Apparently, drinking from a garden hose is not recommended. It contains lead. Lots of lead. Like, Chinese toys amount of lead. When I was a wee lad, I drank from the garden hose all the time which may explain my severe social disorders and four testicles. But those were the days when seat belts were optional and my brother and I took long family car trips while rolling around the back of the family station wagon. Safety first!
So, if you have a kid (and you like them), please don't let them drink the lead water from a hose. Neighbor kid? Fine, go right ahead but not your kid. (source)
What does this have to do with my one mile time trial? Nothing really but then again this isn't your blog. Nothing, I guess, except that it's damn hot out and I'd drink all of the water from all of the Chinese garden hoses in...China if it meant moisture going INTO me rather than out.
It was in this 90 degree/50% humidity climate I decide to tackle my fourth in installment of this summer's One Mile Time Trial. I can't ignore all of the emails I get asking - nay, DEMANDING! - it's return. Clever how you guys keep sending me those emails pretending to be from a Canadian pharmacy or offering me Viagra at a discount rate just to trick me into opening it and reading your desperate pleas for another installment. I don't even open them either because I get my Canadian pills and Viagra and enlargement pills (oh, yeah, those too) from a guy at my local gym. Jokes. On. You.
A brief recap: One mile = 4 laps at the track or 1600 meters. It's formally called the One Mile Time Trial series after I rejected proposed titles such as Who Gives a Shit About 9 Meters? and After Running Four Laps, Thirty More Feet Don't Matter. Those were too clunky.
Definitely trending in the right direction. I'm feeling my sluggish cardio starting to come back around. Must have been all of the Canadian pills and garden hose water chasers.
I'll check back in late July with another installment of this edge-of-your-seat thriller series!
Until then, stay hydrated, the lead-free way. If you have a rich relative with tenuous health, perhaps whip them up a batch of garden hose lemonade? You aren't getting any younger.
I’m on
record as saying that I don’t like cold weather and I never complain about the
heat. We get temperatures that are below
my personal liking for 8-9 months of the year so I make it a point to NOT COMPLAIN during the few weeks where it is stifling, unbearably hot. Like, now. After all, in a few short weeks, I’ll be
bitchin’ about the cold again. So,
consider the following an observation not a complaint. (ed. Heat, don’t go away. You complete me. The lawn looks better brown, believe me.)
Despite the
obvious simmering hostility described above, you might be surprised to learn
that I’m generally a jolly drunk.* I’d
go as far to say that I probably wouldn't even cannibalize someone when mixing
bath salts with LSD. I might grab a
nibble – just a sample really – but hardly a full meal.
But the
string of 90+, highly humid days has tested my love of warmth.
Running? Yeah, it’s getting done but not at nearly the
same paces I had planned. My sweat
glands are giving out after three miles.
Today, I doubled back to go again through a lawn sprinkler that was spraying
across the sidewalk. I wanted to strip
naked and fold myself over it like a hero saving his buddies from a grenade…to
feel the cool liquid jettison into me…to drink the thin waterpik dental spray
from the top holes. But I quickly realized
that my anus hasn’t been bleached in several months and the HOT hasn’t fully
robbed me of my sense of social decorum and class. It’s hard to be classy with an exposed,
unbleached anus while dry humping the neighbors sprinkler. The More You Know. (queue rainbow)
I haven’t
run in heat like this since we wisely took a family trip to Florida
last….AUGUST(?!?) It feels like Florida
moved to Michigan but it didn’t bring the palm trees, beaches, tourists in
white rental cars, or frontier justice with it.
I don’t know how you hot weather state people do it. I guess everyone acclimatizes? I’ve noticed that my last few HOLY HUMID HELL
runs have gone better than the first few.
By September, anything below 80 will probably feel like a break.
So, I’ll again do
my exciting One Mile Time Trial summer series tomorrow, as planned. I’ll hit 11-12 miles on Sunday in my
ancestral homeland, as planned. I’ll
continue to do it all with or without my sweat glands…with or without an
unevenly bleached anus. I’ll do it all
even if the community puts up Wanted posters for the "Sprinkler Rapist". (It’s not my fault, they were asking for
it. They’re the ones that left the
garage looking all cool and wet, amirite?
