One of my favorite aspects about this whole business of running is that I own it completely. When I don’t hit a planned run, there is no one to blame but myself (and my kids because I’m sure they got in the way somehow). Successes and failures at the races are a direct result of my own efforts. When I look in the mirror after a few grueling rotations at the track, I see my chisel-jawed coach staring back at me and he’s either smugly satisfied, lips pursed with eyebrow-cocked unhappiness, or dreamily leering at his star pupil. I think my coach is hot for me but that’s another matter.
He also doesn’t seem to care when I wake up Tuesday feeling a bit sluggish and needing an extra half scoop of coffee in my Mr. Coffee. According to the calendar, it is track day today and 1200 meter repeats want to take me for a whirl. According to my fuzzy head and engorged lower g.i., it’s coffee time and some quality bathroom reading await. What’s better than the sly wit of some light Nick Hornby reading? How ‘bout Hornby, a full role of toilet paper, and thirty-five uninterrupted minutes on the porcelain?
I don’t feel like 1200 meter repeats today. Sometimes I get to the track and disguise my 1200 meter repeats as 800 meter repeats with a 400 meter half-ass effort and call it 1200 meters. There are usually a few other folks at the track and I’m sure they’ve noticed that my 1200 meters aren’t quite 1200 true, quality meters but, thankfully, they don’t say a word. They just continue running their circles and pretend not to notice but I know they know. How could they not?
My coach notices. And he immediately starts an internal dialogue with me complete with name-calling. I’m a “wimp” and a “scaredy-cat” and “heart hugger”. I’d respond but my heart is pounding in my chest as I continue my cool down lap and I can barely control my breathing. Coach sure knows how to hit the right hot buttons. I’ve been coddling my heart for years and he goes right after it when he wants to hurt me.
I don’t know why I’ve chosen 1200’s as my intervals of choice this summer. Last year I hammered the 800’s and that was fun. I guess one more lap seemed like a nice challenge. That’s the great thing about the mirror coach: you get to figure yourself out as you go. I realized a few years back that I wouldn’t be in the Olympics. They’re all hung up on “qualifying times” and “ability” and “stop sending us emails – you can’t ‘join’ the Olympics”. I’m pretty persistent but my limit comes when the talk of restraining orders and arrest warrants seem more than a threat. So I’ve been content to figure this whole running thing out by myself free from delusions of grandeur. Might as well reap the free Introspective Reward points that come with it right? After awhile, you can redeem them for free Internal Peace and Understanding.
But building up the points comes with a lot of tears at the track. Sweat…tears…snot rockets…blood...spit…phlegmy cough. There’s a river of bodily fluids building at my local track. I don’t know if the 1200 meter intervals have done much for my overall running ability this year but it’s been a nice challenge for me. Once again, I’ve learned by doing. Crazy concept, I know, in this short cut culture. Pretty much everything I’ve learned about my abilities as a runner was through my own investigation so, at the very least, this throws another log on my bonfire of knowledge. It’s through trial and error that you can find your own path and bank some serious knowledge and Introspective Points.
It’s time to hit the track. Well, frankly, it’s time to hit the Hornby then it’s time to hit the track. I’ll shoot for those 1200 repeats. But I may just stack a 400 meter midget on top of an 800 meter person and wrap them with a huge overcoat and pass them off as 1200 meters too. Who can tell? That’ll be between mirror coach and myself. Heck, I may even veer off and do a ladder run today…
Either way, I need to be home by one o’clock. My hiking coach will be here by then.
Happy trails.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Thursday, August 04, 2011
Where I Was
Where was I? Well, derp, I was at the film festival!?! I told you that pretty much straight out with my last post. Sheesh.
Sorry to disappoint but Breckin Meyer didn’t valet my car. It was Dustin Diamond and he’s still pretty ticked off about the Saved By The Bell thing. Don’t joke with him. I asked him not to screeeech my tires into the parking spot and he punched me in the neck. Ever have someone punch you in the neck and then hold their hand out for a tip? I don’t know if I felt more embarrassed for him or for me but dammit if I didn’t swish around in my pocket for a few quarters. I considered it payment for all of the hilarious hijinks I enjoyed from Zach, Slater, Screech, and Kelly Kapowski. A sore neck and 4 bits? Any time.
I’m still trying to get my bearings straight this week. I think I answered one of life’s mysterious riddles: What would happen if you drank several Oberon’s and Two Hearteds and then watched artsy independent films every single night of the week? Well, let’s put it this way, if I carried on like that for another day or two, I’d finally get busy on penning a sequel to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. My version would be decidedly less cocainey.
I didn’t run a lick…except to the urinal to make more room. So, I’m making up for it this week and, man, my legs are tired. I’m about as weary as this trip summary. Shall we go to picture form and slightly amusing anecdotes? YES!
We do things differently here in Michigan. Witness the ski lift being utilized in the middle of a summer’s day. Those are my kid’s legs dangling off of there. For Michiganders, a beautiful July day means….time to hit the slopes!
Actually, the chair lift took the kids to the top where they could go down the water slide:
Well, okay, it’s not a “water” slide. Here in Michigan, that would be “a little cart with wheels” slide. No water. We got enough of that shit surrounding us in every nook and cranny of this state. We don’t want it on our slides too.
Instead, we sit in hot tubs on 92 degree July afternoons. What better way to cool off in 90% humidity than a soak in 105 degree water?!? Remember, it’s Michigan. It’s damn cold here 6-7 months of the year. We need to soak in all of the warm we can get to carry us through those few dozen runs in January and February in 15 degrees.
Awww, look at the fam casually standing in a filthy lake next to floating milk cartons. In Michigan, that’s called recycling. Whenever we are done with our milk cartons, we toss them in the nearest body of water and let the tide “recycle”. Look, there goes two recycled cartons now:
My dog was quite content sniffing everything that could be sniffed. When I told her it was time to go, I got this Mrs. Serious Face. Can you see “WTF?” in those eyes?
Mrs. Nitmos says “kiss off” it’s time to dump the kids at the grandparents and head back downtown for more beer and films and hipsters walking around with douchey chin hair and oversized, thick framed rectangular glasses.
That’s right, I didn’t shave last week.
Running related topics resume next.
Happy trails.
Sorry to disappoint but Breckin Meyer didn’t valet my car. It was Dustin Diamond and he’s still pretty ticked off about the Saved By The Bell thing. Don’t joke with him. I asked him not to screeeech my tires into the parking spot and he punched me in the neck. Ever have someone punch you in the neck and then hold their hand out for a tip? I don’t know if I felt more embarrassed for him or for me but dammit if I didn’t swish around in my pocket for a few quarters. I considered it payment for all of the hilarious hijinks I enjoyed from Zach, Slater, Screech, and Kelly Kapowski. A sore neck and 4 bits? Any time.
I’m still trying to get my bearings straight this week. I think I answered one of life’s mysterious riddles: What would happen if you drank several Oberon’s and Two Hearteds and then watched artsy independent films every single night of the week? Well, let’s put it this way, if I carried on like that for another day or two, I’d finally get busy on penning a sequel to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. My version would be decidedly less cocainey.
I didn’t run a lick…except to the urinal to make more room. So, I’m making up for it this week and, man, my legs are tired. I’m about as weary as this trip summary. Shall we go to picture form and slightly amusing anecdotes? YES!
We do things differently here in Michigan. Witness the ski lift being utilized in the middle of a summer’s day. Those are my kid’s legs dangling off of there. For Michiganders, a beautiful July day means….time to hit the slopes!
Actually, the chair lift took the kids to the top where they could go down the water slide:
Well, okay, it’s not a “water” slide. Here in Michigan, that would be “a little cart with wheels” slide. No water. We got enough of that shit surrounding us in every nook and cranny of this state. We don’t want it on our slides too.Instead, we sit in hot tubs on 92 degree July afternoons. What better way to cool off in 90% humidity than a soak in 105 degree water?!? Remember, it’s Michigan. It’s damn cold here 6-7 months of the year. We need to soak in all of the warm we can get to carry us through those few dozen runs in January and February in 15 degrees.
Awww, look at the fam casually standing in a filthy lake next to floating milk cartons. In Michigan, that’s called recycling. Whenever we are done with our milk cartons, we toss them in the nearest body of water and let the tide “recycle”. Look, there goes two recycled cartons now:
My dog was quite content sniffing everything that could be sniffed. When I told her it was time to go, I got this Mrs. Serious Face. Can you see “WTF?” in those eyes?
Mrs. Nitmos says “kiss off” it’s time to dump the kids at the grandparents and head back downtown for more beer and films and hipsters walking around with douchey chin hair and oversized, thick framed rectangular glasses.That’s right, I didn’t shave last week.
Running related topics resume next.
Happy trails.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Moore Money, Moore Problems
I’m going mini-vacationing this week. That is, I’m taking a long weekend. Mrs. Nitmos and my running shoes are going too so I have everything I need. Oh yeah, also the kids are going but that couldn’t be avoided. How is it that a little fish can survive for 3-4 days in a bowl without adding any food but human children, oh no, can’t leave them at home for a few nights (or weeks) or the cops crawl right up your ass. It just goes to show that we all view things differently…one man’s long weekend is another’s felonious child endangerment.
Besides running, one of my favorite pastimes is people watching. I like to think I’m pretty good at it too. I don’t have no weird leer or bug-eyed, mouth agape stare or anything. I’ve only made a few families uncomfortable enough to hold their kids tight and walk away and arrests? None. Detained for questioning? A few times but that goes with the territory.
Besides running, one of my favorite pastimes is people watching. I like to think I’m pretty good at it too. I don’t have no weird leer or bug-eyed, mouth agape stare or anything. I’ve only made a few families uncomfortable enough to hold their kids tight and walk away and arrests? None. Detained for questioning? A few times but that goes with the territory.
State Theatre - one of my former employers in the Nitmos early days
We’ll be back in my ancestral homeland again this weekend for the 7th annual film festival put on by everyone’s favorite left wing boogeyman, Michael Moore. Now, before the Fox News crowd starts in with the “socialist” accusations in the comments and the MSNBC crowd seeks travel directions, let me be clear that I don’t attend the event as any sort of political statement. I like to people watch. I like independent films (yeah, that’s right, sue me). I have a place to stay since both our parents (and, more importantly the kids’ babysitter grandparents) live there. We do some boating. We do some beering. We do some watching. The area is loaded with great little bars and a thriving downtown scene so, really, why not go right?
Inside the recently restored State Theatre
Plus, there are some fantastic rails-to-trails running paths.
The great thing about this event is watching this conservative small(ish) town come to grips with Michael Moore and his Big Hollywood Socialist Friends every year. This is the type of town that’ll vote around 75% for any Republican on a national ticket. If a Democratic politician sneezes, they assume it’s because he/she has a strange disease from all of the goat fornicating that person must do. Why Moore decided to make this area his home is anyone’s guess.* We’ve run into him a few times over the years at – surprise, surprise – the local theaters and he seemed to blend in with the masses even knowing most of them would love to slash his car tires while he enjoyed Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle.
But, for this film festival week (and its cousin, a winter comedy festival also put on by Moore in the same area), the truce flags are up. Moore’s festival brings in beaucoup bucks to the area’s conservative businessman. I’m sure it pains them to take this money - on principle - but take it they do. Likewise, a largely left-leaning crowd packs the theaters only to be met with sponsors and advertisements for those same conservative businesses. It’s fun to watch these natural enemies deal with each other. Moore needs the local conservative businessman to make this work and the businessman relish the money bonanza the Great White Liberal's festival brings in. I’m sure many hands are shook beneath gritted teeth.
And Mrs. Nitmos and I sit back at a local pub with a frosty one and take it all in. While the other tables mutter about debt ceilings, I’m sure I’ll be bending Mrs. Nitmos’ ear with more talks about my personal speed ceiling and what needs to be done to raise that.
And then we go running. Or boating. Or filming. Or whatever. Truly this is usually the most relaxing week of the year. Last year, I documented our efforts at the costume film festival 5k. I finished 2nd overall which is the highest I’ve ever finished overall in a race. So, of course, they cancelled the race for this year. Damn, had I won it, I probably would have been audited. The Man doesn’t want me to win a race.
I’ll let you know if I spot any celebrities. The best the festival has done is bring in Madonna one year but I suspect that was only because her father owns a vineyard on the peninsula (you know, free room and board makes it an affordable trip for her. She wasn’t in town to screen Shanghai Surprise.) Usually there’s a few B and C level directors and producers hanging about and the odd C level celebrity. What’s Breckin Meyer doing these days? Hope he's available for photo ops....or to valet my car.
Happy trails.
*Well, okay, it’s also a beautiful area filled with friendly people.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Sweat Diaper
If you are like me - and really, you should be – you have probably found yourself needing a sweat diaper lately. We are in full fledged It’s Not The Heat, It’s The Humidity territory here. I wish I could say that I’ve only been sweating buckets during my long runs. Truth is, I’ve been sweating dumpsters. I’m flinging sweat from my fingertips with every arm pump. I’m going to put out a blanket warning to all runners in my area: Do not expect a hand wave as we pass or you’ll get a face full of my sweat.
Which brings me back to the sweat diapers. When I complete the run, I am not a welcome person in my home. I walk in trailing droplets of my salty, syrupy goodness all over the floor on my way to the fridge for a coldshandy water. My dog has some sort of sweat fetish and follows after me mopping the floor with her tongue. Sick puppy. The filly doesn’t ever seem to want a post-run hug from Dad. Instead, I’m met with a crinkle face and an ewwww sound. I am persona non grata in my own casa. I can’t even stand still for more than a second or I create tiny little floor swimming pools for the fruit flies that surround my plums (NOT a euphemism!)
So, I sit on the front porch instead: Me, my pathetic little 12 ounce water bottle and a porch swing. And I sweat. And swing. And sweat. If a human is made of around 70% water, then a good 40-50% is soaking through my shorts and onto the floor beneath my swing. Frankly, I’m sweating in such a steady stream that it looks like I’m pissing the porch floor. I need a diaper for my sweat.* I’ve gotten a glimpse of what life will be like in a few decades when I wear my uroscopy bag and nonchalantly pee in full public view while walking through a Wal-Mart. It’s liberating but, also, a little wet.
