Grief Bacon

There are very few times in life when Meredith Viera can teach you something useful so, when those times occur, you must pay attention, sit still, and learn well.  It’s a moment that arises only occasionally like Haley’s comet or a clever quip from Ryan Seacrest.  A month or so ago, while watching the last few minutes of Who Wants To Be a Millionaire (don’t ask me why and, yes, it is still on the air), a question about the definition of the German word “kummerspeck” came up.  The dramatic music and flashing lights centered on the contestant but they might as well have been directed at me sitting on my couch in my onesie (hey, they are still comfortable – don’t judge) and eating a bag of Cheetos.  I had to know this word.

Kummerspeck!  I didn’t care what it meant; this was going to become part of my regular vocabulary.  I’d make room for it by getting rid of “irregardless”.  Irregardless isn’t a word.  It’s just “regardless” and it’s one of my pet peeves when people say “irregardless”.  Since I don’t say “irregardless” – again, because it isn’t a word – it would be easy to jettison.   I have room for exactly 20,124 words in my vocabulary no matter how useful some of them are to me.*

Here’s the best part:  Kummerspeck paid off with an even more awesome definition!

Etymology

Composed of Kummer (“grief”) and Speck (“bacon”).

Noun

Kummerspeck m. (genitive singular Kummerspecks)

1. (uncountable) Excess weight gained due to emotional overeating.

Retrieved from "http://en.wiktionary.org/w/index.php?title=Kummerspeck&oldid=16318687"

Are you FREAKING kidding me?  GRIEF BACON?!?  Jackpot!  If you thought I had a blog post written two seconds after seeing this and before I could wipe four orange finger stripes across my onesie, you’d be correct!

Grief bacon still tastes delicious!

I snuck the use of kummerspeck into my last post.  Twice.  I was fishing for any recognition.  Viper latched right on like, well, a snake with fangs.  B.O.B. exhibited less patience and just came right out and asked.

You know how in movies they show a jilted lover grabbing a pint of Ben & Jerry’s to comfort themselves?  Kummerspecking!  Or on The Biggest Loser a contestant – or eight – have the sad story about an injury or a family death that caused inactivity, depression, overeating and rapid weight gain?  Grief bacon!  Kummerspeck! 

I love the word and you’ll see it deployed often in the future on this blog so learn it now.

However, truth be told, I do take a small issue with its construction.  Grief.  Bacon.  These are two words that don’t really belong together.  If I were to word cloud these words, grief is sad, unhappy, melancholy, sullen.  Bacon is delicious, happy, food group, and orgasmic.  Therefore, grief bacon is an oxymoron.  It seems almost criminal to associate bacon with something sad.  Bacon is what a PR tastes like if it had a flavor.  Bacon is like an age group award.  Heck, bacon would be a wonderful age group award.  In fact, a big plate of bacon would make me skip the race entirely.  But would I be kummerspecking?  Not according to the big greasy smile on my face.

Grief bacon is like saying ‘holocaust hors d’oeuvres’ or ‘cremation candy’ or ‘Budweiser beer’ – a horrible thing matched with a delicious thing.

Plus, why should a depressed fatty get sole use of this super cool word?

From now on, I’m considering any successful run, any PR, any age group award, ANY happy occasion to be a freudigenspeck.  There, I've created a new word for you.  Bacon should associate with a celebration.  In kummerspeck, it’s running with the wrong crowd.

You can kummerspeck over a DNF or a ripped hamstring or you can freudigenspeck your bacon-flavored PR.  It’s your classic bacon is half empty vs. half full philosophy.

For once, I was thankful for Meredith Viera and WWTBAM irregardless how ridiculous the show can be.  Without it, would I know to suggest that the eviscerated soccer team from this past weekend was engaging in kummerspecking?  And would I be able to use it in a blog post so that you may learn it too?  No.  And that would make me a kummernitmos.**

Freudigenspeck!

* I also have an issue with Alzheimer’s disease.  I mean, the disease is bad enough but how hard is it to say – and remember – "Alzheimer’s"?  My boss continually says “Old Timers” when she means “Alzheimers”, as in ‘I forgot the data for the presentation today – must be my Old Timers kicking in!’ Har Har.  Fortunately my exasperated sigh is disguised by the lame chuckles from the brown nosing employees.  It’s ALZHEIMER’S and you sound like a fool when you say “Old Timers’. /endofrant

**Das ist, was sie sagte!

Randumbery Hears Sad Trombones

You know the drill, it’s Randumbery!  It’s bite size portions of news of interest to only me, probably.  Don’t like it?  Get your own blog.

Who’s running New York?

The NYC Marathon drawing was last week and, I have to ask, is ANYONE running New York?  As I survey the blogscape, I see all NO’s from the lottery.  How can that be with roughly 45,000 possible entries?  Are bloggers the unluckiest group of all?  Believe me, I’m happy to be running it this year but I guess the other 45,000 runners will be complete strangers. 

I almost feel guilty about buying up those 5,000 registrations - to go unfilled - just to keep the crowds away from me.  It seemed prudent at the time but it’s starting to feel…a bit selfish.  Almost.

One Mile Time Trial:  Act Two

I’m a sad marmoset.  My recurring spring/summer series “One Mile Time Trial” held another showing at the local high school track last Friday.  It was a rerun.  Or almost a rerun.  Whoever said that you’ll find the greatest improvement between the first and second attempt, as you apply lessons learned, is completely full of shit.  In Act One, I ran a 5:39.  I fully expected at least a 5:35 for Act Two.  What do you think I ran? (Don’t look at the big red numbers below.)

5:38

Srsly?  That sucks.  If my math is correct, that’s a one second improvement.  And that could just be due to a quick finger on the stop button since I’m manually starting/stopping the Garmin.  Heck, that could be a rounding issue.  I thought I was going to hear a triumphant trumpet processional announce a successful time trial as I crossed the finish.  Instead, it was all sad trombones making a mockery of me, my Garmin, and my rosy cheeks (due to the harsh wind in the 2nd straightaway and turns 3 and 4).    Jealous how I slipped that excuse into my own pity party? 

I’ve been kummerspecking all weekend about it.  Next time, do better, Nitmos.

Filly Four

More soccer!  It is America’s sport!  The filly was the only one in action this Saturday.  Her team eviscerated an over matched squad 4-0.  The filly knocked in all 4 goals while splitting time between striker and midfielder.  I had to buy her 4 donuts as payment as this was our pre-game deal.  She got 3 chocolates and a powdered donut post game.  Fortunately, she did not eat them all at once. 

The other team had a long, shameful ride 90 minutes home to Dearborn.  I’m sure they did some kummerspecking of their own.  Maybe next time they'll do better as I hear the greatest improvement is better the first and second attempt.

Pictures?  Why, of course (click to make like a prostate and enlarge):

Splitting the D

Determined (and open)

Look, I can dribble backwards!

Goal in 3-2-1....  Ref, get that whistle ready.

Happy Trails.

The Marathon Whisperer

There’s this little thing I do and I think I’m pretty good at it.  I’ve alluded to it in the past and I’m going to recycle it for you now in longer form because repetition is what I do here.  What would a blog be without a little recycling?  F.M.S. has been around for 6 years (?!?) now talking about running, llamas, anti-coaching, and many other nonsensical subjects and  I have to dress these posts up in new baubles, hats, shoes, nipple rings, tattoos and other accessories to keep things from drying up and you guys enjoying all the sparkly new accouterments.  By year ten, this blog will look like Lisbeth Salander but without the anal rape.  Or maybe with the anal rape.  I go where the momentum takes me even if it’s anal rape.  I’d prefer it not be anal rape because my Google bombing will bring a whole new, weird audience here of people searching for ‘anal rape’.  The only thing I could do to make it worse is tie the whole thing to Betty White.  Better not.  Oops.