Maybe that’s the dehydration talking…)
I’ll keep
staggering on in the HOLY HUMID HELL hot.
One of us will give out eventually. This is not a complaint but merely an observation.
I just wish
I knew when I’ll get some relief from this heat?? Rob??/fansselfsarcastically
Happy
trails.
* I make it a
point to always be drunk by the time the nightly news comes on. Coping mechanism for the news patter.
__________________________________________
‘Member a
long time ago – almost exactly three months in fact – when I told you that you
shouldn’t be surprised if I disappeared suddenly at the end of each
quarter? Well, look at your calendar,
it’s the end of June or, as we say in the biz, the “second quarter”. See, if you had been paying attention to the
minutiae of FMS you wouldn’t have been gnashing your teeth and mumbling
to yourself, “When is Nitmos going to post again?!?” Lesson learned? Let’s hope so. Pay better attention.
Quick
quiz: What do you think is going to
happen on this blog over the last two weeks of, say, September?
The truth is
that I don’t really like my Tuesday track 800 interval sessions. Who wants to get that hot and sweaty and just
plain ole tired? I’d rather run easy
like this guy I see out on my routes all of the time that just kinda saunters
in a weird hybrid run-walk. If you
photographed him, he’d look like he was running hard based on the pump of his
arms and grimace of sheer exhaustion on his face but, upon closer inspection,
you realize he’s just ambling along slowly in a Near Run as if he’s
trying to fool a distracted gym teacher.
He’s not quite running. He’s the
Zima of running. I’d like to be more
like Zima on occasion.
No, there is
no love for me and 800’s. They fall into
the “necessary evil” category of my personality flaw: Unquenchable PR
lust.
In fact,
800’s are often pure torture. But I’m
nothing if not a bit of a sadomasochist.
Go ahead, ask Mrs. Nitmos’ curling iron, jar of battery acid, and the
well worn riding chaps about the places they’ve been and the things they’ve
poked, prodded, rubbed, or swabbed. I’m
very kind, considerate and generous to animate objects but inanimate
objects? The first thing I think is…will
that fit there?!?
Of course,
there is some benefit to these 800 bastards which is why I do them. After running 800’s at a 5:30/mile pace, a
regular mile in the low 6’s suddenly seems quite a bit easier. Almost like a weird sauntering run-walk. I know that the ball busting on the track
translates into more effortless tempo runs, time trials, long runs, and,
ultimately, races. So Tuesdays, I
slather on the battery acid, slip on the chaps, and plug in the curling iron
for another grueling session, metaphorically speaking, of course.
I whirl
around the ever expanding oval muttering sonofabitch sonofabitch sonofabitch
every step of the way. I hate it. I clench my teeth and pinch my nipples
between my thumb and forefinger harder and harder with each lap. Why?
Well, I don’t do things half way.
If I’m going to hate it; I’m going to hate it proper. And you just can’t hate something proper with
pleasant nipples. At least, that’s what
Grandma always said. If I want to induce
a crying fit, I put on some Justin Bieber and blubber WHY ARE YOU A STAR at
each straightaway between the edges of my ball gag*, streaming tears and
rapidly swelling nipples.
But when
they’re over and I’ve hit my goal pace, I’m as happy as a submissive that’s
received his last lash. I have a full
week to recover and forget until the dread grows again the following Tuesday
morning.
What’s even
worse now is that my local high school track is hosting all sorts of end of the
school year track events, summer running clubs, and field days and the first
two lanes are littered with hurdles, discarded jackets, and empty water
bottles. The 800’s are more like 820’s
and the nice, smooth laps are more like a steeplechase. Isn’t the stress of the 800 intervals, ball
gags, nipple twisting and Bieber enough pain for one person? Next thing you know, the water fountain will
start streaming Zima.
Makes me
dream of the relative comfort of a rapidly warming curling iron….
I admit
it. I don’t like my 800’s and I feel
better for having said it. But I’m going
to keep on doing it until my PR lust is quenched or my nipples explode like a
teenager working a zit in the mirror.
Pray for the
former, will ya? Meantime, pass the
Zima.
