Death to Soundy

See this lil feller? Mrs. Nitmos got him for me as a Christmas gift. He doesn’t work anymore – a mere five+ months later.

What can we conclude from this?
a) Mrs. Nitmos buys cheap gifts.
b) Apple makes cheap iPods.
c) It would rather commit suicide rather than stay clipped to my sweaty torso for one second longer.

If I plug it in to charge, the little square gets piping hot to the touch within two minutes. The regulator which said ‘charge me’ must have stopped regulating and instead switched over to ‘unleash the fires of hell upon thee’. I always thought my music was hawt but not literally HOT. Its poor little insides must be burned to a crisp.

It’s too bad because I liked the smallness and ease of use of the little device. It’s very much like my penis. It reminds me of this favored set of Marantz speakers I had in my college dorm room. The speakers were way too powerful for that little cement cell of a room so my roommate and I had to exercise supreme restrain not to blow the doors and windows out. My Marantz and me envisioned a long and happy life together…until an impromptu party began…(queue flashback sequence)

It started out as three, then ballooned to ten before finally ending with 20 beer seeking twenty-somethings packed shoulder-to-shoulder in a square dorm room made for two. These were the days when 80’s hair bands were on their way out and grunge was setting up shop on the Billboard charts. Kids were finally realizing that Poison did, in fact, look like a bunch of sissies. Warrant, Winger, et al was getting the mocking they richly deserved. As a long time Hater of 80’s hair bands, it was a glorious time for me.

Beer was drank. Fun was had. My Marantz chirped away at a loud but not obnoxious level with my preferred musical selections. Husker Du, The Replacements, Pearl Jam, etc. But, inevitably, just as we couldn’t control the amount of people flooding into our room, we also couldn’t keep control over the music. I found myself trapped on one side of the room when I heard it. The music stopped, the disc tray slid out, a Def Leppard CD was produced, the tray slid back in, ‘play’ was pressed and THE VOLUME WAS CRANKED. I knew what my Marantz were capable of and the volume was red lined to dangerous heights.

If you’ve been in a car accident, you know there is that moment that probably only lasts a millisecond but feels like an eternity. That moment where you can see everything bad that is about to happen and you are powerless to stop it. I looked at my roommate who was also trapped on another side of the room and mouthed ‘Oh, no’ just as “POUR SOME SUGAR ON ME ooohhh IN THE NAME OF LOVE” screamed through the room. It was loud. Too loud. The sound bounced against the cement walls and reverberated back creating a devilish echo chamber of horrible music. If you’ve been waterboarded, you still don’t know the agony – the torture – of being in that room, that moment.

I knew my Marantz wouldn’t put up with this transgression for long. Before I could wade my way through the crowd to the stereo, I heard the unmistakable crackle and pop of a blown speaker. They killed themselves right then and there. And I couldn’t blame them. I remember opening that CD tray and shouting “Who put this shit in here?!” before flinging the CD like a buzz saw across the room. Fucking Def Leppard killed my awesome speakers. What a way to die.

So, I’m mindful of the last moments of my little iPod. What was it playing when it had enough? I don’t have any Def Leppard on there but I’ll cop to some ABBA. Who doesn’t like a little Mamma Mia when on a road trip with friends? If ABBA killed my iPod, I hope it was Super Trooper and not Dancing Queen.

Now, when running, I’m stuck listening to the birds sing, the wind rustling through the leaves, the melancholy bark of lonely dogs, children frolicking with squirt guns. You know, all that annoying shit.

Here’s to hoping that Apple can fix and/or replace my lil music box quickly so I can once again drown out the incessant sounds of nature and life. I need to match my steps to the thump thump of an angry, aggressive bass. Any more of this pure oneness with my body and the intoxicating senses of the natural environment may send me the way of the Marantz. I’ll zig rather than zag right into oncoming traffic…

Happy trails.
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Happy 4th of July weekend! I hope everyone enjoys some quality tunes whilst drinking beer and lighting small explosives in their yard. Go America!

Why Am I Running?

What the hell am I running for?

This thought occurred to me about 7 miles into yesterday’s Sunday 10 mile long run. It was over 80 degrees; sweat pouring off of me; my saturated wrist band crying mercy. I don’t actually have a race on the schedule. I have no training plan. I just kinda ran the half marathon over Memorial weekend and then…kept going with the same basic schedule as if I had another half marathon coming up. Which I don’t.

So, what exactly am I running for anyways?

Well, besides the fact that I love to run. And I get moody and (more) sarcastic when I don’t get my scheduled miles in. Plus, it sure makes my butt tight. I don’t have any desire to be imprisoned long term but, if I were, I just know I’d be the belle of the ball.

The annual Cherry Festival 5k is coming up in less than two weeks. I’ve run this race 9 out of the last 10 years. In fact, it was this race that I got me started running over ten years ago in the first place. It’s been a tradition for me. But I don’t think I’m going to do it this year. I just don’t like where I’m at for a 5k right now. Some folks sign up for races every few weeks and, whether they trained hard for them or not, go right ahead and run them. I don’t. I like to focus in on just a few races a year and work hard to PR those races. I’m not a race whore. If I can’t (or haven’t) put in the work to make a PR effort, then I simply don’t run the race.

I know, I know, there is a subset of the running crowd that likes to roll out the hippie-dippie themes Time Doesn’t Matter and Can’t We all Hold Hands And Run Together and Love The Feel Of The Motion Not The Ticking Of The Clock. Hey, whatever floats your boat. My boat is floated by my competitive spirit. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I’m not necessarily competitive against other runners – though I do like to see if I can age group place – but against the clock and myself. This, my friends, is where the FUN resides FOR ME. I love to mentally abuse myself if I don’t reach my time goal just as much as I enjoy a virtual high five between my cerebellum and medulla oblongata when a PR falls.