To make matters worse, I don’t wear a shirt during summer running. Why contain these pecs? I’m a firm believer in minimalist torso wear. Christopher McDougall missed the point completely in Born to Run. The Tarahumara aren’t successful distance runners because of their lack of footwear. Raise your eye level, big guy. They are successful because they don’t wear shirts! It’s the natural way and leads to a more efficient upper body posture and arm swing. Plus, we are also always told to “run tall” which, you’ll find, is something you’ll naturally do when you realize people are looking at your exposed pecs.
However, a consequence of this minimalist running top approach is that all of your bodies fluids seek a spot to absorb. And that place is your shorts. There’s not enough wicking available to wick away that amount of sweat. This is where the Run Diaper comes into play. You’ll need something to catch that sweat that can’t be wicked away. If the sweat is contained, how can anyone object if you come in for a plum? You won’t have to sit like a leper all alone on your front porch swing. You can squish your way into the house immediately post-run, grab your water bottle to suckle, and lie back on the changing table for your significant other to pinch your ankles together for a good, old-fashioned wiping (provided your significant other is willing, of course.)
I’m going to test my design out today. I have some 1200 intervals planned for the track. It’s over 80 degrees. I have a bag full of marshmallows, or “shorts sponges” as I call them. I’ll be going minimalist torso too. I should be a sweaty mess.
I’ll let you know how it goes so you too can enjoy the wonders of the Nitmos Sweat Diaper. But, please, don’t go grabbing marshmallows and tossing them all willy-nilly into your shorts. My design is a little bit more complicated than that. Ever see a kid strap a pillow onto his chest with a belt as a catcher’s chest protector? Now your wheels are turning….
Happy trails.
*Some of you may say that you don’t want to trap your sweat – that you want it wicked away and to disappear completely. But isn’t that what we want for babies as well? Why aren’t baby diapers moisture wicking then?
Which brings me back to the sweat diapers. When I complete the run, I am not a welcome person in my home. I walk in trailing droplets of my salty, syrupy goodness all over the floor on my way to the fridge for a cold
So, I sit on the front porch instead: Me, my pathetic little 12 ounce water bottle and a porch swing. And I sweat. And swing. And sweat. If a human is made of around 70% water, then a good 40-50% is soaking through my shorts and onto the floor beneath my swing. Frankly, I’m sweating in such a steady stream that it looks like I’m pissing the porch floor. I need a diaper for my sweat.* I’ve gotten a glimpse of what life will be like in a few decades when I wear my uroscopy bag and nonchalantly pee in full public view while walking through a Wal-Mart. It’s liberating but, also, a little wet.
To make matters worse, I don’t wear a shirt during summer running. Why contain these pecs? I’m a firm believer in minimalist torso wear. Christopher McDougall missed the point completely in Born to Run. The Tarahumara aren’t successful distance runners because of their lack of footwear. Raise your eye level, big guy. They are successful because they don’t wear shirts! It’s the natural way and leads to a more efficient upper body posture and arm swing. Plus, we are also always told to “run tall” which, you’ll find, is something you’ll naturally do when you realize people are looking at your exposed pecs.
However, a consequence of this minimalist running top approach is that all of your bodies fluids seek a spot to absorb. And that place is your shorts. There’s not enough wicking available to wick away that amount of sweat. This is where the Run Diaper comes into play. You’ll need something to catch that sweat that can’t be wicked away. If the sweat is contained, how can anyone object if you come in for a plum? You won’t have to sit like a leper all alone on your front porch swing. You can squish your way into the house immediately post-run, grab your water bottle to suckle, and lie back on the changing table for your significant other to pinch your ankles together for a good, old-fashioned wiping (provided your significant other is willing, of course.)
I’m going to test my design out today. I have some 1200 intervals planned for the track. It’s over 80 degrees. I have a bag full of marshmallows, or “shorts sponges” as I call them. I’ll be going minimalist torso too. I should be a sweaty mess.
I’ll let you know how it goes so you too can enjoy the wonders of the Nitmos Sweat Diaper. But, please, don’t go grabbing marshmallows and tossing them all willy-nilly into your shorts. My design is a little bit more complicated than that. Ever see a kid strap a pillow onto his chest with a belt as a catcher’s chest protector? Now your wheels are turning….
Happy trails.
*Some of you may say that you don’t want to trap your sweat – that you want it wicked away and to disappear completely. But isn’t that what we want for babies as well? Why aren’t baby diapers moisture wicking then?
Friday, July 22, 2011
Somebody Owes Me Something
Let me be clear right from the start: I’m not a proponent of getting something for nothing...unless it is running gear or race entry fees or stolen cable or donation jars for a local hospitalized kid left unattended on the convenience store counter or health care or Extreme Makeover homes or Russian brides or petty cash drawers from every small business with which I’ve ever been employed. And maybe a few other things as well. But, beyond those few dozen loosely defined, ever-shifting things, I draw a strict line at receiving something for doing nothing.
But I’m getting screwed here.
My local running store is kind of a Big Deal as far as running stores go. You know those shoes they review endlessly at the back of Runner’s World? Ever notice that the individual reviewers (from which there is a brief quote about their test trial with the shoe) – from every issue over the last several years - are either from Reading, PA or East Lansing, MI? Yeah, the East Lansingers come from their affiliation with my local running store. I’m not going to mention the place by name out of fear. I’d like to race again somewhere in the Midwest. If you’ve paid attention, I’ve good-naturedly needled this store before so I may already be on probation.
The truth is that I browse this store constantly. They have many new shoes, clothes, and gadgets for the fashion conscious runner you know me to be. Then, after I browse the store taking note of the new, interesting items, I drive off to find a cheaper place to buy them. Truly they provide a great service.
They held their second of two yearly SEMI-ANNUAL SIDEWALK EXTRAVAGANZA SUPER TERRIFIC BLOW-OUT SALES again the other day. I came in armed with $120 worth of gift cards bestowed upon me by grateful soccer moms. Since it wasn’t my money, really, I was sure to find something to “buy”. And I did (though I skipped a pair of shoes. Sorry, won’t even spend $75 free gift card dollars on “sale” shoes that I can get for $55 elsewhere even if I have to pay real money for them elsewhere. No sale.)
I knew I had run a few dollars past $120 and, with tax and after gift cards, I was looking at a deficit of nearly $11. Eleven dollars? My inner Viper immediately recoiled at the thought of paying that in actual cold hard cash. I started looking over the items to see if there was something among them that I could make or buy second hand from the Salvation Army or go “minimalist” (i.e. high-minded excuse to cheap out). Eleven dollars?!? Do they think people are made of money??? I got a North Face fall jacket, Adidas running shorts, and Wright running socks and you want $11 of MY money?!?! I think you can understand my rage. I’m going to emphasize it again with a few more exclamation points with alternating question marks?!?!?!?! <--That’s some serious fucking rage right there.
Then I realized my Ace-in-the Hole. You see, I’ve allowed this store to use my image to promote themselves for years without saying a word. I’ve appeared on their TV ads in footage from previous races and currently (and for the last THREE YEARS) my image is on a poster in their front windows. Sure, I’m half concealed by someone in the foreground but I’m clearly visible, along with several dozen others, as part of a starting line shot from a local kids race (my filly was little at the time and parents ran with their kids aaaaand I WON IT! My filly came in three minutes behind me scared, confused, and crying for her Daddy. She wasn’t much cheered when I explained that Daddy kicked all of these other kid’s asses and told tales about how their little legs couldn't keep up. Through tears, she inquired, “Even mine?” I wiped a tear away and whispered back, “Even yours, sweetheart.”). My filly is in the photo too though you can only see her left arm and left leg. She’s lucky to be in that much because I just noticed the camera a half second too late and was in the middle of pushing her to the side to center myself better when the picture took. What does a poster sized ad promotion run these days? At least $11, I’d think.
So here I am at the counter with a bag full of merchandise and a bitchy saleswoman who keeps repeating that I “still owe $11” no matter how many times I roll my eyes and reach for the bag. Finally, exasperated, I motioned my head in the direction of the storefront poster. She looked out the window confused and back at me. I nodded again. She crinkled her brow and nodded back. The chick just wasn’t getting it. “Look, that’s me on the poster. I haven’t asked for anything before but, you know, you never asked to put my picture up. And you never paid me anything either. You see what I’m saying?”
She didn’t. I was forced to pay $11 and “escorted from the premises” as the manager gently but firmly explained to the security guard. Pretty ungrateful, I thought, to a customer who, on average, spends $11 a year in their store. Their loss...guess they'll have to make up that $11 some other way for fiscal year 2012.
Meanwhile, my image is still on the storefront. And RIGHT NOW their web page has an image of me AGAIN advertising one of their races this weekend as part of their rolling front page shots. You would think that, for all I do for that place, they could have comped me $11 right? What’s next, full life-size cardboard cut-outs of me in a mankini* next to your shoe display?
Next time, we’ll see if I bother to peruse their store first before buying my running gear elsewhere. We’ll see if the only money I spend in there is free gift card money given to me by others. They called down the thunder so now they get the horns. I’m not going to get mad, I’m going to get a bull. Or whatever, I’ve never been very good with sayings. All I know is that revenge is a dish best served by making the whole world blind.
Either way, I’m out $11 and someone owes me something.
Happy trails.
*I have them already made up. Just specify color of mankini and shade of bronze you prefer on my torso. Cost is $11.
But I’m getting screwed here.
My local running store is kind of a Big Deal as far as running stores go. You know those shoes they review endlessly at the back of Runner’s World? Ever notice that the individual reviewers (from which there is a brief quote about their test trial with the shoe) – from every issue over the last several years - are either from Reading, PA or East Lansing, MI? Yeah, the East Lansingers come from their affiliation with my local running store. I’m not going to mention the place by name out of fear. I’d like to race again somewhere in the Midwest. If you’ve paid attention, I’ve good-naturedly needled this store before so I may already be on probation.
The truth is that I browse this store constantly. They have many new shoes, clothes, and gadgets for the fashion conscious runner you know me to be. Then, after I browse the store taking note of the new, interesting items, I drive off to find a cheaper place to buy them. Truly they provide a great service.
They held their second of two yearly SEMI-ANNUAL SIDEWALK EXTRAVAGANZA SUPER TERRIFIC BLOW-OUT SALES again the other day. I came in armed with $120 worth of gift cards bestowed upon me by grateful soccer moms. Since it wasn’t my money, really, I was sure to find something to “buy”. And I did (though I skipped a pair of shoes. Sorry, won’t even spend $75 free gift card dollars on “sale” shoes that I can get for $55 elsewhere even if I have to pay real money for them elsewhere. No sale.)
I knew I had run a few dollars past $120 and, with tax and after gift cards, I was looking at a deficit of nearly $11. Eleven dollars? My inner Viper immediately recoiled at the thought of paying that in actual cold hard cash. I started looking over the items to see if there was something among them that I could make or buy second hand from the Salvation Army or go “minimalist” (i.e. high-minded excuse to cheap out). Eleven dollars?!? Do they think people are made of money??? I got a North Face fall jacket, Adidas running shorts, and Wright running socks and you want $11 of MY money?!?! I think you can understand my rage. I’m going to emphasize it again with a few more exclamation points with alternating question marks?!?!?!?! <--That’s some serious fucking rage right there.
Then I realized my Ace-in-the Hole. You see, I’ve allowed this store to use my image to promote themselves for years without saying a word. I’ve appeared on their TV ads in footage from previous races and currently (and for the last THREE YEARS) my image is on a poster in their front windows. Sure, I’m half concealed by someone in the foreground but I’m clearly visible, along with several dozen others, as part of a starting line shot from a local kids race (my filly was little at the time and parents ran with their kids aaaaand I WON IT! My filly came in three minutes behind me scared, confused, and crying for her Daddy. She wasn’t much cheered when I explained that Daddy kicked all of these other kid’s asses and told tales about how their little legs couldn't keep up. Through tears, she inquired, “Even mine?” I wiped a tear away and whispered back, “Even yours, sweetheart.”). My filly is in the photo too though you can only see her left arm and left leg. She’s lucky to be in that much because I just noticed the camera a half second too late and was in the middle of pushing her to the side to center myself better when the picture took. What does a poster sized ad promotion run these days? At least $11, I’d think.
So here I am at the counter with a bag full of merchandise and a bitchy saleswoman who keeps repeating that I “still owe $11” no matter how many times I roll my eyes and reach for the bag. Finally, exasperated, I motioned my head in the direction of the storefront poster. She looked out the window confused and back at me. I nodded again. She crinkled her brow and nodded back. The chick just wasn’t getting it. “Look, that’s me on the poster. I haven’t asked for anything before but, you know, you never asked to put my picture up. And you never paid me anything either. You see what I’m saying?”
She didn’t. I was forced to pay $11 and “escorted from the premises” as the manager gently but firmly explained to the security guard. Pretty ungrateful, I thought, to a customer who, on average, spends $11 a year in their store. Their loss...guess they'll have to make up that $11 some other way for fiscal year 2012.
Meanwhile, my image is still on the storefront. And RIGHT NOW their web page has an image of me AGAIN advertising one of their races this weekend as part of their rolling front page shots. You would think that, for all I do for that place, they could have comped me $11 right? What’s next, full life-size cardboard cut-outs of me in a mankini* next to your shoe display?
Next time, we’ll see if I bother to peruse their store first before buying my running gear elsewhere. We’ll see if the only money I spend in there is free gift card money given to me by others. They called down the thunder so now they get the horns. I’m not going to get mad, I’m going to get a bull. Or whatever, I’ve never been very good with sayings. All I know is that revenge is a dish best served by making the whole world blind.
Either way, I’m out $11 and someone owes me something.
Happy trails.
*I have them already made up. Just specify color of mankini and shade of bronze you prefer on my torso. Cost is $11.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
An Offensive Shade of Blue
I like getting free stuff. My parents did a reasonably good job of teaching me to be thankful for another’s generosity so I’m quick with a Thank You and a half-hearted smile even if I really don’t appreciate the crap I’m being given. My parents also taught me that, if you truly don’t like something, you should always remain polite to the givers face and only ridicule them when they aren’t looking or listening. Or, at the very least, leave anonymous derogatory messages on an internet site. Family values. This is why I created a blog. I like to think that I started cyberbullying before it became cool.