Today, I’m talking self soothing.  When I’m on a harsh round of 800 repeats or particularly challenging limbo run, the heartbeat escalates; breathing becomes rapid and loud; day dreaming becomes deranged and psychotic haunted by the mysterious Zombie Llama.  In short, all of the signs of exhaustion creep into my psyche threatening to submarine my remaining workout.  Oh, it’s mental for sure.  I’m a physical marvel so there is no way my body is trying to tell me anything of any value.  I’m tiring physically but need to rally the mental troops to complete the run.

When these demotivational symptoms emerge, I call on the forces of my intellect to calm, soothe and restore order.  I talked about disassociating my brain from my body before in this post.  I usually start with a reaffirming pep talk.  Something like, “You’re getting old, Nitmos, this used to be no problem.  Why don’t we go home and sit in a rocker and watch Matlock?”  Then, I take a few deep breaths and get the short, loud, huffy breaths under control.  Believe me you can do it if you try.  When I focus on my breathing and relaaaax, my breathing actually slows back under control.  It's very obedient.  Then, I remind my brain that my dumb ole body will just do what you tell it to do so stop listening to its talk back.  Viola!  What was once a rapidly sinking ship becomes a fully erect Nitmos cutting through his miles like a man on Viagra working his way through a pile of Scandinavian hookers.

It’s self soothing.  It’s what a baby learns early on through hours of alone time in a dark room with nothing but his wailing scream, wet diaper, burst eye vein, and a few well placed strips of duct tape.  They calm down eventually.  Yes they do.  And when they learn to self soothe, you have more time for your running as they’ll spend hours in a crib without any supervision whatsoever.  (The More You Know.*)

I’ve been pretty successful about getting my own body back in line when things get a little ragged. I’ve learned what to think, how to breathe, how to adjust my pace momentarily to allow a short break and let everything sink back into alignment and then take off again.  I’ve even used my technique on others.  Not the anal rape (I won’t kiss and tell; I’m a gentleman). 

I spectated a marathon my buddy was in a few years ago.  At mile 20, he was looking like the Staggering Dead.  He could only offer a gasped, pathetic “Hey” on the way by (which I thought was pretty rude considering I was out there cheering him on.  How about a little pizzazz….a little zest!?).   We talked about me pacing him through his last few miles so I was prepared (as I always am – I wear a racing singlet under everything I wear.  I’m like Superman that way.) to jump into the marathon and help him through the final 6 miles.  Considering that 1000 mile stare, jump in I did!

He was exhibiting all of the signs of a complete meltdown:  staggered, inconsistent pace, droopy head, loud, rapid breathing like he was being auto-erotically asphyxiated.**    It was time for me to do some soothing.  Not the anal rape, would you forget about that already?  I spoke calmly, steadily and with a series of oddly motivational encouragements.  I suggested that he concentrate on his breathing and take some deeper, longer breaths.  Frankly, his huffing was driving me nuts.  It was like when I see someone having a severe asthma attack and, really, I just need to leave the room because otherwise I start breathing funny.  Someone call 9-1-1, sheesh. 

Then we found a consistent, slightly slower pace that he could manage and keep moving.  We broke the race into small junks and celebrated those mileposts as they passed.  We talked about his family at the finish and how happy they’d be to see him.  I was like the Horse Whisperer.  I even complimented his mane and tried to rub the bridge of his nose.  He swatted me away but I think he was just being bashful.

He made it to the finish with his second best marathon time ever.  I was so excited, I jumped on his back*** and yelled “Hi-ho, Silver!” but he was being pretty selfish and inconsiderate and collapsed to the ground.  I guess finishing the marathon was all ab out "him".  I would have put him down right there at the finish but a starter pistol doesn’t carry live rounds.  It just makes a loud noise and returns shocked looks from the other finishers.

It appears I may be a bit of a Marathon Whisperer.  I soothed myself on my 7.5 mile run yesterday as I limboed down from 7:14 beginning mile to a 6:18 pace.  I’ve soothed others.  It’s a proven technique.  I’m available for hire for you too!  I’ll whisper inspiring things, keep you moving, rub your snout, and climb on your back when the race is over and take you on a victory trot.  I’ll do everything but the…well, you know.

Your expenses + my whispering = successful marathon.

Call me.

Happy trails.

*Repetition!

**Or so I’m told.

*** Again, not for the anal rape.  Give it up already.

"I Already Killed Stacy"

 …and other comments from the backseat of my car.

Let me clarify before the local constable comes knocking:  I did not kill Stacy.  I don’t even know a Stacy as far as I know.  I’m sure there are a lot of terrific Stacy’s and I doubt very much that I’d want to kill any of them.  I could have called this post “Kids Say the Darndest Things” except for (a) it’s not a very catchy title and (b) no one says ”darndest” anymore now that Art Linkletter and Bill Cosby are dead.*

This is why I should dust my mantle for my Father of the Year award which, I can only assume is in shipment.  These are things my kids said to me and Mrs. Nitmos this weekend while criss crossing town for soccer, burger, and beers.

I should also note that we are what you would call “relaxed” parents.  Sure, we do all of the health, safety, and general social etiquette stuff that keeps us out of jail and the kids reasonably socialized but, if a “shit” or “damn” slips out of their young mouths, I don’t really say much or care much.  The world is full of worse.  I’m a BIG PICTURE kinda guy.  They are good kids even if a profanity slips out or my colt kills prostitutes named Stacy.

Okay, maybe context is important.   My colt plays a few violent video games:  Call of Duty, Kill Zone, Grand Theft Auto, etc.   He was being a little sullen, as teenagers are want to do, so I thought I’d goad him into speech by asking:

Me: Have you had to shoot any prostitutes yet in GTA?

Colt:  I already killed Stacy.  She wasn’t the first though.  I ran Jolene over with a car.

Now, you are probably thinking that I took the opportunity to scold him and, maybe, give a stern lecture on economics and the value of capital.  Instead:

Me: Did she get out of line?

Dusting that mantle….

Meanwhile, my filly – going through reproductive health class and learning all sorts of AMAZING things for which there is no end to the questions (that I’m having a difficult time redirecting her back to her mother) – blurts out:

Filly (very serious):  I wonder how much blood is in my uterus right now?

I miss the days when we'd talk about My Little Ponies.  They don't have a uterus.

Dusting that mantle…

This all happened on the same car ride home Saturday night;  a car ride that lasts only 7 minutes from a burger pub up the road.  By now everyone is laughing hysterically at the dead prostitutes and inappropriate filly question.  So, naturally, things could only get worse.  My filly starts to improvise a hip hop song she heard but substitutes “dancing” for "candy".

Filly (singing and lilting her elbows back and forth in a seated dance):  Eating some candy and getting fucked up.  Gonna eat some candy and get fuuucked up.

The f word always gets a severe “Hey now” from us but it loses its power when you say it between fits of unrestrained laughter.  Just a little tip from Nitmos to you perspective parents.  The More You Know.

Dusting that mantle…

Finally, we pull into the garage, home at last.  I’m a classy guy.  Unfortunately, I’m also a gassy guy. Fffffrrrrumphhhh…pip.

Filly:  Dad, stop farting and making us feel it.