Happy
trails.
* Oh, yeah, I
wear one of those too.
_______________________________________
I'd like you to note how seamlessly Feet Meet Street manages to juxtapose posts with family soccer photos and ball gags. Weird or AWESOME!?! You decide.
The loooong
Memorial weekend is over and we are just now recovered. Ever stand around a pitch for 18 hours over
two days in 90 degree heat? Me want
beer. Me want beer right now. But, according to societal mores, I’m
supposed to stand there and drink freakin’ lemonade and watch kids play a sport
and be a ”good example”. Screw society. Game #7 goes down much easier with a Schlitz. My voice was raw and hoarse and my mean-spirited
and completely inappropriate verbal attacks on the ref didn’t have quite the
sharp vitriol it should have had without that Schlitz. I feel like I cheated both myself and the
ref. We deserved better.
I didn’t run
this past weekend. I wanted to but we
were all sun burnt to a crisp and dehydrated and, ultimately, collapsed on the
floor of the house ten seconds after springing it open in a pile of empty
Gatorade bottles, coolers, shin guards, and dried sweat. I used my Asics as a pillow instead.
I know you’ve
been anxiously awaiting news about how my kids BIG tournament soccer games went
right? Right?!? Well, I’m going to tell you so grab a Schlitz
and gather around the screen as Uncle Nitmos recaps my kids’ totally
inappropriate weekend actions in a series of vignettes.
Pimp Hand
Strong
My filly
loves the Will Ferrell movie Kicking & Screaming. She loves to quote lines from it. She tries to get her teammates to chant “Break
someone’s clavicle!” as a pre-game team cheer.
Though she doesn’t understand the meaning, she also likes to quote “keep
my pimp hand strong” – which she asked the coach before the game.
Coach: Hey, ready to play?
Filly: Are we going to keep our pimp hand strong
this game?
Me, beaming
with parental pride.
The Swan
They always
talk about “form” being important in running.
It also has its place in soccer.
We captured the elusive soccer swan a couple of different times. Shhh, here it is in all of its glory: (For all pictures, as always, click to prostate size)
These Colors
Don’t Run
"Oh, no, they won't run onto the uniforms."
Yes they do. Believe me.
Loser Trophy
Poor filly
has inherited my competitiveness. I
blogged about being First Loser years ago.
Her team had an incredible tournament with a Goals For/Against of 19-6,
a +13. They won their first three
matches 3-1, 4-2, and 10-0 to advance to the Championship match where they were
downed by a more disciplined team 3-2 by a goal with a mere 4 minutes remaining. Great tournament for them but, of course, my
filly was displeased. The team received
a second place trophy for which she lovingly described as a “loser trophy”. Here she paused in mid pout for a quick
picture. You might note the redness of
the eyes...and the pink hair spray coloring on the front of the uniform.
I was also
hyper competitive as a kid. I’ve
(mostly) grown out of that. Hopefully,
she’ll mature quicker. As a perpetual
non-winner, I’ve learned to appreciate the accomplishments of mediocrity. In fact, if I win an age group award at a
race, I’ve been known to parade it around the house, set it next to me at the
dinner table and maybe (or maybe not, I’ll never tell) sleep with it at
night. Fourth place age group awards
give the best bed.
Lesson: Take the time to celebrate an accomplishment.
Her totals: 3 goals and 3-4 assists.
Calm the
F*ck Down
My colt was
also in action. His team is missing a
few pieces on the offensive end to make a strong championship push. Like a boa, they just try to squeeze the life
out of an opponent and then knock in a goal somewhere along the way. They won and tied their first two matches, 2-0 and 0-0. Until game #3 in the tournament, they were on
a streak of 7 games where the only goal let in was the fluke slip n’ fall goal
in well lubricated Ohio. Finally, the
ultimate champs knocked them out of the tourney with a decisive, scoreless game
streak destroying 5-1 victory.
During that
game, I was patting myself on the back again for my parenting skills. My 14 year old, bless his soul, takes great
delight in living the Roosevelt proverb, “Speak softly but carry a big stick.” As left defender, he regularly crushes
opponents and sends them spinning to the ground without a word no matter what
is said to him. However, a loud mouthed
group of opposing parents was screaming uncontrollably about FOULS the entire
game. When my colt found himself in
front of their group, he calmly looked over to the sideline like this…
My wholly original One Mile Time Trial series is back for a pre-Memorial Day edition! Don't take off for your long weekend until you read this post!