In order to set these time goals, I have to have a plan. Also, I need a race. Currently, I have neither. So, I ask again, what the hell am I running for?

I better get a race on the schedule to focus the training. I’ve been running 800’s, 1200’s, tempos, limbos, etc. Basically, whatever I feel like that day. Heck, on Friday, I went out for a tempo 7 miler and, on my way past a track, decided spur-of-the-moment to do a few mile (1600m) repeats instead. Why? Well, why not? When you don’t have a goal or plan, the answer to “what should I run today” is “anything you want”.

It’s fun – I’m not going to lie – to make up workouts during the first mile of a run. But I’m not sure it’s helping me work towards any specific goal. There are a few 5k’s I’ve normally done at the end of July. Maybe I’ll work towards that. Maybe I’ll choose some new races. Or maybe I’ll just continue to do a random smattering of 800 – 1600 intervals until inspiration strikes.

I guess I really do know why I run. I just don’t know where I’m going to race next.

What about you? Do you know what the hell you are running for anyways?

Happy trails.
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Someone order a CAT scan. Mrs. Nitmos and I must be crazy. We let BOTH kids try out for premier level soccer teams. And both made it. Now, we are “soccer poor”. Forget weekend plans…we will be standing along a pitch somewhere watching the seasons change. I miss the days when we could throw a pacifier in their mouths, set the swing to ‘fast’, and still sit on the deck with friends and beer. As long as their little heads didn’t tilt sideways and clang against the rails, you could go on for hours…Now, when the weekend comes, we are busy. I don’t even set up a schedule planner. We are busy somewhere, somehow. Just assume that is the case and life is easier….we’ll figure out the where and how on Friday.

Randumbery Finds Koalas, Chlamydia

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

Sorry, I don’t have a cute little alliterative title for this sporadically regular feature. No “Monday Musings”, “Try It Tuesday”, “Wordless Wednesday”, “Three Things Thursday” or “Friday Funnies”. Nothing. Deal with it. There’s just a simple little clever play on words in there between random, dumb, and ran (this is a running blog, get it?) That’s all you get. I don’t do alliteration.

Khlamydia Koalas

Aww, look at this little guy. If you are like me, don’t you just want to give it an STD?

In what has to be my favorite headline of the year, AOL’s Huffington Post declares “Chlamydia and Climate Change Killing Koalas”.* Um, ‘scuse me, what was that before ‘climate change’??

Apparently, Australia’s cute little mascot, the koala, is being decimated by this common STD. Folks, I know, they are cute. And who doesn’t like a little exotic marsupial action from time to time? I’m no prude – whatever floats your boat – but, c’mon, you can’t wrap it up first? I know I haven’t been to Australia any time recently so don’t blame me. (Fingers crossed that this doesn’t occur in the U.S. llama population as then I might have some ‘splaining to do.) Has anyone seen RazZ lately?

Unless we are comfortable with this iconic animal listed in the Great Book of Extinction under the cause “venereal disease”, let’s think a bit and follow the simple rule: Wrap before you tap. Have a heart and save some of that kwuality koala tail for the rest of us.

NYQ News

My new favorite letters are N-Y-Q: New York Qualified! This has replaced ‘BQ’ as my favorite type of ‘Qualified’ qualifier. Everyone knows about the New York Marathon’s lottery system due to the outrageous number of entrant applications it gets each year. In a nutshell, you can apply each year in a row and are guaranteed entry by the fourth year if you were not randomly selected in a preceding year.

That sounded like a lot of work and, potentially, trip planning for trips that would never occur. So, I never applied. And then someone tipped me off that there is a back door way to get in the race. And since I’m a back door kinda guy…er, never mind. Apparently, NY has a qualifying time standard for guaranteed entry. If I read it correctly – and I’ve read both Moby Dick and Don Quixote – it means that you can bypass the lottery and head right to the front of the line.

And look at that, the time standard for a 40 year old male is 1:30 or below for a half-marathon. I just ran a 1:26+. I guess this makes me…NYQ’ed! Good thing I just turned 40 too because that 1:23 qualifying time for a 39 year old would have been a difficult task. Hooray for Masters leniency!

Now, let’s hope they don’t go changing the requirements ala Boston…

Soccer Saturday

Finally, soccer season is over for both kids. EXCEPT, this weekend is tryouts for next year! (It never ends.) Here’s my colt defending with his left foot while playing, wait for it, left defender for his premier team. Yes, his feet really are that huge. That’s not an illusion caused by the orange shoes. Good luck at tryouts, colt!

And here’s my filly getting last minute instructions from her swashbuckling, debonair coach who wears the hell out of those sensibly-priced Sears St. Johns Bay shorts. Since last September, she’s scored 35 goals in…35 games and is now busy trying to convince Coach St. John’s Bay that she’s ready to move on and play in a tougher league not coached by people wearing St. Johns Bay cargo shorts. We’ll see. It’s 50/50 if we’ll let her do it….much to decide at this weekend’s tryouts. Good luck, filly!

Happy Hrails!

*Or, in runner blogland, I guess that would be “Khlamydia and Klimate Khange Killing Koalas”

Race Day Voodoo

I’m not a superstitious fella. I don’t believe in evil on Friday the 13th or fear black cats or walking under ladders. I definitely don’t believe that blowing out all of the candles on your birthday cake with the first puff will grant you your wish. Do I look like the richest person in the world, the sexiest, and holding dominion over all living creatures? (Well, one out of three ain’t bad though, amirite?) Birthday candles…birthday’s cruel tease. This year I’m going to wish to be a fairly normal – though heavily sarcastic - middle class white guy with too much personal debt just so ONE wish can come true.