Despite the obvious general snarkiness of my blog, Columbia Sportswear saw fit to send me some free products to try out and review. One was a moisture wicking short sleeve running shirt. The other was their new Peak 2 Peak jacket that retails for $350. I threw on the running shirt the very day I received it and hit some 800’s and it performed wonderfully. I believe it is the Altimeter shirt and it came in a cool blue and gray color. Very manly. I felt like hunting something or, at the very least, lifting something extremely heavy from the moment I put it on. It wicked properly. It felt cool and light despite the buckets of perspiration the 800’s provided. Good shirt. By itself, it made up for nearly 3/4 of my natural feelings of inadequacy.
All well so far, right?
Now we come to the Peak 2 Peak jacket or, as I call it, Mr. Crinkly. It’s a loud jacket. It makes a wretched crinkly noise every time you exhale. You know those space mylar blankets you get to keep you warm after a marathon? It’s like the jacket is made of a couple dozen of those. Oh, sure, it wicks moisture. It’s reasonably light and cool if you want to run in it during fall or early winter. The pockets are well placed and abundant. Really, besides the annoying crinkly sound, it’s a top shelf jacket. That is, all except the color.
Seriously, what the f--- color blue is that? Blue happens to be my favorite color too. I thought I liked every shade of blue imaginable but I’ll be damned if they didn’t find one I hate. It burns my retina. I tried out the jacket because I said I would but, really, I won’t be wearing it in public. That is one horrendous color. A $350 price tag isn’t enough to overcome it. It’s like a jacket version of an eclipse. Don’t look right at it. Plus, let’s be honest, $350 for a lightweight jacket?? Uh, there's a bit of a recession going on here. I’ve got two similar jackets at home now both for under $100. And neither of them are offensive to the eyes. I could buy three jackets of similar quality elsewhere and still have $50 to get a hooker on the way home. And I doubt the hooker would be all crinkly sounding (though that shade of blue may be present).
So Thank You Columbia for the free items. The running shirt has become a regular part of my rotation. And Thank You for the jacket. It’s a great jacket - just loud and ugly and pricey if those things matter to you. Performance-wise, however, top notch! I’ll enjoy seeing its offensive blueness hanging on a hook in the corner of my closet for years to come (unless we can arrange a trade for the Black one or, heck, even the red one - I'd even promise a highly complimentary blog post for your outstanding customer support).
Happy trails.
_________________________________
Despite the obvious general snarkiness of my blog, Columbia Sportswear saw fit to send me some free products to try out and review. One was a moisture wicking short sleeve running shirt. The other was their new Peak 2 Peak jacket that retails for $350. I threw on the running shirt the very day I received it and hit some 800’s and it performed wonderfully. I believe it is the Altimeter shirt and it came in a cool blue and gray color. Very manly. I felt like hunting something or, at the very least, lifting something extremely heavy from the moment I put it on. It wicked properly. It felt cool and light despite the buckets of perspiration the 800’s provided. Good shirt. By itself, it made up for nearly 3/4 of my natural feelings of inadequacy.
All well so far, right?
Now we come to the Peak 2 Peak jacket or, as I call it, Mr. Crinkly. It’s a loud jacket. It makes a wretched crinkly noise every time you exhale. You know those space mylar blankets you get to keep you warm after a marathon? It’s like the jacket is made of a couple dozen of those. Oh, sure, it wicks moisture. It’s reasonably light and cool if you want to run in it during fall or early winter. The pockets are well placed and abundant. Really, besides the annoying crinkly sound, it’s a top shelf jacket. That is, all except the color.
Seriously, what the f--- color blue is that? Blue happens to be my favorite color too. I thought I liked every shade of blue imaginable but I’ll be damned if they didn’t find one I hate. It burns my retina. I tried out the jacket because I said I would but, really, I won’t be wearing it in public. That is one horrendous color. A $350 price tag isn’t enough to overcome it. It’s like a jacket version of an eclipse. Don’t look right at it. Plus, let’s be honest, $350 for a lightweight jacket?? Uh, there's a bit of a recession going on here. I’ve got two similar jackets at home now both for under $100. And neither of them are offensive to the eyes. I could buy three jackets of similar quality elsewhere and still have $50 to get a hooker on the way home. And I doubt the hooker would be all crinkly sounding (though that shade of blue may be present).So Thank You Columbia for the free items. The running shirt has become a regular part of my rotation. And Thank You for the jacket. It’s a great jacket - just loud and ugly and pricey if those things matter to you. Performance-wise, however, top notch! I’ll enjoy seeing its offensive blueness hanging on a hook in the corner of my closet for years to come (unless we can arrange a trade for the Black one or, heck, even the red one - I'd even promise a highly complimentary blog post for your outstanding customer support).
Happy trails.
_________________________________
Since I’m taking care of some general housekeeping today, let me give props where props are due. High marks for Apple. If you recall from one of my last posts a few weeks back, I announced the death of my iPod. I can only speculate that it died due to extreme perspiration intake. Well, I called Apple and explained the situation (the product is still under warranty). When I say “explained” I, of course, mean I lied through my teeth and replied “No” when they asked if it had come in any contact with "liquids". I’m not the smartest guy but I’m no fool either. They sent me a replacement iPod within 48 hours no (other) questions asked. New Soundy lives! Best part? It's gray and silver colored...no offensive blue to be found!
Suckers.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Summer Shandy Fuels My Long Run
I’ll admit that I’m not much of a beerophile. Whether it’s Bell’s Oberon or a moderately chilled Schlitz in a dented can, I’m equally apt to flip the top side of my skull backwards as if it was on a hinge and pour said beer down my gullet. It’s beer. Beer belongs in my belly. Let’s send beer to my belly with the fewest obstructions possible. That includes reading the beer bottle label. I’ll assume that “high fructose corn syrup” and “phosphates” and several other kinds of “phates” exist within the beer and that way I’ll never have to read a label. Ever. It’s an unspoken deal I have with mass beverage producers: You give me legal intoxicants in sporty or sexy or heroic or metallic looking bottles and I will consume it no questions asked.*
But that agreement was broken on Friday. I was perusing the beer aisle looking for, basically, something different than my normal beer selections when I noticed several customers in a row selecting Leinenkugel’s Summer Shandy. I’d heard the Summer Shandy commercials on TV but had no reason to want to buy it other than so I could say “Summer Shandy” over and over again while I drank it. It’s fun to say. Try it. Summer Shandy. Tee-hee. Summer Shandy. Tee-hee. Damn, I giggle every time. And, if you know me, then you know that that’s enough to make me buy it. Summer Shandy. Tee-hee. Sale!
As I was happily plopping the gently clinking bottles into the cart, an unexpected word on the label caught my eye. Lemonade? Did that say “lemonade”? But I’m buying beer?!? Beer and lemonade go together like half marathons and cargo shorts. What’s that word doing on my label?!? I had no choice. A deeper inspection was warranted.
The label explains that it is “beer with a natural lemonade flavor” and the first thing I thought of was Zima. Ever have a Zima? Ever drink Pledge through a straw? Same thing. I instantly recoiled with the thought of an overwhelming taste of lemons in my beer. I want beer. If I wanted lemonade, I’d drink – wait for it – lemonade. I’m weird like that. But here’s the problem: The beer was already in my cart. Do you know the effort it would have taken to remove the beer from the cart, place it back on the shelf, and then make another selection all the while appearing hopelessly indecisive to the crowd of oblivious anonymous strangers in my presence? Nope too late. Summer Shandy it is. I didn’t want those people I don’t know - and who were paying no attention to me - to think I was a beer-choosing flip-flopper.
So, here’s how may weekend went encapsulated in sentences I spoke:
-“Hmmm, I’m not sure I like the Summer Shandy.”
-“I’ll try another Shandy and see how it goes.”
-“Want to try a Summer Shandy?”
-“Your neck hurts? You know what might fix that? A Shandy”
-“I hope I have time for a few Shandies before going to Harry Potter.”
-“Can I bring a Shandy into Harry Potter?”
-“Why are you looking at me like that, do you need a Shandy?”
-“I wonder if Voldemort drinks Summer Shandies?”
-“I wonder if there would be such a thing as war if everyone drank Shandies.”
-“You know who needed a Shandy?” Women’s soccer Team U.S.A.
-“I’m going to drink a Shandy in Team U.S.A.’s honor. Great effort ladies.
-“Do you know who did drink a Shandy? Team Japan.”
-“I’m almost out of Summer Shandy!”
-“Why can’t I say ‘Summer Shandy’ anymore? Are you sure you don’t need a Shandy?”
And that was only part of the weekend. Mrs. Nitmos, judging by the number of eye rolls and deeply exhausted exhales, didn’t share my enthusiasm for the words “Summer Shandy”. She especially didn’t seem to appreciate my suggestion that a Shandy might have prevented the bacterial eye infection she obtained this weekend from expired contact cleanser. All I know is, I was drinking Shandies and don’t have an eye infection. She was not drinking Shandies – eye infection.
But the true test occurred on Sunday: A long run – 11 miles – in 90 degree heat after a heartbreaking World Cup finale and a Summer Shandy (or two). I usually don’t run on Sunday afternoon and particularly not after enjoying a beer (or, in this case, a Shandy). Heck, I haven’t even registered for another race yet this year so I don’t even know where the 11 mile plan came from. I picked that number out of my shandy earlier in the week and felt obligated to commit to it.
It was a rough go but it wasn’t the Shandy’s fault. It worked hard trying to keep my insides cool but my pores were pouring out the Shandy as quickly as I could suck it through the Camelbak straw.** Also, my f.p.m.*** was through the roof!
I made it. I dragged back in to my slightly cooler, air-condition-malfunctioning house weary and bleary and dehydrated. Mrs. Nitmos inquired as to the success of my run through her red, infected, Shandiless eyes. I was parched. I was nearly delirious. The only words I could form came out stuttered and choked.
“Okay but I sure could use a Summer Shandy.”
Tee-hee.
Happy trails.
Final Verdict: Summer Shandy, fun to say, but not for everyone. In truth, I’m not sure I’d get it again. It’s not beer… exactly. Next time, I’ll choose more carefully before selecting a liquid refresher.
*This agreement even extends to my father-in-laws favored beer: Blatz. Since he offers, I will drink it when visiting. He is the only person in the known universe that still drinks Blatz. Fact #1: The company only produces 10-12 cases of Blatz a year and it is only sold out of one lonely party store just outside of Interlochen, Michigan. Fact #2: Blatz tastes similar to llama piss if the llama had a severe kidney infection. Don’t ask how I know this. You don't know where I've been.
**Not all parts of this story are true.
***farts per mile
But that agreement was broken on Friday. I was perusing the beer aisle looking for, basically, something different than my normal beer selections when I noticed several customers in a row selecting Leinenkugel’s Summer Shandy. I’d heard the Summer Shandy commercials on TV but had no reason to want to buy it other than so I could say “Summer Shandy” over and over again while I drank it. It’s fun to say. Try it. Summer Shandy. Tee-hee. Summer Shandy. Tee-hee. Damn, I giggle every time. And, if you know me, then you know that that’s enough to make me buy it. Summer Shandy. Tee-hee. Sale!
As I was happily plopping the gently clinking bottles into the cart, an unexpected word on the label caught my eye. Lemonade? Did that say “lemonade”? But I’m buying beer?!? Beer and lemonade go together like half marathons and cargo shorts. What’s that word doing on my label?!? I had no choice. A deeper inspection was warranted.
The label explains that it is “beer with a natural lemonade flavor” and the first thing I thought of was Zima. Ever have a Zima? Ever drink Pledge through a straw? Same thing. I instantly recoiled with the thought of an overwhelming taste of lemons in my beer. I want beer. If I wanted lemonade, I’d drink – wait for it – lemonade. I’m weird like that. But here’s the problem: The beer was already in my cart. Do you know the effort it would have taken to remove the beer from the cart, place it back on the shelf, and then make another selection all the while appearing hopelessly indecisive to the crowd of oblivious anonymous strangers in my presence? Nope too late. Summer Shandy it is. I didn’t want those people I don’t know - and who were paying no attention to me - to think I was a beer-choosing flip-flopper.
So, here’s how may weekend went encapsulated in sentences I spoke:
-“Hmmm, I’m not sure I like the Summer Shandy.”
-“I’ll try another Shandy and see how it goes.”
-“Want to try a Summer Shandy?”
-“Your neck hurts? You know what might fix that? A Shandy”
-“I hope I have time for a few Shandies before going to Harry Potter.”
-“Can I bring a Shandy into Harry Potter?”
-“Why are you looking at me like that, do you need a Shandy?”
-“I wonder if Voldemort drinks Summer Shandies?”
-“I wonder if there would be such a thing as war if everyone drank Shandies.”
-“You know who needed a Shandy?” Women’s soccer Team U.S.A.
-“I’m going to drink a Shandy in Team U.S.A.’s honor. Great effort ladies.
-“Do you know who did drink a Shandy? Team Japan.”
-“I’m almost out of Summer Shandy!”
-“Why can’t I say ‘Summer Shandy’ anymore? Are you sure you don’t need a Shandy?”
And that was only part of the weekend. Mrs. Nitmos, judging by the number of eye rolls and deeply exhausted exhales, didn’t share my enthusiasm for the words “Summer Shandy”. She especially didn’t seem to appreciate my suggestion that a Shandy might have prevented the bacterial eye infection she obtained this weekend from expired contact cleanser. All I know is, I was drinking Shandies and don’t have an eye infection. She was not drinking Shandies – eye infection.
But the true test occurred on Sunday: A long run – 11 miles – in 90 degree heat after a heartbreaking World Cup finale and a Summer Shandy (or two). I usually don’t run on Sunday afternoon and particularly not after enjoying a beer (or, in this case, a Shandy). Heck, I haven’t even registered for another race yet this year so I don’t even know where the 11 mile plan came from. I picked that number out of my shandy earlier in the week and felt obligated to commit to it.
It was a rough go but it wasn’t the Shandy’s fault. It worked hard trying to keep my insides cool but my pores were pouring out the Shandy as quickly as I could suck it through the Camelbak straw.** Also, my f.p.m.*** was through the roof!
I made it. I dragged back in to my slightly cooler, air-condition-malfunctioning house weary and bleary and dehydrated. Mrs. Nitmos inquired as to the success of my run through her red, infected, Shandiless eyes. I was parched. I was nearly delirious. The only words I could form came out stuttered and choked.