Before we get to the results, I want to point out what a fool I am (and not for the obvious reasons.) The track has two drinking fountains near it. I've run at this location for 10 years now and, every winter, they remove the piping under the fountain so it won't freeze and restore it around Spring Break for the outside sports teams to use again. Except, this year, I did not see the piping return and I was brought to great sadness. I would have no water for my harsh summer intervals unless I supplied it myself and I'm no J.D. Waterpockets.
But then I saw someone drinking from the inoperable fountain the other day. Were they staging an elaborate joke on yours truly? No,no, they actually seemed to give off the satisfied glow of recent hydration. And the chin was unmistakably glistening. So I warily wandered over on guard for hidden cameras and someone shouting, "You got Punk'd!" I depressed the button and a magical stream of looping water appeared before my very eyes. It was a Memorial Day Miracle!
Apparently, they replaced the piping with internal flex lines this year.
As always, the "one mile" is really 1600 meters as in four laps at my local high school track - 30 feet short of an actual mile. As explained before (i.e. horseshoes/hand grenades), close enough. Don't argue.
The lungs and legs are starting to respond. Instead of ridiculous Look-At-The-Fat-Guy-Run huffin' and puffin' I've been doing this Spring, I managed to maintain pretty good composure and form while making my orbits. Laps of 1:22, 1:25, 1:25, 1:22 bringing an Act Three time of:
There are
some days when I’m in the mood for one of my notorious epic length blog
posts. This is not that day. Here, one thought from the morning, in short
form…
My filly can
be very insightful when she’s not worrying about how big her nose is compared
to the other 4th graders. (It’s
the year of body image for a growing girl.)
She’s consuming some fruit for breakfast this morning and
matter-of-factly states, “Everybody likes fruit because it tastes good. No one likes vegetables. They don’t have broccoli flavored Starburst.”
True. Starburst and Skittles both radiate their
spectrum of rainbow colors and flavors trumpeting the sugary manufactured “fruitness”
of their flavors. I don’t remember
seeing a vegetable in that spectrum.
Could the orange represent carrots?
How about red being a radish?
Dark green is green beans? And
light green is broccoli? Can a fella get
a yellow rutabaga in that rainbow?!?
Let’s face
it. No one “wanted a V8” despite what
their commercials said. It wasn’t until
they came out with the V8 Fusion – adding the fruits and hiding the vegetables –
that kids suddenly thought, okay, maybe I’ll have a V8 if I can’t get a
Slurpee. Notice how the picture on the
bottle really pushes the vegetables….somewhere??
Vegetables
are little anti-oxidant and energy powerhouses.
Athletes of all shapes, sizes and seriousness need lots of them. That’s why I drink cabbage juice
regularly. And it ain’t easy to squeeze
juice out of a cabbage.
I don’t subscribe
to old axioms like “you are what you eat” because, frankly, I’ve never eaten an
asshole yet I’m called that all of the time.
I do eat carrots constantly, which explains my orangish hue. We need to find some way to package
vegetables successfully the same way that fruit has been pushed.
How about a
Skittles garden pack? Skittles: Taste the Garden.
Someone with
more interest, get on that. My filly is
waiting for inspiration.
Happy
Memorial Day!
_________________________________________
It’s
Memorial Weekend here in the U.S.! You
all can enjoy your hot dogs, potato salad, and beer. We’ll be sitting around the pitch, along with
700 other teams, for the annual *near* end-of-the-year soccer tournament. Should be nice….only 90 degrees!
Sadly, my
colt’s shutout streak came to an end in Ohio in the wet, morning dew
grass. After 4 games – and nearly a 5th
– the goalie slipped and fell on a fairly routine shot with 3 minutes to play
to let in a goal. It was Ohio (and it
was an open field) so it very well could have been lubricant. Either way, the shutout ended in a 1-1
tie. No 5th shutout in a row.