There is a certain kind of voodoo I do believe in however: Race day voodoo. This doesn’t mean that I have little runner dolls made up and I callously stick pins in their feet while cackling maniacally. That would be stupid…and a complete waste of pins. The start line is so crowded you can just wander by and jab them into the hamstrings of the lead runners and no one knows from anything about where they came from or if they have tetanus. That’s much more mature than sitting in your car playing with dolls. But usually my race day voodoo is wholly self-contained. No chants, no amulets, no pin jabbing, no sacrifices of llamas (unless warranted…which is always). I have two little superstitions that I do. I don’t know why or how it started but I do them for every race.

1) My bib is pinned with only three pins: Two at the top and one at a bottom corner.

I don’t know why. Maybe it’s my Midwestern values. Why pin a bib with four pins when it really only requires three? Let’s not be wasteful. (I don’t want to hear from the Two Pin Mafia in the comments either. You guys are just being cocky.) It seems a bit pretentious to use ALL FOUR PINS for your bib. Who am I after all? Maybe Ryan Hall can use all four. Certainly Geoffrey Mutai gets four pins if he wants them. The rest of us, know your place, and use three. And for God’s sake, the toilet doesn’t need to flush all the time. “If it’s brown, flush it down. If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s nutty, leave it for others to marvel at.”

2) I invert my Garmin, wearing the face inward.

Again, I don’t know how this started but there I am strapping the ole Garmin on upside down. This one might have begun due to my own shameful vanity. The Garmin 205 face is so damn LARGE, like walking around with an iPad strapped to your wrist, that I started inverting it so that, from the outside, only the thin little wrist strap shows. And, like Pringles and shaving, once you start, you just can’t stop. I strap it on like this every time. If you look at my last post, you can see me pushing Stop on my inverted Garmin. Most folks just think I’m checking my pulse which makes me seem like some sort of super cool doctor so, really, it’s a double win.

I believe both of these superstitions have contributed to my race day successes. And, sure, it doesn’t hurt that some of my age group competition is lying in a medical tent with bloody pinhole marks dotting across their IT bands but that’s none of my business (anymore). Perhaps they should have had a horseshoe over their head?

Do you enjoy any race day superstitions? I assume everyone showers before running a marathon right?

Happy jabbing.
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PlanetGear.com sent me a Sigg water bottle to try out and "review". I don't want to forget about this since I promised that I would post something so....here goes:

How does one review a water bottle? It's a cool design: silver, metallic, looks like a giant suppository. It holds water well, no leaks. Water seems to stay cool for a satisfactorily amount of time. Basically, everything you could want in a water bottle outside of self refilling and long, gentle shoulder massages. Plus, it sure beats trying to walk around with water cupped in your hands for two hours!

PlanetGear.com would also like you to know that they are having a Father's Day sale on Gu and Ultimate Direction stuff.

Thank you for the water bottle...now go there and get your own. Oh, and be sure to drink your Ovaltine.

Run Angry: A Sexism Story

How many of you knew that another Nicholas Cage movie, Drive Angry, was released on DVD recently? You might have missed it at the theatre. I was thinking about seeing it but then stopped to get gas and it was gone in 60 seconds. In fact, by the time you get done reading this sentence, it’s already been moved to the discount bin at your local video store. And by the time you get done reading this sentence, it’s now one of the movies available for 3 box tops on the back of your favorite Kellogg’s cereals (right next to Mannequin 2: On The Move). But, at the very least, it provided me a title from which I can derive a blog post.

I’m not a pleasant person. In fact, when I race, I can be downright persnickety…bordering on bile-spitting angry. Add in a pinch of sexism – directed at me – and you get the full on furrowed brow (great name for a band, by the way*). Usually I’m the one making sexist comments - not receiving them - so this was quite the switcheroo.

I was the victim of unrelenting sexism through-out the entire Bayshore half marathon course. Why? Apparently it was because I had the nerve to run with a group of female runners for much of the race. See? Here I am about 8-9 miles in running just behind the, at the time, #2 female half marathoner.

That Furrowed Brow started out knitted and became furrowed after the seventh time I heard “You go girl, beat those guys!” from one of the passing female marathoners on the other side of the street or one of the coffee sipping umbrella-toters along the way. I was actually mixed into a group of three women – weren’t they lucky? – in the pack of ladies trailing the overall female lead. I heard:

“Let’s go girls!” - 18 times
“Yeah, girls, go get’em!” – 9 times
“Woo-hoo, beat those boys!” – 37 times
And “Who’s the virile sex cannon in the gray shirt?!” – one time**

Now, why did they have to go getting all sexist up in here? If you cut me, do I not bleed? If I run, do I not race? Sure, I was once accused - in my own comments - of wearing a running skirt due to my spindly little legs hanging out of my shorts like a strand of spaghetti hanging through a strainer. And, yes, I cleverly wear a sports bra to prevent my enormous pecs from slapping me in the chin (look at the picture, can’t tell I’m wearing one, can you Russ?) And maybe I’ve read Cosmo a time or two (just for the pictures, I’m not a pervert). I do loofah. A fella likes to exfoliate. But, I think obviously, I appear to most as a dude - granted with understated masculinity.