“Okay but I sure could use a Summer Shandy.”
Tee-hee.
Happy trails.
Final Verdict: Summer Shandy, fun to say, but not for everyone. In truth, I’m not sure I’d get it again. It’s not beer… exactly. Next time, I’ll choose more carefully before selecting a liquid refresher.
*This agreement even extends to my father-in-laws favored beer: Blatz. Since he offers, I will drink it when visiting. He is the only person in the known universe that still drinks Blatz. Fact #1: The company only produces 10-12 cases of Blatz a year and it is only sold out of one lonely party store just outside of Interlochen, Michigan. Fact #2: Blatz tastes similar to llama piss if the llama had a severe kidney infection. Don’t ask how I know this. You don't know where I've been.
**Not all parts of this story are true.
***farts per mile
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Death to Soundy
See this lil feller? Mrs. Nitmos got him for me as a Christmas gift. He doesn’t work anymore – a mere five+ months later.
What can we conclude from this?
a) Mrs. Nitmos buys cheap gifts.
b) Apple makes cheap iPods.
c) It would rather commit suicide rather than stay clipped to my sweaty torso for one second longer.
If I plug it in to charge, the little square gets piping hot to the touch within two minutes. The regulator which said ‘charge me’ must have stopped regulating and instead switched over to ‘unleash the fires of hell upon thee’. I always thought my music was hawt but not literally HOT. Its poor little insides must be burned to a crisp.
It’s too bad because I liked the smallness and ease of use of the little device. It’s very much like my penis. It reminds me of this favored set of Marantz speakers I had in my college dorm room. The speakers were way too powerful for that little cement cell of a room so my roommate and I had to exercise supreme restrain not to blow the doors and windows out. My Marantz and me envisioned a long and happy life together…until an impromptu party began…(queue flashback sequence)
It started out as three, then ballooned to ten before finally ending with 20 beer seeking twenty-somethings packed shoulder-to-shoulder in a square dorm room made for two. These were the days when 80’s hair bands were on their way out and grunge was setting up shop on the Billboard charts. Kids were finally realizing that Poison did, in fact, look like a bunch of sissies. Warrant, Winger, et al was getting the mocking they richly deserved. As a long time Hater of 80’s hair bands, it was a glorious time for me.
Beer was drank. Fun was had. My Marantz chirped away at a loud but not obnoxious level with my preferred musical selections. Husker Du, The Replacements, Pearl Jam, etc. But, inevitably, just as we couldn’t control the amount of people flooding into our room, we also couldn’t keep control over the music. I found myself trapped on one side of the room when I heard it. The music stopped, the disc tray slid out, a Def Leppard CD was produced, the tray slid back in, ‘play’ was pressed and THE VOLUME WAS CRANKED. I knew what my Marantz were capable of and the volume was red lined to dangerous heights.
If you’ve been in a car accident, you know there is that moment that probably only lasts a millisecond but feels like an eternity. That moment where you can see everything bad that is about to happen and you are powerless to stop it. I looked at my roommate who was also trapped on another side of the room and mouthed ‘Oh, no’ just as “POUR SOME SUGAR ON ME ooohhh IN THE NAME OF LOVE” screamed through the room. It was loud. Too loud. The sound bounced against the cement walls and reverberated back creating a devilish echo chamber of horrible music. If you’ve been waterboarded, you still don’t know the agony – the torture – of being in that room, that moment.
I knew my Marantz wouldn’t put up with this transgression for long. Before I could wade my way through the crowd to the stereo, I heard the unmistakable crackle and pop of a blown speaker. They killed themselves right then and there. And I couldn’t blame them. I remember opening that CD tray and shouting “Who put this shit in here?!” before flinging the CD like a buzz saw across the room. Fucking Def Leppard killed my awesome speakers. What a way to die.
So, I’m mindful of the last moments of my little iPod. What was it playing when it had enough? I don’t have any Def Leppard on there but I’ll cop to some ABBA. Who doesn’t like a little Mamma Mia when on a road trip with friends? If ABBA killed my iPod, I hope it was Super Trooper and not Dancing Queen.
Now, when running, I’m stuck listening to the birds sing, the wind rustling through the leaves, the melancholy bark of lonely dogs, children frolicking with squirt guns. You know, all that annoying shit.
Here’s to hoping that Apple can fix and/or replace my lil music box quickly so I can once again drown out the incessant sounds of nature and life. I need to match my steps to the thump thump of an angry, aggressive bass. Any more of this pure oneness with my body and the intoxicating senses of the natural environment may send me the way of the Marantz. I’ll zig rather than zag right into oncoming traffic…
Happy trails.
_________________________________
Happy 4th of July weekend! I hope everyone enjoys some quality tunes whilst drinking beer and lighting small explosives in their yard. Go America!
Monday, June 27, 2011
Why Am I Running?
What the hell am I running for?
This thought occurred to me about 7 miles into yesterday’s Sunday 10 mile long run. It was over 80 degrees; sweat pouring off of me; my saturated wrist band crying mercy. I don’t actually have a race on the schedule. I have no training plan. I just kinda ran the half marathon over Memorial weekend and then…kept going with the same basic schedule as if I had another half marathon coming up. Which I don’t.
So, what exactly am I running for anyways?
Well, besides the fact that I love to run. And I get moody and (more) sarcastic when I don’t get my scheduled miles in. Plus, it sure makes my butt tight. I don’t have any desire to be imprisoned long term but, if I were, I just know I’d be the belle of the ball.
The annual Cherry Festival 5k is coming up in less than two weeks. I’ve run this race 9 out of the last 10 years. In fact, it was this race that I got me started running over ten years ago in the first place. It’s been a tradition for me. But I don’t think I’m going to do it this year. I just don’t like where I’m at for a 5k right now. Some folks sign up for races every few weeks and, whether they trained hard for them or not, go right ahead and run them. I don’t. I like to focus in on just a few races a year and work hard to PR those races. I’m not a race whore. If I can’t (or haven’t) put in the work to make a PR effort, then I simply don’t run the race.
I know, I know, there is a subset of the running crowd that likes to roll out the hippie-dippie themes Time Doesn’t Matter and Can’t We all Hold Hands And Run Together and Love The Feel Of The Motion Not The Ticking Of The Clock. Hey, whatever floats your boat. My boat is floated by my competitive spirit. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I’m not necessarily competitive against other runners – though I do like to see if I can age group place – but against the clock and myself. This, my friends, is where the FUN resides FOR ME. I love to mentally abuse myself if I don’t reach my time goal just as much as I enjoy a virtual high five between my cerebellum and medulla oblongata when a PR falls.
In order to set these time goals, I have to have a plan. Also, I need a race. Currently, I have neither. So, I ask again, what the hell am I running for?
I better get a race on the schedule to focus the training. I’ve been running 800’s, 1200’s, tempos, limbos, etc. Basically, whatever I feel like that day. Heck, on Friday, I went out for a tempo 7 miler and, on my way past a track, decided spur-of-the-moment to do a few mile (1600m) repeats instead. Why? Well, why not? When you don’t have a goal or plan, the answer to “what should I run today” is “anything you want”.
It’s fun – I’m not going to lie – to make up workouts during the first mile of a run. But I’m not sure it’s helping me work towards any specific goal. There are a few 5k’s I’ve normally done at the end of July. Maybe I’ll work towards that. Maybe I’ll choose some new races. Or maybe I’ll just continue to do a random smattering of 800 – 1600 intervals until inspiration strikes.
I guess I really do know why I run. I just don’t know where I’m going to race next.
What about you? Do you know what the hell you are running for anyways?
Happy trails.
_________________________________
Someone order a CAT scan. Mrs. Nitmos and I must be crazy. We let BOTH kids try out for premier level soccer teams. And both made it. Now, we are “soccer poor”. Forget weekend plans…we will be standing along a pitch somewhere watching the seasons change. I miss the days when we could throw a pacifier in their mouths, set the swing to ‘fast’, and still sit on the deck with friends and beer. As long as their little heads didn’t tilt sideways and clang against the rails, you could go on for hours…Now, when the weekend comes, we are busy. I don’t even set up a schedule planner. We are busy somewhere, somehow. Just assume that is the case and life is easier….we’ll figure out the where and how on Friday.
This thought occurred to me about 7 miles into yesterday’s Sunday 10 mile long run. It was over 80 degrees; sweat pouring off of me; my saturated wrist band crying mercy. I don’t actually have a race on the schedule. I have no training plan. I just kinda ran the half marathon over Memorial weekend and then…kept going with the same basic schedule as if I had another half marathon coming up. Which I don’t.
So, what exactly am I running for anyways?
Well, besides the fact that I love to run. And I get moody and (more) sarcastic when I don’t get my scheduled miles in. Plus, it sure makes my butt tight. I don’t have any desire to be imprisoned long term but, if I were, I just know I’d be the belle of the ball.
The annual Cherry Festival 5k is coming up in less than two weeks. I’ve run this race 9 out of the last 10 years. In fact, it was this race that I got me started running over ten years ago in the first place. It’s been a tradition for me. But I don’t think I’m going to do it this year. I just don’t like where I’m at for a 5k right now. Some folks sign up for races every few weeks and, whether they trained hard for them or not, go right ahead and run them. I don’t. I like to focus in on just a few races a year and work hard to PR those races. I’m not a race whore. If I can’t (or haven’t) put in the work to make a PR effort, then I simply don’t run the race.
I know, I know, there is a subset of the running crowd that likes to roll out the hippie-dippie themes Time Doesn’t Matter and Can’t We all Hold Hands And Run Together and Love The Feel Of The Motion Not The Ticking Of The Clock. Hey, whatever floats your boat. My boat is floated by my competitive spirit. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I’m not necessarily competitive against other runners – though I do like to see if I can age group place – but against the clock and myself. This, my friends, is where the FUN resides FOR ME. I love to mentally abuse myself if I don’t reach my time goal just as much as I enjoy a virtual high five between my cerebellum and medulla oblongata when a PR falls.
In order to set these time goals, I have to have a plan. Also, I need a race. Currently, I have neither. So, I ask again, what the hell am I running for?
I better get a race on the schedule to focus the training. I’ve been running 800’s, 1200’s, tempos, limbos, etc. Basically, whatever I feel like that day. Heck, on Friday, I went out for a tempo 7 miler and, on my way past a track, decided spur-of-the-moment to do a few mile (1600m) repeats instead. Why? Well, why not? When you don’t have a goal or plan, the answer to “what should I run today” is “anything you want”.
It’s fun – I’m not going to lie – to make up workouts during the first mile of a run. But I’m not sure it’s helping me work towards any specific goal. There are a few 5k’s I’ve normally done at the end of July. Maybe I’ll work towards that. Maybe I’ll choose some new races. Or maybe I’ll just continue to do a random smattering of 800 – 1600 intervals until inspiration strikes.
I guess I really do know why I run. I just don’t know where I’m going to race next.
What about you? Do you know what the hell you are running for anyways?
Happy trails.
_________________________________
Someone order a CAT scan. Mrs. Nitmos and I must be crazy. We let BOTH kids try out for premier level soccer teams. And both made it. Now, we are “soccer poor”. Forget weekend plans…we will be standing along a pitch somewhere watching the seasons change. I miss the days when we could throw a pacifier in their mouths, set the swing to ‘fast’, and still sit on the deck with friends and beer. As long as their little heads didn’t tilt sideways and clang against the rails, you could go on for hours…Now, when the weekend comes, we are busy. I don’t even set up a schedule planner. We are busy somewhere, somehow. Just assume that is the case and life is easier….we’ll figure out the where and how on Friday.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Randumbery Finds Koalas, Chlamydia
I used to run this semi regular feature called "Randumbness" about, as you would guess, various random and dumb things going on. It was 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.
Sorry, I don’t have a cute little alliterative title for this sporadically regular feature. No “Monday Musings”, “Try It Tuesday”, “Wordless Wednesday”, “Three Things Thursday” or “Friday Funnies”. Nothing. Deal with it. There’s just a simple little clever play on words in there between random, dumb, and ran (this is a running blog, get it?) That’s all you get. I don’t do alliteration.
Khlamydia Koalas
Aww, look at this little guy. If you are like me, don’t you just want to give it an STD?
In what has to be my favorite headline of the year, AOL’s Huffington Post declares “Chlamydia and Climate Change Killing Koalas”.* Um, ‘scuse me, what was that before ‘climate change’??
Apparently, Australia’s cute little mascot, the koala, is being decimated by this common STD. Folks, I know, they are cute. And who doesn’t like a little exotic marsupial action from time to time? I’m no prude – whatever floats your boat – but, c’mon, you can’t wrap it up first? I know I haven’t been to Australia any time recently so don’t blame me. (Fingers crossed that this doesn’t occur in the U.S. llama population as then I might have some ‘splaining to do.) Has anyone seen RazZ lately?
Unless we are comfortable with this iconic animal listed in the Great Book of Extinction under the cause “venereal disease”, let’s think a bit and follow the simple rule: Wrap before you tap. Have a heart and save some of that kwuality koala tail for the rest of us.
NYQ News
My new favorite letters are N-Y-Q: New York Qualified! This has replaced ‘BQ’ as my favorite type of ‘Qualified’ qualifier. Everyone knows about the New York Marathon’s lottery system due to the outrageous number of entrant applications it gets each year. In a nutshell, you can apply each year in a row and are guaranteed entry by the fourth year if you were not randomly selected in a preceding year.
That sounded like a lot of work and, potentially, trip planning for trips that would never occur. So, I never applied. And then someone tipped me off that there is a back door way to get in the race. And since I’m a back door kinda guy…er, never mind. Apparently, NY has a qualifying time standard for guaranteed entry. If I read it correctly – and I’ve read both Moby Dick and Don Quixote – it means that you can bypass the lottery and head right to the front of the line.
And look at that, the time standard for a 40 year old male is 1:30 or below for a half-marathon. I just ran a 1:26+. I guess this makes me…NYQ’ed! Good thing I just turned 40 too because that 1:23 qualifying time for a 39 year old would have been a difficult task. Hooray for Masters leniency!
Now, let’s hope they don’t go changing the requirements ala Boston…
Soccer Saturday
Finally, soccer season is over for both kids. EXCEPT, this weekend is tryouts for next year! (It never ends.) Here’s my colt defending with his left foot while playing, wait for it, left defender for his premier team. Yes, his feet really are that huge. That’s not an illusion caused by the orange shoes. Good luck at tryouts, colt!
