but also nice by yourself. Oh – tee hee – I see how that could be misconstrued. Unintended.

Six has been showing up a lot more lately and I’m happy to see it. After a long winter of uneven, slippery surfaces, all of my mile paces started with sevens and, on a few occasions, eights. I wondered if I’d ever see six again.

Then, the snow melted, the temperatures warmed, my Sherpa running gear remained in the closet, and, lo and behold, there are the sixes again. They aren’t as regular as I would like yet. They show up sporadically in my mile splits like pimples on the chin of a “before” Proactiv celebrity. I’d like to fill the Garmin up with sixes like a real pizza face but these things take time. I’ll be content with a six here and a six there and a few sixes clustered over there on the bridge of the nose.

I’ve become such a six fiend that when my 800 interval pace dropped into the fives recently, I became a bit annoyed. Fives?! There was no Five Million Dollar Man. It took all Six Million to make the bionics work. (And seven million is just being wasteful. I think we can all agree on that.)

Next week, my tempo run should return lots of sixes as I kick the half-marathon training into full speed. The sixes will pop up with every beep of the Garmin. The question will become: what six was best? It’ll be a regular battle of the sixes.

Until then, I’m happy to see its sporadic return. Some say that a six is merely a poor man’s nine. An upside down number. A hastily drawn “G”. They don’t respect the six. But a 9 is structurally unsound. The heavy circle hangs precariously on an off-center stem. Just look at it: 9. That thing could collapse at any moment. Name me one engineer that would build something like that. No, a six is where it’s at. More stable. More pleasing to the eye. More loaded with euphemisms. Besides, it even has its own proverb:

A Six in Time Saves Nine

Or something like that.

I’m enjoying the sixes. I hope to enjoy six more often. As a solo runner, it’s something I can directly control. No matter what I do at home, when I lace up the shoes and head out, Mrs. Nitmos can’t possibly withhold six from me.

Happy trails.

Master Me

Weird choice for me. Who's Karen?

Well, it’s done. I turned forty. I closed my eyes, clenched my teeth and grabbed my seat cushion but nothing rattled, shook, or exploded. When I slowly opened my eyes, there was nothing different but a confused restaurant full of people staring at me. Turns out, forty came in like a llama lamb (and a chips and salsa appetizer).

Now, officially, I’m a MASTER. And who thinks I’d let THAT go without an insufferable blog post? In fact, who thinks there won’t be a SERIES of insufferable blog posts about how I’m a Master? If there’s one thing I’m a master of it’s the Master of Insufferability.

There are some things that will have to change now. For one, there will be a sharp decline in masturbation jokes. Even though the root word MASTER appears within it, I’m exercising considerable restraint here not to make a cheap chicken choke joke. See how I’ve grown? I’m not going to flog that joke at all even though every fiber of my being demands comeuppance. I’m going to five knuckle shuffle along to other topics…

I can’t remember what I was talking about* but….here’s some other things I know will change beginning today:

· I no longer know how to operate a DVR. Too bad because I have some good shit on there.
· I’m too old to make fart jokes on this blog. Fartlek included.
· I’m no longer a “wise ass”. Now I’m “wise”.
· I’m too old to blog.
· Ten years until I can join AARP!
· What’s a blog?
· Looking forward to arthritis. Er, too late.
· Do they make Metamucil flavored Gu?
· Time to shop for a Corvette, gold chain, and a midlife crisis!
· When’s Matlock on?
· Last week, the neighbor kids played in my yard. Now, the little hooligans are causing a disturbance and…GET OFF MY LAWN!
· I run exactly the same times but, suddenly, my age graded finish just jumped a few notches!
· A new word to snicker at: “infirm”
· Now that I think of it, why can’t I wear black socks with shorts while mowing the lawn? Just makes sense…less to wash.
· I’m going to run in Keds now. They are sensibly priced.
· Tried on some side split running shorts. Looked sharp. Bought them.
· Wow, didn’t think hair could grow there.

Mrs. Nitmos and the kids wined and dined me for my birthday this weekend in the fashion to which I’ve become accustom: dinner coupons and cheap bargain restaurant beer. Then, I was treated to several shows – all soccer games – where the filly and colt went a combined 3-0 and were not scored upon. Nothing says “birthday” like the scent of crushed tire mixed with artificial grass and the faint hope that the kids are actually enjoying this time and money sucking activity. Now go chase that black and white ball little filly! (Implied: Score goal or walk home.)