There could be no confusion. These were outright sexists attacks aimed at yours truly. Here I was busting my ass, doing the best I could, and every single comment was encouraging the group I was running with…to BEAT ME?!? Look, I just came here to run a race, not be the victim of some coordinated anti-male runner conspiracy. I started shouting back, “C’mon guys, show the skirts whose boss!” One young lady shouted “You got him, girl!” and I sneered back “Hey, what’s for dinner, toots?!” It got ugly out there, let me tell you. Ever been booed at a race? Drop a few sexist cliché bombs and see what happens. Spectators started hissing at me; I started growling at them and punching at the crook of my arm in an exaggerated F*ck You flip off motion. It was full on WWF for awhile. I think someone took a swing at me with a metal folding chair.

Finally, I’d had enough and decided to speed away from the female peloton. Here I am kicking into high gear and, for the honor of men everywhere, making the pass. Not photographed? Me looking over my shoulder shouting “Does my PR make you look fat?” (I will be copyrighting this.)

Green - with envy

After building a nice 25 foot lead I offered up the following nugget: “I still got extra testosterone to burn, honey.”

Finally, after another 50 feet, I yelled out confidently, victoriously “Susan B. Anthony sucks!”

I didn't want to do it. Kinda felt like I had too.

Now, despite all evidence, I’m no angel. Walk me past a grocery aisle with cantaloupes and you will hear a few giggles and a comment (and maybe, just maybe, I pick up two of them and do a little imitation). I saw the remake of I Spit On Your Grave and felt a twinge of sympathy for the guys. And I’m a firm believer that, while men should never wear side split running shorts or run topless (except me, of course), women should be encouraged to do both. Jell-o? Good for one thing: female wrestling. But should this make me a target for rampant sexism? No, I don’t think so. Me not likey. Me not likey long time.

You know what I realized during my sexist half marathon experience? It’s more fun making the sexist comments than receiving them. I think I’m going to stick with that. That’s the real lesson here.

Happy trails. And Run Angry!

*Format stolen from Denis Leary's Why We Suck.
**This was unspoken but I got the very strong impression from one spectator that this is what they were thinking.
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Hey, here’s an obligatory finishing shot of me pushing my Garmin stop instead of looking at the camera. Or, am I texting this post? Believe me, by mile 10, I already had half of this post written in my head and thought I’d get a jump on things before getting to the finish.

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It should go without saying that the preceding post is intended for sophomoric humor purposes. While I did hear numerous Beat The Boys comments, they made me chuckle. In fact, several of the commenters realized I was in the group and would yell “Woo-hoo, Go Girls…Beat those boys!...And go guys too!” Adding the last comment in after eventually noticing me in the pack.

"Holy Shit, A PR!"

The 2011 Bayshore Half Marathon Race Report

No, I wasn’t Raptured. I stood out there ten yards past the finishing mats with my head thrown back, arms extended, and my shorts around my ankles (don’t ask why) and…nothing. No Rapture. Not even a slightly uplifting breeze to move me from a “leans left” to a “tilt right”. Just a few angry, jeering shouts such as “Get out of the way, you fool!”, “Look at this idiot!” and “You call that a penis?”

It was cold out. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

The weather was darn near perfect. The Bayshore races, oddly enough, take place along the shore of a bay. For the half marathon, they bus you out 13 miles to the middle of a farmer’s field where a mini shanty town of chilly runners spring up in the hour before the race. Then, you run back in from the peninsula. The hard straw is crunchy beneath the feet and the naturally growing ground brownies aren’t nearly as delicious as they sound. Very oaty. The buses pull up every few minutes depositing more shivering runner’s into the crisp, cool 50 degree morning air. The runner’s were dancing side to side trying to keep warm and chattering their chatterboxes while the cows mooed anxiously in the next corral. Everyone likes hamburgers and I think they knew it.

Grand Traverse peninsula: Home of wineries, cherry trees, and animal feces

It’s not exactly Hopkinton but it is a unique and charming race environment: The beautiful Grand Traverse Bay on one side and a myriad of cherry trees and livestock on the other. No one felt out of place pissing on the straw and cherry trees* either, which was nice. The rain pelted down in the final 30 minutes leading into the start of the race and I thought I was in for a wet one (t.w.s.s) After the national anthem two minutes before the race started, the hard rain gave way to a light, cooling mist. Really, it couldn’t have been more perfect. This mist held up for the duration of the half marathon. It was like someone running next to you the entire way with one of those misting fan bottles surrounding you in a cocoon of cooling breezy air. Damn, if I could bottle that race day weather, I would.

I won’t bore you with text of the mile by mile breakdown. Let’s just say that the race unfolded precisely as I had desired. I can’t follow a disciplined pace plan in a 5k, 10k, or marathon but, for some reason, half marathons I nail right to plan. Example? I targeted 59:40 at nine miles. Actual? 59:37. Also, I wanted slightly descending mile split times, starting easy for the first 3-4 miles, and then picking up the pace. I wasn’t nearly as consistent in my splits as last September’s half marathon but, overall, right to plan.

My goal was to beat 6:40 per mile pace and make Harold Camping appear the fool (again).