And here’s my filly getting last minute instructions from her swashbuckling, debonair coach who wears the hell out of those sensibly-priced Sears St. Johns Bay shorts. Since last September, she’s scored 35 goals in…35 games and is now busy trying to convince Coach St. John’s Bay that she’s ready to move on and play in a tougher league not coached by people wearing St. Johns Bay cargo shorts. We’ll see. It’s 50/50 if we’ll let her do it….much to decide at this weekend’s tryouts. Good luck, filly!
Happy Hrails!
*Or, in runner blogland, I guess that would be “Khlamydia and Klimate Khange Killing Koalas”
Sorry, I don’t have a cute little alliterative title for this sporadically regular feature. No “Monday Musings”, “Try It Tuesday”, “Wordless Wednesday”, “Three Things Thursday” or “Friday Funnies”. Nothing. Deal with it. There’s just a simple little clever play on words in there between random, dumb, and ran (this is a running blog, get it?) That’s all you get. I don’t do alliteration.
Khlamydia Koalas
Aww, look at this little guy. If you are like me, don’t you just want to give it an STD?
In what has to be my favorite headline of the year, AOL’s Huffington Post declares “Chlamydia and Climate Change Killing Koalas”.* Um, ‘scuse me, what was that before ‘climate change’??Apparently, Australia’s cute little mascot, the koala, is being decimated by this common STD. Folks, I know, they are cute. And who doesn’t like a little exotic marsupial action from time to time? I’m no prude – whatever floats your boat – but, c’mon, you can’t wrap it up first? I know I haven’t been to Australia any time recently so don’t blame me. (Fingers crossed that this doesn’t occur in the U.S. llama population as then I might have some ‘splaining to do.) Has anyone seen RazZ lately?
Unless we are comfortable with this iconic animal listed in the Great Book of Extinction under the cause “venereal disease”, let’s think a bit and follow the simple rule: Wrap before you tap. Have a heart and save some of that kwuality koala tail for the rest of us.
NYQ News
My new favorite letters are N-Y-Q: New York Qualified! This has replaced ‘BQ’ as my favorite type of ‘Qualified’ qualifier. Everyone knows about the New York Marathon’s lottery system due to the outrageous number of entrant applications it gets each year. In a nutshell, you can apply each year in a row and are guaranteed entry by the fourth year if you were not randomly selected in a preceding year.
That sounded like a lot of work and, potentially, trip planning for trips that would never occur. So, I never applied. And then someone tipped me off that there is a back door way to get in the race. And since I’m a back door kinda guy…er, never mind. Apparently, NY has a qualifying time standard for guaranteed entry. If I read it correctly – and I’ve read both Moby Dick and Don Quixote – it means that you can bypass the lottery and head right to the front of the line.
And look at that, the time standard for a 40 year old male is 1:30 or below for a half-marathon. I just ran a 1:26+. I guess this makes me…NYQ’ed! Good thing I just turned 40 too because that 1:23 qualifying time for a 39 year old would have been a difficult task. Hooray for Masters leniency!
Now, let’s hope they don’t go changing the requirements ala Boston…
Soccer Saturday
Finally, soccer season is over for both kids. EXCEPT, this weekend is tryouts for next year! (It never ends.) Here’s my colt defending with his left foot while playing, wait for it, left defender for his premier team. Yes, his feet really are that huge. That’s not an illusion caused by the orange shoes. Good luck at tryouts, colt!
And here’s my filly getting last minute instructions from her swashbuckling, debonair coach who wears the hell out of those sensibly-priced Sears St. Johns Bay shorts. Since last September, she’s scored 35 goals in…35 games and is now busy trying to convince Coach St. John’s Bay that she’s ready to move on and play in a tougher league not coached by people wearing St. Johns Bay cargo shorts. We’ll see. It’s 50/50 if we’ll let her do it….much to decide at this weekend’s tryouts. Good luck, filly!
Happy Hrails!
*Or, in runner blogland, I guess that would be “Khlamydia and Klimate Khange Killing Koalas”
Friday, June 10, 2011
Race Day Voodoo
I’m not a superstitious fella. I don’t believe in evil on Friday the 13th or fear black cats or walking under ladders. I definitely don’t believe that blowing out all of the candles on your birthday cake with the first puff will grant you your wish. Do I look like the richest person in the world, the sexiest, and holding dominion over all living creatures? (Well, one out of three ain’t bad though, amirite?) Birthday candles…birthday’s cruel tease. This year I’m going to wish to be a fairly normal – though heavily sarcastic - middle class white guy with too much personal debt just so ONE wish can come true.
There is a certain kind of voodoo I do believe in however: Race day voodoo. This doesn’t mean that I have little runner dolls made up and I callously stick pins in their feet while cackling maniacally. That would be stupid…and a complete waste of pins. The start line is so crowded you can just wander by and jab them into the hamstrings of the lead runners and no one knows from anything about where they came from or if they have tetanus. That’s much more mature than sitting in your car playing with dolls. But usually my race day voodoo is wholly self-contained. No chants, no amulets, no pin jabbing, no sacrifices of llamas (unless warranted…which is always). I have two little superstitions that I do. I don’t know why or how it started but I do them for every race.
1) My bib is pinned with only three pins: Two at the top and one at a bottom corner.
I don’t know why. Maybe it’s my Midwestern values. Why pin a bib with four pins when it really only requires three? Let’s not be wasteful. (I don’t want to hear from the Two Pin Mafia in the comments either. You guys are just being cocky.) It seems a bit pretentious to use ALL FOUR PINS for your bib. Who am I after all? Maybe Ryan Hall can use all four. Certainly Geoffrey Mutai gets four pins if he wants them. The rest of us, know your place, and use three. And for God’s sake, the toilet doesn’t need to flush all the time. “If it’s brown, flush it down. If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s nutty, leave it for others to marvel at.”
2) I invert my Garmin, wearing the face inward.
Again, I don’t know how this started but there I am strapping the ole Garmin on upside down. This one might have begun due to my own shameful vanity. The Garmin 205 face is so damn LARGE, like walking around with an iPad strapped to your wrist, that I started inverting it so that, from the outside, only the thin little wrist strap shows. And, like Pringles and shaving, once you start, you just can’t stop. I strap it on like this every time. If you look at my last post, you can see me pushing Stop on my inverted Garmin. Most folks just think I’m checking my pulse which makes me seem like some sort of super cool doctor so, really, it’s a double win.
I believe both of these superstitions have contributed to my race day successes. And, sure, it doesn’t hurt that some of my age group competition is lying in a medical tent with bloody pinhole marks dotting across their IT bands but that’s none of my business (anymore). Perhaps they should have had a horseshoe over their head?
Do you enjoy any race day superstitions? I assume everyone showers before running a marathon right?
Happy jabbing.
________________________________
PlanetGear.com sent me a Sigg water bottle to try out and "review". I don't want to forget about this since I promised that I would post something so....here goes:
How does one review a water bottle? It's a cool design: silver, metallic, looks like a giant suppository. It holds water well, no leaks. Water seems to stay cool for a satisfactorily amount of time. Basically, everything you could want in a water bottle outside of self refilling and long, gentle shoulder massages. Plus, it sure beats trying to walk around with water cupped in your hands for two hours!
PlanetGear.com would also like you to know that they are having a Father's Day sale on Gu and Ultimate Direction stuff.
Thank you for the water bottle...now go there and get your own. Oh, and be sure to drink your Ovaltine.
There is a certain kind of voodoo I do believe in however: Race day voodoo. This doesn’t mean that I have little runner dolls made up and I callously stick pins in their feet while cackling maniacally. That would be stupid…and a complete waste of pins. The start line is so crowded you can just wander by and jab them into the hamstrings of the lead runners and no one knows from anything about where they came from or if they have tetanus. That’s much more mature than sitting in your car playing with dolls. But usually my race day voodoo is wholly self-contained. No chants, no amulets, no pin jabbing, no sacrifices of llamas (unless warranted…which is always). I have two little superstitions that I do. I don’t know why or how it started but I do them for every race.
1) My bib is pinned with only three pins: Two at the top and one at a bottom corner.
I don’t know why. Maybe it’s my Midwestern values. Why pin a bib with four pins when it really only requires three? Let’s not be wasteful. (I don’t want to hear from the Two Pin Mafia in the comments either. You guys are just being cocky.) It seems a bit pretentious to use ALL FOUR PINS for your bib. Who am I after all? Maybe Ryan Hall can use all four. Certainly Geoffrey Mutai gets four pins if he wants them. The rest of us, know your place, and use three. And for God’s sake, the toilet doesn’t need to flush all the time. “If it’s brown, flush it down. If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s nutty, leave it for others to marvel at.”
2) I invert my Garmin, wearing the face inward.
Again, I don’t know how this started but there I am strapping the ole Garmin on upside down. This one might have begun due to my own shameful vanity. The Garmin 205 face is so damn LARGE, like walking around with an iPad strapped to your wrist, that I started inverting it so that, from the outside, only the thin little wrist strap shows. And, like Pringles and shaving, once you start, you just can’t stop. I strap it on like this every time. If you look at my last post, you can see me pushing Stop on my inverted Garmin. Most folks just think I’m checking my pulse which makes me seem like some sort of super cool doctor so, really, it’s a double win.
I believe both of these superstitions have contributed to my race day successes. And, sure, it doesn’t hurt that some of my age group competition is lying in a medical tent with bloody pinhole marks dotting across their IT bands but that’s none of my business (anymore). Perhaps they should have had a horseshoe over their head?
Do you enjoy any race day superstitions? I assume everyone showers before running a marathon right?
Happy jabbing.
________________________________
PlanetGear.com sent me a Sigg water bottle to try out and "review". I don't want to forget about this since I promised that I would post something so....here goes:
How does one review a water bottle? It's a cool design: silver, metallic, looks like a giant suppository. It holds water well, no leaks. Water seems to stay cool for a satisfactorily amount of time. Basically, everything you could want in a water bottle outside of self refilling and long, gentle shoulder massages. Plus, it sure beats trying to walk around with water cupped in your hands for two hours!
PlanetGear.com would also like you to know that they are having a Father's Day sale on Gu and Ultimate Direction stuff.
Thank you for the water bottle...now go there and get your own. Oh, and be sure to drink your Ovaltine.
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
Run Angry: A Sexism Story
How many of you knew that another Nicholas Cage movie, Drive Angry, was released on DVD recently? You might have missed it at the theatre. I was thinking about seeing it but then stopped to get gas and it was gone in 60 seconds. In fact, by the time you get done reading this sentence, it’s already been moved to the discount bin at your local video store. And by the time you get done reading this sentence, it’s now one of the movies available for 3 box tops on the back of your favorite Kellogg’s cereals (right next to Mannequin 2: On The Move). But, at the very least, it provided me a title from which I can derive a blog post.
I’m not a pleasant person. In fact, when I race, I can be downright persnickety…bordering on bile-spitting angry. Add in a pinch of sexism – directed at me – and you get the full on furrowed brow (great name for a band, by the way*). Usually I’m the one making sexist comments - not receiving them - so this was quite the switcheroo.
I was the victim of unrelenting sexism through-out the entire Bayshore half marathon course. Why? Apparently it was because I had the nerve to run with a group of female runners for much of the race. See? Here I am about 8-9 miles in running just behind the, at the time, #2 female half marathoner.
That Furrowed Brow started out knitted and became furrowed after the seventh time I heard “You go girl, beat those guys!” from one of the passing female marathoners on the other side of the street or one of the coffee sipping umbrella-toters along the way. I was actually mixed into a group of three women – weren’t they lucky? – in the pack of ladies trailing the overall female lead. I heard:
“Let’s go girls!” - 18 times
“Yeah, girls, go get’em!” – 9 times
“Woo-hoo, beat those boys!” – 37 times
And “Who’s the virile sex cannon in the gray shirt?!” – one time**
Now, why did they have to go getting all sexist up in here? If you cut me, do I not bleed? If I run, do I not race? Sure, I was once accused - in my own comments - of wearing a running skirt due to my spindly little legs hanging out of my shorts like a strand of spaghetti hanging through a strainer. And, yes, I cleverly wear a sports bra to prevent my enormous pecs from slapping me in the chin (look at the picture, can’t tell I’m wearing one, can you Russ?) And maybe I’ve read Cosmo a time or two (just for the pictures, I’m not a pervert). I do loofah. A fella likes to exfoliate. But, I think obviously, I appear to most as a dude - granted with understated masculinity.
There could be no confusion. These were outright sexists attacks aimed at yours truly. Here I was busting my ass, doing the best I could, and every single comment was encouraging the group I was running with…to BEAT ME?!? Look, I just came here to run a race, not be the victim of some coordinated anti-male runner conspiracy. I started shouting back, “C’mon guys, show the skirts whose boss!” One young lady shouted “You got him, girl!” and I sneered back “Hey, what’s for dinner, toots?!” It got ugly out there, let me tell you. Ever been booed at a race? Drop a few sexist cliché bombs and see what happens. Spectators started hissing at me; I started growling at them and punching at the crook of my arm in an exaggerated F*ck You flip off motion. It was full on WWF for awhile. I think someone took a swing at me with a metal folding chair.
Finally, I’d had enough and decided to speed away from the female peloton. Here I am kicking into high gear and, for the honor of men everywhere, making the pass. Not photographed? Me looking over my shoulder shouting “Does my PR make you look fat?” (I will be copyrighting this.)
Green - with envy
After building a nice 25 foot lead I offered up the following nugget: “I still got extra testosterone to burn, honey.”
Finally, after another 50 feet, I yelled out confidently, victoriously “Susan B. Anthony sucks!”
Finally, after another 50 feet, I yelled out confidently, victoriously “Susan B. Anthony sucks!”
I didn't want to do it. Kinda felt like I had too.
Now, despite all evidence, I’m no angel. Walk me past a grocery aisle with cantaloupes and you will hear a few giggles and a comment (and maybe, just maybe, I pick up two of them and do a little imitation). I saw the remake of I Spit On Your Grave and felt a twinge of sympathy for the guys. And I’m a firm believer that, while men should never wear side split running shorts or run topless (except me, of course), women should be encouraged to do both. Jell-o? Good for one thing: female wrestling. But should this make me a target for rampant sexism? No, I don’t think so. Me not likey. Me not likey long time.You know what I realized during my sexist half marathon experience? It’s more fun making the sexist comments than receiving them. I think I’m going to stick with that. That’s the real lesson here.
