Runner Conversation Hearts

I wasn't going to post today -back to back days for a gentlemen of my delicate constitution is almost more than I can bear - but a few of you had such tremendous additions to the Valentine's Day conversation heart suggestions that I'd like to highlight them here before they got lost in the comment bin of history. They are so much better than the ill-considered, hastily conceived creations I puked out on the blog when posting.

Here's some good ones. Add some more if you think of others.

Drea:

- It's Hard
- I Won
- Bib 69
- Gu?
- My Nipples are Raw (ed. Raw Nips?)
- Fast.
- Chicked
- Suck It Up

Elizabeth:

- You'll Always Come in First
- Hard Core
- Just Do It (ed. Nike may take issue)
- We Did It!
- I Will Beat You

Beth:

- Pace me?

Mine (with additions):

- Long run?
- My PR!
- Wanna Fartlek?
- Chase me
- Wanna tri?
- Let's Get Sweaty
- Puke much?
- Go Long and Hard
- DNF
- Your Gu or Mine?

What else do you got?

Okay, I'm done for today. Back to the nap.

Conversations with My Heart

I know this sounds like the name of a new Sally Fields movie, co-starring Julia Roberts. It’s not. It’s me taking a quiet moment for some introspection. I like to drink coffee alone in my basement every weekday morning. Usually I catch up on the BIG NEWS of the day according to cnn.com and the detroitnews.com. Who am I kidding? I spend all morning on TMZ.Com looking for nip slips. Then I nap.

But today I’m just not in the mood for celebrity nipples. It’s Valentine’s Day. Mrs. Nitmos is at work. The kids are at school. Heck, I’m even “working” right now (though I doubt my employer cares that I just found an old Cameron Diaz nip slip). On this day of wine and roses, I’m sharing a warm coffee with a group of ants that have recently started scouting the walls of my house looking for a nice nesting spot. They zig, then zag, until I pin the bottom half of their body to the wall and then watch their top half slowly unwind away its life in a frantic arm wiggle over the course of the next hour. Each time I look up from TMZ, the arms are moving a bit slower. While strangely, erotically satisfying, today is not the day for insect torture. Today, their benevolent overlord dispatches them with a full thumb BOO-YEAH smash that sends them straight to hell. I’m not even going to look at celebrity nip slips either. Call me a romantic.

Mrs. Nitmos knows how lucky she is to have me. Hell, I feel lucky just being me. As always, the thing most people love about me is my modesty. I’m told it really shines through from my granite jaw line, fierce, determined eyes, and bouncing could-cut-glass pecs. I’d blush if it weren’t so true. I know you all appreciate me too. When someone asks, 'have you ever read Feet Meet Street?' You all probably say with a playful, dismissive wave of the hand, “Who, that modest guy’s terrific blog?” Do I have flaws? Of course…a complete inability for accurate self-reflection. It’s liberating.

But this isn’t about me – what kind of egomaniac has a blog to talk about themselves?? This is about Mrs. Nitmos. She’s been in the business of getting back into the running business lately. She’s been treadmilling, shoe buying, and contorting herself all over the house into weird configurations that she calls “exercise”. Her arms are sore. Her glutes are sore. Her hamstrings are sore. Her flux capacitor is sore. Really, it’s beautiful to see. I’ve been running, stretchy banding, crunching and pushing up the same general way over the last several years that I’ve missed that good, old-fashioned I WANT TO DIE DUE TO THIS MUSCLE PAIN feeling you only get from new exercises. I’m jealous. I like watching her limp around rubbing her ass. I like hearing the pan fall in the kitchen because her arms were sore and gave out trying to lift it. (Don’t worry, hon, the dinner can be made again! Repetition is the key to success! A runner doesn’t build speed through just ONE 800.) There’s something weirdly erotic about seeing her in pain due to working out. Call me a romantic.

Running is a solo sport…done adjacently to others. It’s better in a pack though.(t.w.t.o.s)* While I enjoy the solitary nature of the sport, it’s nice to share the pain with a loved one. It’s like going to a his n’ her submissive club and being tied up together with one of those little red balls in our mouths. Each whip sting sends a dreamy, heavy eye lidded glance of love between our two restrained heads. This is something we are doing together – in our own independent world of torture - no matter the pain. Safe word, schmafe word.

This is the conversation I’ve had with my heart this morning. I love to see Mrs. Nitmos in pain: her arms flailing away in exercise…getting slower and slower due to fatigue…the intoxicating pain and searing muscle burn…the frantic fight against the natural, inexorable pull towards inactivity to which most people succumb. You all may like your chocolates and sappy poems and significant others dressed up in pretty clothes and coiffed hair. I prefer my sweaty wife with sore arms and the zesty scent of a good work-out. Though, to be fair, I wouldn’t turn away from a good Nike sport bra nip slip either.

Call me a romantic.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

*That’s what the orgy says
_________________________________

BONUS: My V-DAY Gift to You: Worst Conversation Heart Phrases (according to tbs.com):

1. UR. . .pretty?
2. Be Som1 Else’s
3. Where’s UR Mom?
4. UR GR8T. . .Psych!
5. UTI Luv
6. Eeew
7. Breath Mint Plz
8. It’s Over
9. Not Sry
10. #1 Hussy

What about for runners? Any ideas for run related conversation hearts? Let me get you started:

1. Long run?
2. My PR!
3. Wanna Fartlek?
4. Chase me
5. Wanna tri?
6. Lets get sweaty.

Rote Running

People see me about town on the run. My running routes take me along a couple of the major roads and high traffic areas. This is one reason I remain steadfastly devoted to the sidewalk. I like my runs with as little GMC Acadia grills to the face as possible. I find my pace suffers greatly if an Escalade uses my torso as a speed bump. I get honked at on occasion. I wave. I don’t usually know who I’m waving at but I figure they must know me. Or they are honking at the car in front of them, in which case, I’m waving at someone else. I’m still cool.

I’ve been running these (nearly) same routes for ten years. Same houses, same intersections, same trees, same rotting deer carcass (deer skeleton…deer bones…swarm of flies…deer ashes), same everything. I believe I know every square of sidewalk that has been replaced by the road commission and could offer a few suggestions on some others that are due.

It is rote running at its finest. I put on my shoes, tune in some tunes, and head out the door without thinking or planning. The only question is…which way to turn first? At the end of my driveway, I can go straight and do the more challenging 7.5 mile loop or right and take the flatter 6 mile loop. Or still go right and merge the flat course into the challenging course halfway and go 8.5 miles. And there are various combinations of these loops that can make the distance anywhere between 5 and 10 miles arriving back at my driveway at precisely a ½ mile mark on the nose. I know the loops and distances like the angry mole near my taint.

This probably sounds boring to some runners. I’ve heard it before…”don’t you get tired of the same routes”. “I’d be bored.” “Why don’t you find someplace else to run?” “Why do you want me to look at your taint mole?”

But running in and of itself is pretty repetitive. You place one foot in front of the other aaaannd REPEAT a few thousand times until you’ve covered the desired distance. It’s not a steeplechase. Sure, you may have some curbs to jump, pedestrian walk signs to inspire an impromptu fartlek, or an irritated mole snag to create a slight hitch in the stride but, generally speaking, the entire act of running is one big rote exercise. You must love the sameness of it all on some level.

And I do…which is why the scenery while running barely matters to me. Plop me along a country trail and, while refreshing, I’m still concentrating on the run, my pace, and evaluating my effort towards the work out. Put me in the Boston Marathon and….I’m still thinking about my pace and completing full body system checks every twenty seconds, approximately. I might catch a few sights in passing but, really, the scenery changes but I don’t typically notice.

I don’t even have a race on the calendar (yet) in the coming few months but I’m often asked “what are you training for?” Well, nothing, really. I just run because that’s what I like to do. I still do tempo runs, long runs, track 800’s because that’s part of the rote routine. I don’t need a race to keep me motivated. I don’t need a change in scenery to keep the activity enjoyable. I may need a dermatologist to look at my taint mole but that’s a completely different post I have planned for you.*

While I enjoy the roteness of my running, there lurks a hidden danger. I’m so used to my routine that weeks and months go by and I realize that I’ve barely pushed any harder outside of my comfort zone. I’m running the same paces and distance I did six months previously. And for an inveterate PR chaser, this is a danger. While the rote keeps me heading out the door, the rote also confines me to a certain level of training.