Here, in all of their glory, is my mind numbingly boring race splits (for my personal posterity):

Mile 01 6:43
Mile 02 6:49
Mile 03 6:45
Mile 04 6:41
Mile 05 6:25
Mile 06 6:37
Mile 07 6:31
Mile 08 6:29
Mile 09 6:37
Mile 10 6:37
Mile 11 6:33
Mile 12 6:39
Mile 13 6:27
Last bit 5:58 pace (46 seconds)

Numbers? Yes, numbers:

1:26:37 time
13.11 miles (Garmin sez 13.13 miles)
6:37 pace

26th of 1652 overall
5th of 86 in age group

A new PR by 66 seconds! (drum roll, cymbal crash, and update my side bar…eventually). To be fair, my Garmin measured this course at a more accurate 13.13 miles compared to my race last September which recorded a 13.29 distance and led to me making all sorts of derisive comments about the length of the course. So, if you consider the .16 difference in Garmin between the races and a 66 second PR, realistically, I’m probably running about the same as I was last September. But, you can only run the course presented right? So, a PR is a PR! And now you know why I stood past the finishing mat with my arms out and pants down. In other words, I was in “PR pose”.

Overall, I am very pleased how this race turned out. Of the dozens of races I have run, there are only a handful where you feel completely satisfied afterwards…I had a plan, I followed it, the weather was perfect, I felt strong, PR resulted! Besides the lingering taste of ground brownie in my mouth, everything went right to plan.

Except the Rapture. Oh, and Camping’s prediction was wrong again.

Eventually I sheepishly pulled my pants back up and wandered through the refreshment line to grab some cookies (with a few eye rolls and “ewwww”s from the volunteers) and headed to my car. While I was enraptured with the results, I wasn’t Raptured. Enough were, however, to leave me in 5th place and awarded an age group medal.

Into the drawer it goes!

Happy trails.

*Remember that the next time you buy tart cherries. They may just have been hydrated by hundreds of pre-race jittery runners. That’s what gives them the unique flavor.
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Stay tuned next for a secondary race report about the rampant sexism I encountered while running this race. If you are easily offended, you’ll no doubt be horrifically offended by the off-color way in which I discuss this sensitive topic!

Harold Camping Predicts My Race Time

This Saturday is judgment day. Not Judgment Day in the fire and brimstone sense but small letter judgment day in the how-hard-did-you-train sense. It’s the Bayshore half marathon this Saturday! It should be Rapturous.

I’ve been having a difficult time determining just how well I’ll do in this race. My training log is filled with data but do I take the information as the absolute truth in text….or as parables for my training in general? Can I apply what I see from a 9 mile training run logged in the Book of Nitmos and extend it to a real life half marathon? How do I interpret the, at times, conflicting data? I did what any insane, hopelessly confused, mentally weak fool would do. I asked Harold Camping, Mr. Rapture 5/21, for help. I figured he had some free time now as his appointment calendar was empty past Saturday, right?


I gave him a quick call.

“Hello? Mr. Camping? I know you are great about studying a book and divining numbers for important events down to the exact day, hour and minute. Well, this half marathon is coming up for me. Can you help me predict my race time if I read to you from my training log? I’m setting goals…and I’d like to be precise…”

“God?”

“No, no….it’s Nitmos, though you wouldn’t be the first to ask.” Blushing.

“Jesus?”

“You are such a kidder. We both know he’s more of a baritone and that I have trouble with hair growth between the sideburns and chin. Say, any chance some of the top runners in my age group might have been sucked skyward last Saturday during your most recent Rapture and no one noticed? A few people here and there could suddenly ascend and no one would probably pay much attention unless they were pumping gas at the time and started spraying everyone with gasoline until the hose yanked out of their hands. A few gaunt runners would probably float fairly quickly out of view. I wouldn’t mind an age group medal…might look nice twinkling in the approaching celestial light during your next Rapture! I’m all for selective, sporadic Raptures if it bumps me up the age group rankings if you know what I mean. In fact, put me down for your last Rapture. I’d like to get some bling first.”

“You will live through hell on Earth and battle parched, angry mobs.”

“Yeah, it should be a tough race. The forecast looks okay and there should be plenty of water though, I agree, I will get thirsty. Runners can be surly late race…don’t know about angry. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Only 3% shall ascend, the rest shall remain behind…”

“Actually, the awards go five deep. Not sure what that is percentage-wise but…Hey, can you give me a finish time?”

“Genesis 1:28 says – "

“Hey, that’s nearly my current PR and very close to what I think I can do now. Let’s hope you’re right. I’d take it!”

“ - Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground.”

“Whoah, that may be going a little too far. 'Rule over every living creature that moves on the ground'? Damn, that would be cool though….at least for one morning. Well, thanks. I’ll talk to you post-race to see if you were right. Don’t go selling all of my possessions while I’m gone. Whether or not 1:28 happens, I still want those shows I have on TiVo. Bye.” Click.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I am shooting for something in the 1:27 range. Two misses in one week could be a bit much for him to bear. As it turns out, ole Harold C miscalculated by five months for his latest Rapture. The Next Great Rapture is actually Oct. 21st which, unfortunately, is five days after my planned Grand Rapids Marathon so it should be a more crowded field (arrrggh, why can’t we rapture before race day to make age grouping a little easier!! (shakes fist at sky))

For now, I’ll just concentrate on the Bayshore Half in two days. I hope he’s not that far off on my race time prediction or it could be a long afternoon.

Maybe if I get that PR, I’ll just extend my arms, throw my head back and wait for my ascension.

I just hope it doesn’t jiggle and spill my post-race beer on the way up. Rapture or not, a dehydrated runner needs his carbs.

Happy trails.

Note: The preceding phone conversation was completely fictional. I won’t call long distance unless it is to an 800 number. And 800 numbers don’t connect to Crazy Land.