Meanwhile,
the filly scored one goal and rattled another off the cross bar so hard that,
if you listen closely, it is still humming a vibration to this day, in a 6-3
victory.
Rest assured, soccer ends in a few weeks and you'll hear no more about it...for a few weeks after that.
I don’t
learn lessons real well. I tend to be
pig headed and try to bend reality to match my pre-determined world view. It’s not a unique concept. There’s an entire cable news network devoted
to this. It’s also why I’ve watched Toy
Story 3 exactly 138 times (and counting) because, dammit, there is NO WAY Andy
goes to college and gives away the toys. (Note: Preceding sentence contains a spoiler
alert.) If I watch it again, he might
change his mind. It’s also why I drink
so much beer. I mean, in my mind, beer
shouldn’t taste that delicious. It’s not
right. So I keep opening another to see
if this is the one that’ll taste horrible.
The search continues…
So I was
pleasantly surprised to learn a new lesson on my limbo run on Thursday. I thought I knew everything about limbo runs
seeing as I invented the term. To
refresh, Tuesdays are my track intervals day and Thursday is a tempo run or
limbo run, whatever the mood strikes as I lace ‘em up. Long time F.M.S. readers know that a limbo
run, known as a “progressive run” by the running glitterati, involves me
running each mile progressively faster after starting with a comfortable
warm-up mile. Limbo run is a much more
descriptive term than progressive run and I expect it to catch on like wildfire
– eventually – in the running community.
Just remember where you heard it first.
A smart
limbo runner gently accelerates through each mile. You may drop 4-8 seconds per mile. Heck, even one second gets you under the line
for a successful limbo. It would be
nipple tickling but….it works! If you go
too low, too early, well, it just makes it harder for the subsequent miles. Be a smart limboer.
As the
original limboer, I’ve had some close calls but always managed to judge my pace
enough to beat the previous mile. But,
yesterday, I almost knocked the bar over.
The plan was
a 7 miles. After a relaxed warm-up, I
started my gentle downward sloping limbo:
7:14
–warm-up
6:52
6:48
6:47
So far, so
good. Miles 2-4 only saw an overall
decrease of 5 seconds and, believe me, I
noticed that I was limbo slacking a bit.
I prefer to knock off a nice 5 or 6 seconds per mile. So I picked up the pace for mile 5 and found
myself in the LDL Zone.
6:19
Oh,
shit. I dropped 28 seconds and, for the
first time, found myself in the Limbo Death Leap (LDL). I dropped too quickly, too much. Like bad cholesterol, a high LDL is not a
good thing to have.
But press on
I must:
6:18
Okay, let’s
bring it home.
6:09
And
done. Against all odds, I limboed to
keep my streak of needless braggadocio alive and well. But Nitmos does what Nitmos does. (shrugs shoulders,
feigns nonchalance) I was tired and my
mouth was dryer than a reused dryer sheet.
Truth be told, I ain’t in shape for that kind of limbo. Give me a few more weeks. If a DJ with a tenor voice smoothly chanted
at me, “How looow, can you go?”, I would have responded, “6:09. That’s it buddy.” It wouldn’t have mattered how much – or how
loud – the calypso drums or Hasselhoff played.
Lesson
learned: When limboing, don’t create a
huge LDL or you’ll knock the bar down.
So I guess I
can learn new things. And maybe Andy
won’t give away his toys and there’s a beer that doesn’t taste good. Run and learn.
There are a
lot of weird things going on lately. It
must be an election year. Let’s get
right into our random listing of dumb things….lovingly called Randumbery.
Have You
Seen This…Ass?
Okay,
minimalists, enough is enough. First,
the shoes are just too much and had to go.
Now things have carried to their inevitable conclusion: naked running. That’s the agenda of all minimalist runners;
don’t let them fool you. They won’t rest
until we are all running naked. Just
wait until McDougall comes out with his sequel to Born to Run - Born to Free Ball? - promoting the
natural, centering, free gravity effects of running without shorts…that Big
Pant has actually altered our natural waist movement and thrown off our natural
running form. Should be a hit. Nike, Asics, Brooks, New balance, to your labs
to create a lightweight, invisible, near nothing running short!*
In Colorado,
home of hippies and intermittent slack bloggers, Carbondale is ground zero in
the War on Minimalism. Rampant packs of
naked, trail running men have been spotted on hiking trails. The Garfield County Sheriff’s Office has
received several complaints. Sheriff Lou
Vallario has the situation under control.