You must know when to cut the rote off and start fresh. Maybe I’ll go counter clockwise on my long run this Sunday…see what everything looks like coming from the other direction. I’m feeling a bit crazy.

I guess what I'm saying is...everyone needs a taint mole along the way to interrupt the rote. I hope you find yours.

Happy repeating.
Happy repeating.

*Plus, Giveaway!

Runner Zero

It won’t be a surprise to you to learn that I have a disease. It may be a surprise to you that it didn’t originate from Singapore. I was infected sometime about July 1999 in a small northern Michigan community. I had full blown symptoms the following spring. There were no “bathhouses” involved, no toe tapping, no George Michaels so – WHAM! – get those thoughts right out of your head.

No, it’s not Chronic Handsomeness either thankyouverymuch. It’s not even mild Pancreatic Hirsuteness. It’s running. I’m stricken. Someone gather my friend* and family and hook me up to a Gu I.V. I’ve been ill for over 12 years and the symptoms are only getting worse.

- Long periods of raging symptoms followed by shorter periods of (post-race) remission? Check.
- Inability to concentrate (on anything but training plans and paces)? Check.
- Preoccupation with inconsequential things (such as the elevation levels of a city’s streets)? Check.
- Explosive diarrhea? Of course.
- Inability to control my vulgar language? Fuck yeah.
- Change in body disposition? How high do you want that quarter to bounce off my ass?
- Change in temperament? Do I seem stable to you?
- Engages in hopelessly repetitive and damaging behavior? Want to watch 'Spirit of the Marathon' again?

I’m a first generation runner in my family. I come from an athletic clan too but usually they were chasing balls of some sort. I’ve evolved to the point where I don’t need balls to engage in a sport. Er, I don’t use balls…I mean, I don’t have any need for balls. Look, I have balls, okay? Stop badgering me.

Like patient zero, I’m runner zero in my family. Whoever is infected with the disease from here on out, well, it’s my fault. Being runner zero, the rest of the extended family generally has no idea what it takes to train, run a race, recover, work on speed, etc. We’ve all heard the “what distance is your marathon?” question. We’ve all heard a family member announce proudly that they are walking a “marathon 5k” for charity. My mother thinks the Gu packets I take out the door with me are some sort of illegal steroid. My dad has always told me that it’s good to be a little overweight…provides extra substance to your body to help fight illness. They both look at me sideways when I get noticeably gaunt (i.e. “fit”) as race day approaches.

No, the extended family doesn’t get it. I guess it’s probably the same way that the African guy, who came home with that satisfied look smelling of monkey sweat, must have been treated. It’s strange; it’s different; I’ll be gone tomorrow afternoon too.

In this case, I’m hoping the illness is carried by at least one, if not both, of my kids. Like any disease carrier, I’d like to spread it to as many people as possible. In fact, I’ve been trying to make running “cool” for my kids (who seem to think everything I do is “lame” and usually just look at me and say “Really?” in a disgusted tone). So, as I strap on my Asics, I cry out “Yo yo, I’m going for a run, bitches!” That’s cool, right? Plus, I made up a little rap to explain my disease-like devotion to running in hip Generation Z vernacular:

I’m heading out the door
No, that’s not a cold sore
It’s not Herpes simplex one
It’s Herpes simplex RUN!

Cool right!?! They scoff and eye-roll but I know they’re impressed that I came down to their level. See how I make running cool for the next generation? Yep, this disease should spread in no time.

Happy transmitting.

*clerk at Blockbuster
_______________________________________

Dirt Dancing

Admit it, you looked at that title and thought “Stupid Nitmos, he forgot the ‘y’. What a dipshit.”

But I didn’t forget the “y”. Y? Because it doesn’t belong there. Y? Because I’d prefer to use it as a pseudo-literary device. Y? Because you expect nothing less than that here, dipshit.

No, seriously, Y? Because I’m not dirt-y dancing. I’m going to DIRT dance. There’s no Patrick Swayze to save me from the trappings of my exorbitant richness here. After a few years of flirting with Michigan’s most infamous trail race, I decided to pull the trigger. Actually, the gun was loaded and cocked for me and placed in my hand. A buddy of mine (and co-marathon collaborator) has done the 100k team relay for a few years in a row now. The last two years, he’s called me up a few weeks before the event to let me know that someone has dropped out and would I like to fill their spot. This is quite an offer too because, with this race, you can’t just fill out a registration and sign up. They don’t let just any Tom, Dick or Razz in. To gain entry, you either have to join an existing team or volunteer at the race the preceding year as your penance for next year’s entry. I’ve had to turn him down because of prior plans each of the last two years and I’ve kicked myself both times. This year, instead of a last minute “sub” offer, he’s invited me to register with the team from the get-go.


This race is called Dances with Dirt and it takes place in, appropriately enough, in a little town called Hell, Michigan. It involves trails with no markings, hills with no footing, poison ivy with no mercy, rivers with no bridge, mud with no hard surfaces, and vans with no rape. The relay involves a team of 5 covering 100k in about 4 mile segments at a time. You know the rest…vans, smells, body odor, sweaty skin rubbing…general filthy unpleasantness…like being at a Phish concert but with less pot.

The event features cleverly labeled trail segments such as:

- Buttslider
- Purgatory
- This Sucks
- Styx River of Death
- Stupid Lake

And here I thought Buttslider was just the name of a White Castle hamburger. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for This Sucks. How bad could it be?


The event date is September 22nd – about 6 weeks before the NYC Marathon. I’m sure a nice ankle busting, knee twisting gruelathon is exactly the type of training I need to conquer the concrete jungle of New York a few weeks later!

Well, it looks like my Fall dance card is filling up. We all have to die somewhere and tumbling down a poison ivy strewn hill into a muddy lake is as good a way as any (better even, ask David Carradine).

I’m up for the challenge…because no one puts Nitmos in a corner.

Happy trails.

YakTrax for Two!

The free YakTrax contest is over. Deb, Mindy, and KMR, you can stop entering now. I’m glad you three – though special commendation to Deb and Mindy in particular for their dogged determination – understood that each entry only increased your odds of winning. This is something you other pinheads didn’t seem to understand. It’s a real testament to these folks lack of employment, hobbies, family, and general interest in ‘other things’ that they could continue to enter so often. I don’t make judgments around here. Feel free to spend your time however you choose…even if it is through the pursuit of a not-very-expensive free item.

I once had a couple spend 15 minutes trying to talk me down from 50 cents to a quarter for a Jell-o mold at a garage sale. I wouldn’t budge…on principle. I would have just given it to them if they asked nicely but they came at me so obviously intent on “winning” a price bickering contest that I dug my heels in and refused to budge. They walked. I believe I ended up throwing the Jell-o mold in the garbage afterwards and felt incredibly good about that. So, as you can see, there is within me a sick, twisted part that would find it absolutely hilarious if, after all the time commenting, Deb, Mindy, or KMR didn’t win.

But I had to be fair. I used Random.org’s random number generator. I’m afraid I couldn’t capture the results photo. I know it can be done – seen it before – but I wasn’t able to do it before I lost the result. You’ll just have to trust me on this one. I know you expect high moral standards around here so you’ll take me at my word. The random generator pronounced the winner as comment #48 (range 1-59), which was actually a response to someone else’s comment but still counts:

Deb said...
Xenia,You ROCK!!!! And for the record, I would never shank you...hamstring you, maybe, to rip the Yak Trax off of you in a more benign manner, but NEVER shank you. You once gave me a map to find the tastiest gelato in all of Rome, therefore you are NOT on my shank list!!!!
Wed Feb 01, 06:58:00 AM

DEB, YOU WIN!! Your total lack of ambition or any other hobbies paid off!! Email me your shipping info and I’ll get you hooked up with the YakTrax folk. See sidebar for email address.