Apparently, that one shook the seats.

That was an eventful car ride home.  I think this should decisively end any Father of the Year debate.  Or maybe I’ll stop dusting that mantle.  It’s hopeless.  The best I can hope for is no calls from the principal before they head out on their own as young adults.  Then, they are the rest of the world’s problems. /Gacy’ed

Happy trails.

*Not sure about Cosby but who’s got time for research?

___________________________________

Photos from the weekend?  Why not.  Here’s the filly breaking in on goal….

...and here’s the filly blasting a ball off the goalies face with a sharp line drive strike.  Note the ball willowing away to the side and the grimace and backward descent of the face smashed goalie.  Please note that the goalie is technically out of the goal box so her only option to play the ball anyhow was by feet or face.  She went for face.  Or rather, the decision was made for her.

Here’s the colt. How did he not get a shot away on this?  I should have told him that the ball was a backhand and the goal, Stacy.  C’est la vie. 

That'll Do Pig

It’s important to take time to congratulate yourself on a run well done or a race well raced or a well well welled.    I mean, you don’t need to go crazy with confetti and champagne over every little run.   You could go crazy with balloons.  Balloons are always fun and appropriate, after all.*  But there’s nothing wrong with metaphorically patting yourself on the back on occasion.

We all have race mantras to help push through the tough times….Don’t give up….Dig deeper…Hurry up, I’m crowning…things like that.  Do you have a Go To back pat to celebrate a nice training run?

I used to use the crass and vulgar FUCK YEAH!  That didn’t win me too many friends when I ended each run by breaking the line of hand-holding kindergartners on their way to a park led by their teacher like I was breaking the tape at Boston.  I’d thrust my hands in the air as I split between little Susie and little Johnny and scream FUCK YEAH because damn if those two kids at the “break point” weren’t absolutely howling over their skinned knees.  Uh, got a little celebration going on over here, let’s not ruin it you Debbie Downers.  Skinned knees heal but a nice run lasts forever in the training log. 

Over time, you might say I’ve become more of a minimalist celebrant.  I no longer shout vulgar words.  I don’t mow down kindergartners with a strong finishing kick.  They've re-routed.  Instead, when it feels right, when that run went just as planned, I usually allow a little smile and a softly muttered, That’ll do pig.

That’ll do pig, that’ll do.

You’ll remember that line from Babe (1995) as the dignified and demure Farmer Hoggett recognizes the triumphant Babe’s sheep herding skills before a raucous crowd by gently smiling, That’ll do pig, that’ll do.  That always seemed like a classy and concise way to sum up a job well done.

I’m an understated kinda fella so this low key celebration fits better than the violence, vulgarity and blood of my old ways.  In fact, I find That’ll do pig is appreciated in many settings. Receive good service at a restaurant?  Shoot a That’ll do pig at the waitress and enjoy the surprised look in return.  On your way out from Sunday church, a pastor or priest or rabbi or shaman or Chief Scientologist (?) equally appreciate a That’ll do pig.  My kids clean up their filthy sty bedrooms? That’ll do pigs.  Finish a considerate meeting at an Overeater’s Anonymous Club? That’ll do pig.

I use it everywhere.  I’ve found that it’s a nice way to convey appreciation in all but two situations: (1) after sex and (2) when Mrs. Nitmos spends time making a thoughtful Lasagna dinner with a wonderful salad and exhaustedly sets it in front of you after her long tough day at work.  Something’s lost in the translation in those two settings where That’ll do pig somehow becomes something of an insult, I guess.

I hope you find your own self congratulatory way to celebrate a good run whether it’s vulgarity, assaulting school children, or swine references.  Give yourself a That’ll do pig on occasion because, Pig, you deserve it. Everyone else is sitting on their couch whereas you are actually out doing something.

Maybe another time I’ll tell you about my in race mantra.  It’s also from Babe.  I really should watch other movies.  Did Chipwrecked come out on DVD yet?

Baa-ram-ewe.

Happy trails, pig.

*Mrs. Nitmos and I have a long standing disagreement over a business venture plan of mine.  I believe most people would like to have a balloon as much as possible in their daily lives.  I would like to sink the family fortune into a "Balloon Saloon" serving all different shapes and sizes of balloons – largest selection in the Midwest!  Our professional Balloontender will pour air or helium or a nitrogen or whip-its or whatever you order into your professional balloon.  She thinks this is folly.  I think Balloon Saloon/internet café is the next Great Wave of retail – think Krispy Kreme.  I’m sure you agree with me.  Who doesn’t like a balloon?  And who wouldn’t want a professional balloon served by a professional balloontender?

_____________________________________ 

Congratulations to 2012 Boston Marathon winner Wesley Korir and Sharon Cherop.  Both of their times were depressed due to the heat of the day.  Like last year, I’m sure their times will be shaved down a bit to account for the hot weather, right?  I mean, last year’s winner didn’t have his world record recorded as such due to the “helpful” weather so this year’s winners should have a couple minutes shaved off their times due to the “hurtful” weather right?  Well, either way, congrats.  That’ll do pigs, that’ll do.

A 'Little' Smile Goes a Long Way

Have you seen Zeddie Little yet? Do you not live and breathe? He’s all over the internet for his 10k photo. He’s like Waldo of Where’s Waldo? fame except the opposite: we all can see him rather easily. Apparently, the fact that he isn’t gasping for air and lacks sweat glands has earned him the web nickname “Mr. Ridiculously Photogenic Guy” and his photo has gone viral. (click those links, pretty funny stuff inside . Also, they are the source for the photos.) While it’s true that most of us would rather douse ourselves on fire rather than look at our tongue-hanging, face-contorted, sweat-dripping race photos, I think the kerfuffle over Mr. Little (left side, plum shirt)is a bit misplaced. I’m not saying he isn’t handsome. That smile makes me want to smile too and that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever said about someone on this blog. Here’s the second nicest: I’m heading to MC Sports to look for a plum covered wicking shirt right after I type this.

I’m saying that, if he could release such an effortless, relaxed smile, perhaps he’s not giving an all out effort? C’mon Zeddie, the ole saying isn’t “More Smiles, More Miles”, it’s “No Pain, No Gain”. Can a fellow runner get a small grimace up in here? You’re making everyone else look bad. (See woman in white who appears to be looking for an aid station directly in front of you.)

He finished the race with a nice 47:16 time which places him easily within the top 10 percent of all finishers. He might have been 1323rd place overall but he’s definitely #1 in Fantastic Smiles.

The internets, being what they are, went ahead and photobombed the rest of the people in the shot.

What a friendly, happy, relaxed eternally optimistic group of runners! Though, truthfully, when I saw the title “Mr. Ridiculously Photogenic Guy" came across my computer screen, I expected to see this:

Admit it, this makes more sense. And I look great in plum.

Happy trails.

Tyler Perry Presents:Summer of Speed 2012

After a long deliberative process, I finally decided on my title for this Spring/Summer’s season of training! As you may recall, I like to title my summer training with a unique, wholly original themed title to focus my posts and guide my training. There was great debate in F.M.S. headquarters this year but, in the end, creativity and alliteration won out.

Introducing (drum roll, please)…the Summer of Speed 2012!

That’s right, that’s my title for this year. Long time readers will no doubt feel shafted. You’ve seen this tired old theme before – specifically during Summer of Speed and Summer of Speed II. But if you are still reading this after all the insults I’ve thrown your way over the years, I feel like you are pretty much going to keep reading anyhow and your feelings no longer matter. Yes, drink the sweet, sweet recycled theme. Also, your outfit is ill fitting and what did you do to your hair?