Note 2: If you ever google images for 'Harold Camping', you will be surprised to find out how many photos there are of guys named ‘Harold’ who are camping at various parks and like to post them online.
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Folks, Planet Gear sent me a cool Sigg water bottle which I have washed and prepped to use but have not done so as of yet. It looks like a fantastic water bottle though as far as water bottles go. They are currently running a Quicksilver and Roxy sale this week through next Tuesday and would like you to go there and check it out. They may have some upcoming sales on GU and Ultimate Direction things as well so stay tuned and check out Planet Gear when you have some time.

And be sure to drink your Ovaltine.

What This Race Means To Me

What does the Bayshore Half Marathon on May 28th mean to me?

Nothing much.

I kid, I kid. It means more than nothing…but certainly south of something significant. It’s my first race of the year and, after a long cold winter and consistently depressing rainy spring, it will serve as a “baseline” race to determine where I’m at and where I need to go for the rest of the year. This isn’t a big showdown race between me and PR. Though there is an off-chance I could PR, doing so would probably inspire one of the following surprised proclamations:

- “Holy shit, a PR!”
- “Damn, I’m faster than I thought…someone get me a mirror, maybe I’m better looking than I thought too!”*
- “I was kidding when I said ‘do not resuscitate’….” Beeeeeeeeeeep!

It’s one of those races where I’m going to just show up and see what happens. I do that a lot in life. Others may have kicked ass on exams, quizzes, and SATs but I never – never – lost attendance points. Who’s the dummy now? You in your Cadillac and multimillion dollar home or me typing lame blog posts in my basement while wearing slippers? I think we both know the answer to that. Attendance! Attendance paid for this drop ceiling and sensibly priced basement carpeting. Attendance pays for this HEPA filter to combat the mold spores surrounding me all day and the Claritin I take when the filter doesn’t work. I don’t know what’ll happen on May 28th but I know I’ll ATTEND the event and that’s really half the battle.

Plus, I just love to get my Gu and Gatorade on. Seriously, there’s no place else where you can just suck down Gu and guzzle Gatorade to your heart’s content without getting a sidelong, disapproving glance. I think I’m addicted. Really, that’s why I continue to sign up for races…so I can feed the monster within. Nobody cares if I double fist some Gu while attending, participating or even cheering at a race. In the proper environment, it’s completely acceptable. Light up a doobie at a PTA meeting? You’ll get those angry sidelong – hell, full on frontlong – glances. Go to an Amsterdam café? No one gives a shit. Leave the PTA meeting and casually pick up a hooker on the way home? More enraged frontlong glances from the passing PTA motorists. Hang out at Charlie Sheen’s house sitting on a chair made of interlocked, contorted hookers? No problem.

See? It’s all relative. And speaking of relative….(insert your own Appalachia joke here)

So I’m missing some of the nervous, excited anticipation for race day. To be honest, my excitement levels have decreased with each passing marathon since I first toed the line (i.e. stood nearly 18 minutes behind the gun start literally at the very back of thirty thousand people) at the 2006 Chicago Marathon. There I was all wide-eyed and trembling with excitement. The only thing more numerous than my goose bumps was my adult back acne.** I’m an old, grizzled race veteran now. I still look forward to the races but, instead of dancing back and forth with anticipation and taking in the scene with every sense with which I’ve been endowed, I’m more likely to be yawning and reaching back to try to erupt a few ripe ones on the ole back before things get started. You know, “two birds, one stone” er, “two whiteheads, one set of pinching fingers”…however the saying goes. Some folks get blood “rose blossoms” around their skinned nipples towards the end of a race…..I have them dotted all over the back of my shirt pre-race.

So where does that leave me with this race (besides amongst a litter of rhetorical questions – sorry about that)? I will attend. I will run hard. I hope to run well. But a 15 second PR means the same to me as a 30 second PR miss. I’m ballparking my current fitness level so I can revisit a half marathon later in the year and take a run towards 1:25. Also, the Bayshore takes place in my hometown and who doesn’t like to run well in their hometown? (Rhetorically speaking.)

Just excuse me if I don’t have to nervously pee every five seconds, I seem tired, and my back “itches”.

Happy trails.

*not possible
** sadly, still the case
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Mrs. Nitmos would like you to know that I don’t have bad back acne. Sure, occasionally, I have one of those middle of the back ragers where the hands, cloth and soap don’t reach and you have to try to pop it by angling yourself up against a door frame. But, generally speaking, I’m as smooth as a baby’s bottom (if a baby’s bottom had killer lats). She says that, when she runs her hands over my back, it’s like "dragging a palm across an abacus". I don’t know what an abacus is but it must be smoo-ooo-ooth.

Also, Mrs. Nitmos recently celebrated a birthday. You may recall that last year I took her to New York and wined and dined her in an extravagant, credit card buckling fashion. Our luxurious dinners nearly cost the same as a car payment – if I owned a used 1986 Dodge Aries K car, which I do. This year? Olive Garden in Nowheresville, MI. The sands of time shift suddenly and unexpectedly…and seemingly impact the gastro-intestinal tract. Happy birthday! Next year? Arby's. Drive-thru.

When I'm Good, I'm Very, Very Bad

Here’s how it normally works: I silently bitch and complain to myself about the day’s planned race pace time trial all the way up to the moment I step out the door. I make up so many excuses about why I don’t want to run/can’t run, you’d think that I’m Viper. Heck, I even consider skipping the run altogether and posting a review of beer no one is going to drink.

But I goad myself into lacing up the ole Asics and getting out there anyhow. I’m not RazZ; I won’t quit completely.