Starting now, this Quadragenarian runner already has plans to master the USATF All American Standards of Excellence for road racing as defined by the National Masters News. Why? Because that's what old people do to stay relevant. It's either that or shuffleboard. And they have a website and arbitrarily listed times. (shoulder shrug) Seems official. I’m a sucker for numbers. And I like a challenge. Especially a challenge I can already beat. Currently, I can best every one of the listed times. But can I do it in a knee brace (I have to get one of those, right?) while fretting over my 401k and kids’ non-existent college fund? I guess therein lies the challenge.

If you thought I couldn’t toss around any more arrogance on this blog, I bet you forgot all about this whole “Master” thing, didn’t you? Time to step it up a notch. Heck, I might even be able to lure our (largely) dormant friends Ian, Blogger Formerly Known As Vanilla, and RazZ, er, other blogger guy, back to regular blogging through their futile hopes to Take Me Down A Notch. If I can land those two fish, what would that make me?

A Master Baiter.

Happy….um, what time’s Bingo?

*First Alzheimers joke!

Life By A Thousand Runs

About eleven summers ago, I went for my first run. I went about a half mile – one loop of my neighborhood – and stopped. I wasn’t exhausted but I was breathing heavy. I was surprised how difficult it was to run for 5 minutes straight. At the time, I played pick-up basketball frequently and could get up and down the court as fast - or faster - than most. I thrived at diving into a middle of a group of ballers underneath the rim, jabbing my razor sharp elbows into some ribs to clear room, and coming down with a rebound, passing the ball out, then exploding down court for a return pass. Surely a little bit of “jogging” would be easy right?

Turns out, this running thing was a whole lot tougher than I expected.

Over the first several months, those “jogs” were difficult. It was tough to go more than a mile at a time. Eventually I built up to three miles. Still, I always felt awkward and disjointed when I ran. I told Mrs. Nitmos repeatedly that I just wasn’t a natural runner. My breathing felt off. My arms and legs were hopelessly kicking out in strange angles. I thought that I must look like an epileptic having a fit while running. Nothing was smooth. No flow. Certainly it was obvious to others with every step I took that I was a beginner. My knees were chopping too high; my feet slapped too much; my elbows were unnaturally akimbo. I even remember feeling a touch self-conscious when one of those seasoned runners with the hip angular sunglasses and moisture-wicking….everything…would run by me and my cotton t-shirt.

I was 30 years old when I went for my first run. I made a goal to run a 5k in my hometown that I’d been aware of since I was a little kid. I probably would have quit running early on if I didn’t at least want to run this race first. Basketball was my thing. Running was just a short-term affair.

The race came and went. I had fun. Compared to my age group, I did reasonably well finishing in the top 40%. I was surprised that many of the other runners looked just like me…except with less efficient Adam’s apples and not as quick with spontaneous observational humor. That’s when the competitor within took over.

If I shave two more minutes, I can get in the top 20 for my age group.

If I shave three more minutes, top 10!

Maybe I’ll try one more race after a few more months of training.

BOOM. Hooked!

Over time, my running style smoothed out. My breathing is pretty relaxed even at strenuous intervals. I don’t even think about those things anymore. Mrs. Nitmos tells me that she can always spot me coming from far away because of my distinctive high front knee kick when I run. Maybe it's the Vegas showgirl in me. Or maybe it’s the same as it always was….it just feels natural now. Alas, I own a moisture-wicking burial tuxedo.*

I don’t know how many runs I’ve completed over the last ten plus years. For the first few years, I’d stop running completely for 3-4 months over winter to continue playing basketball. I still normally only run three times a week due to time constraints. I would guess I’ve run about a thousand times now, probably more. I’m still searching for PR’s. I haven’t played a single game of pick-up basketball in three years.

The phrase “death by a thousand cuts” is often used metaphorically to describe the gradual destruction of something by repeated minor attacks.** What do you call the gradual construction – in this case, of a RUNNER – over time by a series of minor actions?

I’m on the precipice of age 40. The next time I post, I’ll be on the other side. I’ll let you know how it looks. A new age group to compete within beckons. I’ll officially be called a Master. It’s about time.

I guess this is life by a thousand runs.