Before I get to my ALL IMPORTANT GOALS for SoS12, a few things to note about the title: First, look (!), alliteration NOT involving a day of the week! That’s right neither ‘Summer’ nor ‘Speed’ are days of the week yet still share a common first letter! Neat trick, huh? I like to think it’s these kinds of touches that differentiate this blog from all of the others.

Second, while you may think “how lame of Nitmos to keep reusing his old blog themes. How lazy is this guy?”, I’d like to point out that (A) I’m pretty lazy* and (B) I consider this an homage to 2008 rather than a rehash of originally unfunny content. When it is an “homage”, it makes the original seem like a “classic” and the repeat seem like a reverential bow. All classy.

Third, this SoS is sponsored! I mean not “officially” but close enough. I figure Tyler Perry sponsors everything else so he might as well sponsor this right? I think he needs to branch out from horrible TBS sitcoms, with very generous laugh tracks, anyhow. If he sues, then I’ll sue right back. I’ve seen Meet the Browns. I'm safe.

Goals? Goals! There are some….ALL IMPORTANT GOALS:

· Beat 1:26:37 in the Half Marathon. Set a PR.
· Beat 5:20 in the One Mile Time Trial summer non-invitational race series.
· Not blow out my knee in the trail Dances with Dirt race. Be van sweaty with other men.**
· Continue my streak of summer nights where I utter the phrase “please leave Daddy alone in the dark with his bottle.”

I’d like to set a 5k and 10k PR but that fact is that I may spend more of my time this year trying to get faster at longer distances rather than faster at shorter distances. That’s the long and short of it. But, if I enter a 5k or 10k, then I would instantly be trying to PR those races. That’s how we roll here…hellbound for crushing failure…set up for success like a condemned man on scaffolding.

I look forward to a lot of miles this summer. I expect to be mainly dehydrated most days with mild to moderate kidney damage come September. But I’m rich in kidneys: I have TWO fully functioning ones! One can be sacrificed for 10 seconds off the ole half marathon time. That’s why Oprah gave us two!

That should take me right into Fall. I’m still working out my sponsorship for Fall training. I’ve been told flat out that I don’t have enough emo vampires and lame Nicholas Sparks love story plots on my training plan so the Twilight movies will not be participating. I don’t want to jinx it but we might be looking at “Fall Farness: Based on the Novel “Push” by Sapphire”. Details coming soon.

Until then, enjoy your own Summer of Speed (or, your own wholly original title). You may announce it during your Monday Mash-Up, Tuesday Tidbits, Wednesday Words, Thursday Thoughts or Friday Feetures*** post. If you want, Tyler Perry will even sponsor it. I assume.

I’m poised on the scaffolding with my safety loop around my neck ready to burst through the door with an emphatic KER-THUNK. Let’s get this speed party started! Someone pull the lever.

Happy trails.

*I’m going to update the look of this blog soon.
**Also known as “typical Friday night”.
***I have dibs on this name. Keep your hands off.
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Happy Easter F.M.S. Originals and Newbies! Enjoy your Easter Bunny Hop Run or Bunny Race or Hoppy Run or Run for the Rabbit or whatever else your hometown is doing Sunday.

We Are Doing This

Where’ve I been? I can tell by the many cards, letters, and strip-o-grams I received that you’ve all been very concerned that I haven’t checked in for two weeks. I mean, who leaves a picture of a marmoset up on their blog for that long? Crazy, right?

Unfortunately, I don’t have an exotic excuse to explain my absence. There are still the same number of orphans in the world that there was two weeks ago. The ASPCA animals are still walking all one-eyed and limpy. Heck, outside of a few highly insulted strip-o-gram strippers – turnabout is fair play, right? – the world is pretty much how I left it.

The fact is that my job tends to get busier at quarter end. And, no, despite what Mrs. Nitmos says, I am not an accountant. This quarter was particularly busy. So If I disappear again at the end of June, September and December, you'll know why. Tell your friends and families that I don’t need the cards and letters.* I always wondered what it would be like to be one of those people who said they were busy…and actually were. Weird. I don’t like it. I prefer the challenge of filling up my project time sheet with invented tasks. It’s my one chance each week to create pure fiction.

Though my real world has interfered with my bloggy world, there are still a few things worth noting in RazZian bullet point style:

· I learned a new word. It is German. It is spectacular. It will change your life. At least, it will change the way you view breakfast foods. In fact, I will create an entire feature length blog post about it soon enough. Prepare to be blown away. Also, prepare to spend $19.95 on the t-shirts.

· As I’ve mentioned several times (i.e. ad nauseam), my kids are deep into the world of competitive youth soccer. They don’t really want to play; we force them. Our weekends usually involve an hour drive east to watch 4-6 soccer games and an hour drive home. Maybe repeating it on Sunday. Normally, the parents are on their best behavior…until last weekend. I watched in bemused horror as sideline cheering turned into pointed comments back and forth which them developed into a chest-to-chest confrontation complete with a shouted “ARE WE DOING THIS?” Awesome. This was over a non-call on a slide tackle. I’ve long felt that, as America builds its soccer programs, the area we’ve been lagging is the full on European style soccer brawl. Unfortunately, no punches were thrown and the situation was diffused. We’re still learning how to properly view soccer.

· In the same game, my son jabbed his left leg between a rampaging forwards legs to poke check the ball away and ended up with a partially, temporarily dislocated knee cap: leg brace, sore ligaments, two weeks on the pine…which coincide with the two week Spring Break. But, alas, it could have been worse.

· To further prove my statement that my blog and running are completely disconnected (I continually read others that don’t blog when not running or feel they need to blog in order to keep up with the running), I‘ve hit all of my planned runs and am rounding into shape - even without updating this blog. Go figure. And that shape I'm rounding into is: not so round, more angular, and loaded with pointed scowls. In other words, I’m starting to re-develop my spring/summer anorexic gauntness! Others around me feel I “need to eat a cheeseburger”. I must be getting back into shape!

· My plantar fasciitis is still being present. I’ve molested the racquetball quite a bit – which has helped tremendously – but I think I over did it at the track on Tuesday. I will keep running though because that’s what I do.

· Finally, enjoy this GIF of a stumbling, bumbling Rollerblading Raptor mascot FAIL. Don’t we all just have days like this?

Did you note the pathetic drooping of the tail at the end? Now, re-watch it 150 times like I did and see if you are still laughing just as hard. Don’t forget to vote in SB Nation’s animated GIF competition.

Happy trails.

*But I prefer naughty nurse strip-o-grams. A parking meter attendant? Seriously?

One Mile Time Trial: Act One

The weather’s been so nice lately that I’ve been having a hard time coming up with excuses to stay inside the house. The kids only buy my “gamma rays activate the genetic code to transpose me into a harmless marmoset so I must remain inside” excuse so many times. Actually, warm weather makes me happy and optimistic and pleasant to be around. The problem is that I prefer sullen, despondent, and ‘a danger to self and others’* like a good Midwesterner.

But the alternative this morning was work and who wants that? So I laced them up and decided upon a one mile time trial. I’m currently base lining my fitness levels in the 400m, 800m, 1600m, 5 mile, and 10 miles by running them at a “comfortably hard” pace so I can compare them to the ridiculous improvement I seek this year and then buy myself an actual marmoset to celebrate the accomplishment. You all do this right? I’m not the only running geek with a penchant for numbers, charts, graphs, and marmosets? In fact, if I could figure out how to get data without all of the running so I could concentrate on just the numbers, charts, and graphs, “running” would be so much more enjoyable for me. AND, I’d have way more time to play with my marmoset (euphemism welcomed).