But, I promised TWO YakTraks to giveaway and two it shall be. For the second one, I vowed to select the most creative answer to the following question:

If you could embezzle money from a charity and never get caught, which charity would it be and why?

What I didn’t tell you (though hinted at in yesterday’s post) is that there was actually a correct answer that would have guaranteed you the win if you entered it. Sarah McLachlan’s television campaign for the ASPCA (American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) features a rotating bunch of animals - dogs mainly – that have been abused to a background of sad music. It’s a real heartstrings tugger. One dog seems to have a messed up eye. All you had to do was say something along the lines of “I would steal from the ASPCA, use the money to buy a stick, and use that stick to beat the dog in the other eye.”* =WINNER!

Though no one entered that, there were quite a few solid suggestions as well as a little socio-political brouhaha that started up, apologies, and general drama. Exactly what I was hoping for. I would have liked to have seen even more clever ways to screw a charity but I understand most of you aren’t like me. Every community of assholes needs a chief. I’m Chief Asshole…you are all just little taints.

Despite that, there was one terrific entry. It combined mean-spiritedness and humor to make a cocktail of snark which fit perfectly with the theme:

Xenia said...
I'm going to hell for even thinking this. I'd embezzle from an alzheimer's
charity because god knows they wouldn't remember it afterward.

Ticket to hell in hand!

XENIA, YOU WIN! I think you even discouraged others from trying. There’s truly nothing funnier than poking fun at someone’s life-threatening and seriously debilitating disease. Way to go! You should be proud of yourself. Better use them on mortal coil because you ain't gonna find much use for them where you're going afterwards. Email me your shipping address.

If only I had more YakTrax to give away…Oh, well, until next time!

Happy Yaking.

*I don’t condone animal abuse except in cases of rape or incest…wait, what are we talking about? In other words, don’t kick your dogs. That's mean. Kick your cat.

Running is Better than NASCAR because...

Running and NASCAR racing: Two events that both involve going from Start to Finish in the fastest time possible. Besides that, there is very little similarity between the two. Running has a large number of participants but a very small nationally interested audience, very little television coverage, and barely gets a mention on ESPN. NASCAR, on the other hand, has very few participants but a huge national and television audience and is featured regularly on ESPN.

Like many of you, I was slightly peeved that the U.S. Olympic Marathon trials held in Houston earlier this month was broadcast – tape delayed – in a condensed two hour format. The top men finished in two hours and nine minutes and the women in two hours ad twenty-five minutes. It would have been just too much to add a extra half hour to this ONCE EVERY FOUR YEAR event just to provide full coverage, wouldn’t it?! I mean, I realize that distance running is not really a spectator sport but, sheesh, have you ever watched NASCAR? Or, excuse me, have you ever watched mobile flying billboards circle a motor home dealership, like some demented rings of Saturn, for 400 LAPS (not tape delayed, not condensed into two hours even though it desperately cries out for some editing before broadcast)!?!

To ease my disturbed psyche, I decided to turn my snarky derision to the proper target. To the executives who make television decisions? No… to NASCAR. It’s official F.M.S. policy that the quickest way to get to the top is by standing on the throats of others.

So – running and NASCAR -who’s to say which is better?

Me. Running is better. Here’s why:

1. In NASCAR, “rubbing is racing”. In running, it’s a subtle form of time passing, socially acceptable groping. Think Japanese men on a subway.

2. Midriffs.

GOOD

BAD

3. Distance runners like to throw in a right turn every now and then to break up the monotony.

4. If there is a collision between runners, the rest of the field doesn’t bunch back together and restart once the blood and skin has been cleaned up. I didn’t realize this while watching the 2011 NYC Marathon. As Meb drifted further behind, I was cheering for a collision between a few runners on the course that would collapse the leader’s lead back down to one second…because that’s the fair way to do it, right NASCAR, RIGHT??

5. Race bib numbers are not shaved into back hair.


6. Enlarged, healthy hearts, hamstrings and lung capacity vs. enlarged livers. You choose.

7. Celebrating a win:

CLASSY

SERIOUSLY?

8. Bumper stickers:

9. What’s the worst that could happen?

FIRE!

Okay, so maybe this is a draw.

10. Sport origins:

Ol' bootleggers

Heroic, albeit mythical, messengers

Despite that fact that we enjoy this sport in relative media anonymity, rest assured that running is indeed better than NASCAR. Just as it was Charlie Sheen before that. So continue to enjoy those right turns, continue to run free of gas fires, continue to swig a post-race non-Budweiser refreshment! Just watch out for this guy and his pick-up at the next intersection.

Happy trails.
_________________________________

Don’t forget to enter the random drawing for the free YakTrax. You have until noon ET tomorrow. As I mentioned, you may enter as often as you would like. It seems that Deb is the only one who has taken me up on this. I don’t want to hear any crying if she wins. You all had your chance. And, as of now, Xenia is the runway winner of the ‘screw a charity’ hand picked winner…unless someone has any other ideas. C’mon, Sarah McLachlan and those sad face puppies on TV? Who wouldn’t want to screw them over?

You Get Some YakTrax, You Get Some YakTrax!

It’s giveaway time, Oprah style! Everyone look under their seat for their prize! What? No prize…just chewing gum and the Ghosts of Farts Past? Shame. I guess we’ll do it the old fashioned way: Random number generator.

YakTrax Pro

But I have MULTIPLE YakTrax to give away! So…

YOU get some YakTrax!
And YOU get some YakTrax!
And…

And that’s all. Two. Two YakTrax to giveaway. That is “multiple” according to Webster. Fortunately, that should cover half the F.M.S. audience so your odds are quite good. And two out of the four of you may live in warm climates anyhow. I guess I could split the pairs apart and give four INDIVIDUAL YakTrax (YakTrack?) away so everybody gets a little something. Sure, you would have only one for one foot but you’d still be covered against slip n’fall every other step. That’s 50% better than you had it before. That’s not half bad.

Haven’t heard of/used YakTrax? Well, this is a product I don’t mind pimping.* Unlike the laundry detergent I once struggled mightily to review– two separate times! – I actually use YakTrax and love them. You should go to the company website to get all of the specifics but, basically, it’s like having a few dozen tiny claws attached to the bottom of your feet to help you stay upright on those icy and snowy runs. Remember those little jagged follicles Spider-Man would use to climb a wall? Just like that but a touch bigger, coils instead of jagged follicles, and without the impossibly large codpiece. (Yeah, right, Tobey, in your dreams.)

I’ve used YakTrax for years. In the depressing snow swept wasteland that is mid-Michigan in winter, they’ve sure come in handy to keep my pace from a labored fast walk to an actual running stride. I can return home quicker to my modest dwelling to again yearn for the re-appearance of the sun…or suicide, whatever comes first. Of course, once I received a free pair, there’s been almost no snow to speak of around here. Right now I can see my lawn. My dead, brown, bird pecked lawn. I can see the poop my dog pooped back in the beginning of December. It’s whiter and fuzzier than the rest, that’s how I know. It’s just not the same when the kids make snowmen out of rotting dog feces.

I haven’t been able to use the new YakTrax outside yet but, soon, I will. Michigan won’t let a winter go by without at least a few donkey punches to the back of the head by way of 15 inch storms. Until then, I can only use them on the treadmill. But that’s not making Mrs. Nitmos too happy. Her belt is now “ventilated” (as I call it). There’s only so many times I can “tease” the dog by stepping on her ears with them. And, try this when you receive a pair, see how your friends react as you walk across their wood floors in them. Oh, it’s funny…some people just don’t like to laugh.

If you would like a pair, there are of course a few hoops for you to jump through.

1) Like YakTrax on Facebook.
2) Leave a comment here for the random number generator to select you.
3) If you win, be willing to provide me your name/mailing address/shoe size (sock size for you barefooters). If you’re concerned about giving that info away, don’t worry, a restraining order can be filed at any future time.

I guarantee that ONE pair will be given away randomly. The second pair may also…or I may choose to give it to the person with the most creative answer to the following question:

If you could embezzle money from a charity and never get caught, which charity would it be and why?

So, Good Luck! We are all counting on you.

