Duel of the Son

The Fruit of My Loins Showdown

My colt is not a runner.  He plays sports.  Specifically, he plays lots and lots of soccer.  For my fellow Americans that may not be aware, soccer involves a significant amount of running at times.  It also involves a significant amount of players falling on the ground acting like they broke their leg in overly dramatic fashion every few minutes but that’s not relevant to this tale.

He runs…but only after things.*  When I come back from a long run and casually mention that I just knocked off 14 miles (really, only 8 but what does he know?) the response I normally get is “why are you doing that?  That sounds so boring.”  A runner, he is not.  Not yet at least.  I spent my youth running after balls too.  Well, not balls per se…well, kinda balls per se…you know what, you can all go to hell, you know what I mean.  Balls!

As a requirement for his high school soccer, he has to meet a fairly challenging two mile time goal of 12:45.  Two miles in 12:45?  Guess what 42 year old blogger just made a high school soccer team?  For Mr. Look Down His Nose at Boring Runners though, this was going to be interesting.

I haven’t seen him just plain run that far all at once.  Sure, I gently encouraged him.  I even got in a few humblebrags about how my own dedication and hard work made something that seemed difficult become easy.  It was during the discussion of fartleks where the conversation ended with a “ you know what, if you aren’t mature enough to say fartlek without snickering like a toddler then maybe…okay, okay very funny, stop snickering…I know the word ‘fart’ is pa-….that’s right, I just said ‘fart’ again.  STOP LAUGHING.  Fartleks aren’t – okay, it’s just a SWEDISH WORD SO STOP….HEY, IS THAT A NEW PIMPLE ON YOUR FOREHEAD???”  The rest of the drive home in silence.  Kids today.

Eventually he agreed to head up to the high school track so I could dump some long-overdue fatherly wisdom on his unsuspecting teenager ass.  Also, maybe show him a thing or two about running that I’ve learned over the past 13 years.  You know, real condescending father-teaching-naïve-son bullshit.  

I decided to start him slow – a couple of 800’s around 3:00 pace, separated by a 90 second rest.  I thought that might just be enough to break him.  And, when broken, that’s when I reintroduce the whole fartlek discussion.

I heard him breathing heavy following my lead but his footsteps kept right on my heels both sets.  I kinda expected to lose him during the second 800.  He was wearing a COTTON t-shirt ferchrissakes.  But, no, there was the typical non-runner slapping of the feet right behind me, overwhelming my perfectly tuned low-impact, barely audible stride. 

He did it though.  Two 800’s in about three minutes each.  Oh, his hands were on his hips and he was sucking in wind like a canklesaurus that just climbed a flight of stairs.  I threw in a little comment about how “this is good warm-up for me.  I usually do 4 to….18 of these.”  I could barely get the sentence out before descending into a gasping, coughing fit due to lack of oxygen that I explained away by blaming the huge fly I just sucked in.

I didn’t think he fully got what he needed from this session.  In other words, he wasn’t defeated.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned from running over the years, it’s that it is best used to show up, humiliate, or injure an inferior runner.   Since he was none of those things – just a bit tired – I decided to go for the kill.

“How about one balls out** 400 meter before we head home?” I suggest with pitched tent finger tips slowly tapping together under an evil grin.

Sure, he responds, unconfidently.

YES!  I wish I brought my shovel…cause I’m going to need it to scrape that ego up that I leave smeared all over the track. 

In my most condescending manner, I suggest to him that he shouldn’t start out in a full sprint.  Start the 400 comfortably hard then, at the 100 meter mark, start gently accelerating until the hammer is down at 200 meters to the finish. 

Unspoken?  Wave goodbye to Dada.  He’s gonna rip your will to run right out from you, sweetie.  There’s nothing more enjoyable then shredding the fruit of your loins into ribbons meter by meter!

With that sage strategy in place, we line-up to start our balls out 400 meters.***  I know he’s going to follow my advice because he foolishly looks up to me (I think).

Off we go!  And I’m GONE.  Fuck this if I’m going to let some 15 year old hang with me for 100 meters gathering confidence every step of the way.  The hammer is DOWN immediately.  Whoosh!

And I pop into a nice little lead around the first bend.  His footsteps – SLAP SLAP SLAP – grow distant behind me.  We hit the 100 meter mark and I’m in the lead by a good two seconds.  The fool followed my advice!  Now, just a little work over the last 300 meters and the Master will head home to modestly tell Mrs. Nitmos how the boy is still trying to learn the Art of Running.

But then the footsteps get louder again on the back straightaway.  He’s on my heels.  Did he follow my advice?  It was good advice but, really, it was designed more for me to get a lead and hopefully break his spirit than to actually, you know, help him win. 

By 200 meters, we are neck and neck.  And he’s in the second lane.  I glance at my watch and we are at 33 seconds.  I’m not normally a good sprinter and this is about as fast as I’ve ever gone.  I’m hoping he sprinted himself out trying to catch me as we head into the second turn. 

Turns out, he’s a fast little fucker.  I’m huffing and puffing through the turn.  He’s SLAP SLAP SLAPPING away – cotton t-shirt flapping in the wind - through the turn across the 300 meter mark oblivious to the need for a Garmin, specialty running shows and moisture-wicking….everything.   The arrogance!