Before I list my numerous excuses for my one mile time trial time, which is really the point of this post, I better summarize the effort. The high school track is 1.3 miles from my house – perfect distance for a 9-10 minute warm up. Then, four laps of the Terrible Oval, the Ever Expanding Oval, the Circle of Doom whatever you want to call it. Then, a 1.3 mile easy run home. Now, I realize that four laps of a track does not a pure “mile” make. Fortunately, I subscribe to the “close enough” philosophy usually reserved for horseshoes and hand grenades and Viper’s syntax.

Upon rounding the third turn of lap one, I spotted a few Canadian geese, clearly directionally challenged, pecking away at the end zone of the football field. ** As long as they didn’t bother me, I wouldn’t hilariously – and cartoonishly - strangle their long black necks. But, for every pack of geese, there’s a small pack of geese groupies that hang about. A cloud of gnats had gathered on turn three. I inhaled seventeen of them before realizing that someone didn’t just throw a handful of dirt down from the bleachers. They were kamikazing into my neck, cheeks, and eyes with impunity. Do geese-following gnats carry Lyme disease? I think I have Lyme disease.

I completed all four laps without further incident. With each jaunt through turn three, fewer and fewer gnats remained as they now filled my belly. If they were high in energy, I wouldn’t care but they mostly tasted of Canadian geese feces. Don’t ask me how I know. What you do on your free time is your business as is what I do on mine.

Time: 5:39
Laps? No idea but the 4th and final lap was the fastest around 1:21. I was shooting for an even 1:25/lap but that didn’t happen.
Verdict: About where I thought having not done a full one mile hard effort in probably 4 months. If I still record a similar time in 6-8 weeks, shoot me and take care of my marmoset.

Now – if I can get a drum roll here- I present my official Litany of Excuses:

- My sinus infection still rages. I cannot spit. Too gloopy. It shoots out of my mouth but never disconnects and ends up looking like a rappeller heading to my navel by way of chin.
- Geese gnats
- Left heel plantar fasciitis still bothersome (though the racquetball foot rolling helps immensely).
- Kony
- A layer of winter blubber clings to the abdomen, refusing to budge, like Kim Kardashian clings to fame.

I’ll check back in a few weeks and have another go. By then, the geese will have moved on, the sinus and foot will have heeled, and I’ll have to come up with an entirely new litany of excuses.

Lyme disease? By then, it may be full blown.

Oh, and you can stop drum rolling.

Happy trails.

*According to police reports, psychiatric reports, school counselors, and one unfortunate drive thru window worker at Wendy’s who didn’t appreciate my threat to “biggie size” a bruise on his face.
**Clearly, the football field was marked in “yards” not “meters”. Should have been a dead giveaway to the stupid birds.

Mirror Coach Reflects

Every now and again, we should all take time for some personal reflection. I spend most of my day in front of a mirror but that’s for purely aesthetic reasons.* About this time last year, I dramatically announced that I was firing my beloved running coach (me) and replacing him (me) with a bizarro coach (also me) that would shake things up by ordering training in complete reverse of how I had been doing it previously. The goal was to approach race preparation in a different manner. To move out of the comfort zone. To increase performance and speed by introducing a few new hastily internet-researched techniques. Or pills….lots and lots of pills, made no difference to me.

I named him (me) Mirror Coach because that’s just how obviously funny I am around here.

Mirror Coach was to be my salvation…my stern father figure, quick to scold but slow to praise – a bizarro Mr. Brady…a real impatient s.o.b. taskmaster. In short, the tone of Mirror Coach would be noticeably harsher and less tolerant but the handsome? Still the same! In fact, when I wink and give Mirror Coach a double hand pistol shot into the mirror, he simultaneously does it right back! We are sooo on the same page.

As training ramps up for the year, it’s time to evaluate his (my) performance last year. It’s time to see if another dismissal is in order or if Mirror Coach gets another one year lease.

Mirror, mirror on the wall
Who is the fairest of them all?

You know what, Mirror Coach, don’t answer that. We haven’t seen the sun around here much over the past few months.

Mirror, mirror on the wall
Who is the fastest of them all?

Okay, don’t answer that either.

Mirror, mirror on the wall
What did we do right last year?

You, my Nitmos, completed many 800’s, mile intervals, and Limbo runs which greatly aided your PR half marathon efforts! Your mid-week 8-10 mile Limbo runs were particularly strong and a main reason for your half marathon PR.

Positive reinforcement, I like that. Mirror Coach is a pretty cool guy. He’s well hung.**

Mirror, mirror on the wall
What did we do wrong last year?

Nitmos, there are others faster than you. We should have done more mile repeats and less 800's based on the distance we were training for. We should have added an additional day of running into the week. We should have raced more. You should have spent more time running rather than looking in the mirror asking yourself if "your Garmin makes you look fat." I pushed you harder but…not hard enough. And, yes, that is what she said.

Well maybe Mirror Coach should have spent more time on actual professional running coaches websites stealing learning their training tips and less time in the Glee fan club forums.

Mirror, mirror on the wall
What’s in store for me this year?

I see a large event marathon, NYC Marathon, that will require lots of preparation. I see more mile repeats. I see the intense mid-week Limbo runs bumping up to the 10-12 mile range. I see a gentle nudging up of speed and endurance compared to the half marathon stuff last year. “Gentle nudging” because, as you know, Mirror Coach subscribes to the long-term goal of slow building – while simultaneously keeping you injury-free – rather than the short term, injury-risking spikes in distance, pace or intervals. In short, be ready to sweat a lot under the summer sun. Mirror Coach also believes there is still plenty of time left over for Glee fan club forums in the schedule.

I think I’ll retain Mirror Coach for another year. He may be a bit surly and in desperate need of a nose hair trimmer but he can internet click for training techniques as well as any coach on the market! And he’s free! If you would like to use Mirror Coach for your running needs, let me know and it can be arranged. Send me your name, mailing address, $30, and the nearest location of a Bed, Bath and Beyond in your area.

Should I fail to meet my expectations? Should I fail to increase speed and endurance? Should I fail to employ the proper techniques found through 7-8 diligent minutes of research on the internet? I’ll place the blame directly where it belongs: on my coach, of course. He’s a reflection of my performance after all.

Mirror, mirror on the wall
Who’s the handsomest of them all?

Who can compete with those wavy curls!?!

Mirror Coach is a bit of smart ass. I wonder where he gets that from?

Have you checked in with your Mirror Coach lately?

Happy trails.

*If you were me, wouldn’t you?
**Get it? Yeah, you get it. Mirror humor, not as easy as it looks!

Queue the Music

We are past March 1st, did anyone start Gonna Fly Now (Rocky’s Theme) on the turntable? As I previously announced, I’m starting the hard training after a winter of maintenance miles. Who’s supposed to do the music? I can’t do everything around here. I need some musical inspiration…

…which didn’t come at my daughter’s school “music” show last night. I say “music”, in quotes, because I’m not sure what I saw up on that stage qualifies. It was the music class required, district mandated yearly elementary school music program involving half-hearted singing, ill-fitting hand-me-down clothing, poorly coiffed hair, and absolutely no rhythm whatsoever. My daughter did great. She’s a shining star. But the rest of the kids? Where’s the passion? Where’s the commitment? Where’s the pitch? (Answer: Not where you are at.)