Happy trails. And Run Angry!
*Format stolen from Denis Leary's Why We Suck.
**This was unspoken but I got the very strong impression from one spectator that this is what they were thinking.
_________________________________
Hey, here’s an obligatory finishing shot of me pushing my Garmin stop instead of looking at the camera. Or, am I texting this post? Believe me, by mile 10, I already had half of this post written in my head and thought I’d get a jump on things before getting to the finish.
_________________________________
It should go without saying that the preceding post is intended for sophomoric humor purposes. While I did hear numerous Beat The Boys comments, they made me chuckle. In fact, several of the commenters realized I was in the group and would yell “Woo-hoo, Go Girls…Beat those boys!...And go guys too!” Adding the last comment in after eventually noticing me in the pack.
Friday, June 03, 2011
"Holy Shit, A PR!"
The 2011 Bayshore Half Marathon Race Report
No, I wasn’t Raptured. I stood out there ten yards past the finishing mats with my head thrown back, arms extended, and my shorts around my ankles (don’t ask why) and…nothing. No Rapture. Not even a slightly uplifting breeze to move me from a “leans left” to a “tilt right”. Just a few angry, jeering shouts such as “Get out of the way, you fool!”, “Look at this idiot!” and “You call that a penis?”
It was cold out. But I’m getting ahead of myself…
The weather was darn near perfect. The Bayshore races, oddly enough, take place along the shore of a bay. For the half marathon, they bus you out 13 miles to the middle of a farmer’s field where a mini shanty town of chilly runners spring up in the hour before the race. Then, you run back in from the peninsula. The hard straw is crunchy beneath the feet and the naturally growing ground brownies aren’t nearly as delicious as they sound. Very oaty. The buses pull up every few minutes depositing more shivering runner’s into the crisp, cool 50 degree morning air. The runner’s were dancing side to side trying to keep warm and chattering their chatterboxes while the cows mooed anxiously in the next corral. Everyone likes hamburgers and I think they knew it.
No, I wasn’t Raptured. I stood out there ten yards past the finishing mats with my head thrown back, arms extended, and my shorts around my ankles (don’t ask why) and…nothing. No Rapture. Not even a slightly uplifting breeze to move me from a “leans left” to a “tilt right”. Just a few angry, jeering shouts such as “Get out of the way, you fool!”, “Look at this idiot!” and “You call that a penis?”
It was cold out. But I’m getting ahead of myself…
The weather was darn near perfect. The Bayshore races, oddly enough, take place along the shore of a bay. For the half marathon, they bus you out 13 miles to the middle of a farmer’s field where a mini shanty town of chilly runners spring up in the hour before the race. Then, you run back in from the peninsula. The hard straw is crunchy beneath the feet and the naturally growing ground brownies aren’t nearly as delicious as they sound. Very oaty. The buses pull up every few minutes depositing more shivering runner’s into the crisp, cool 50 degree morning air. The runner’s were dancing side to side trying to keep warm and chattering their chatterboxes while the cows mooed anxiously in the next corral. Everyone likes hamburgers and I think they knew it.
Grand Traverse peninsula: Home of wineries, cherry trees, and animal feces
It’s not exactly Hopkinton but it is a unique and charming race environment: The beautiful Grand Traverse Bay on one side and a myriad of cherry trees and livestock on the other. No one felt out of place pissing on the straw and cherry trees* either, which was nice. The rain pelted down in the final 30 minutes leading into the start of the race and I thought I was in for a wet one (t.w.s.s) After the national anthem two minutes before the race started, the hard rain gave way to a light, cooling mist. Really, it couldn’t have been more perfect. This mist held up for the duration of the half marathon. It was like someone running next to you the entire way with one of those misting fan bottles surrounding you in a cocoon of cooling breezy air. Damn, if I could bottle that race day weather, I would.
I won’t bore you with text of the mile by mile breakdown. Let’s just say that the race unfolded precisely as I had desired. I can’t follow a disciplined pace plan in a 5k, 10k, or marathon but, for some reason, half marathons I nail right to plan. Example? I targeted 59:40 at nine miles. Actual? 59:37. Also, I wanted slightly descending mile split times, starting easy for the first 3-4 miles, and then picking up the pace. I wasn’t nearly as consistent in my splits as last September’s half marathon but, overall, right to plan.
My goal was to beat 6:40 per mile pace and make Harold Camping appear the fool (again).
Here, in all of their glory, is my mind numbingly boring race splits (for my personal posterity):
Mile 01 6:43
Mile 02 6:49
Mile 03 6:45
Mile 04 6:41
Mile 05 6:25
Mile 06 6:37
Mile 07 6:31
Mile 08 6:29
Mile 09 6:37
Mile 10 6:37
Mile 11 6:33
Mile 12 6:39
Mile 13 6:27
Last bit 5:58 pace (46 seconds)
Numbers? Yes, numbers:
1:26:37 time
13.11 miles (Garmin sez 13.13 miles)
6:37 pace
26th of 1652 overall
5th of 86 in age group
A new PR by 66 seconds! (drum roll, cymbal crash, and update my side bar…eventually). To be fair, my Garmin measured this course at a more accurate 13.13 miles compared to my race last September which recorded a 13.29 distance and led to me making all sorts of derisive comments about the length of the course. So, if you consider the .16 difference in Garmin between the races and a 66 second PR, realistically, I’m probably running about the same as I was last September. But, you can only run the course presented right? So, a PR is a PR! And now you know why I stood past the finishing mat with my arms out and pants down. In other words, I was in “PR pose”.
Overall, I am very pleased how this race turned out. Of the dozens of races I have run, there are only a handful where you feel completely satisfied afterwards…I had a plan, I followed it, the weather was perfect, I felt strong, PR resulted! Besides the lingering taste of ground brownie in my mouth, everything went right to plan.
Except the Rapture. Oh, and Camping’s prediction was wrong again.
Eventually I sheepishly pulled my pants back up and wandered through the refreshment line to grab some cookies (with a few eye rolls and “ewwww”s from the volunteers) and headed to my car. While I was enraptured with the results, I wasn’t Raptured. Enough were, however, to leave me in 5th place and awarded an age group medal.
Into the drawer it goes!
Happy trails.
*Remember that the next time you buy tart cherries. They may just have been hydrated by hundreds of pre-race jittery runners. That’s what gives them the unique flavor.
__________________________________
Stay tuned next for a secondary race report about the rampant sexism I encountered while running this race. If you are easily offended, you’ll no doubt be horrifically offended by the off-color way in which I discuss this sensitive topic!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Harold Camping Predicts My Race Time
This Saturday is judgment day. Not Judgment Day in the fire and brimstone sense but small letter judgment day in the how-hard-did-you-train sense. It’s the Bayshore half marathon this Saturday! It should be Rapturous.
I’ve been having a difficult time determining just how well I’ll do in this race. My training log is filled with data but do I take the information as the absolute truth in text….or as parables for my training in general? Can I apply what I see from a 9 mile training run logged in the Book of Nitmos and extend it to a real life half marathon? How do I interpret the, at times, conflicting data? I did what any insane, hopelessly confused, mentally weak fool would do. I asked Harold Camping, Mr. Rapture 5/21, for help. I figured he had some free time now as his appointment calendar was empty past Saturday, right?
I gave him a quick call.
“Hello? Mr. Camping? I know you are great about studying a book and divining numbers for important events down to the exact day, hour and minute. Well, this half marathon is coming up for me. Can you help me predict my race time if I read to you from my training log? I’m setting goals…and I’d like to be precise…”
“God?”
“No, no….it’s Nitmos, though you wouldn’t be the first to ask.” Blushing.
“Jesus?”
“You are such a kidder. We both know he’s more of a baritone and that I have trouble with hair growth between the sideburns and chin. Say, any chance some of the top runners in my age group might have been sucked skyward last Saturday during your most recent Rapture and no one noticed? A few people here and there could suddenly ascend and no one would probably pay much attention unless they were pumping gas at the time and started spraying everyone with gasoline until the hose yanked out of their hands. A few gaunt runners would probably float fairly quickly out of view. I wouldn’t mind an age group medal…might look nice twinkling in the approaching celestial light during your next Rapture! I’m all for selective, sporadic Raptures if it bumps me up the age group rankings if you know what I mean. In fact, put me down for your last Rapture. I’d like to get some bling first.”
“You will live through hell on Earth and battle parched, angry mobs.”
“Yeah, it should be a tough race. The forecast looks okay and there should be plenty of water though, I agree, I will get thirsty. Runners can be surly late race…don’t know about angry. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Only 3% shall ascend, the rest shall remain behind…”
“Actually, the awards go five deep. Not sure what that is percentage-wise but…Hey, can you give me a finish time?”
“Genesis 1:28 says – "
“Hey, that’s nearly my current PR and very close to what I think I can do now. Let’s hope you’re right. I’d take it!”
“ - Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground.”
“Whoah, that may be going a little too far. 'Rule over every living creature that moves on the ground'? Damn, that would be cool though….at least for one morning. Well, thanks. I’ll talk to you post-race to see if you were right. Don’t go selling all of my possessions while I’m gone. Whether or not 1:28 happens, I still want those shows I have on TiVo. Bye.” Click.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I am shooting for something in the 1:27 range. Two misses in one week could be a bit much for him to bear. As it turns out, ole Harold C miscalculated by five months for his latest Rapture. The Next Great Rapture is actually Oct. 21st which, unfortunately, is five days after my planned Grand Rapids Marathon so it should be a more crowded field (arrrggh, why can’t we rapture before race day to make age grouping a little easier!! (shakes fist at sky))
For now, I’ll just concentrate on the Bayshore Half in two days. I hope he’s not that far off on my race time prediction or it could be a long afternoon.
Maybe if I get that PR, I’ll just extend my arms, throw my head back and wait for my ascension.
I just hope it doesn’t jiggle and spill my post-race beer on the way up. Rapture or not, a dehydrated runner needs his carbs.
Happy trails.
Note: The preceding phone conversation was completely fictional. I won’t call long distance unless it is to an 800 number. And 800 numbers don’t connect to Crazy Land.
Note 2: If you ever google images for 'Harold Camping', you will be surprised to find out how many photos there are of guys named ‘Harold’ who are camping at various parks and like to post them online.
_________________________________
Folks, Planet Gear sent me a cool Sigg water bottle which I have washed and prepped to use but have not done so as of yet. It looks like a fantastic water bottle though as far as water bottles go. They are currently running a Quicksilver and Roxy sale this week through next Tuesday and would like you to go there and check it out. They may have some upcoming sales on GU and Ultimate Direction things as well so stay tuned and check out Planet Gear when you have some time.
And be sure to drink your Ovaltine.
I’ve been having a difficult time determining just how well I’ll do in this race. My training log is filled with data but do I take the information as the absolute truth in text….or as parables for my training in general? Can I apply what I see from a 9 mile training run logged in the Book of Nitmos and extend it to a real life half marathon? How do I interpret the, at times, conflicting data? I did what any insane, hopelessly confused, mentally weak fool would do. I asked Harold Camping, Mr. Rapture 5/21, for help. I figured he had some free time now as his appointment calendar was empty past Saturday, right?
I gave him a quick call.
“Hello? Mr. Camping? I know you are great about studying a book and divining numbers for important events down to the exact day, hour and minute. Well, this half marathon is coming up for me. Can you help me predict my race time if I read to you from my training log? I’m setting goals…and I’d like to be precise…”
“God?”
“No, no….it’s Nitmos, though you wouldn’t be the first to ask.” Blushing.
“Jesus?”
“You are such a kidder. We both know he’s more of a baritone and that I have trouble with hair growth between the sideburns and chin. Say, any chance some of the top runners in my age group might have been sucked skyward last Saturday during your most recent Rapture and no one noticed? A few people here and there could suddenly ascend and no one would probably pay much attention unless they were pumping gas at the time and started spraying everyone with gasoline until the hose yanked out of their hands. A few gaunt runners would probably float fairly quickly out of view. I wouldn’t mind an age group medal…might look nice twinkling in the approaching celestial light during your next Rapture! I’m all for selective, sporadic Raptures if it bumps me up the age group rankings if you know what I mean. In fact, put me down for your last Rapture. I’d like to get some bling first.”
“You will live through hell on Earth and battle parched, angry mobs.”
“Yeah, it should be a tough race. The forecast looks okay and there should be plenty of water though, I agree, I will get thirsty. Runners can be surly late race…don’t know about angry. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Only 3% shall ascend, the rest shall remain behind…”
“Actually, the awards go five deep. Not sure what that is percentage-wise but…Hey, can you give me a finish time?”
“Genesis 1:28 says – "
“Hey, that’s nearly my current PR and very close to what I think I can do now. Let’s hope you’re right. I’d take it!”
“ - Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground.”
“Whoah, that may be going a little too far. 'Rule over every living creature that moves on the ground'? Damn, that would be cool though….at least for one morning. Well, thanks. I’ll talk to you post-race to see if you were right. Don’t go selling all of my possessions while I’m gone. Whether or not 1:28 happens, I still want those shows I have on TiVo. Bye.” Click.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I am shooting for something in the 1:27 range. Two misses in one week could be a bit much for him to bear. As it turns out, ole Harold C miscalculated by five months for his latest Rapture. The Next Great Rapture is actually Oct. 21st which, unfortunately, is five days after my planned Grand Rapids Marathon so it should be a more crowded field (arrrggh, why can’t we rapture before race day to make age grouping a little easier!! (shakes fist at sky))
For now, I’ll just concentrate on the Bayshore Half in two days. I hope he’s not that far off on my race time prediction or it could be a long afternoon.
Maybe if I get that PR, I’ll just extend my arms, throw my head back and wait for my ascension.
I just hope it doesn’t jiggle and spill my post-race beer on the way up. Rapture or not, a dehydrated runner needs his carbs.
Happy trails.
Note: The preceding phone conversation was completely fictional. I won’t call long distance unless it is to an 800 number. And 800 numbers don’t connect to Crazy Land.