At a press conference yesterday,
however, Sheriff Lou Vallario stated the naked men shouldn't deter outdoor
enthusiasts from going about their business as usual.
"Be a little more aware, take some precautions... but you
need to do what you enjoy in life,” said Sheriff Vallario ina Grand Junction Sentinel article.
Click the link and enjoy the descriptions of the four specific incidents cited. Do you see something missing from those
descriptions? I know if I did some naked
trail running, the first thing described to the police wouldn’t be my hair
color or height but the size of…mytheir amazement. (insert rim shot!)
Also, does
one of these runners NOT sound like the others?
Note incident description #4. It
says nothing about running but maybe he’s taking a Gu break? Can a fellow get a rim shot up in here?!?
There will
be an ass line-up soon to identify this minimalist terrorist:
Here’s
another newsflash from some brainiacs at a sciencey place. They’ve gone and studied more rats and
projected their findings onto human beings again. What they found this time is that “people who
eat large amounts of sugar for as little as 6 weeks experience a sharp decline
in learning and memory ability.”
"Our
findings illustrate that what you eat affects how you think," lead
researcher Fernando Gomez-Pinillasaid in
a statement. "Eating a
high-fructose diet over the long term alters your brain's ability to learn and
remember information.”
The article didn’t specifically mention
fudge stripe cookies and jelly beans so I don’t think I’m affected by
this. In fact, the article seems to be
sponsoring a form of Sugar Minimalism which, I believe, is an offshoot of shoe
minimalism and thus a part of the larger War on Minimalism.
Mmmm, little gobs of bite size goodness.
What does this have to do with
running? Well, first of all, it doesn’t
have to do anything with running. This
is my blog and I can rant if I want to.
Second, there is, in fact, an important conclusion here for runners: Eat lots of sugar and forget about how awful
all that training is for the marathon.
At least, that’s my takeaway.
Jelly beans, start shivering in terror!
I figure I eat enough sugar and who remembers the calf cramp pain during
that 20 miler?
Bikes 1,
Genitalia 0
Another study from ‘The World is Round’ crowd.
This time they tell us that cycling leads to decreased genital sensation
in women, numbness, poor sperm morphology in men, and erectile
dysfunction. They also ominously state
that “female cyclists had less genital sensation than female runners.” I didn’t know decreased genital sensation was
a byproduct of running. I guess that marathon
medal you received has a double meaning, eh?
Congratulations, you finished the marathon! And now your hooha is damaged!
I still ride
a sweet 1998 Huffy Snakerock** but, let me tell you, I agree with these
findings. I lovingly refer to my Huffy
as "The Eunuch Maker".
Just some
more food for thought for you ardent cyclists or, as I now call you, Genital
Minimalists.
Can We Make
It Five?
You thought
you were going the whole week without a Nitmos’ kids soccer update? WRONG!
My colt will be invading northern Ohio this week to go for his 5th
win in a row. And 5th shut out
in a row as well. No kidding…their last
four matches have ended in the following scores in order: 1-0, 2-0, 3-0, 4-0. Anything other than 5-0 and we will not be
pleased. It shouldn’t be a problem as,
again, he will be in Ohio. I believe
Ohio is known more for pay-for-play college football players rather than youth
soccer.
But maybe he’ll
get a tattoo while there. We’ll bring an
extra jersey to barter.
In the land where boys don't have blue faces. But DESTROY 4-0!
______________________________________
And that’s
how we do Randumbery. Thanks for
playing!
One of my
meditation routines is to try to relax, contort myself in a sacrilegious way –
called "The Perineum Tickler" - and come up with an appropriate conclusion to the meditation
mantra, “The only good llama is…”
I can puzzle
over this for hours. I can puzzle over
this until my perineum is sore. So far,
my best conclusions are: “…one spit-roasted and served over a bed of greens with
steak fries.” I also like “…one with its
skull cleaned out and placed on the head of a staff as I stand over a pit of
bleating, terrified llamas and ask them to slather the ointment on their skin or else they
get the hose again.”