When apathy strikes, the first step is often the hardest. I have this curiously incurious intellect. I convince myself that I’ll cut down my planned 9 miles to 4-5 miles making a difficult race pace run into a comparative walk in the woods. It buoys the spirit and offers an acceptable compromise to the psyche. Well, I don’t feel like nine miles but I can do five. Let’s get the shoes on! I’ve done this a hundred times but I still fool myself. I know that, once running, I’ll complete the entire planned distance but it helps to get me out the door. I must be a complete English banker boob to continue to fall for this every time. Now I know how Ian feels. But, sometimes, whatever works, right?

So when I’m in one of those not so motivated moods and I’ve played mind games just to start the run, you’d think that my planned pace and distance would crash and burn like so many Christian Slater television series launches, right? Wrong. The more I complain, the more I make fun of my favorite blogger targets, the better my run goes. It’s like my hatred of hard effort, RazZ, Viper and Ian fuels my running success. My best runs often follow 3-4 hours of solid internal bitching. I get out there and I can just feel the anger and annoyance flowing through my lungs and expelling like so many twangs of the banjo. My legs churn effortlessly like Bobby Flay’s mixer through some potatoes. My feet beat back the sidewalk like a banker cackling at a struggling debtor with an anguished, outstretched arm pleading for mercy. When I’m done, the apathy and complaining have poured through the pores creating an ever expanding PR -paced puddle on the kitchen floor beneath me as I drink post-run water.

When my mood is bad, my runs are very good. Hate and anger breed PRs.

Conversely, when I’m good, I’m very, very bad. Sometimes, the weather is perfect. The birds are chirping. My hamstrings are loose and stringy. Heck, the banjo doesn’t even sound like the ominous precursor to ass rape. I want to run all day and all night and a bit more the next day until Breaking In is on. If someone asked me if I wanted to re-mortgage my home with the devil himself, I’d at least listen to the rates.

But this happiness and motivation only lasts for a mile or two. It gives way to pain, struggle, grimacing, sadness, more grimacing and, ultimately, failure. My planned pace and distance isn’t met. The joy and positive energy dissipated like a delicious Flay steak released with a gaseous shart a few hours later. Gone. Nothing to show for it except some indigestion and less laundry soap. When I’m happy and relaxed, my runs suck. Plain and simple.

Positivity In = Failure Out
Negativity In = Success Out

I must have the hate and rage and annoyance and disgust in order to run my best. I want to get this run over with right fucking NOW. I run with purpose and intensity. I run to conquer goals and show no mercy. I run to GET DONE.

The other kind of running works great when I’m not preparing for a race. I love to watch butterflies frolic and birds chirp. If I need to slow up to clear room for a toddler on a tippy tricycle, so be it. It’s a lovely day and this just gives me a few extra moments to enjoy it. And, awww, look at the little horn. Running relaxed is certainly less stressful…but also less successful.

If I’m approaching a race – as I am in less than two weeks – you better watch out. There’s a freight Hate Train rolling down the sidewalks. It cares not of butterflies and banjos, Bobby’s and bikes. It cares only of PRs and Completing This Damn Run.

It leaves old PRs and tipped trikes and skinned knees in its wake.

Happy trails.

Speed Work: Nature's Laxative

Speed training is really shitty. I’m not making one of my usual clever puns or excuses to slip in a vulgar word on a public blog. Balls! I’m above that. No, I mean literally shitty. Here’s how it works (presented to you in short, masculine Hemingway sentences):

- I run intervals.
- I sweat hard.
- I am the envy of all that bear witness.
- I feel a small lump in my abdomen.
- I fear it is a hernia. Or the track made me pregnant. No, no, it’s a hernia.
- I run home for a shower.
- My hernia starts sinking lower.
- Now it pokes its head out to have a little looksee.
- I realize it is not a curious hernia and rush to the bathroom.
- I explode like I just sat on a chocolate grenade.
- I didn’t save anyone. I am the only victim.
- Clean up in aisle Ass.
- Oh, the humanity.
- I go about my day.
- I sit on three more chocolate grenades at various intervals throughout the afternoon.

This happens every time I do speed work. If I do 4 x 1600 meters at the track, I also do 4 x explosive poo on the toilet. It’s gotten to the point where, if I’m feeling a little backed up, I consider throwing on my shoes and hitting the track. I tell Mrs. Nitmos, “You know, I’m a little clogged from yesterday’s steak. I’m going to hit the track. Can you have the light and fan on with a book or two prepped on the bathroom sink. Make sure a back-up role of paper is close by! I’ll be home in 35 minutes.”

Tuesday is track/speed work day for me. And Tuesday afternoon is Call the handyman to fix the ceiling fan day as well. I have him on speed dial. We are thinking about putting in an open air retractable atrium. At this point, it just makes more sense.

Why do people take pills to get things moving down there? Just hit some intervals at your local track. Bran, fiber, Metamucil….it’s all a bunch of poopycock*. The answer is right at your local track. I’m still working on the scientific formula – which I hope to present to Runner’s World sometime next year when the restraining order has been lifted – that equates Intervals, Distance, Meat Consumption, and Effort into an equation that can be used to anticipate your colon reaction.

Something like:

(I x D / M.C. (ounces)) / π x E = # Chocolate Grenades Expected

It’s still a work in progress. Eat your heart out Einstein. (What the hell does E=mc² mean anyway? What does Meat Consumption have to do with energy?? And why on Earth would you square it?) But way to look like Doc Brown from Back to the Future, Einny. Cliché!

If you don’t want to go through all of this trouble just to rattle the ole Stink Locker, I guess you can still do manual disimpaction the old-fashioned way: The Bobby Brown-Whitney Houston way. No link. You’re welcome.

Happy….BOOM goes the chocolate grenade!