We hit 300 meters and he shows no signs of letting up.  In fact, is that a kick down the home stretch?  Now it’s me and my barely audible, perfectly tuned stride that starts to fall away.  It’s painfully obvious that I’m not going to catch him.  Is he a machine impervious to exhaustion?  Is this the same kid that spends 8 hours a day playing Call of Duty and FIFA ’13 and doing rails of sugar off the TV? 

Truly, I underestimated him.  But if there is a lesson to be learned, I should be the one delivering it. 

In the final 100 meters, mid-stride, I change strategy.  Now, there is a lesson to be taught about winning gracefully, respecting elders, exemplifying modesty, and congratulating a competitor on a well-run race.

But I’m not going to deliver that message.  This ain’t an after school special and I’m not Oprah. 

“Aaaaahh!” I scream out.  I figure I have a second or two before he looks back…just enough time to gently ease myself onto my side on the track as if I’ve fallen hard.  I hold my leg in the air and grab my hamstring.  He finishes and circles back in an arrogant, non-exhausted jog. “What’s wrong?”

Here, I go for the two-fer:  (1) Rob him of his clean victory and (2) blame him for my “injury”.

“Well, I was just about ready to go for my hard finishing kick (grimace-grunt) after my warm-up 300 meters when you carelessly kicked some loose gravel into my lane. (grimace-facial contortion) I slowed up – you had been doing that the last 100 meters or so – to get around it (uggghhh, grooooan) but it slid under foot causing me to twist my leg funny in an attempt to avoid it.  I did the best I could but, man, you screwed me over.”

After a suitable amount of time selling the injury, I popped up and, feigning sportsmanship and general humanity, patted my son on the back and said, “Despite the rather large asterisk looming over it, that was a nice job you did there – including spewing gravel in my lane!”

And then we drove home…as only I could do of the two of us.

Happy trails.

* Meta Alert: I know, I know, WE run after abstract concepts like physical fitness, health, happiness, and PRs.  Tell that to a 15 year old.

** Look I don’t have a ‘balls’ obsession, alright?  It’s an expression.  Don’t get teste.
*** Stop it already.
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Postscript:  My colt made the time with a nice 12:26.  The preceding story was entirely true up until the 300 meter mark at which point it diverted into Hey This Would Make A Better Blog Post Ending.  In truth, I finished 3 seconds behind him despite running my best 400 ever. 

The little shit.

Phantom of the 800s

The few of you that follow me on Twitter received an undetailed 140 character (or less) description of an unfortunate event at the track yesterday whilst doing some 800 meter intervals. Except, on my tweet, I didn’t use the word ‘whilst’. This is a problem I intend to correct on all future tweets whilst there is breath in my body.

The thing we all know about 800 intervals is that they can be grueling. As each one completes, you are that much closer to being done whilst also knowing that the next one will be more difficult to maintain pace than the previous. Your breathing will be more labored; your perceived effort will be higher. Real fuck with your mind shit. Do I really want to do these 800’s? Instead of six, how about five? Instead of 2:50 pace, how about 3:00 pace? Mentally, I start looking for an escape hatch to make things easier. In a way, I go through the five stages of grief during one 800 session:

1. Denial – I’m not going to work this hard today
2. Anger – WHY DO I HAVE TO DO THIS?
3. Bargaining – Okay, I’ll do them but maybe only 4 intervals rather than 8.
4. Depression – This sucks. Why does Beardsley hate me?
5. Acceptance – Alright, I’m here. Might as well get it over with.

To distract all of these swirling emotions within, I ratchet up the ole iPod with some raucous RAWK music. Real ear bleeding stuff to get the heart pumping, legs churning, and mind fucked. I’m not a huge metalhead but I do dabble in a few headbangers to facilitate some speed work. I even had a playlist designed at one time for just such workouts. That playlist got deleted at some point during one of the never ending iTunes updates and has not been recreated. Since then, I tend to select an album or artist that I know can provide some adrenaline and hope that the record label required “power ballad” doesn’t pop up at some point.

That’s usually how I do things.

Yesterday, I decided to hit Shuffle and tempt the fate of the music overlords. Now, I know you are thinking ‘Nitmos, you are super cool and thus all of the music on your iPod would be Super Cool Approved also so what could go wrong?’ Thank you for thinking that and, largely, you are correct. However, it should be noted (as seen on my profile page), that I do hold a soft spot for garish show tunes. If you are surprised by this, you shouldn’t be. I recently used the word “garish” in a sentence. /deadgiveaway

It started out alright. My first few intervals had a nice smattering of 30 Seconds to Mars and Rage Against the Machine. I was off to a hot start. I knew I was cranking along when Linkin Park kicked in not once but back-to-back selections!! The home stretch was near.

But then some elongated silence. Did my iPod turn off? Battery drain? Seconds go by and…nothing.

Wait…not nothing. I hear something. What is that?

Nighttime sharpens
Heightens each sensation
Darkness stirs and
Wakes imagination

It started slowly, quietly and then built to a, well, sloooow show tune pace. Not something bouncy and Pirates of Penzancey. Nope, “Music of the Night” from Phantom of the Opera instead. I’ve got 2000 songs on that iPod and THAT’S what is selected?!? Can a runner at least get some Joey Fatone up in here?