You know what…I can’t have folks coming here and leaving empty handed. I recognize that some of you have no regional interest in running snow shoes because the very idea of snow confuses you. Here’s what I’m going to do…those of you that don’t win – or want - the YakTrak get a consolation prize: Free barefoot running shoes! That’s right…

YOU get some barefoot shoes.
And YOU get some barefoot shoes.
And YOU get some barefoot shoes…

The drawing will be done on Wednesday, February 1st at noon. Comment/Enter as often as you would like. What do I care?

Happy Yaking.

*Usual disclaimers apply: A pair given to me free in exchange for a mention on this blog. The use of the word “pimping” and, later, “codpiece” are all my doing, however. Also, in case any other companies are reading this, here's a short list of other products I don't mind pimping: treasury notes, non-Schlitz beer, mace (both medieval and modern), iPads, and codpieces.

The Devil Inside Us

It’s in the house. That demonic whirring noise is coming from somewhere INSIDE THE HOUSE….

That’s right, We Bought A Treadmill!* I’m not one of those husbands that blames everything on his spouse but…it was Mrs. Nitmos’ idea. Really. I only passively resisted at first. The fact is that I don’t like running on a treadmill. Who does, right? But then I realized that I could avoid some of those ankle twisting, knee torquing winter ice runs so I didn’t put up much of a fight. Besides, Mrs. Nitmos is more apt to get in some miles on the thing and, if that works better for her, than great! Plus, while she’s on the mill and dealing with kid noises all around her, I can still run outside in relative peace and quiet.

I’ve been on it twice so far. It’s positioned in our finished basement directly at the TV. I was quite the sight to behold yesterday – as I am normally- but more so flinging sweat all over the futon couch nearby and my daughter’s Barbie house in front while holding a remote control channel surfing between miles 4 and 5. I watched part of a Dane Cook movie. It was 15 degrees and blowing snow outside. I was on a treadmill, in my basement, watching a Dane Cook movie. I believe a baseball player in an Iowa corn field hit the nail on the head with the appropriate question, “Is this heaven?” You’re goddamn right.

I vowed to only use the thing for one run a week during the winter months. The other runs must be completed outside in full on Sherpa gear, if necessary. I don’t want to go all soft and treadmilly. Treadmill legs are the worst kind to go into a race with. It’s fool’s gold…false confidence…a mirage. Running on a treadmill is to actual running like Michelob Ultra is to beer. It’s nearly the same. Nearly…except for that key component: substance.

A buddy of mine once trained for a 5k with me…except he did his runs on a treadmill while I was out on the sidewalks. He excitedly told me all about the speeds he was obtaining in the weeks leading up to race day while I nodded and smiled skeptically. On race day, he ran a full minute per mile slower than expected. Treadmill legs! I don’t know what the mathematical conversion is for a predominantly treadmill oriented runner but I believe it is something like this:

Finish time = (Expected pace*miles) * 1.15% (treadmill penalty) + one minute (Dane Cook movie penalty, if applicable)

Since I work out of my basement, I can see the big ugly thing looming out of the corner of my eye as I type this. It’s weird to have this thing you loathe to a visceral level - but acquiesce on occasion - sitting right in my home. I feel the house needs an exorcism to expel it but, now that it is inside, it’ll be tough to remove. I find myself looking at it a muttering “my precioussss” over and over again. I want it to go…but then I don’t want it to leave either. In other words, KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MY PRECIOUSSSSS!

So, until late March, I’ll continue to hit one run per week on the precious treadmill. By then, I’ll have viewed all of the Dane Cook movies Comedy Central has to offer. My futon will be a Slip N’ Slide and the two story Barbie house will have appeared to have been overwhelmed by a hurricane. (Don’t worry, honey, you can still rip the comb through Barbie’s matted hair.) After that, the treadmill will become what it really should be: a coat rack.

If you no longer see me on the sidewalks…if my race times suddenly decrease…if I’m found sleeping on the padded mill surface afraid someone is going to take it…you can place the blame directly where it belongs.

Not on Precious.

Not on me.

On Mrs. Nitmos, of course.

Happy milling.

*Incidentally, this was the name of a screenplay I’d written and pitched to Matt Damon. He declined…then, months later, out comes We Bought A Zoo. Have you seen it? You tell me which had the better premise.
_________________________________

Officially Official: As I suspected, I wasn’t virtually mugged, I’m in for NYC Marathon! They even provided a cute littel "badge" for me to display...which says nothing about New York...a marathon...well, anything, really. So, wait, was I mugged?

The Olympic Trials According to a Ten Year Old

Much like her Dad, my daughter likes to offer unsolicited commentary on the Things Going On around her. She’ll have a blog one day and it’ll be equal parts hilarious, sarcastic, and bitter. I can’t wait to read it. She looks at life with a cocked eyebrow and a sharp quip. Yes, she’s a chip off the ole Handsome.

So as I settled in Saturday evening to view my DVR’ed Olympic Trials for the men’s and women’s marathon from Houston, I expected a few choice remarks. Never to disappoint:

“We’re going to watch a show about running? Don’t you do that all the time…can’t you just watch yourself?”

The majesty of the event was lost on her. The summer Olympics? Last time those were on, she still had an interest in Dora the Explorer and backpacks for some reason. Backpack, backpack….backpack, backpack…all over the house.

She likes sports too. She plays tons of soccer, likes gymnastics and is pretty darn fast when she cares to run a mile, or shorter, race. Despite this, she still doesn’t respect the endurance part of the marathon. To her, it’s a bunch of people jogging. What’s a five minute mile pace anyway?

“Why aren’t they running fast? They are just jogging.”

I tried to explain that a five minute per mile pace is hardly “jogging”. I tried to explain that the word “jogging”, in some circles, is even considered derisive. I tried to explain about endurance and discipline and perseverance and all of the things that it takes to build a successful marathoner. And then Ryan Hall started blowing snot rockets and she forgot about all of that and just crinkled her face and said, “Gross.” I briefly considered explaining the usefulness of a snot rocket but quickly realized that I’d already attempted an overly complicated explanation regarding abdomen blockage and pain to explain my constant farting so I figured she wouldn’t buy this argument either.

I clearly remember my daughter’s reaction when I first qualified for Boston at a marathon back in 2007. My family was at the finish line waiting for my triumphant completion and qualification. While I was elated and Mrs. Nitmos congratulated me, I could tell by the look on her face that she was either confused or unimpressed. A short while later, I found out which:

“You were barely running. I can run faster than that.”

Ever try to explain endurance and 26.2 miles worth of exhaustion to a six year old? It’s like trying to explain to Ashton Kutcher that there is a thing called being “too hip”. You can talk and talk and it just won’t register. My then six year old didn’t get the fact that I simply couldn’t sprint to the finish; Ashton Kutcher will still wear reggae hats in public. It’s no use.

And then she took notice of the tight running bikini pants worn by the female marathoners.

“Why are the girls wearing swimming suits?”

Here was an opportunity to get into a whole host of issues. I could have launched into a discussion about our male dominated culture and how women are often objectified by impossible standards of “beauty”. I could have explained that, though Daddy enjoys the bikini bottomed marathoners as he’s a helpless slave to his base male urges , there is no place for sexism in sport or society and that I’ll trust her to never fall victim to body image issues. She should love herself – and her body – how it is and that everyone else can kiss her bikini clad or non-bikini clad – her choice - behind. I could have pointed out that the men are wearing horribly offensive side split running shorts but that it was better than running in a Speed-o, which would force the event onto HBO or Showtime late at night with an NC-17 rating, and wasn’t that just a double standard? If I was a better man, I would have said all of these things. Instead, I said:

“Wind resistance.”

She did seem at least mildly interested as Meb, Ryan and Abdi finished amid great elation while Dathan collapsed in utter disappointment. Then Shalane, Desiree and Kara crossed and I hoped she’d feel pride and respect for her fellow females. She watched them embrace and the announcers explain that they were off to the Olympics for Team U.S.A.!


“So…they have to go to the Olympics? What if they don’t want to?”