*Not a gay joke.
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1600 meter intervals in the 5:58 range. Looking for 5:55's just for the numerically pleasing sameness but, so far, no success.

Who Brought the Beach Ball?

Sorry I’ve been out of commission all week. I just flew in from Pakistan….and, boy, are my arms tired!

I can’t tell you what I was doing there. I promised important folks that I’d keep my lips SEALed. I can tell you that I learned how long it takes to slowly melt a person from the ground up. About 40 minutes.

I can also tell you that the Call of Duty folks have nothing to fear from the major news organization’s war game animations. Have you seen those mission simulations they are playing on ABC, NBC, CBS, et al? I didn’t think anyone still operated a Commodore 64 or Tandy 1000 computer but, there it was on national TV. Eight bits of power in action! Er, no thanks, I’ll stick with Qbert.

I think my favorite moment last Sunday, as I settled down in my bunk somewhere in the Arabian, was watching the celebration in the U.S. We sure can celebrate with the best of them. As a rule, we don’t like effigy burning. However, we are not opposed to telephone pole shimmying and beach ball bopping.



Did you see the beach ball? Seriously, LOVE. THIS. Only in America does someone head out the door to join a celebration over the death of a world terrorist and think to themselves: wait, let me grab my beach ball first. I mean, one wasn’t just lying there in the street. And most people don’t have them already inflated and sitting around in their living room. No, I’m thinking that someone got all jazzed up, put on their jacket and shoes, and realized something was missing. Death of public enemy #1? Check. Cab money to the White House? Check. Few dollars extra in case my hooting and hollering requires a Taco Bell run later? Check. Okay, set to go….except, oh shit, I almost forgot the beach ball! I can blow it up on the way.

Have the terrorists won? If we still have the desire and foresight to inflate brightly colored, rainbow-striped plastic balls on the way to a death celebration, I’m thinking No.

This is a running blog so it is incumbent upon me to tie this into running somehow. Luckily enough, I’m up for the challenge. Last week, I unveiled my Hip, Modern Half Marathon Time Trial. It seemed well-received. Most of you would also like the half marathon distance adjusted back a few miles to make PR-setting a little easier. I believe public consensus is congealing around this goal like so much burnt tissue and bone. (BOOM! Tie in!) But, I’ve found a way to make it even more Hipper and Moderner.

I usually do some mile repeats during the week…maybe some 3 or 4 X 1600 meters. Ever do 3 x Aircraft Carrier? It’s not as easy as it sounds. Those things are looong and gusty. And God forbid 'things' are being tossed overboard at the time. Ugh, obstacles! Holy Carl Vinson, I was exhausted.

Yesterday, I managed a hipper, moderner half marathon time trial of 9.5 miles @ 6:40 pace. This was a slight step back from the 9 miles @ 6:38 pace last week but still right on race goal pace. Plus, considering all the dead weight dragging and beach ball bopping from earlier in the week, my quads were shot. Death celebrations are never good for speed work. I believe Galloway has a chapter about that in his last book.

Don’t put away the beach balls just yet. It’s Mother’s Day on Sunday. Moms rarely like burnt effigies but they seem appreciative of a friendly game of beach ball bopping kept at a safe distance from the fine china and dinnerware. If you are a Mom, Happy Mother’s Day! If you have a Mom, Happy Mother’s Day! Otherwise, I hope Ian has a nice Sunday.

Now, get out there and SEALabrate you fools! (I know I have already….but you didn’t hear that from me.)

Happy trails.
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Things have been busy lately. I haven’t made the rounds to catch up with all of you. I will soon. Ever been “debriefed”? Apparently, it’s a long process.
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Btw, baseball games feature heavy beach ball bopping. NASCAR, besides drunken, toothless hillbillies, features plenty of midriff muffin tops boppin' beach balls. We recently learned dead terrorists inspire beach ball bopping. Why not marathons? I rarely see a beach ball being bopped around the crowd during a race. Are we not beach ball worthy?

Hip, Modern Half Marathon Time Trial

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

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

Will you be my defensive tackle?

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

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

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

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

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

9.0 miles
59:41 time
6:38 pace

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

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

The NFL sure does love just right.

Happy trails.

Rainy Runday Afternoon

My dog and I are a lot alike.

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

I will do this until you walk me.

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

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

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

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

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

My dog and I are a lot alike.

Happy trails.

* I really don't watch Teen Mom.

Soccer Hooligans

Our weekend in three photos.

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

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



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

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

I got drunk later that night.

Kidding.

I've been drunk all day.

Happy trails.

Boston 2011: A Postscript

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

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

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

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

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

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

happy trails.

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

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

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

Boston: The Ultimate Fun Run

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy trails.

* Is it just me or do I say this entirely too frequently in my life?
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I’ve been following Thomas, from Diary of a Rubbish Marathon Runner, who achieved his goal of sub-3 hour marathon this past weekend in Vienna. Go there and read his report. It’s pretty darn good. Congratulations to Thomas!

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

Waiting for Sean’s exciting Boston report here.

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

Randumbery Goes Arm Pit Digging

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

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

Your Pancreas Looks Fat

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

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

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

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

How Quickly You Metabolize Quizno’s

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

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

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

Hella Sounds

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

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

Going Down

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

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

Happy trails.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy reading.

*Would it kill them to include the phrase “and he let him bleed out on the sidewalk” in just one race recap? Honestly!
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Good luck to Boston bounders Sean, Spike, Aron, and anyone else I may have missed. Looks like perfect weather. No excuses. Go get 'em!

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

The Mandelbaum Plan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Izzying.
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8 miles @ 6:47 pace.