Now I’m as entangled in the torrid love triangle between Christine, Raoul and the Phantom as any normal red-blooded American. But in the middle of some 800 intervals, I care more about my own tortured soul rather than some damn fool with a half mask. But you can’t stop and change tunes in the middle of an 800 right? That’s got to be against some kind of runner code.

So, powered by the Original Cast Recording of the Phantom of the Opera, I completed my intervals. Somehow. I’m living testament that it can be done though it does not come with a recommendation.

And then Johnny Cash came on.

Clearly, I really have got to go over my iPod selections. At the very least, the lesson I learned the hard way for all of you is not to hit Shuffle whilst doing speed work. Too many things can go wrong. Anne Frank may be a Phan (or would have been, one assumes) but this runner is not. At least, not in this context.

In summary: Show tunes rule…but not during speed work.

Happy trails.

Immaculate Confection

I don’t know how it got in there – divine providence I’m guessing – but it’s there and letting me know it every step of every mile of every run.  I’m FAT right now.  Like, grossly obese stuff.  I must be a good 4-5 pounds (!!) over my normal race weight.  Look away if I repulse you.  Don’t laugh as I parade my collection of the Midwest’s finest wind pants before you each day.  Yep, I’m a wind pants guy now.  Fatties like me do what we must.  I pulled the string through them and everything.  I’m not even buying the good quality Adidas wind pants.  Instead, bulk Walmart models because what the hell.

The thing is I don’t know how it got in there.  Sure, I always put on a few pounds over the winter months – I’ve referred to it many times before as my Cheeto Layer – but I know where that fat layer came from.  See Cheeto, eat Cheeto.  See rum, drink rum.  See leftover fry wedged between the garbage can and floor baseboard, eat leftover fry wedged between the garbage can and floor baseboard.  Simple fat calorie economics.

But I don’t know where this first trimester bulge came from.

Once February rolls around, I start watching what I eat a bit more.  The holidays are over.  There’s no ready made excuse.  Speedo season approaches.  I can’t let a bulge get in the way of my bulge ifyouknowwhatImean.  Nothing takes away from the sensual delights of a male in a Speedo more than cottage cheese thighs and a donelop.*  As in “my belly just donelopped over my waist”.

I’ve been eating more fruits and vegetables.  I’ve been drinking plenty of beer but I’ve cut out (most) of the rum consumption.  Cheetos?  Not a single baked cheesy delight has passed these lips since the New Year.  No, either my system is automatically transposing the mixed vegetables into a bag of Skittles – just out of confusion due to the similar color spectrum – or something else is going on.

I think something else is going on you guys.

I’ve been blessed.  It’s an Immaculate Confection bouncing around my belly.  Except this one isn’t going to make it to the third trimester.  My recent spate of 800’s at the local track will see to that.  I don’t know that I want to go against the will of God and the gift of a tasty baked good but there are Earthly races to run.  So, my belly is on the shrink.  It’s demaculating.  I will not be birthing a sugary delight onto the world to save us from the South Beach diet.  Was Mary a distance runner?  I doubt it or things would never have gotten that far.**

I’m back in shorts; the weekly mileage is going up; the body is reshaping.  Sure, my winter Michigan Pale is still in full bloom.  Eggshell white mocks my whiteness.  But the sun will return around the time the belly leaves.  All of this according to prophecy.

Immaculate Confection or not.

Happy Nitmos 4:10.

* Well, maybe gnarly pubic hair jutted from underneath like roots and branches from the Fangorn forest.
** Come to Feet Meet Street for the sarcasm, stay for the blasphemy.
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Thanks for asking, yes we have chipped away at the 49 soccer games this Spring. There are only 27 left to go!  The colt completed 6 shutouts in 8 games of his last indoor session as Left Defender of the Goal.  The filly connected on 18 goals in leading her team to a 6-1-1 record in her last indoor session.  She’s on a 4 game hat trick (or better) stretch.  Now, outside! In the rain!  State Cup games!  Junior State Cup games!  Premier games!  See you on the pitch!  I can’t stop talking in exclamation points!  Seriously!  Help! This is ridiculous! !  !

Runner Advice: 49 Reasons to Raise Lazy Kids

This is the first installment of my popular one segment series, “Runner Advice”. Enjoy. It probably won’t return.

I’ve been trying to fill out my yearly race dance card lately. It’s not an easy thing to do. It’s like Kristen Stewart trying to find time to brood; there’s never enough time to brood. The will is there: I’d like to run races. The health is there: I’m strong like bull. The finances are there: I have a credit card. So what’s the hold up?

Kids. Yup, those guys. Again. Sheesh, I provided the ingredients; Mrs. Nitmos baked ‘em in the oven; Life was created! You’d think that would be enough of our involvement for them. Nope. They require a couple decades worth of constant “attention”, “food”,” water”, “medicine”, “love”, and “guidance”. What the hell did we invent TVs for? I think there’s a word for this: ungrateful.

I’ve been thinking about a spring half marathon and a fall marathon with some summer 5 and 10k’s thrown in. I might as well keep thinking about it because the reality of making it happen is proving difficult. We just received the kids’ spring soccer schedules. Two kids, two sets of indoor games, outdoor regular season games and additional bonus State Cup games. If you include my soccer games, we have 49 games on the schedule over the next 13 weekends. That doesn’t include practice time, of course.