Happy trails.

*It’s got to be hot in a coffin right?
** source

I Steal Your Confidence

I’m a big believer in finiteness. In fact, I find the whole concept of “infinity” infinitely boring. How can there be boundless, unlimited supply of something…of anything? It’s unnatural. The Tea Partiers tell me it’s un-American too. For every person or thing that “has”, there must be an equal and opposite person or thing that “has not” in order to keep the universe in balance. Since their shirts are more star-spangled than mine – spangled stars aren’t moisture wicking – I have to believe it’s true.*

I guess this applies to CONFIDENCE as well.

We all know how important it is to arrive at the starting line on race day with full blown Confidentitis. Very rarely can you turn a pre-race “oh, God, I just hope I don’t shit myself” shoulder slumped case of the jitters into a PR. It can be done but then you’d be the exception that proves the rule. It’s better to stare down the first 100 meters of the race course with the eye of the tiger** You’ve done the work. You’ve finally beaten Apollo in the ocean front trail race. Paulie has been playfully dunked in the pool. It’s time to ace the test. Bring it!

That type of confidence would be A-MAAZING to have come race day. But it’s not realistic.

Usually, I’m somewhere between mildly pessimistic and mildly optimistic. My confidence is never extremely low but also rarely very high. This is why most people think I’m obtuse, which I assume means something similar to “pragmatic”. There’s a simmering, modestly-filled bowl of confidence within but I’m not jumping up and down whooping it up and telling everyone how “I’m about to make them my bitches” as soon as the gun sounds. (We’ve all seen that right?)

Assuming there is only a certain number of units of Confidence available at the start line amongst the group; I need to steal some of yours if I want that PR. I arrive early to top off my bowl.

If I overhear you nervously chatting with a friend about how scared you are about your first race, I make a point to sidle on up next to you and whisper, “You are under trained. You’re going to struggle today.”

If you happen to look like you are in worse shape than me, I smile and say “thanks for volunteering! It’s people like you that make these races possible for runners like me!”

Fiddling with your Garmin? I might come up and ask if it really matters. Really? (elevator eyes up and down) Does it?

I love to ask about others’ PR’s and, when they tell me, smile condescendingly and reply “oh, it sounds like running is not really your thing then? Are you good at volleyball?”

Aren’t wearing a shirt or, if female, have a tank top on? I’ll innocently ask if “they are part of a weight-loss group activity.”

I can just feel my bowl of Confidence filling at the expense of yours. It’s like in Spiderman 2 when Doc Ock uses his reactor and all the metal in New York starts sucking into his waterfront lab. I get more powerful as you weaken. I’m sucking in your Confidence like a fatty at a Jell-o bar armed with only a straw.

If I can acquire enough Confidence, when the gun sounds, I’m off to a jack-rabbit start. The sight of your Confidence being carried off with me further depletes your reserves.

They say “a rising tide lifts all boats” but that’s really not true in the Confidence game. It’s finite. It can be bought and sold. It can be stolen. The truth is that “a rising tide lifts some boats, but others will run aground.”*** It’s more like a teeter-totter. In order for me to succeed, others must fail.

Next time you arrive at a start line, beware of a Con Man like me working the crowd, slurping up your PR with a gurgle through a straw. Think your shorts make you look fat? They do, I hiss. Not sure if today’s your day? It isn’t. Wonder what kind of beer awaits at the finish? It’s Blatz.

Consider this fair warning. Race day CONFIDENCE is key to your success. There are Con Men out there looking to steal it. Heck, they might even be inside your own head. (Your subconscious is the biggest offender after all.) When a Con Man approaches as you loosen at the start line, tell ‘em to take a hike. You feel great; you look great; you will BE great. They’ll wander off to work the crowd for their next victim.

Fall prey and, well, you’ll be infinitely sad.

Happy trails.

*Ever run a marathon with an ankle holster? The only thing that soothes the chafe is the freedom dancing in my heart.
**Or tiger blood in the veins? Dammt, I don’t know where to go with this “tiger” metaphor now.
***Gene Sperling
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I’m happy to see that there aren’t many Filthy Hippies out there based on the latest poll results. Or, as commenter Jess observes, maybe they are all just 'too stoned to take the poll'? Could be.

Running the Numbers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Fired My Coach

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy trails.

*Others: asshole and douchebag.