If this school auditorium is a microcosm of what’s going on across the country, American Idol is going to suck in a few years. Or, suck more. I didn’t applaud much. I don’t encourage sloppy performance. I don’t give ribbons for “participation” either. The song choices were completely shallow and derivative. The only kid – besides my daughter – that could carry a tune was the baby three rows behind me that had a soprano E nailed! By the end of the performance, the baby wasn’t the only one that wanted to suckle a comforting breast.

I was chatting with another runner the other day about music and how we use it when training and running. We were polar opposites. He never runs with music except during a race – to enhance his concentration and block out distractions. I only listen to music when training and rarely listen during a race – because I find it distracting. I always wear my earphones but have only actually turned my music on in a handful of races. Instead, they become sweaty, nuisance ear plugs that have me cursing Why did I even wear these stupid things? every step of the race.

During training runs and, especially, while circling the Terrible Oval of 800’s, the music helps distract me from the boring miles. It keeps my rhythm going. Puts a little bounce in my step. Occasionally, if you drive past me, you may even find me playing the air drums or air guitar or air lead singer or air didgeridoo.

But, during a race, I’m only looking at the person immediately in front of me, full of venomous hate and loathing. The hate is strong…like a serial killer towards carpet fibers. I don’t want anything to distract me from that. How dare they run slight faster than me, right?

If you are reading this, (A) you are the only one and (B) you are in charge of the music. Queue up the Rocky…Ba da dum da da dum, da da dum da da dum…. And repeat.

I need something to wash away the memories of those out of sync maracas to “Apples and Bananas”. Ugh. Uninspiring.

Happy trails.

Being a Cheapskate Causes Heel Pain

I don’t get injured often but when I do, I drink Dos Equis. Then I turn on the computer and let my fingertips, a healthy buzz, and Google analyze the problem. Who needs doctors anymore? The internet has made the entire world functionally literate on all topics. It’s true. I once gave myself a tattoo by watching a short YouTube video and then using a paperclip, thirteen broken apart Bic pens and a lighter. And then, a few days later, I learned how to treat the resulting Tetanus at home with a Penicillin injection left over from the 1970’s. And ultimately, Google taught me the early signs of gangrene and that the lockjaw was a warning that the Tetanus was getting worse (and not caused by me sleeping funny on my jaw). Ultimately, I did go to the doctor but look how far I got without one!

The internet, the solution to – and cause of – all of life’s problems!* It answers everything (including how to coach yourself as a runner - but that’s a topic for another day.)

My left heel gets tight and sore after every run. It’s been that way for a month. It doesn’t stop me from running my normal distances and paces. I don’t “listen to my body” and take a break as I refuse to concede to trite clichés. (I also firmly look a gift horse in the mouth.) I knew right off what it was. It happens every winter. It happens every winter because I don’t want to pay for new running shoes that are just going to get trashed in the wet, icy unstable conditions. Every winter, I extend the life of my old running shoes by, oh, a good 100-200 extra miles past the point when they should have been retired to lawn cutting shoes.

Come late January and February, the soles are bare and there is almost no padding left in my trusty Asics. You might say that, due to my financial passivity, I become a reluctant minimalist runner. I mean, thin little strips of rubber attached to the bottom of the foot are basically what a minimalist runner wears, right? My hair’s too short, I tend to shower every day, and I rarely play the conga drums so there’s almost no chance I’m an actual minimalist. And whether by choice or by chance, since I’m running at a regular pace and not a slow, measured, controlled jog, I become minimalist…injured.

Google tells me that it’s probably plantar fasciitis. Google also tells me that it is most likely caused by running in worn out shoes. Well, duh, tell me something I don’t know, Google. Google also tells me that there is not much to do about it but rest and stop being a cheapskate and buy new shoes. Google does not support minimalism.** Google also doesn’t give two shits about my budget. What does Google know anyway?

Like last winter, I eventually introduced some new, spongy, decidedly un-minimalist shoes onto my running soles at the point where the threat of wet, icy sidewalks minimalized. And already my heel pain is lessening. By the time the spring flowers bloom, my annual heel pain will have disappeared underneath a torrent of padded miles.

The multiple lessons learned here are:

1) Running on worn out shoes causes heel pain.
2) Running on padded shoes eases heel pain.
3) Don’t “listen to your body”; don’t stop running. Ever.
4) Google is never wrong when it comes to self diagnosis.
5) Google is never correct when it says something you don’t like.
6) Minimalist runners usually play the conga drums.

Stay properly shodded, my friends.***

Happy trails

*Shamefully (and derivatively) stolen from The Simpson’s
**Unless you directly Google “minimalism”.
***The first one of you following the FIRST training method is welcome to title your next blog post “Stay FIRSTy, My Friends” compliments of Feet Meet Street!

I Ate a Garden Burger

This has been weighing on me recently and I have to confess something: I ate a garden burger.

I’m not proud of it. I do my best to avoid soy like barefoot runners avoid their true feelings. In fact, I live life by hard and fast rules and one of them is If my dinner never had a face, then it ain’t got no taste. But in a moment of weakness, I gave in and ate a veggie burger. I don’t really have a good excuse either which is why it’s taken me so long to admit this.

I spent the day watching four soccer matches (which involves all of us parents standing along the sideline pretending that we want anyone else’s kid to do well - yeah, right), then exhaustedly stumbled into the arena’s in-house restaurant and next thing you know I was saying “I’ll have the garden burger”. I knew immediately that I’d never live it down. There were audible astonished gasps from the next table. I might as well have ordered a plate full of salted puppy livers – extra large order – because even if I don’t eat them all at least they look cool piled high on a plate. Also, fuck the puppies.

Who orders a garden burger? I bet the kitchen was scrambling trying to fill that order. They probably just chucked some diced carrots into some rotted, unseasoned beef and sent it out. Who’s going to know the difference? Hippies don’t normally hang out at a soccer complex.*

In a few minutes, the light beige, vegetable bespeckled patty appeared in front me. I don’t know who was snickering but I definitely heard snickers. And don’t think I didn’t notice how the waitress set it down in front of me with a smirk and a carefully worded introduction, “Here’s your gaaar-den burger.”

I didn’t look around but I’m pretty sure everyone was staring at me and taking side bets as to whether or not I’d eat it. You know, a “fifty bucks the Smails kid picks his nose” type situation. But here’s another unfortunate hard and fast rule I live by: Never admit you’re wrong or did something uncool. If I’m walking down a sidewalk and stumble over a raised portion of concrete, I keep jogging right after I regain my balance just to show everyone that I really did want to run right now. Not an accident; I didn’t trip. If I mistakenly consume a spoonful of French dressing from a bowl before realizing it wasn’t tomato soup, I keep eating until I’ve finished the entire bowl. That way, no one knows for sure if it was a mistake or not or if it actually was tomato soup.

So I ate the garden burger. I even forced a defiant, triumphant smile to show all of the others - who I wouldn’t make eye contact with - that I really WANTED a veggie burger, don’t regret ordering it, and it was delicious, and aren’t you the fool for not ordering one for yourself! The truth is, it didn’t really taste like…anything. It was like being a POW and receiving a blob of unidentifiable gooey sustenance on a plate that you need in order to survive. You just joylessly eat it. That’s how I consumed the veggie burger. The MMMM’s and tummy patting YUMMY’s were for everyone else.

A little bit of me died that day though. It’s like when you go to chew your fingernail and realize that there was the tiniest amount of booger shard still on your finger from the nosescaping job 30 seconds before that and that booger shard is now in your mouth. There’s no walking it back. That. Just. Happened. You live with it and move on.