You know that May race I was thinking about? Not happening. There are a few races I’ve always wanted to do the first weekend of June. And I’ll continue to still want to do them because that particular weekend is the final weekend of soccer games for the season. Oh, but there’s a nice half marathon the second weekend of June…which is soccer tryouts for the following season. Not happening.

I should have been one of those dads that hides behind a newspaper and only grunts in the direction of the kids when he wants another beer. What happen to those dads? What happened to the good ole days? A little neglect and deep emotional scarring never hurt a kid before.

For those of you with kids already, you know what I’m talking about. They are little Time Thieves. They are like an engrossing reality show. They get you all wrapped up in their little dramas and then you realize two hours have gone by and your kid didn’t get the rose.

For those of you without kids, let me be the first to suggest: Don't have them.  Or, at the very least, raise lazy kids. Television is a wonderful babysitter, friend, confidante, therapist, and educator. It can do a much better job in those areas than you could ever do. Think you know a lot?  The History Channel knows more.  Think you can unravel their traumatic emotional issues?  Not better than Dr. Phil, you can't.  Think you know better than TELEVISION?  Don't be arrogant.  Also, you’d be surprised at how much more running you can get done when you plop the kid right down in front of the TV with a bowl of chips. This is a fact: The lazier your child; the better your chance of PRing. Heck, I set all of my PRs when I could put the kids in a child swing, set it on Slow, and head out the door for a long run as they gently rocked back and forth and drifted off to sleep. Every five miles, you come back around to make sure there are no fires, dump some Cheerios on the tray, grab a swig of Gatorade and Gu and head back out the door. My motto was: Unless they are blue in the face, keep training for the race!

But that doesn’t work anymore. Ever try to get a 15 year old to cooperate while you attempt to stuff him into a swing? (Not to mention that the tray won't latch.)  And he sure as shit won’t eat dry Cheerios anymore. The language – and strength – of a 15 year old these days!

We should never have encouraged them to be active. Forty-nine games?!?! I suppose I could do laps around the field while they play but that would cut into my valuable Yelling at the Ref time. (I find that most referees need a parents help in order to correctly whistle an offsides. This is a theory I’m attempting to prove.) You reap what you sow and I sowed the seeds of future running obstacles way back when I rolled that soccer ball out onto the grass and encouraged my new little walker to kick the ball. It was a pathetic kick – barely went an inch – but he was delighted despite my disapproving scowl. He (and then, she) continued to kick the ball over the years and now I don’t have a free weekend to run a goddamn race.

My time would have been better spent teaching them how to work the remote control. Soccer’s more fun to watch then to play anyhow, right?

Kristen Stewart’s not the only one brooding these days. Just how many kids does she have anyway? 

Happy trails.
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Last weekend, my filly contributed 4 goals and an assist in stirring 3-2 and 3-0 wins. It was fun to watch even though I estimate that it cost me approximately 20 seconds off my next 5k time. /Reaped

Dtoilet Paper Unrolled

Considering I don’t promote this blog any longer or run around trying to stoke my comment bonfire, receiving 24 comments on my last post is quite an unexpected windfall. What created this outpouring? I’ve had recent posts about Lance Armstrong, deer antler spray, the New York City Marathon, my own off season battle with the candy bowl…some real deep, introspective shit laid out for you all on my blog buffet. Nope, you didn’t give a sniff about any of that. You metaphorically sneezed on my blog buffet sneeze guard and walked away.

No, your comments came ROLLING in due to a postscript I hastily tagged at the end of my last post. About toilet paper and how it should unroll. Wiperz, pleeze!?! That’s what gets your interest? Believe me, I underestimate all of you but this even seems below that deeply underestimated level.

Well, I give the people what they want. You want a toilet paper discussion. I’m a giver that way.

Left or Right?

I pulled your results into a spreadsheet and analyzed the comments based on spelling, grammar, and clarity. I then pie charted, bar graphed (both vertically and horizontally), and power pointed the results. I was going to do a picture graph but that just seemed unsavory somehow.

The results?

24 total respondents
15 correctly chose Left (over the top)
5 incorrectly chose Right (from below)
4 seemed confused by the simple choice between two things and fell into an Other category

That means 75% that chose, chose Left. And they are correct. I mean, who wants to grab toilet paper from below all up against the wall like that? If I’m in a public stall, you think I want my fingers scraping up against the wall, with “stuff” potentially collecting under my exposed fingernails from a thousand poopers before me? Maybe if I was a filthy animal like, say, a llama. Hell, maybe they could get the toilet paper to spit at you too. Would that make your Below Rollers happy? Have some class. Don’t invite me over unless you correct this social faux pas or I’ll use one of your hand towels instead and fold it over and rehang it on the rack, out of spite.

My favorite “Other” response was from Danielle in Iowa in Ireland:

I know it is supposed to be the left, but I just put it on however and deal with the consequences.

I like to know that there are still rebels out there, man. You are the Abbie Hoffman of toilet paper. Be free but….beware of your hand towels, just sayin’.

Mrs. Nitmos and I have settled into an uneasy peace about this issue, truth be told. There might be a small chance that I’ve waaaay over thought this particular piece of household engineering.

But the results rather decisively speak for themselves. Using some transitive logic to other areas of the homestead, if I am correct about the positioning of the toilet paper, then I am also correct about a few others: Dirty clothes do, in fact, only need to fall within two feet of the hamper; Dirty plates do not require rinsing before going into the dishwasher; Why lift the seat to urinate?; Milk will not “go stale” when left on the counter for hours at a time; Farmer’s blows indoors are actually a good idea; Farting in bed is both expected and welcomed.