I explained that they wanted to which is why they put in all of those hours of work and ran this race. She shrugged her shoulders unimpressed and went upstairs to look up funny clips on YouTube. I could only hope that something from the event made an impression with her. The spirit. The determination. The pride. But as I gazed at the now empty staircase, I wasn’t sure.

I sighed that sigh that parents know well. The one that expresses exasperation at a teaching moment lost. And then I settled back in my chair and hoped that the cameraman would give me a money shot on those bikini clad, celebrating female marathoners.

But that's a story for another day....the Olympic Trials According to a Man.

Happy trails.

Back to the Core

It’s that time of year again. No, it’s not time to check back into rehab, smart asses. If last year taught us anything, it’s that nothing can solve a significant substance abuse problem quite like two hookers, mounds of blow, a twitter account, tiger blood, a bad publicist, and a hastily arranged “World Tour”. All of those things = Problem Solved and a new TV show!

It’s time to work on my beach muscles, the glamour muscles, the vanity muscles…whatever you want to call them. It’s time to hit the core. I’m talking abs, quads, biceps. Hell, I may even do a trapezius (but not both – they don’t deserve it* – and I’m fully aware that may leave me with an awkward hunchback look). Glutes, you ask? Of course. Where others see a runner with little to no ass – possibly even concavely bending towards the anus – I see a rigid, structurally aesthetic** set of twin man butt mounds shamefully hidden from full public appreciation. My most surprising choice may be the decision to include the sphincter amongst my glamour muscles. But homeboy here isn’t satisfied unless he can jettison waste with a sharp pit-tooie! sound like a B.B. pellet rocketing against a paint can. Take this ass canon into a standard issue piece of Applebee’s porcelain and see how many looks you get around the common sink.

It’s not like my core goes neglected all year though. Long time F.M.S. readers know all about my affection for stretchy banding and crunching. Certainly my family is well aware of my penchant for expelling farts with an ab tearing primal grunt, forcing them out two minutes before they are “due”. I work the core. I work it all year, baby. It helps my running. And my farting. But, mostly, my running.

But things get a little ragged during the holiday. I may be crunching with a plate of cookies balanced on my belly. I rehydrate during stretchy banding with swigs of rum and eggnog. Okay, maybe rum and Coke. Truthfully, rum with a Coke chaser. Okay, okay, it’s just the rum. Mixed with Wild Turkey whiskey. I still stretchy band but, instead of looong, slooow satisfying strokes, it’s more conjugal prison style, if you know what I mean. There’s no time to waste during the holidays. My pleasure centers need engaging. My gluttony needs gluttoned. There isn’t something tasty and/or intoxicating touching my lips and/or body so things must change.

Sometime after the first of the year, I wake up with cookie crumbs around my mouth, a gradually decreasing B.A.C., 6-7 extra pounds around my belly, and a hideously flabby sphincter. My eyes are groggy, hair unkempt…What. The. Hell. Just. Happened???

So every new year, I rededicate myself to the core…where 11 months of discipline will undoubtedly peter out again in an orgy of chocolate, alcohol, chocolate alcohol, and nougat – whatever the hell that is. Let the rededication begin!

Every runner knows – or should know by now – that a strong core is crucial. It controls your body positioning, your gait, your turnover, your breathing, and keeps the jiggle to a minimum. There are all sorts of studies out there that analyze just how much a strong core can help you go faster and longer (and, apparently, litter your blog post with double entendres) so I’m not going to repeat the science here. This is not a science blog if you weren’t aware. Witness how much time I’ve spent already making sphincter jokes. Suffice to say, the core is important and, if you aren’t already working it, you should be. Here’s my normal Monday through Thursday routine (I save the weekends for my gluttony addiction):

- 20 minutes stretchy banding (I have 5 workouts without multiple reps that work the arms, shoulders, one trapezius and the core)
- 500-600 crunches/ab exercises (I have various “stations” of my leg positioning to work different areas)
- 1-2 controlled, quality farts (I have two different intonations I prefer to disgust the family)

All of these are done nightly during the week days while watching various sporting events or ridiculous television shows. It’s amazing how TV can help you with your core. Ever try planking for the duration of a commercial break? Not as easy as it sounds - especially if you get one of those long 4 minute breaks that A&E’s Intervention specializes in.

I can’t say for sure that it helps my running. But I know I prefer not to have my belly jiggling so much when I’m huffing and puffing my way down a sidewalk shirtless on a warm summer’s day. I figure I’ll work the core until I can either wash my clothes on my abs, play the xylophone on them, or race Fisher Price Little People mogul style down the ole treasure trail. Pick your metaphor.

At least for the next eleven months, then it’s a month long Sheen fest again. But that’s a long way off…a lot of blow, hookers and World Tours.

Happy trails.

* Long story but they know what they did
** Or, “ass”-thetic, as the case may be.
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NYC Update: I see in the last few days that the NYC Marathon has charged the FULL amount of the race to my credit card - not just the application fee. So....either I'M IN...or I just got mugged. Virtually.

Randumbery Hearts NY

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.

How ‘bout we start the New Year off with another lame round of Randumbery?!

New Year’s Eve and Lazy Eyes

When you have kids, you find yourself doing things you’d otherwise never do. First among those is wiping someone else’s ass. Second among those is trying to convince a six year old that the bowl hair cut they just received – and Daddy got for $4.95! – looks GREAT! Even when the kids grow up a bit, as mine have, and the ass wiping and $4.95 bowl cuts are no longer possible, there are still compromises along life’s Road of Coolness you thought you’d be traveling.

All of this carefully worded pre-explanation is to try to justify why we spent New Year’s Eve in a bowling alley. But there we were on the evening of the 31st of December. Sure, we had accomplices: Another couple and their two kids also took the off ramp from Cool Highway into the Cherry HellHill Lanes in Southeastern Michigan. The eight off us spent the evening wearing clown shoes, throwing polished rocks at bright white immobile penguins, and counting the lazy eyes amongst the other patrons. I’m convinced that the ratio of lazy eyes to normal eyes at a bowling alley is 1:3. I believe we stumbled upon the Midwest’s largest collection of bowling alley lazy eyes this side of Super Walmart. But it does pass the time speculating on the degree of the lazy….I think I saw a full fledged 90 degreer two lanes down!

Of course, this whole evening was made easier by bowling alley beer. They still serve Blatz on tap? Who knew? And, yes, I finally broke 100 by the third game. And, yes, I’m on antibiotics for my foot herpes.

Who Has Two Thumbs and Hearts the New York City Marathon?

This guy!

Who has two thumbs and sat at his computer on January 2nd at noon to be among the first people to register even though he’s supposed to have an automatic qualification?

This guy!

Who has two thumbs and is entirely too eager to fork over $250 to slowly kill myself across 5 Burroughs?

This guy!

Who has two thumbs and made room reservations two months ago in anticipation of his race?

This guy!

Who has one finger and an angry disposition vented frequently on this lightly read blog if, for some reason, he doesn’t gain entry?

NY, you don’t want to find out. Do the right thing.

41,667%

That’s the percentage of your daily vitamin B12 amount inside a single serving of a product called Zipfizz sent to me for a product review. 41,667%? Yeah, that seems about right, I guess. Anything less than 40,000% and I’m sluggish.

I haven’t had a chance to use and review it yet. That 41,667 number keeps bouncing around my brain. The Zipfizz folks claim that there’s no toxicity in taking that much B12. I confirmed that you can’t “overdose” on B12 through a few other medical websites so….I guess I’ll try it sometime.

With so much B12, after one serving, by my calculation, that means I won’t have to take more B12 for 416 days – or until about March 1st, 2013 if I took some today. So I’d have that going for me…which is nice. But by March of 2013, ho boy look out, I’ll be jonesing for some B12.

Stay tuned for a Zipfizz review. I’ll post one with or without my liver.

Running, Sans Pants

I’m not knocking the weather around here. It’s been a weird mid-winter Goreian 40 degrees here lately. No snow and sunny in spots for two weeks and for the coming few days. In January. In Michigan. I haven’t picked up my shovel since mid-December.

I’ve been running without pants!*

I’m not knocking the weather but I’m sure as shit knocking on wood.