I like to eat healthy but only on my terms. That means, for every carrot or broccoli or Activia yogurt I consume, there’s a fudge stripe cookie or handful of jelly beans brought in to balance the equation. If nutrition is a teeter-totter rotating between Nutritious and Non-nutritious, you want to try to balance the plank without either side touching the ground. Don’t be an extremist.

It should have been enough to get a regular hamburger without cheese. Instead, I tried to go a step further and threw off my equilibrium. That night, I missed out on the lump in the gut a nice, greasy slab of beef creates. I missed out on the bloating and the inability to poop for the next 24-36 hours. Instead, I felt light, carefree and fresh just like the ladies canoeing in their white dresses and white parasols in a tampon commercial. My bowel movement was fast and furious the next morning.

I missed out on the entire uncomfortable way a burger makes its way through the gastro-intestinal system all for what? For WHAT?!?

I’m sorry that I ate a garden burger. I’m sorry to everyone that had to watch me eat this abomination. Mostly, I’m now sorry that I’ve told you about it.

I don’t even have the heart to mention that I also got a water to drink.

Happy trails.

*Unless they are playing which, truth be told, they ARE judging by the number of pony tailed men in the place.

Wine Teeth

As I implied in The Implication, Mrs. Nitmos and I escaped to the Great White Moderately Brown-Beige North for a little cherished “time away from the kids” this past weekend. How’d it go? You need ask, Mr. Rhetorical? Fantastic! Of course, we could have found ourselves buried up to our necks with red ants biting our eye lids under a blazing hot sun and still found the Down Time refreshing.

We wined. We dined. We…whatever rhymes, add it here.

I drank a lot of wine on Friday. I ended up with wine teeth. You know those crystal meth addicts who lost their front teeth and the few they have left are all brown and black? Have a few buckets of red wine and then smile. You look like a crackhead. Welcome to Wine Teeth! The red wine stain makes it look like your teeth are either (1) missing and/or (2) horribly unclean. We dined at a nice little hamlet called TraVino’s Wine and Grille near Traverse City, MI. When you go – and you’ll find yourself there eventually – I recommend. I had entirely too much of a locally grown Black Star Farms concoction. I think I had Wine Teeth before even leaving.

But then we headed downtown “TC” later Friday for more after dinner drinks at the Red Ginger. If you like sushi, fishy foods, and – oh, yeah - wine, this would be another spot for you. I sampled an Argentinean brand – Armador, I think - and was unimpressed. Should have went local. Red Ginger, however? I recommend.

Mrs. Nitmos was on her best behavior so the food and drink ran plentiful and the whirlpool ran warm and full. No worries. The implication was well received...things didn't turn nasty. We make a trip just about every February around this time to give a big F.U. to Old Man Winter and prepare ourselves for the coming spring. At Red Ginger, we briefly discussed race plans for the coming year. I decided that, come March 1st, the winter maintenance mode officially ends and it will be time to kick things into high gear. I’ve been sleep running for two months now and it has grown tiresome.

Saturday morning, I brushed twice in an attempt to return my Wine Teeth back to white, or yellowish-white, let’s be honest here. We got to experience what it is like to be a hobo standing outside of a soup kitchen in the freezing cold. There was a tent set up for a “winter festival” in the middle of a parking lot. A soup tasting competition was within. But they wouldn’t let us in until noon sharp and we got there at 11:50. Ever have to wait in the freezing cold for…SOUP?!? Damn, I don’t think I could have survived the Depression. Hobos, I don’t know how you do it you filthy rascals!!

The soup was good but so not worth the cold. Again, how do the bums do it? Soup, after all that time in the cold? Can a hobo get a steak up in here??

The rest of Saturday was spent much the same as Friday…aimless wandering punctuated with drinks…except this time it was locally crafted brew in place of the wine. There is no such thing as beer teeth. Beer farts? Well, that’s another story…

Mrs. Nitmos and I retrieved the spoiled kids and drove home Sunday afternoon feeling pleasantly drained and simultaneously revitalized…until later that evening when we sent the kids to bed early because they were driving us INSANE. And then I drank more wine. But, this time, it wasn’t from a glass and it wasn’t a sip. glug glug glug

March 1st, come hell or snow shower, hard training begins again. The time for kicking back and relaxed running and wining has ended. Maybe I’ll come up with a clever, wholly original and inspirational slogan…something like “Spring of Speed” maybe.

Someone queue the Rocky theme. Someone’s Gonna Fly Now In Another Week. Anyone want my old sweatpants and half-consumed bag of Cheetos?

Happy trails.

For the 500th Time...!

Alright, put a fork in me. I’m done. I’ve created 500 wondrous blog posts for you people. 500!?!? Congratulate me for my lameness. Seriously, is there anything more disappointing than realizing you’ve spent time writing 500 blog posts? I guess renting - then watching - the entire first season of Bosom Buddies comes close. (That was a long night…especially when the acid gives out after 4 episodes.)

That’s 500 times I had an opportunity to play a game with my kids, teach them a life lesson, listen to their hopes and dreams. That’s 500 opportunities I could have given Mrs. Nitmos a hug and a deep, soulful gaze with pleasantly moist, passionate kiss. That’s 500 chances to tell my family how proud I am of them. Instead, I have 500 examples of my childish, selfish and unbridled egomania. What’s that, hon, there is a bully at school? Can we talk tomorrow, Daddy needs to finish his thoughts on taint moles and then loosely connect that with running? Post your worries online…someone will help.

This post here is actually post #501. Let’s celebrate the start of the next 500 blog posts! (which can only end with my suicide.) I’m a bit disappointed that none of you eagle-eyed readers noticed that Friday’s post was #500. I have to point it out myself?!? I have a birthday coming up in a few weeks…just giving you some advance notice so I don’t have to throw out a "Happy Birthday to Me" on my own blog.

We’ve covered a lot of ground in 500 posts. All of them have been completely heartfelt, edifying, and spiritually uplifting. At least, the ones that didn’t involve metaphors about fruit falling from my anus or Rocko, the bethonged stud muffin. Truthfully, the number of posts that apply to running, running tips, race reports, running motivation or stories, instead of surreal tomfoolery, is somewhere in the neighborhood of 37. That’s 37 of 500, or .074%, which…NOT BAD! I actually thought I was pushing 98% non-running related content. Of course, a “post” is not an official “post”, per FMS policy, unless I’ve said something hurtful or derogatory so that may change the math a bit.

In honor of 500, I’m going to do another giveaway! The first person to have one of my posts – your choice – tattooed on their torso (photo evidence will be needed) will NOT be sued for copyright infringement!!! Enter away. Enter as often as you like. I’m giving you a one-time No Lawsuit pass. You may even tattoo your infant. After all, the growth will only cause an increase in font size but that text still should be legible!

I’m not going to recap my highlight, landmark blog posts for you. First, there’s too many to count. Second, they are all right there on the sidebar for you…I’ve put them in chronological order. And, third, I think you all know which one is the best. It’s the one where I refer to myself as handsome, rail against amateur coaches, and talk smack about Viper, Ian, and/or Razz. You know, that one.

Here’s to the start of the next 500! At this point, it makes no sense to reconnect with the family. You can’t walk into a movie halfway through and expect to ever catch up (unless it stars Jennifer Aniston and she’s trying to fall in love with someone). So, may as well pound away at the keyboard. We can celebrate post #1000 along with the graduation of my youngest kid, whatsername. And, don’t worry, I’ll continue to talk about my favorite subjects…running, racing, barefooting, “coaching”, llamas, orphanage robbery, and myself. Heck, I might even regale you with a story about the time I ate too many fudge stripe cookies…wait, am I repeating now...?