We’ve settled quite a few matters with that post which makes it very successful. Thanks to you all for clearing things up, transitively speaking.

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming about running, life, feelings, and important social issues. You know, those things you don’t care about.

First, I need to grab a clump of toilet paper (from over the top), as if I was displaying an egg to the world on a tiny fingers pedestal, and swab out my cranium from this whole discussion.

Happy wiping.

Sans Treadmill

I feel like I think I’m just cool enough to get away with saying “sans” a lot. I know you are all snorting and snarkily declaring that I am “sans cool.” But I am sans a fuck about what you all think.

We are in the middle of another snow dump today but prior to that I had managed to get three consecutive runs off the treadmill and back out on the cold, hard ground in the past week. Whenever I’ve spent too much time on the mill (which, prior to this winter, was rarely), I usually hit the ground going way too fast because it just feels too damn good. Sans proper pacing, I end up limbo running what was meant to be an easy pace, maintenance run. Yesterday’s five miler culminated in a last mile of 6:11. Considering I had started around a 7:15 pace and had planned an even tempo run, you can see I was sans discipline.

Screw it. It’s so nice to be back on the road in (relatively) firm footing where a forward tilt actually means something other than that I might hit the front of a treadmill, slide backwards into the wall, and miss the end of Cougar Town in an unconscious haze while the whirring belt scrapes uninterruptedly across my drooling cheek...

As nice as it was to be back on the road, as Beardsley gives, he also takes away. My beloved stretchy bands – that I just waxed poetic about in the last post – snapped in my hands Wednesday night. When stretchy bands fail – and they always eventually fail – they can’t just tear unassumingly. No, they got to make a BIG production out of it. Always during butterfly curls…when your fists are up near your throat like JFK after the first shot…SNAP!...you punch yourself in the nose and the detached end whiplashes out and strikes your dog in the hind quarters where she lets out a yelp and scampers across the room into a table, knocking over orange pop onto the carpet.

So now I am sans stretchy bands. Dusting iron is becoming even more imperative.

Tonight is soccer night. We’ll see how that speedy last mile feels on the hamstring when I slide across synthetic turf in a few hours. I’d hate to be sans hamstring.

This weekend’s long run may or may not be on the mill. We’ll see how the snow plows do their job and Mother Beardsley conspires to make things difficult. If I have to go back on the mill, I’ll do it like I always do: Sans balls.

Happy trails.
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Why don’t you all settle a little dispute around the Nitmos home? I have very strong feeling on this matter. It is a source of conflict between Mrs. Nitmos and I. It usually involves one of us turning the roll around to “fix” the proper direction of the roll dispensary. Tell me in the comments which photo below – left or right – is the proper way to put on your toilet paper. I don’t want to overemphasize but…you may be responsible for the happiness of our marriage based on your response.  There's a correct way and then there's a way animals do it.

Dusting Iron

In order to make one’s pecs dance spastically to the awe and delight of others, it’s necessary to have pecs. In order to have pecs, it’s necessary to have a gym membership, home work out equipment, a good plastic surgeon or a 1985 Camaro, muscle shirt, mustache, and gold chain. Lacking a Camaro and unable to grow a passable mustache and definitely not rich enough to afford implants, my options are dwindling.

We had a gym membership for a few years but I cancelled that as soon as my locker room fascination with the Laws of Gravity sagged and wrinkled. Fortunately, I own some home workout equipment of my own. See? My weight bench is right over there…underneath the suitcases and laundry. It’s held up the suitcases for two years now without fail. It’s doing a good job.

Now, I’m not a muscle headed no necker. That’s not real conducive to strong running. You probably want to aim your body type more for a gazelle than a rhino, as runner. The first Kenyan I see that can beat a twelve year old girl in an arm wrestling competition will be…the first Kenyan I see that can do that, I guess. Sorry, I couldn’t quite land that comparison.

But I’m not running to win marathons or shorter races. I’m an amateur, recreational runner. See how I don’t have a running coach but DO have a full time job? That identifies me as an amateur. I also play soccer every Friday night (those of you on Twitter already know this…repeatedly! Look for the next tweet around 5:30pm this coming Friday!) Let me let you in on a little secret, get real close: I also don’t have a soccer coach for that. Why? BECAUSE I’M AN AMATEUR, RECREATIONAL PLAYER!

As an amateur, I’m thinking I might want a bit more muscle to go with my running. It won’t help me finish 236th in an 800 person race. Maybe I finish 254th instead. But those newly pumped pecs will bounce every step of the way. My race photos might look better. Less gauntish. I’ll need more body glide for my protruding nipples. I’ll definitely need to go on a shopping spree to Tank Tops R Us. Do they make Rogaine for upper lips? This is all a small price to pay. Heck, I might even have to check the XL box instead of the L box on race registrations. We are talking a millimeters difference there.

I used to pump iron all of the time. For ten years, I’d dutifully pull my weight bench out 1-2 times weekly and run through 10-12 little exercises, ogle myself in the mirror for a few hours, then complain to Mrs. Nitmos about how my mustache would never properly fill in and whether or not I should consider a tight perm. Toothpicks? Chewed constantly!