Happy trails.

* No pants but shorts. It’s still too cold for my flippety flop to be left exposed. Ever hear of a “blue helmet”? No, and there’s a reason for that.

2012 Presents...

Did we all survive Christmas? How many bottles did it take? For me, it was four…but I’m not going to tell you what size they were or what A.P.V. You’ll just have to guess. In fact, I’ll have to guess too. They don’t put that kind of information on ethanol jugs.

You can read my title line either way you wish: 2012 Presents, as in what Alfred Hitchcock used to do, or 2012 Presents, as in little sparkly wrapped treats I’ll be giving you in the next year. Again, I’m not going to decide for you. Ever try to write a blog post with a corn booze hangover? Decisions aren’t easily made.

But first, a look back: 2011 was a casual running year for me. I ran only two half marathons (or one full marathon depending on if you are a pessimist or an optimist). No 5ks. No 10ks. No relays. No jingle runs. No costume runs. No runs with friends where we mug for the camera and make an over excited WOOOO! sound that annoys everyone but the people involved with the photo. Nothing. Two wonely wittle waces. As formal events go, it’s my lightest year since the death of Kim Jung Il. If I was grading my race preparation and effort, they’d go like this:

Bayshore Half Marathon (May – 1:26:37): A-
Capital City River Run Half (September – 1:27:27): B+

Certainly decent scores. Those kinds of scores would get me in to the local community college and Michigan State University. However, not enough to get me into the state’s big enchilada, the University of Michigan. In other words, I definitely phoned a few interval runs in this year. I realized this when I started deciding how tired I was before I even started the first interval of a set. That is some serious half empty stuff right there. Or is it half phone? There I go mixing metaphors again. I mean to say, if a bear shits in the woods, it’s worth a bird in the hand.

ONWARD 2012!

Unless the Mayans are right, this should be a fantastic year! If they are correct, then it’ll at least still be very memorable. That’s called a win-win. I have a list of vows for the coming year. A statement of intents. As you would expect from this blog, there is a mix of running intents, non-running intents, surreal intents, disgusting intents, and very few purposes. We should all set goals in life. Goals are what we use to determine our level of failure and measure our disappointment in ourselves. They are very important.

Here are my 12 goals for 2012:

· Run the New York Marathon
· Eat at Chili’s less.
· Finally set a respectable 10k PR (i.e. run a second 10k!?!)
· Come to terms with fireworks: moderately fun or a colossal waste of time?
· Explore barefoot running (i.e. become a hippie). Immediately reject barefootism in favor of a hot shower.
· Fewer "arraignments".
· Use less profanity on this blog, around my kids, your kids, the neighbor kids, and the elderly. In addition, stop using profanity as a verb, as in I was motherfucked by that scowling mom because I called her hyper kid a ‘shit stain’. Also, celebrities are not verbs. I was not Sheened when I drank too much. I was not Tresseled by the cable company when they lied to me. I’ve never been Sanduskyed.
· Set another new half marathon PR. How ‘bout we get under 1:26 this coming year?
· Eat more carrots, less Tootsie Rolls.
· Use the word “veiny” less. I can see it’s really starting to turn people away from me.
· Decrease the amount of double entendres I use in daily conversation. I’ve thought about this long and hard.
· Run a relay (or two) with Mrs. Nitmos.

There you go, that’s my 12 for 12! Have you made your 12 for 12 list? Better get on that. Unless you provide the measuring tool, we’ll never be able to judge your failures in the coming year.

Now, back to that grain alcohol…

Have a Safe and Merry Christmas New Year.*

Happy New Year.

*Is “New Year” okay? I can’t remember what is offensive and what’s not these days…

A Minimalist Christmas

I had this high concept post all set to put together. It was going to be a takeoff of A Christmas Carol (i.e. A Minimalist Christmas Carol) in which a non-minimalist like myself is taught the error of his ways. It was going to be SPECTACULAR. But it was also going to be EXHAUSTING. You can tell by the larger font – and Trebuchet script – that exhausting won out. No Christmas Carol. Not this year. I don’t get paid enough to overcome my exhaustion.

But let me tell you about what I learned while visiting Chicago over the last few days: Minimalism lives in our hearts and minds whether we know it or not. It’s simply that our definitions differ as to what constitutes “minimalism”. Your minimalism may be my cheapskatism; my Nitmos level hedonism – which I call minimalism - may be your maximalism. Who’s the judge?

This struck me as we were making our way up Ontario St. Tuesday afternoon for a day of decadent shopping on Chicago's ritzy Michigan Ave. A bum sat on the sidewalk wrapped in a holey blanket with tattered gloves extending a Styrofoam cup as if offering us free hot coffee. The bum, a housing minimalist, seemed quite content – even eerily detached – from the rest of the throngs of shoppers whose bags from Macys, American Girl and Bloomingdales bounced off his patchwork knees on their way to their suburban homes and stabilized 401ks.

Did the hobo seem upset that, as a homeowner minimalist, he was being attention minimalized by the masses? No, as I said, he was offering free coffee. Or, at least, I thought it was free coffee until I took a cup, raised it to my lips, and tasted the disgusting metallic tang of hobo fondled coins and the ghosts of vomits past. Looking in the cup at the bonanza of pennies and dimes, I realized he was also apparently a dollar bill minimalist (as well as a bath minimalist, fruits and vegetables minimalist, enunciation minimalist, front teeth minimalist, but, oddly, alcohol maximalist – until I flipped that upside down and realized he wasn’t an alcohol maximalist but a sobriety minimalist. See? There’s always a different angle at which to view the same thing to make it minimalist).

There were home minimalists all around the city but they never bothered anyone. In fact, after a while, it seemed that their shaking coins in the cup were playing a little song. I thought I detected O Christmas Tree amongst the rattle of nickels and sloshing vomit. I took their anguished faces as a perfected form of minimalist joy. Really, it is truly a matter of perspective.

I almost took pity – misplaced pity – while walking out of American Girl with my daughter’s ridiculously expensive doll, ice skating outfit and winter doll clothes. I reached back for my wallet – something I’d already done a dozen times that day at various stores around the city – and felt a muscle twang in my neck. The housing minimalist eagerly shook his cup harder as O Christmas Tree turned into a frantic Jingle Bells. But, damn that neck pain hurt, so I held up my hand and said “No, not today, I’m sore from paying for too much stuff already. Merry Christmas!” I couldn’t understand the mangle of words that came back at me but I’m pretty sure it was something to the order of, “Thank you anyway and you have an attractive family and your shoulders are very broad.” Yes, it’s true, in shoulders I’m a maximalist. Bums are perceptive, you must give them that!

We dropped money on Chicago like we are disciples of the Mayan calendar. Perhaps we’ll be housing minimalists by this time next year (when the world ends anyhow). I was going to get my colt some minimalist shoes (i.e. a box filled with air) but instead sprung $85 on a pair of new ones at Adidas. We could have gone all the way to $220 for a new pair but, keeping in the minimalist spirit, we opted for the cheaper pair. He got back to the hotel and decided he didn’t really like them after all so we ended up tossing them in the garbage as a hobo pressed his face and hands to the outside window glass and warbled something at us that sounded an awful lot like “I love my dishwasher box house.”

In the end, after two days of shopping, museuming, gorging, ice skating and spending as if money was something the city needed but something I could do without, we loaded up our boxes and bags to the roof of the trunk and started the three and a half hour drive home. I believe we learned something about minimalism those days. Something we can take with us as a life lesson. It’s not about the size of your home. It’s not whether your home is water soluble. It’s not whether your breath smells like a cross between onions and a week old diaper. It’s not whether you use toilet paper versus the side of your hand. And it’s certainly not about whether or not you can make two minimalists fight by waving a $20 bill under Wacker Dr.* It’s about being thankful for what you have. It’s about true minimalism…and the perspective from which you define it. I believe that fits nicely with the Christmas spirit.

The Nitmos family didn’t want to offend the sense of minimalism on display on the streets of Chicago. That would have been an affront to the lifestyle. And, though we spent an obscene amount of money on things that barely interest us, the truth is, we could have spent so much more. So, in a way, we are minimalists at heart as well. It’s truly a Christmas miracle!