Admittedly, neither
is real catchy. That’s why it’s a good
meditation mantra. There’s no bad
answer (as long as the llama ends up dead.)
But then I see this uplifting story of a llama given a prosthetic leg so
that it could walk again. T' hell?
Do you know
how many hours I’ve spent devising this animals destruction to then have to
suffer this “feel good” story? The same
people that made the prosthetic tail for Winter the dolphin (as seen in Dolphin Tale movie) are behind this. Here I
thought they were the good guys. What
do you call a llama with only three legs?
A good start. Or 3/4ths of a waste of space but getting better. Or, one dinner down, three to go. I imagine llama meat is very succulent and
lean. I hear their cold, dead black eyes
taste like cherries. Why aren’t we
eating these animals? Why aren’t we
using their long necks for a line of llama neck bed lamps? And what’s the deal with those necks? It’s like a llama is a glued together donkey
body on a half giraffe neck. They should
be called a Halfraffekey.
At the very
least, let’s stop fitting them with cheetah striped fake limbs so they can walk
again and continue their menacing existence. We don't do that for a half smushed cockroach.
Next thing
you know, the filthy beasts will want to run and race. What do you do with a llama with a prosthetic
limb? It’ll be like Oscar Pistorius all
over again. Can he run in the regular
Llamalympics or will he have to go in the Parallamalympics?*
No cheetah stripes. A shame.
I might just
be a little ornery today. Due to a busy
schedule and other personal reasons (possibly related to my meditation pose), I’ve
been unable to run for 12 days. It feels
like 12 years. I feel like I should be
on The Biggest Loser. It’s the longest
non-running streak I’ve been on in over 6 years. It’ll all come to an end tomorrow as I’ll be
able to hit the road for several miles but, man, it’s been tough. And then to see the whole MIRACLE WALKING
LLAMA thing…
In the
meantime, I’ve come up with an exciting and delicious recipe for roasted llama souls to share
with you. Best served with a fruity
cabernet.
Kill 15 llamas and harvest their souls.
Drink a fruity cabernet.
Feel free to
use “The only good llama…” as a starter for your own meditation mantra. Be careful, don’t get lost in the double ll’s
– presumptuous beast, ohhh, I need TWO L’s in MY name because One.Won't. Do. – and split open your
perineum. You’ll be (theoretically) on the shelf for 12
days.
If the
Hangar Clinic isn’t too busy working with the wonderful, can-do-no-wrong llamas, it'd be nice if they could come up with a prosthetic human perineum. Don’t want to bother them with all of their
useful and important llama work though.
Your turn. Get into The Perineum Tickler and consider: The Only
Good Llama is….(fill in the rest)
KummerLama.
Happy
trails.
* Admit it, that was fun to say.
_______________________________________
Based on the
poll results so far from my last post, the leader seems to be concern for my
lack of fixing the lattice fencing pieces.
You would think that, with 12 days away from running, I’d get that
done. You’d be wrong. And I see many of you are bashful about calling yourself a "race-ist"...at least in the comments. Don't worry, I know who you are. And, Danny, don't worry, I can't possibly drive any more readers from this blog. _______________________________________
Are you a
race-ist? Are you one of those people
that begin unintentionally race-ist sentences by saying “I’m not a race-ist
but….” and then finishing it with “…I really want to run another 5k this weekend.”
I’m not a
race-ist. In fact, I can barely match a
race with the fingers on one hand during an entire year. Usually, I have a few fingers left over. Why are some of us serial race-ists and
others barely notice things such as race?
Is it congenital? Are
non-race-ists inherently better people?*
Do race-ists need to diversify their hobbies?** Am I just being jealous?***
For me, I’m
kinda picky. I’ve got to really want to
run a race before I’ll sign up. I might
hear about one, check out the race website, and investigate the course and
location. I might let a year go by
before the seedling sprouts into full blown desire. Then I have to carefully count my dollar
bills and triple-check the kids’ soccer schedule. Maybe I check out the website 2-28 more times
and then, if I still want to run it, I go ahead and register. It’s an exhausting process - almost as
exhausting as the training itself. In
fact, by the time I hit ‘submit’ on the registration, I feel like they should
just mail me a medal and, let’s not kid ourselves, an age group award and we’ll
skip the rest of it.