Then two things happened nearly simultaneously: we remodeled our basement and I discovered stretchy bands. The remodel moved the weight bench into the laundry room where I promised to still pull it out every week for a good workout. Like a Grandma checked into a senior home “just for a visit”, it has never left.

And those of you who have read F.M.S. for a while know that I’m an acolyte at the Altar of Stretchy Bands. Those things are awesome: portable, effective little bands of stretchy fitness. I love pulling, elongating, snapping and stretching on that rubber.* I love it so much; I’d probably make a great balloon animal creating clown (or a male Dominatrix). Resistance bands are great for keeping your muscles toned, loose and stringy. Also, you can knock off some DVR'd Billy On the Street episodes while stretching them right in the middle of your living room.

But they don’t build bulk. Nitmos needs some mass. Bikini season is right around the corner here in Michigan. I believe it’s a Thursday this year. Most of you have Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter as your seasons. Not us. Here’s how our seasons break down:

Michigan Calendar of Seasons
October-mid November = Pre-Winter
Mid-November-Mid December = Winter
Mid-December – Early March = Deep Winter
Rest of March = Winter
April = Post-Winter
May – Early July = Spring
July 11th = SUMMER (Bikini Season)!!!
July 12th- September = Pre-Fall
September to Early October = Fall
Repeat

If I want to be ready for bikini season/day, I better get that weight bench out and dust it off. The suitcases will have to sit on the floor for a while. Summer’s going to be a great day this year! With all of the extra weight I’m about to pack on, I probably won’t run as fast but I’ll look better not doing it. Dusting iron comes before pumping iron. Pumping iron comes before mustache. Mustache comes before tank tops and gold chains. Tank tops and spandex tights come before race photos.  It’s the Circle of Douchebag Life! Pink pajamas penguins at the bottom, pink pajamas penguins at the bottom....

If you have a used Camaro for sale, I might be in the market soon. I pay extra for flame decals on the side.

Happy pumping.

*Keep your filthy thoughts to yourself.
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There's a new race on the sidebar calendar for 2013.  Okay, it's a relay race.  The Dances with Dirt 100k relay is on again.  Teammates assemble!  I still need to find me some solo races....I'm currently circling a few...decisions, decisions...

Nitmos and the Amazing Monochrome Compression Shorts

I love a good Broadway musical: the music, the dancing, the costumes, the colors and pageantry. Lovely. I also love my ball sack. This is more about the latter.

There’s a lot to love about my compression shorts too. There’s a lot for you to love about me in my compression shorts, in fact. I look chiseled. I look bulgy in a good way. It appears this baby even got a little back! And that’s saying something as normally my ass is concave. In jeans, it looks like a Rottweiler had grabbed ahold and taken off a good chunk of the better parts leaving just a sunken in pair of ass-less jeans and the outlines of a pelvis bone in its place. If Sir Mix-A-Lot tried to walk on my bubble, he’d fall into a cave.

I run in compression shorts all of the time now. That wasn’t always the case. In my early days as a runner, I wore boxer shorts and even tighty whiteys. Then there was the misguided jock strap year that no one wants to relive.* All of these appendage restraint experiments came to an end one sunny spring day when I simultaneously chipped a tooth and dented my ankle with one innocent leap over a pothole. Enough. This Django needed to be chained.

The first time I tried on a pair of compression shorts, I fell in love. With myself. All over again. I took one look in the mirror and I believe I even said out loud, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” I’m not sure but there even may have been an, “Oh, snap!” mixed in as well. Bulgy? Check. Ass? Yes! Django? Defined. Compressed? Completely. Forget about the slight muffin top, I was in love. With myself. All over again. When security finally removed me from the dressing room, I paid and wore them home.

I wear my compression shorts everywhere now. There’s really not a good place to not wear them. Sure, both the parents and teachers at a Parent-Teacher conference may look at you cock-eyed** when you walk in compressed and ready for business. But everyone appreciates everything being held into place. Am I the only one that wants to see corsets come back into fashion? Psh, pleeze.

Hang out at a mall food court in your compression shorts long enough and you’ll see what kind of looks you get! So many admirers…from afar. You can clutch your children and hurry off to, what I assume is, the nearest athletic store and thank me later.

And lets not even talk about the magical properties of compression shorts when on the run. No swaying. No tooth chipping. Mudbutt. Problem. Solved. If you have a little accident mid race, don’t worry about. It ain’t going anywhere. You can take care of it later, homey, finish that race! That’s why my compression shorts are black and gray in the appropriate spots. Race gravy is treated at the finish line.

Every now and then, a non-compressed fellow runner suggests that I really should wear shorts over the compression shorts.  I remind him/her that (a) they are called compression "shorts" not compression "underwear" and (b) you don't wear a t-shirt over a life vest.  Psh, pleeze.

Mrs. Nitmos heads off to spinning or yoga in her compression tights and I’m a big fan. Why doesn’t she wear them to work? *shrugs* Beats me.

I can not lie. I think everyone should wear compression shorts as regular wear. They sure do tighter things up a bit around the soft edges whether you’re rolling around in a Honda or playin’ workout tapes by Fonda.

If I see you wearing your compression shorts at the grocery store, we can exchange a knowing smile and head nod. Be compressed, be proud.  Don't worry if you are a bit hirsute and, from the rear, it looks like you shit a wig.  We are on the right side of history, my friends. Unless you ride more to the left….either way, everyone will know.