When I strap on my $100 pair of Asics 2160 running shoes for my next run, I’ll know that I could have spent twice that amount on shoes with thicker soles and better ergonomic comfort. But I’ve adopted the spirit of minimalism thanks to the contented mortgage minimalists on Michigan Ave. Whether they want it or not, I’ll shiver for them as I nudge up the thermostat on those cold winter days. I don’t know what it is, I’m an ole softy this time of year.

As Tiny Tim (and, coincidentally, Hobo Jim) would say, “God bless us one and all!”

Jim did belch out “motherfuckers” at the end but that was the malt liquor talking. The sentiment was the same.

Have a Merry, Magical, and Minimalist Christmas and, by contrast, a Decadent and Maximalist New Years!!

Happy Holidays. (That's right, I said "holidays". I'm not sorry if this offends as I'm an empathy minimalist.)

* You can. I didn’t see who won. We grew bored and wandered off before they finished.

Jorge Santini, Mayor of Christmastown

I’m sure you’ve already seen this beautiful and festive Christmas card – who hasn’t? – but it’s worth another look, if only to fill up another notch on my bed post, er, post list.Jorge Santini, Mayor of San Juan, Puerto Rico, would like to wish you a Merry Christmas through the unique medium of taxidermy, murder, and fear! I have to admit, when I think of Christmas, I often think of Rudolph, Santa, leopard’s murdering antelopes, and Frosty the Snowman so this fits right in with a typical card I’d give and receive during the holiday* season. To be fair (and those of you who receive a card from yours truly know this already), I also try to incorporate a midget dressed as an elf flipping the bird while standing on stool sodomizing a reindeer (wearing a Santa hat – I try to keep it light-hearted) above the caption “I Hope Christmas Rips You a New One!” or “Here’s To Hoping You’re the Elf of 2012!” Really, what’s a holiday card without bestiality and/or antelope consumption?

Those of you that are lucky enough to receive a card from me will have to wait to see what I put together for you this year. But I suggest you keep the kids out of the room when you open it. Gasps, shrieks, and puffed out cheek vomit suppression expressions are just the kind of things that tickle a youngsters imagination. Those of you who don’t get a card from me should take a good hard look in the mirror. I sent one to Casey Anthony…just sayin’.

Instead, you can enjoy the following photo. Last year, I selected a “race photo of the year” like I was going to make it some sort of tradition. Now, it just seems like work. Fortunately, I can really choose any old race photo and you’d never know as my physique, hair cut, clothing, and rugged masculinity barely change over time. (Compare this year’s race photo selection below with last year’s at the bottom of this post. Notice the wardrobe! Fashion!) So, here’s “this year’s” race photo of the year:

That’s me studding the eventual 3rd place overall female half marathoner. If you read that race report, you’d know that scowl comes from the rampant sexism I was targeted with on that course. And that was a HUGE lesson for me in 2011: Be the one making the sexist comments, not receiving them.

So, who does that leave? Most of the world receives a personalized Christmas card from me delivered by postal service to your front door. Those that don’t get to enjoy my 2011 Race Photo of the Year above adorned with a festive holiday** spirit (it's those type of finer photoshopped touches I know you crave from F.M.S.). If you don’t want that hacked up picture, find yourself in the first group. Your fault, not mine. After that, there really should only be a few of you left. If you don’t fall into one of the other two groups, that basically means I either (a) don’t like you or (b) loathe you or (c) know you are already on Jorge Santini’s Christmas card list. Tough stuff for you. You may then deal with the following Christmas card because I hate llamas:


Fuck those filthy animals. Sucks to be you.

Happy Holidays.***

*Sorry particular cable news station, “Christmas” season.
**Sorry…”Christmas spirit”.
***Sorry…”Happy Christmas”.
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P.S. Sorry, kids, looks like Christmas may be cancelled this year. This just appeared on the blotter:

Runners: Don't Drink the Water

There’s disturbing news out of Sin City that may radically change the way a runner approaches a race or, at least, a marathon. Health officials are digging through runners’ post –race poo to get to the bottom of things. I’m not shitting you. And they are not just finding full corn kernels, undigested peanuts, and granola. BEWARE: There was something in the water at the Las Vegas Marathon:

LAS VEGAS -- Health officials are testing stool samples from runners in the Rock `n' Roll Marathon in Las Vegas who say water passed out during the race made them sick.

Southern Nevada Health District officials are testing for stomach flu and other diseases, and expect results later this week. An online survey they've posted has already drawn responses from more than 800 participants.

The Dec. 4 event drew about 44,000 participants, who paid up to $179 to run a half or full marathon. Dozens of runners posted stories on Facebook about nausea, vomiting and severe stomach pain after the race.

Race organizers had filled plastic-lined garbage cans with hydrant water, which was used to fill cups offered to racers along the course – a standard practice, marathon officials say. Volunteers wearing plastic gloves dipped cups into the garbage cans before passing the water to runners.

While some runners complained that the water tasted odd or unclean, Las Vegas Valley Water District officials say the hydrant water was tested and found to be safe days before the race.

Runner Charlene Ragsdale, 50, said she became violently ill during the half marathon and was treated for hypothermia and dehydration at a hospital.

"We've got to find an answer to keep this from happening again," Ragsdale told the Review-Journal. "I think (the health district) realizes they're looking for a needle in a haystack."source

As you know, I’m not one to overreact but it seems pretty clear to me: Don’t drink water when racing unless you want to vomit and shit yourself. And you can’t trust the Gatorade either. It might have been made with the same fire hydrant water mixed with powder. My best advice going forward? Either carry your own or don’t drink anything. Most of us can go 3-4 hours without any water. I do it all the time when I sleep. Next time a volunteer, aka “poisoner”, tries to give you a cup full of refreshing bacteria-filled shit water, I suggest you hold up your hand and say “No thanks, I’d rather not shit myself today.” I don't care how thirsty you are. Think you have a bad cramp and need water? Think how that cramp will feel with diarrhea running down your leg.

At least until this water fiasco is figured out, this is official F.M.S. policy and best advice: DO NOT DRINK ANYTHING WHEN RUNNING A MARATHON. You’re welcome, runners. Also, please note that I cannot be held accountable for my actions, your actions, dehydration, death, or dismemberment. Also, though I am smarter than most doctors, I am not a "doctor", at least officially, as I don’t have a fancy “degree” or a rubber “mallet” or a prescription pad for “legal” drugs.

No offense to Charlene “Violently Ill” Ragsdale, who thinks the mystery source of the Las Vegas shit water will be like finding a “needle in a haystack”, but maybe she should have looked two paragraphs above. Garbage cans, plastic lined (i.e. garbage bags in garbage cans), fire hydrant water, volunteers dipping hands and cups repeatedly in garbage can, handing cups to sweaty runners, hands undoubtedly rubbing against sweaty runner hands, repeat dipping motion into community pool of water in garbage can, sweat transferring to garbage can water. That’s a pretty BIG needle in that small haystack. For one, the repeated appearance of “garbage” is a tip off.

But until health officials solve this difficult conundrum, let’s not drink anymore water. The race organizer’s claim this method of water delivery is "standard practice" but I think they are full of shit. And now we are full of shit.

Or puke or stomach pain, what have you. I miss the days when I just had to worry about calve cramps and heart attacks.

Happy trails.
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Apparently, something similar happened at the California International Marathon as well. It's an epidemic!

Jiggle Belly

Jiggle belly, jiggle belly, jiggle belly rock
Jiggle belly swing and jiggle belly sway
Bouncing and wiggling up farts of fun
Now the jiggle burp has begun

Jiggle belly, jiggle belly, jiggle belly rock
Jiggle belly bulges as jiggle belly gorges
Wobble and gobble at the local buffet
In a chilled parfait

What a hungry time, it’s always dinner time
To snack the night away

Jiggle belly time is a swell time
To go chowing a horse from a sleigh
Giddy-up jiggle horse, ingest all but your feet
Jiggle around the clock

Mix and a-mingle in the jiggling belly
That’s the jiggle belly,
That’s the jiggle belly,
That’s the jiggle belly rock!