I’ve never
signed up for a race with less than two weeks prep time. And I've only got as close as two weeks once and that was for a
5k. Normally, I sign up for races 3-4
months in advance.
In my area
of the world, there’s a 5 or 10k seemingly every single weekend. I’m often asked “Are you running the race
this weekend?” and my response is usually something like, “No, what’s it for
this time? The VHS to DVD Low Income
Transition Assistance 5k?”
But some of
you don’t seem to care what a race looks like.
Like a Pavlovian dog, you hear about a race and your legs automatically
start trotting.
There’s a 5k
this weekend? Ohhh, sign me up!
A costume
run? Honey, is my costume back from the
cleaners? Go get my moisture wicking
pumpkin costume HOORAY!
A Sandwich
10k? A Cupcake 5k? An Ass Slapper 5 miler? All good.
I’M IN.
Face it, you
are a race-ist and it’s exhausting to the rest of us. I know, I know: Once you’ve gone weekly 5k, you never cease
to pay race fees. I’ve heard the ole
race-ist saying a thousand times. Now, I
love to run. I rarely miss a scheduled
run. I just don’t race that much. I only race when I feel like I’m good and
prepared and ready to give my best. I
don’t need to pay $25 and up for a half-ass effort. I can just go out for a normal Sunday run and
save myself the cash. Who needs to eat
rapidly browning bananas off a folding table at 8:30 AM? Do Fig Newtons somehow taste edible after a
race? And who needs another race shirt?
If you are
not sure if you qualify as a race-ist, check yourself against these guidelines:
YOU ARE A
RACE-IST IF:
(1) You’ve run more than 10 races in a calendar
year.–or –
(2) You have more than 4 photos on your blog of you
with a #1 pointy finger and a WOO-HOO! scream for the camera. – or
(3) You entered a costume 5k dressed as a giant hot
dog (or equivalent). – or –
(4) You considered playing the banjo during a
marathon.
It’s time
for self judgment. Be honest. I know it’s not easy to call yourself a
race-ist but if the glove fits…
To be
truthful, there’s part of me that would like to race more…to not care about
PR’s and general preparedness…to acquire a sickening amount of race
shirts. But it’s hard to justify this
when I’ve been staring at the same busted out piece of lattice fencing in my
backyard for 4 years. If I don’t have
time to go to Home Depot and buy one 2x6 foot lattice replacement piece, can I
really justify dressing up like a giant baby in a wicking bonnet and disgustingly
real looking diaper for the local Kiwanis Club costume run?
Maybe a day
will come when we’ll judge a race by its content rather than the color of its
shirt.
Until then,
I guess I’ll just live my racing through your seemingly weekly reports. WOOO-HOOOO!
Just don’t move next door to me.
Race-ists drive my home value down.
Yup, soccer weekend again! For the 76th consecutive weekend!
The colt typically plays left defender though he moonlights as left forward. Here, watch the action unfold as the colt, who relishes physical contact, blows up another attacking striker. The colt finished the weekend with 2-0 and 3-0 victories making the third consecutive clean sheet for the defenders (and team). Watch the action unfold as Momarazzi snaps away. (As usual, click to make like a prostate and enlarge. My artwork is amazing.)
50/50 ball. It sure looks like that striker would like to get it. Does he want it bad enough?
Oh, no, here comes the defender. I can haz ball?
Uh oh, Spaghetti-o's, I must practice my sense of balance for future match. DEFENSE SMASH!
Annihilation. 3-0 win. Lesson: Don't bring a rubber clavicle to a shoulder fight.
Meanwhile, the filly had to settle for a 2-2 tie against a clearly inferior opponent that packed the entire team into their defensive goal box (and then got lucky on the offensive end). The filly attacked all game but couldn't break through. No donuts for her this weekend. Next time, Blue Face Group, your day will come!
Next: Back to your regularly scheduled running nonsense!
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!
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
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):