Note 2: If you ever google images for 'Harold Camping', you will be surprised to find out how many photos there are of guys named ‘Harold’ who are camping at various parks and like to post them online.
_________________________________
Folks, Planet Gear sent me a cool Sigg water bottle which I have washed and prepped to use but have not done so as of yet. It looks like a fantastic water bottle though as far as water bottles go. They are currently running a Quicksilver and Roxy sale this week through next Tuesday and would like you to go there and check it out. They may have some upcoming sales on GU and Ultimate Direction things as well so stay tuned and check out Planet Gear when you have some time.
And be sure to drink your Ovaltine.
Friday, May 20, 2011
What This Race Means To Me
What does the Bayshore Half Marathon on May 28th mean to me?
Nothing much.
I kid, I kid. It means more than nothing…but certainly south of something significant. It’s my first race of the year and, after a long cold winter and consistently depressing rainy spring, it will serve as a “baseline” race to determine where I’m at and where I need to go for the rest of the year. This isn’t a big showdown race between me and PR. Though there is an off-chance I could PR, doing so would probably inspire one of the following surprised proclamations:
- “Holy shit, a PR!”
- “Damn, I’m faster than I thought…someone get me a mirror, maybe I’m better looking than I thought too!”*
- “I was kidding when I said ‘do not resuscitate’….” Beeeeeeeeeeep!
It’s one of those races where I’m going to just show up and see what happens. I do that a lot in life. Others may have kicked ass on exams, quizzes, and SATs but I never – never – lost attendance points. Who’s the dummy now? You in your Cadillac and multimillion dollar home or me typing lame blog posts in my basement while wearing slippers? I think we both know the answer to that. Attendance! Attendance paid for this drop ceiling and sensibly priced basement carpeting. Attendance pays for this HEPA filter to combat the mold spores surrounding me all day and the Claritin I take when the filter doesn’t work. I don’t know what’ll happen on May 28th but I know I’ll ATTEND the event and that’s really half the battle.
Plus, I just love to get my Gu and Gatorade on. Seriously, there’s no place else where you can just suck down Gu and guzzle Gatorade to your heart’s content without getting a sidelong, disapproving glance. I think I’m addicted. Really, that’s why I continue to sign up for races…so I can feed the monster within. Nobody cares if I double fist some Gu while attending, participating or even cheering at a race. In the proper environment, it’s completely acceptable. Light up a doobie at a PTA meeting? You’ll get those angry sidelong – hell, full on frontlong – glances. Go to an Amsterdam café? No one gives a shit. Leave the PTA meeting and casually pick up a hooker on the way home? More enraged frontlong glances from the passing PTA motorists. Hang out at Charlie Sheen’s house sitting on a chair made of interlocked, contorted hookers? No problem.
See? It’s all relative. And speaking of relative….(insert your own Appalachia joke here)
So I’m missing some of the nervous, excited anticipation for race day. To be honest, my excitement levels have decreased with each passing marathon since I first toed the line (i.e. stood nearly 18 minutes behind the gun start literally at the very back of thirty thousand people) at the 2006 Chicago Marathon. There I was all wide-eyed and trembling with excitement. The only thing more numerous than my goose bumps was my adult back acne.** I’m an old, grizzled race veteran now. I still look forward to the races but, instead of dancing back and forth with anticipation and taking in the scene with every sense with which I’ve been endowed, I’m more likely to be yawning and reaching back to try to erupt a few ripe ones on the ole back before things get started. You know, “two birds, one stone” er, “two whiteheads, one set of pinching fingers”…however the saying goes. Some folks get blood “rose blossoms” around their skinned nipples towards the end of a race…..I have them dotted all over the back of my shirt pre-race.
So where does that leave me with this race (besides amongst a litter of rhetorical questions – sorry about that)? I will attend. I will run hard. I hope to run well. But a 15 second PR means the same to me as a 30 second PR miss. I’m ballparking my current fitness level so I can revisit a half marathon later in the year and take a run towards 1:25. Also, the Bayshore takes place in my hometown and who doesn’t like to run well in their hometown? (Rhetorically speaking.)
Just excuse me if I don’t have to nervously pee every five seconds, I seem tired, and my back “itches”.
Happy trails.
*not possible
** sadly, still the case
_________________________________
Mrs. Nitmos would like you to know that I don’t have bad back acne. Sure, occasionally, I have one of those middle of the back ragers where the hands, cloth and soap don’t reach and you have to try to pop it by angling yourself up against a door frame. But, generally speaking, I’m as smooth as a baby’s bottom (if a baby’s bottom had killer lats). She says that, when she runs her hands over my back, it’s like "dragging a palm across an abacus". I don’t know what an abacus is but it must be smoo-ooo-ooth.
Also, Mrs. Nitmos recently celebrated a birthday. You may recall that last year I took her to New York and wined and dined her in an extravagant, credit card buckling fashion. Our luxurious dinners nearly cost the same as a car payment – if I owned a used 1986 Dodge Aries K car, which I do. This year? Olive Garden in Nowheresville, MI. The sands of time shift suddenly and unexpectedly…and seemingly impact the gastro-intestinal tract. Happy birthday! Next year? Arby's. Drive-thru.
Nothing much.
I kid, I kid. It means more than nothing…but certainly south of something significant. It’s my first race of the year and, after a long cold winter and consistently depressing rainy spring, it will serve as a “baseline” race to determine where I’m at and where I need to go for the rest of the year. This isn’t a big showdown race between me and PR. Though there is an off-chance I could PR, doing so would probably inspire one of the following surprised proclamations:
- “Holy shit, a PR!”
- “Damn, I’m faster than I thought…someone get me a mirror, maybe I’m better looking than I thought too!”*
- “I was kidding when I said ‘do not resuscitate’….” Beeeeeeeeeeep!
It’s one of those races where I’m going to just show up and see what happens. I do that a lot in life. Others may have kicked ass on exams, quizzes, and SATs but I never – never – lost attendance points. Who’s the dummy now? You in your Cadillac and multimillion dollar home or me typing lame blog posts in my basement while wearing slippers? I think we both know the answer to that. Attendance! Attendance paid for this drop ceiling and sensibly priced basement carpeting. Attendance pays for this HEPA filter to combat the mold spores surrounding me all day and the Claritin I take when the filter doesn’t work. I don’t know what’ll happen on May 28th but I know I’ll ATTEND the event and that’s really half the battle.
Plus, I just love to get my Gu and Gatorade on. Seriously, there’s no place else where you can just suck down Gu and guzzle Gatorade to your heart’s content without getting a sidelong, disapproving glance. I think I’m addicted. Really, that’s why I continue to sign up for races…so I can feed the monster within. Nobody cares if I double fist some Gu while attending, participating or even cheering at a race. In the proper environment, it’s completely acceptable. Light up a doobie at a PTA meeting? You’ll get those angry sidelong – hell, full on frontlong – glances. Go to an Amsterdam café? No one gives a shit. Leave the PTA meeting and casually pick up a hooker on the way home? More enraged frontlong glances from the passing PTA motorists. Hang out at Charlie Sheen’s house sitting on a chair made of interlocked, contorted hookers? No problem.
See? It’s all relative. And speaking of relative….(insert your own Appalachia joke here)
So I’m missing some of the nervous, excited anticipation for race day. To be honest, my excitement levels have decreased with each passing marathon since I first toed the line (i.e. stood nearly 18 minutes behind the gun start literally at the very back of thirty thousand people) at the 2006 Chicago Marathon. There I was all wide-eyed and trembling with excitement. The only thing more numerous than my goose bumps was my adult back acne.** I’m an old, grizzled race veteran now. I still look forward to the races but, instead of dancing back and forth with anticipation and taking in the scene with every sense with which I’ve been endowed, I’m more likely to be yawning and reaching back to try to erupt a few ripe ones on the ole back before things get started. You know, “two birds, one stone” er, “two whiteheads, one set of pinching fingers”…however the saying goes. Some folks get blood “rose blossoms” around their skinned nipples towards the end of a race…..I have them dotted all over the back of my shirt pre-race.
So where does that leave me with this race (besides amongst a litter of rhetorical questions – sorry about that)? I will attend. I will run hard. I hope to run well. But a 15 second PR means the same to me as a 30 second PR miss. I’m ballparking my current fitness level so I can revisit a half marathon later in the year and take a run towards 1:25. Also, the Bayshore takes place in my hometown and who doesn’t like to run well in their hometown? (Rhetorically speaking.)
Just excuse me if I don’t have to nervously pee every five seconds, I seem tired, and my back “itches”.
Happy trails.
*not possible
** sadly, still the case
_________________________________
Mrs. Nitmos would like you to know that I don’t have bad back acne. Sure, occasionally, I have one of those middle of the back ragers where the hands, cloth and soap don’t reach and you have to try to pop it by angling yourself up against a door frame. But, generally speaking, I’m as smooth as a baby’s bottom (if a baby’s bottom had killer lats). She says that, when she runs her hands over my back, it’s like "dragging a palm across an abacus". I don’t know what an abacus is but it must be smoo-ooo-ooth.
Also, Mrs. Nitmos recently celebrated a birthday. You may recall that last year I took her to New York and wined and dined her in an extravagant, credit card buckling fashion. Our luxurious dinners nearly cost the same as a car payment – if I owned a used 1986 Dodge Aries K car, which I do. This year? Olive Garden in Nowheresville, MI. The sands of time shift suddenly and unexpectedly…and seemingly impact the gastro-intestinal tract. Happy birthday! Next year? Arby's. Drive-thru.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
When I'm Good, I'm Very, Very Bad
Here’s how it normally works: I silently bitch and complain to myself about the day’s planned race pace time trial all the way up to the moment I step out the door. I make up so many excuses about why I don’t want to run/can’t run, you’d think that I’m Viper. Heck, I even consider skipping the run altogether and posting a review of beer no one is going to drink.
But I goad myself into lacing up the ole Asics and getting out there anyhow. I’m not RazZ; I won’t quit completely.
When apathy strikes, the first step is often the hardest. I have this curiously incurious intellect. I convince myself that I’ll cut down my planned 9 miles to 4-5 miles making a difficult race pace run into a comparative walk in the woods. It buoys the spirit and offers an acceptable compromise to the psyche. Well, I don’t feel like nine miles but I can do five. Let’s get the shoes on! I’ve done this a hundred times but I still fool myself. I know that, once running, I’ll complete the entire planned distance but it helps to get me out the door. I must be a completeEnglish banker boob to continue to fall for this every time. Now I know how Ian feels. But, sometimes, whatever works, right?
So when I’m in one of those not so motivated moods and I’ve played mind games just to start the run, you’d think that my planned pace and distance would crash and burn like so many Christian Slater television series launches, right? Wrong. The more I complain, the more I make fun of my favorite blogger targets, the better my run goes. It’s like my hatred of hard effort, RazZ, Viper and Ian fuels my running success. My best runs often follow 3-4 hours of solid internal bitching. I get out there and I can just feel the anger and annoyance flowing through my lungs and expelling like so many twangs of the banjo. My legs churn effortlessly like Bobby Flay’s mixer through some potatoes. My feet beat back the sidewalk like a banker cackling at a struggling debtor with an anguished, outstretched arm pleading for mercy. When I’m done, the apathy and complaining have poured through the pores creating an ever expanding PR -paced puddle on the kitchen floor beneath me as I drink post-run water.
When my mood is bad, my runs are very good. Hate and anger breed PRs.
Conversely, when I’m good, I’m very, very bad. Sometimes, the weather is perfect. The birds are chirping. My hamstrings are loose and stringy. Heck, the banjo doesn’t even sound like the ominous precursor to ass rape. I want to run all day and all night and a bit more the next day until Breaking In is on. If someone asked me if I wanted to re-mortgage my home with the devil himself, I’d at least listen to the rates.
But this happiness and motivation only lasts for a mile or two. It gives way to pain, struggle, grimacing, sadness, more grimacing and, ultimately, failure. My planned pace and distance isn’t met. The joy and positive energy dissipated like a delicious Flay steak released with a gaseous shart a few hours later. Gone. Nothing to show for it except some indigestion and less laundry soap. When I’m happy and relaxed, my runs suck. Plain and simple.
Positivity In = Failure Out
Negativity In = Success Out
I must have the hate and rage and annoyance and disgust in order to run my best. I want to get this run over with right fucking NOW. I run with purpose and intensity. I run to conquer goals and show no mercy. I run to GET DONE.
The other kind of running works great when I’m not preparing for a race. I love to watch butterflies frolic and birds chirp. If I need to slow up to clear room for a toddler on a tippy tricycle, so be it. It’s a lovely day and this just gives me a few extra moments to enjoy it. And, awww, look at the little horn. Running relaxed is certainly less stressful…but also less successful.
If I’m approaching a race – as I am in less than two weeks – you better watch out. There’s a freight Hate Train rolling down the sidewalks. It cares not of butterflies and banjos, Bobby’s and bikes. It cares only of PRs and Completing This Damn Run.
It leaves old PRs and tipped trikes and skinned knees in its wake.
Happy trails.
But I goad myself into lacing up the ole Asics and getting out there anyhow. I’m not RazZ; I won’t quit completely.
When apathy strikes, the first step is often the hardest. I have this curiously incurious intellect. I convince myself that I’ll cut down my planned 9 miles to 4-5 miles making a difficult race pace run into a comparative walk in the woods. It buoys the spirit and offers an acceptable compromise to the psyche. Well, I don’t feel like nine miles but I can do five. Let’s get the shoes on! I’ve done this a hundred times but I still fool myself. I know that, once running, I’ll complete the entire planned distance but it helps to get me out the door. I must be a complete
So when I’m in one of those not so motivated moods and I’ve played mind games just to start the run, you’d think that my planned pace and distance would crash and burn like so many Christian Slater television series launches, right? Wrong. The more I complain, the more I make fun of my favorite blogger targets, the better my run goes. It’s like my hatred of hard effort, RazZ, Viper and Ian fuels my running success. My best runs often follow 3-4 hours of solid internal bitching. I get out there and I can just feel the anger and annoyance flowing through my lungs and expelling like so many twangs of the banjo. My legs churn effortlessly like Bobby Flay’s mixer through some potatoes. My feet beat back the sidewalk like a banker cackling at a struggling debtor with an anguished, outstretched arm pleading for mercy. When I’m done, the apathy and complaining have poured through the pores creating an ever expanding PR -paced puddle on the kitchen floor beneath me as I drink post-run water.