I’ve been paying for my sins lately. My sin? Gluttony. And an uncommonly strong, masculine jaw line. But gluttony, that’s the main one. Starting in the middle of October, I kicked off a feeding frenzy that is only now just subsiding. We have no more food in the house. No Tootsie Rolls. No cheeses of any denomination. No beets. The curtains are missing chunks. My formerly quadrupedal dog is now a tripod. Great for positioning a self timing camera for our same-sweater-wearing Christmas photo but not so good for Frisbee catching. Ever eat a carburetor? Not without syrup. And where did the TV remote go?

I’ve hit most of my planned runs. Those that have been missed were wept over through salty Dorito tears. I even felt a little ashamed trying to catch the falling tears with my tongue. Gluttony, the most delicious of the Seven Deadly Sins…until it turns to LUST. That’s when you’ve got a problem. You know there’s a monkey on your back but you wonder how he’d taste lightly salted and deep fried. And then you wonder how that monkey would look in a little ensemble from Victoria’s Secret…while lightly salted and deep fried. Simians, so sexy -and low fat - with their progressively developed cerebral cortexes!

I knew I had put on a few pounds lately. One of the byproducts of being required to go to a doctor’s office every 8 weeks for a new supply of ridiculously expensive pharmaceuticals* is that I have a near constant update on my current weight and blood pressure. I’ve gained 6 pounds since the September half marathon. If pounds were like blog posts, that would be like 5 more funny ones than Ian has written this year. There’s some junk in my trunk. There’s some jiggle in my belly. I’m not ready to break out the elastic-banded wind pants – though, admittedly, I’m wearing them now – and flannel shirts but I have looked enviously at the motorized carts in my local grocery store. They may be primarily for the fatties and disabled but who says laziness isn’t a form of disability?

Really, it’s a sad state of affairs when my cholesterol is higher than my last two month’s mileage. Either I need to run more or eat less but neither seems appealing at the moment.

But press on I do. So it was no surprise at my track yesterday when I could physically feel my tiny little first trimester belly jiggling as I made my way around the track for some 800’s. It wiggled; I struggled. It wobbled; I stumbled. Sometime during the third interval I could feel that little fucking monkey biting me in the back of the neck. Ohhhh, the fisting beating he was going to receive!

After three meager intervals, I crossed the line, hit Stop on my Garmin and immediately, well, STOPPED. Usually, I slow up going into a turn, letting the heart rate ease gradually before coming to a complete stop. Not this time. Between the jiggle, the monkey, and the cold, biting wind that I had been gulping mouthfuls of over the last 8 laps, I needed to stop. Now. So I did. And then I came as close as I have all year to a nice puke. I heaved, my cheeks puffed out, and my neck convulsed but….I choked it back down. It didn’t come back up. It was like eating at McDonald’s. It’s mind over matter. But that matter almost splattered everywhere. Eight weeks worth of Halloween candy, cheap beer, pizza, and over indulgence nearly painted the track a vomitous brown.

Fuck that monkey. I need to get back in shape a bit. I hit the 800’s in my goal time but, damn, it shouldn’t have been that hard. And I shouldn’t have stood on the puke threshold to do it. The jiggle belly has got to go no matter how catchy of a tune it makes.

I ran home with a taste of vomit and peppermint candy canes in the back of my throat, grabbed some veggies for lunch, and manually switched on the TV. Then, I plopped down in a chair for some Yes, Dear reruns to console me. But the channels starting switching like crazy. So I got back up, returned Yes, Dear to my screen and flopped in the chair again. And the channels starting flipping. But only if I sat on my right ass cheek. I leaned left and Yes, Dear remained.

How many triglycerides in batteries?

Happy trails.

*Two grand a month to keep my joints from feasting on themselves. Plus, I get the fun of injecting myself. All the injections but none of the crystal meth! The least they could do would be to ring the medicine with a little meth, like salt on a margarita lip, to give it some kick. Damn, cut a fella a break. How 'bout a little taste?!?
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Programming Note: I won’t be doing an elaborate Christmas themed series of posts like last year. If you’re disappointed, well, it’s a good lesson. You should get used to being disappointed here. It’s really the engine that drives this machine. Read December 2010 for old time sakes if you want a “theme”. Now, get outta here.

My Lonely Weider

(Look, based on the title alone, you and I are both expecting a wave of double entendres in the text below. I’ve created this situation for myself and I’ll need to wallow in it. However, I’m going to defy the odds. I’ve gone through this post with a fine tooth lice comb and cleverly removed any that accidentally slipped in. I won't give in to cheap entendres. If you still see them, that’s your problem, man.)

Down here in my basement, I have this little secret trapped in a corner under a pile of basement rubble, lonely and scared. The last time I used it, my body got tight, erect, and veiny. Things bulged that normally don’t. I perspired. I grunted. In the end, I lost all respect for it by the time I headed upstairs. I haven’t used it in months.

I’m talking about my work out bench, sickos. (Everyone knows that a gimp goes in a trunk and not “under a pile of basement rubble”, sheesh.)

I have a Joe Weider work out bench in the corner of my basement. I may be the only person in America who still knows who Joe Weider is. He created the Mr. Olympia bodybuilding contest and, thus, unintentionally created the amateur Mr. Douchebag contest in gyms all across North America. We can also thank him for The Jersey Shore, I’m sure. I can’t say for sure but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s also responsible for baggy, multi-colored gym pants:

Ugly gym pants? Check. Tiger shirt? Check. Is that a fanny pack? Check. The trifecta! Congrats, dude.

Mrs. Nitmos bought me the Weider work out “system” nearly twenty years ago. In the early 90’s, it was fashionable to get all pumped up and veiny and wear these horrific multi-colored baggy pants. MOAR tiger stripes the better! Back then, Schwarzenegger was still a huge star. Stallone had already made Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot so his career was basically over but muscles were generally IN. Hilariously, I would pump some iron and then, in between reps, step outside for a Camel cigarette. Pathetic, really. I was one pair of tiger stripe gym pants away from being a complete douche. Thankfully, my needle stuck at ¾’s douche.

Until last spring, I’d still use it nearly every week though. You may have noticed lately that my blog posts have come in considerably less mass and definition. My fingers are looking downright anorexic lately. My knuckles are a bit paunchy. I’m hitting the QWERTY keys with less force and authority. Back in my weight lifting peak, the three most common questions I’d get were:

1) Dude, how did you get so ripped?
2) Is there a time when you don’t wear a tank top?
3) Why are you carrying a trident?

Over the years, I transitioned from weight lifting heavier things to lower weight but higher reps. This would also be the time I moved from playing basketball regularly to running. An extra ten pounds of muscle helps when taking elbows in the middle of the back from a 6’5” behemoth in the paint; it doesn’t do so well in a marathon. In fact, a few years back, I started moving from straight weight lifting to stretchy banding (memorialized here) and core strengthening. Combine that with the running and I certainly look scrawnier but feel much healthier. Oh, and I don’t smoke Camels anymore. That’s a good tip right there. Put that one in your back pocket.

My Weider sits over there in the corner all sad and lonely under a pile of marathon posters that I’ll probably never hang anywhere. (Why’d I even take them?) I’m quite content with the running, the stretchy bands and the endless core exercises on the living room floor while plowing through episodes of the TWO BEST SHOWS ON TV.* Things have changed a bit since the days of ugly gym pants. Now, the three most common questions I get are:

1) Can you pick my son up for the soccer game?
2) Where did you get those loafers? J.C. Penney?
3) Tell me again why you carry that trident?

With the cold, winter weather rolling in, I was thinking about whipping out my Weider and playing with it a bit. Why not get a little pumped, a little engorged, a little veiny? For purely nostalgic reasons, I may pump it until I’m drained but satisfied. In other words, this winter I may spend a lot more time playing with my Weider.

What?

Happy trails.

*Sons of Anarchy and Breaking Bad. If you ain’t watching them, you ain’t cool. You might as well buy yourself some tiger stripe gym pants and watch Jersey Shore.