That’s an awful lot of lameness to commit to in the coming years but, the way I see it, I don’t have the worst of it.

Guess who’s reading these 500 posts?

Happy trails.

The Implication

Mrs. Nitmos and I are heading out of town for a little R ‘n R before the next round of kids’ weekend games kick in (get it?) Weekend “free” time is extremely limited in our family life so it must be taken advantage of when the opportunity presents. We are disappearing to my ancestral homeland where we’ll encounter a winter festival that, for some reason, celebrates this sickening collection of frozen water, as well as locally cultivated wine, fine foods, jetted tubs, and general NO KIDS alone time. In other words, there will be ROMANCE.UP.THE.ASS. (that’s not what I meant, sickos.)

Though we’ve been married for over 16 years now, I don’t take Mrs. Nitmos for granted. However, when I go through the trouble to rent a hotel room…when I make sure that hotel room houses a delightfully large whirlpool…when I ensure an adequate supply of booze and other goodies are on hand…when I predetermine restaurant selections to fill a hungry gullet with delicious steaks and seafood…a fella expects a little something in return, you know? I fed you, bathed you, housed you, drunked you…now, here we are alone in this room. What now? I’m not being a chauvinistic pig when I suggest that there is a certain IMPLICATION there, no?

I would never demand or insist. I’m not uncouth. There will be no Tina-Ike situation. Nothing bad will probably happen. The warm, swirling waters of the tub may suddenly disappear down the drain…the booze may get locked in a high cabinet (at least, higher than a 5’3” person can reach)…and maybe Burger King will be just fine for dinner, you know what I’m saying? We all make choices. I’m not demanding…but there is an implication.

I’ve crammed a full week’s worth of runs into four days to make sure the entire weekend is free. Mrs. Nitmos will have my undivided attention. We should have a great time as we always do when wandering about aimlessly during a few days with no plans or schedule. It’s carefree. It’s fun. It’s stress-free.

Well, not entirely stress-free. There’s an implication hanging in the air. It’s like prom all over again.

Happy trails.
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Regarding yesterday’s post, a few of you voiced your doubts that I actually blacked out while on the treadmill and then woke up seated in a folding chair wearing a slutty nurse’s uniform. Uh, you’ll need to explain to me what part of that was not plausible? Everything you read here is entirely true. My blog posts are dipped in truth and presented to you with truthy sweetness dripping off it like so much honey. Are you going to believe me or your lying brain? HATERZ gonna hate, I guess.
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Special thanks to It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia ("The Gang Buys a Boat") for this implication.

Back to the Treadmill!

We all know running on the treadmill is an odd, unnatural activity. I hate it. You hate it. I’m pretty sure Marty McFly hates it too. But sometimes it is not just ‘odd’, it can be paranormal as well.

I think something…unsavory happened on it yesterday.

As you know, we invited a treadmill inside of our house. We hear groans, the spasmodic random whirring of the belt, and an occasional shriek from the basement at odd hours of the night but we chalked that up to “owning a treadmill and having it in the basement”. The devil inside us, remember? We expected some devilment coming from the area. It’d be like bringing an ancient mummy into the home. Of course it’s going to come to life and walk around the house attempting to eat our brains. Of course. It’s not just going to stand in the corner, leaning against the wall, harmlessly wrapped in gauze.

So we have basically ignored the portal to hell – and all its tomfoolery - positioned near the rear corner of the basement pointed towards the TV. I’ve used it on only a few occasions but when I do there is always something strange that happens. Last evening as I beep the Start button to life at 4:45 PM and the slow, accelerating turn of the belt begins, time seems to stand…still. Or, at least, move extremely slowly. Four seconds seems like four minutes. Four minutes seem like four hours. When running outside, I’d easily knock off a quarter mile between glances at the Garmin and that quarter mile would seemingly go by in just a few seconds. Inside on the treadmill, that same quarter mile ticks away one hundredth of a mile at a time…second by second…minute by minute…hour by hour…damn was that a quarter mile or a 10k?!?!? I stare at the display with disbelieving eyes wondering how exactly 1/100th of mile takes that many seconds.

The rules of time no longer exist. I tell myself I won’t look at the display. I’ll just watch TV and forget about it. So I watch TV until the next commercial break and then, suspiciously glance at the display and…I’ve apparently only gone 2/100th’s of a mile further. Now how is that possible? I must have watched The Real Housewives of Atlanta the game for ten minutes!?! The belt started shuddering and squeaking and it sure as hell sounded like a demonic laugh.

The plan was to go five miles. I’m just in ‘maintenance’ winter mode still so I wasn’t busting too hard of a pace. But after what seemed like an hour on the thing, it appeared as if I’d only gone 37/100th of a mile…I think, I was getting delirious. I decided to speed things up to get it over with as quickly as possible.

7.6 speed was nudged to 7.7….then 7.8…every few minutes, I’d increment a little further.

8.0
8.2
8.3
8.5

By now, I’m at nearly a 7 minute per mile pace. The treadmill shudders and squeaks. I look down at the display. I’ve gone 39/100th’s of a mile now. Total. Now, how is that possible?!?! The mill continues to mockingly chortle and spin away as my arms fling sweat and my legs struggle to keep up.

8.6
8.7

This was way more effort than I wanted to get into for a “maintenance” run. We have a little license plate on the back of the ‘mill, for fun, that says OUTATIME. It begins rattling with hard metallic clanks threatening to fall off. I’m in full on speed work territory now.

8.8

The display blinks rapidly 8.8…8.8…8.8.

I don’t know how fast that is in miles per hour but as soon as I obtained this speed, the license plate zipped off the back and spun around in frenzied circles. I recall a blazing fiery path zooming out in front away from me and then a kaleidoscope of colors…closing in….narrowing…then darkness…and the mesmerizing whirr of the belt….

I came to a while later. I have no idea how long it had been. The distance display said 5.0 miles on the nose. But I was not sweaty. I was not in shorts or a wicking shirt either. I was seated. In a folding chair. In the middle of the treadmill belt. The mill was still on, humming serenely, but the belt wasn’t moving. The clock on the wall said 4:45…the exact same time I started the run.

I looked down at myself sitting in the chair. I was wearing a nurse’s outfit with a blond, curly haired wig capped by a little 1950’s style nurse’s cap. My lips were streaked with fire engine red lipstick, smeared seductively in one corner. What in the hell just happened? The fish net stockings, the only thing I remembered wearing when I actually started the run, were torn and destroyed.

I don’t know what happened when I hit 8.8. Did I run the 5 miles? Can I record it in my running log?* Why is my lipstick smeared? And why am I wearing lipstick? And why do I have this letter in my pocket addressed to myself warning me never to start a blog "in the future"?

There’s just something altogether unusual about the treadmill. And, apparently, paranormal as well. Time and space do not exist in the way we are accustomed. There is simply no way you can run for 4 ½ hours @ 8.0 speed and only go 47/100th’s of a mile. Whatever happened during that lost run, I hope I didn’t screw up my future. This level of mediocrity is hard to obtain.

I turned off the mill and headed back upstairs to fix my make-up in a dazed confusion. I could have sworn I heard the thing laugh at me as I closed the basement door.

Happy trails.

* I’m going to record it. Paranormal or not, I must have logged the miles.