Happy compressing.

*The Year of Groin Burn
**Pun intended

Will We Put Anything Up Our Nose?

So now Ray Lewis has to answer questions about putting deer antler velvet spray up his nose to promote healing from a torn right triceps. And, possibly, improve performance (as it is a growth hormone as well.) Problem is…the substance is banned by the NFL. Is it a big deal? I don’t know. I don’t really care, I guess. There are technicians in lab coats and bureaucrats in suits that’ll decipher test results and make a verdict or, in this case, issue a punishment.

I’m more interested in how this stuff comes about.

Who the hell looked at a deer and decided to snort their antlers? Seriously. It’s such a random thing to do. I admit to being more than casually interested in a libidinous bull or a particularly fluffy lamb hindquarters but that seems only natural. I never once looked at a deer and wondered how it’s antlers would be if inhaled.

Oh, yeah, can't wait to inhale you, baby.

It seems folks will do almost anything to get a physical edge in athletics. If that involves injecting drugs or hormones, snorting deer, or rubbing turtle shells on the groin*, someone somewhere will do it. What’s the old saying? If you ain’t cheatin’, you ain’t tryin’, (eh, Alabama?)

Maybe they’ll come out with Deer Velvet Gu one day. For now, I’ll stick with my finger, my nose hair trimmer, model glue, and the odd occasion I have some cocaine, mixed with a hooker’s ass sweat, as the only things going up my nose.

For you injured marathoners, time to get out the bow and let the healing begin! No judging from me.

Happy snorting.

* No proven results so far but I’m still in early testing.
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Please to join me over at Bottle Fed Parents for another exciting tale. This time, I discuss a torture device that every kid wants but every parent hates.

Fattest

This is always a proud time of year for me. Come the end of January, I’m at my yearly peak weight. Not outlandish Biggest Loser reward-me-with-a-chance-for-fabulous-prizes-for-my-total-lack-of-self-control fat but “spongy”, I guess, is the term I’ll go with.

Since I’m not going to blame myself, I’ll blame winter. And you. Winter, obviously, creates a situation where I’m simply indoors more. It’s dark at 5 o’clock PM. It’s cold when it’s not dark. No win scenario. Who wants to trudge around in the snow and/or muddy lawn and kick around a soccer ball? No? Who wants to watch Biggest Loser, eat chips, and laugh at the struggling fatties while brushing splintered Pringles off your chest and lap into the eager mouth of your obese dog? Yeah, that sounds better. Hand me the pizza sauce encrusted remote and whatever chips you can scrape together from the recliner fabric. We have a regular upholstery garden in full bloom.

Winter sucks. But you might be the bigger problem. Guess how many cards, letters, comments and emails of encouragement I’ve received from you? You’ll notice there was no ellipses before this sentence to simulate time spent counting. Zero. Pretty fucking self-involved aren’t you? I like to remain humble even in the face of your rudeness. In fact, I’m better at being modest than all of the rest of you combined. But thanks a lot. How much time do I spend commenting on your blogs? Again, you’ll notice no ellipses before that sentences and Ithankyoufornotcounting.

No, I’m at my yearly Fattest right now. BUT it can only go down from here! (Weight, that is.)
My normal, rippled six pack abs are more like a 4 ½ pack.
My food pyramid is comprised of pie, beer, fudge stripe cookies, and whatever that crumb was stuck to my cheek for an hour that I pushed into my hole. No good?
When ordering at a restaurant, I say, “What do you have in a crust? And I’ll have two of those.”

I think I’ve identified the source of the problem. It’s post-holiday hangover. If running is a habit, so is eating sugary treats and drinking away your post-Christmas financial woes.

Oh, I’m still running. Don’t worry about that. I just need to turn up the music to drown out my fat guy wheeze. I’m pregnant with laziness. I don’t think I’m in danger of turning up on the list of hottest Olympic athletes any time soon. A good dose of pro-biotics will solve some of the problem but, if I’m being honest, there’s still a little wiggle left.

When are you at your fattest? And gross. Slob.

February 1st begins my quest to redefine my figure for the upcoming bikini season.  I probably should mix in a nice waxing at some point too.  The phrase "unsightly curly ass hair" is a real turn off to Mrs. Nitmos.

No worries. By spring, I’ll be toned and ripped out and exceedingly modest. Handsome? Yes, to all Get Out!

Heck, I might even start ordering those little green things….what are they called….vegetables! I might even pair it with a fruit if I’m feeling a little wild and crazy. Hell, I might even stop asking them to cover my entire plate in fried dough “like a giant Elephant Ear.”

But the calendar says January 29th. That gives me two more days of nom nom nom nom nom nom….

Happy trails.
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One of Mrs. Nitmos and I’s favorite weekends of the year approaches! No not Valentine’s Day. That’s for teenagers and cartoonish romantics. Purely coincidental that it shares the V-Day weekend. It’s my hometown’s winter Comedy Festival and outdoor winter festival! It’s wine. It’s laughter. It's soup and chili. It’s hot tubs. It’s wine again. It’s kids at grandparents and not our problem! It's local craft beer.  It's a frickin' winter ferris wheel on the downtown streets! There’s no soccer! Along with some friends (yes, we have them), we’ll be creating little embarrassing scenes at bars, restaurants, and theatres all over the area before waking up in an amnesiastic* fog the next morning that allows us to go on with our normal Responsible Citizen lives.