When my mood is bad, my runs are very good. Hate and anger breed PRs.
Conversely, when I’m good, I’m very, very bad. Sometimes, the weather is perfect. The birds are chirping. My hamstrings are loose and stringy. Heck, the banjo doesn’t even sound like the ominous precursor to ass rape. I want to run all day and all night and a bit more the next day until Breaking In is on. If someone asked me if I wanted to re-mortgage my home with the devil himself, I’d at least listen to the rates.
But this happiness and motivation only lasts for a mile or two. It gives way to pain, struggle, grimacing, sadness, more grimacing and, ultimately, failure. My planned pace and distance isn’t met. The joy and positive energy dissipated like a delicious Flay steak released with a gaseous shart a few hours later. Gone. Nothing to show for it except some indigestion and less laundry soap. When I’m happy and relaxed, my runs suck. Plain and simple.
Positivity In = Failure Out
Negativity In = Success Out
I must have the hate and rage and annoyance and disgust in order to run my best. I want to get this run over with right fucking NOW. I run with purpose and intensity. I run to conquer goals and show no mercy. I run to GET DONE.
The other kind of running works great when I’m not preparing for a race. I love to watch butterflies frolic and birds chirp. If I need to slow up to clear room for a toddler on a tippy tricycle, so be it. It’s a lovely day and this just gives me a few extra moments to enjoy it. And, awww, look at the little horn. Running relaxed is certainly less stressful…but also less successful.
If I’m approaching a race – as I am in less than two weeks – you better watch out. There’s a freight Hate Train rolling down the sidewalks. It cares not of butterflies and banjos, Bobby’s and bikes. It cares only of PRs and Completing This Damn Run.
It leaves old PRs and tipped trikes and skinned knees in its wake.
Happy trails.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Speed Work: Nature's Laxative
Speed training is really shitty. I’m not making one of my usual clever puns or excuses to slip in a vulgar word on a public blog. Balls! I’m above that. No, I mean literally shitty. Here’s how it works (presented to you in short, masculine Hemingway sentences):
- I run intervals.
- I sweat hard.
- I am the envy of all that bear witness.
- I feel a small lump in my abdomen.
- I fear it is a hernia. Or the track made me pregnant. No, no, it’s a hernia.
- I run home for a shower.
- My hernia starts sinking lower.
- Now it pokes its head out to have a little looksee.
- I realize it is not a curious hernia and rush to the bathroom.
- I explode like I just sat on a chocolate grenade.
- I didn’t save anyone. I am the only victim.
- Clean up in aisle Ass.
- Oh, the humanity.
- I go about my day.
- I sit on three more chocolate grenades at various intervals throughout the afternoon.
This happens every time I do speed work. If I do 4 x 1600 meters at the track, I also do 4 x explosive poo on the toilet. It’s gotten to the point where, if I’m feeling a little backed up, I consider throwing on my shoes and hitting the track. I tell Mrs. Nitmos, “You know, I’m a little clogged from yesterday’s steak. I’m going to hit the track. Can you have the light and fan on with a book or two prepped on the bathroom sink. Make sure a back-up role of paper is close by! I’ll be home in 35 minutes.”
Tuesday is track/speed work day for me. And Tuesday afternoon is Call the handyman to fix the ceiling fan day as well. I have him on speed dial. We are thinking about putting in an open air retractable atrium. At this point, it just makes more sense.
Why do people take pills to get things moving down there? Just hit some intervals at your local track. Bran, fiber, Metamucil….it’s all a bunch of poopycock*. The answer is right at your local track. I’m still working on the scientific formula – which I hope to present to Runner’s World sometime next year when the restraining order has been lifted – that equates Intervals, Distance, Meat Consumption, and Effort into an equation that can be used to anticipate your colon reaction.
Something like:
(I x D / M.C. (ounces)) / π x E = # Chocolate Grenades Expected
It’s still a work in progress. Eat your heart out Einstein. (What the hell does E=mc² mean anyway? What does Meat Consumption have to do with energy?? And why on Earth would you square it?) But way to look like Doc Brown from Back to the Future, Einny. Cliché!
If you don’t want to go through all of this trouble just to rattle the ole Stink Locker, I guess you can still do manual disimpaction the old-fashioned way: The Bobby Brown-Whitney Houston way. No link. You’re welcome.
Happy….BOOM goes the chocolate grenade!
*Not a gay joke.
________________________________
1600 meter intervals in the 5:58 range. Looking for 5:55's just for the numerically pleasing sameness but, so far, no success.
- I run intervals.
- I sweat hard.
- I am the envy of all that bear witness.
- I feel a small lump in my abdomen.
- I fear it is a hernia. Or the track made me pregnant. No, no, it’s a hernia.
- I run home for a shower.
- My hernia starts sinking lower.
- Now it pokes its head out to have a little looksee.
- I realize it is not a curious hernia and rush to the bathroom.
- I explode like I just sat on a chocolate grenade.
- I didn’t save anyone. I am the only victim.
- Clean up in aisle Ass.
- Oh, the humanity.
- I go about my day.
- I sit on three more chocolate grenades at various intervals throughout the afternoon.
This happens every time I do speed work. If I do 4 x 1600 meters at the track, I also do 4 x explosive poo on the toilet. It’s gotten to the point where, if I’m feeling a little backed up, I consider throwing on my shoes and hitting the track. I tell Mrs. Nitmos, “You know, I’m a little clogged from yesterday’s steak. I’m going to hit the track. Can you have the light and fan on with a book or two prepped on the bathroom sink. Make sure a back-up role of paper is close by! I’ll be home in 35 minutes.”
Tuesday is track/speed work day for me. And Tuesday afternoon is Call the handyman to fix the ceiling fan day as well. I have him on speed dial. We are thinking about putting in an open air retractable atrium. At this point, it just makes more sense.
Why do people take pills to get things moving down there? Just hit some intervals at your local track. Bran, fiber, Metamucil….it’s all a bunch of poopycock*. The answer is right at your local track. I’m still working on the scientific formula – which I hope to present to Runner’s World sometime next year when the restraining order has been lifted – that equates Intervals, Distance, Meat Consumption, and Effort into an equation that can be used to anticipate your colon reaction.
Something like:
(I x D / M.C. (ounces)) / π x E = # Chocolate Grenades Expected
It’s still a work in progress. Eat your heart out Einstein. (What the hell does E=mc² mean anyway? What does Meat Consumption have to do with energy?? And why on Earth would you square it?) But way to look like Doc Brown from Back to the Future, Einny. Cliché!
If you don’t want to go through all of this trouble just to rattle the ole Stink Locker, I guess you can still do manual disimpaction the old-fashioned way: The Bobby Brown-Whitney Houston way. No link. You’re welcome.
Happy….BOOM goes the chocolate grenade!
*Not a gay joke.
________________________________
1600 meter intervals in the 5:58 range. Looking for 5:55's just for the numerically pleasing sameness but, so far, no success.
Friday, May 06, 2011
Who Brought the Beach Ball?
Sorry I’ve been out of commission all week. I just flew in from Pakistan….and, boy, are my arms tired!
I can’t tell you what I was doing there. I promised important folks that I’d keep my lips SEALed. I can tell you that I learned how long it takes to slowly melt a person from the ground up. About 40 minutes.
I can also tell you that the Call of Duty folks have nothing to fear from the major news organization’s war game animations. Have you seen those mission simulations they are playing on ABC, NBC, CBS, et al? I didn’t think anyone still operated a Commodore 64 or Tandy 1000 computer but, there it was on national TV. Eight bits of power in action! Er, no thanks, I’ll stick with Qbert.
I think my favorite moment last Sunday, as I settled down in my bunk somewhere in the Arabian, was watching the celebration in the U.S. We sure can celebrate with the best of them. As a rule, we don’t like effigy burning. However, we are not opposed to telephone pole shimmying and beach ball bopping.
Did you see the beach ball? Seriously, LOVE. THIS. Only in America does someone head out the door to join a celebration over the death of a world terrorist and think to themselves: wait, let me grab my beach ball first. I mean, one wasn’t just lying there in the street. And most people don’t have them already inflated and sitting around in their living room. No, I’m thinking that someone got all jazzed up, put on their jacket and shoes, and realized something was missing. Death of public enemy #1? Check. Cab money to the White House? Check. Few dollars extra in case my hooting and hollering requires a Taco Bell run later? Check. Okay, set to go….except, oh shit, I almost forgot the beach ball! I can blow it up on the way.
Have the terrorists won? If we still have the desire and foresight to inflate brightly colored, rainbow-striped plastic balls on the way to a death celebration, I’m thinking No.
This is a running blog so it is incumbent upon me to tie this into running somehow. Luckily enough, I’m up for the challenge. Last week, I unveiled my Hip, Modern Half Marathon Time Trial. It seemed well-received. Most of you would also like the half marathon distance adjusted back a few miles to make PR-setting a little easier. I believe public consensus is congealing around this goal like so much burnt tissue and bone. (BOOM! Tie in!) But, I’ve found a way to make it even more Hipper and Moderner.
I usually do some mile repeats during the week…maybe some 3 or 4 X 1600 meters. Ever do 3 x Aircraft Carrier? It’s not as easy as it sounds. Those things are looong and gusty. And God forbid 'things' are being tossed overboard at the time. Ugh, obstacles! Holy Carl Vinson, I was exhausted.
Yesterday, I managed a hipper, moderner half marathon time trial of 9.5 miles @ 6:40 pace. This was a slight step back from the 9 miles @ 6:38 pace last week but still right on race goal pace. Plus, considering all the dead weight dragging and beach ball bopping from earlier in the week, my quads were shot. Death celebrations are never good for speed work. I believe Galloway has a chapter about that in his last book.
Don’t put away the beach balls just yet. It’s Mother’s Day on Sunday. Moms rarely like burnt effigies but they seem appreciative of a friendly game of beach ball bopping kept at a safe distance from the fine china and dinnerware. If you are a Mom, Happy Mother’s Day! If you have a Mom, Happy Mother’s Day! Otherwise, I hope Ian has a nice Sunday.
Now, get out there and SEALabrate you fools! (I know I have already….but you didn’t hear that from me.)
Happy trails.
_________________________________
Things have been busy lately. I haven’t made the rounds to catch up with all of you. I will soon. Ever been “debriefed”? Apparently, it’s a long process.
_________________________________
Btw, baseball games feature heavy beach ball bopping. NASCAR, besides drunken, toothless hillbillies, features plenty of midriff muffin tops boppin' beach balls. We recently learned dead terrorists inspire beach ball bopping. Why not marathons? I rarely see a beach ball being bopped around the crowd during a race. Are we not beach ball worthy?
I can’t tell you what I was doing there. I promised important folks that I’d keep my lips SEALed. I can tell you that I learned how long it takes to slowly melt a person from the ground up. About 40 minutes.
I can also tell you that the Call of Duty folks have nothing to fear from the major news organization’s war game animations. Have you seen those mission simulations they are playing on ABC, NBC, CBS, et al? I didn’t think anyone still operated a Commodore 64 or Tandy 1000 computer but, there it was on national TV. Eight bits of power in action! Er, no thanks, I’ll stick with Qbert.
I think my favorite moment last Sunday, as I settled down in my bunk somewhere in the Arabian, was watching the celebration in the U.S. We sure can celebrate with the best of them. As a rule, we don’t like effigy burning. However, we are not opposed to telephone pole shimmying and beach ball bopping.
Did you see the beach ball? Seriously, LOVE. THIS. Only in America does someone head out the door to join a celebration over the death of a world terrorist and think to themselves: wait, let me grab my beach ball first. I mean, one wasn’t just lying there in the street. And most people don’t have them already inflated and sitting around in their living room. No, I’m thinking that someone got all jazzed up, put on their jacket and shoes, and realized something was missing. Death of public enemy #1? Check. Cab money to the White House? Check. Few dollars extra in case my hooting and hollering requires a Taco Bell run later? Check. Okay, set to go….except, oh shit, I almost forgot the beach ball! I can blow it up on the way.
Have the terrorists won? If we still have the desire and foresight to inflate brightly colored, rainbow-striped plastic balls on the way to a death celebration, I’m thinking No.
This is a running blog so it is incumbent upon me to tie this into running somehow. Luckily enough, I’m up for the challenge. Last week, I unveiled my Hip, Modern Half Marathon Time Trial. It seemed well-received. Most of you would also like the half marathon distance adjusted back a few miles to make PR-setting a little easier. I believe public consensus is congealing around this goal like so much burnt tissue and bone. (BOOM! Tie in!) But, I’ve found a way to make it even more Hipper and Moderner.
I usually do some mile repeats during the week…maybe some 3 or 4 X 1600 meters. Ever do 3 x Aircraft Carrier? It’s not as easy as it sounds. Those things are looong and gusty. And God forbid 'things' are being tossed overboard at the time. Ugh, obstacles! Holy Carl Vinson, I was exhausted.
Yesterday, I managed a hipper, moderner half marathon time trial of 9.5 miles @ 6:40 pace. This was a slight step back from the 9 miles @ 6:38 pace last week but still right on race goal pace. Plus, considering all the dead weight dragging and beach ball bopping from earlier in the week, my quads were shot. Death celebrations are never good for speed work. I believe Galloway has a chapter about that in his last book.
Don’t put away the beach balls just yet. It’s Mother’s Day on Sunday. Moms rarely like burnt effigies but they seem appreciative of a friendly game of beach ball bopping kept at a safe distance from the fine china and dinnerware. If you are a Mom, Happy Mother’s Day! If you have a Mom, Happy Mother’s Day! Otherwise, I hope Ian has a nice Sunday.
Now, get out there and SEALabrate you fools! (I know I have already….but you didn’t hear that from me.)
Happy trails.
_________________________________
Things have been busy lately. I haven’t made the rounds to catch up with all of you. I will soon. Ever been “debriefed”? Apparently, it’s a long process.
_________________________________
Btw, baseball games feature heavy beach ball bopping. NASCAR, besides drunken, toothless hillbillies, features plenty of midriff muffin tops boppin' beach balls. We recently learned dead terrorists inspire beach ball bopping. Why not marathons? I rarely see a beach ball being bopped around the crowd during a race. Are we not beach ball worthy?
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