View the fabulous video about my ancestral homeland.  That's totally how we lived every single day.  Believe it.

Once again, I haven’t been asked to do my “act” on stage for the comedy festival. This seems to be a yearly oversight now. If it keeps happening, I’m going to start considering that it is not accidental. So, I guess I’ll attend and take notes to give to the performers. I’m sure they’ll appreciate the critique.

Also, yeah, I know I said getting un-Fattened starts February 1st but I’m allowed this one weekend of debauchery. I’m not a Quaker. Believe thee that.

* Should be a word. Screw you, red squiggly line.

Vicious Cycle

Around around I go, where it stops nobody knows. Well, I know. It’s going to stop at five miles. That’s my limit on the treadmill.

Despite my last post, it turns out that I have one other thing to confess: I’ve been using the treadmill a lot lately. Normally, I can count on one hand the number of times I use a treadmill in a year. I still need only one hand for this year…as long as that hand has eight fingers.

It’s a Vicious Cycle. (Lance, you may use this title for your next autobiography with my blessing.*)

I’ve definitely been tougher in years past. It would have taken a frigid one-digit Fahrenheit day or several inches of snow or an engrossing episode of Cougar Town to keep me inside and resigned to the mill. Oh, I hate it so. But, this winter, I’ve stepped outside to test the temperature and, frankly, haven’t liked the cock-eyed look that oak tree was giving me and decided to head to the mill. Thirty degrees? Yeah, but it’s WINDY so it feels like negative twenty. One time I even convinced myself that it was National Nipple Day and that it would be wrong to have them sticking out and getting all scraped up from the cold on NND.

You know what you don’t watch while on the treadmill? TBS. The Superstation. They play all of those mind numbingly bland sitcoms from the 90’s. The commercials breaks last nearly five minutes giving you plenty of time to keep consulting the distance and count the hundredths of a mile one.digit.at.a.time. Everybody Loves Commercials! I’ve also become familiar with every nook and cranny of the basement within my sight line from the deck of the mill. Guess who has eight fingers and doesn’t dust much?

It’s Tuesday and I have five miles scheduled. I won’t feel guilty getting on the mill today though. It was -2 degrees Fahrenheit when I drove my filly to school. Negative two? That’s a solid, completely legit reason right there.

If yer nose hairs crystallize when inhaling, you might be a treadmiller.
If yer penis becomes a scared turtle, you might be a treadmiller.
If winter comes inside and slams the door saying It’s too cold out there, you might be a treadmiller.
If yer goosebumps develop goosebumps and those goosebumps’ teeth are chattering, you might be a treadmiller.
If yer….you get the point.

That was surprisingly easy. Hey Foxworthy, give me several million please.

You can all leave your I would never run on a treadmill. That’s not real running hur hur comments if you want. I’ve made a few myself over the years. And no, it’s not “real” running. It’s near running. As Zima is to beer, the treadmill is to running. But it’s good enough for this genetically finger deformed circus freak this winter. Let the vicious cycle loop de loop begin! The gentle whir of the mill is the sound of my running manliness escaping like air from a balloon.

Ever see a guy with 23 fingers on one hand? I think you are about too.

Happy trails.
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* I was recently sent an article that seemed to be suggesting that you morning coffee drinkers (myself included) are perpetrating the same body altering fraud as Armstrong’s purposeful hundreds of million dollar earning, Tour winning, doping scam. And your milk hormone drinking kids too! I would link it here but I can’t stop laughing and, also, don’t want to spread this Looney Tunes. False equivalent much? Obfuscate much? Oh, my. At first I thought it was one of those sly witty articles from The Onion or something but, sadly, no luck. I’ve always been an Armstrong fan too but this…this…was way too much. Maybe at a future date I’ll share with you. Armstrong fans (again, myself included), get over it.  Dude cheated.  Don't try to pretend that my lying about the size of my penis height is the same thing.

On a side note, I stepped on a spider in my house the other day. It dawned on me: I’m doing the same thing as people who slaughter defenseless elephants for their tusks. The madness must stop.

While We Are in the Mood to Confess...

Did you see the BIG MAJOR NEWS event last night?  Oprah, the Jerry Springer of celebrity interview journalism, sat down with Lance Armstrong and discovered that yes, indeed, a world class cyclist took performance enhancing drugs!?!? WHAT?!?! The Earth shook; my bowels moved.  Only one of these things normally happen during a typical evening. 

Of course, Lance was the last one in on it.  Everyone else in the world - cycling, baseball, Vernon Gholston, whatever - already reconciled that PED's were everywhere and everyone was using them.  I'm glad he got the opportunity to catch up with common knowledge.

You juxtapose the interview, where a seemingly contrite Armstrong seems to be fully admitting his involvement, versus the Manti Te'o dead girlfriend hoax where, allegedly, "someone" still just might not be telling the whole truth and nothing but.  (Your stock is dropping Manti with every fib.  Do yourself a favor and save millions.)

In the spirit of these current (and soon to be) confessions, a lot of folks (and inanimate objects) are taking the opportunity to confess under the protection of Armstrong's more newsworthy announcement.  Heck, I'm going to take advantage of the spitirt of the moment and come clean myself.  I've compiled a list here:

• The sky is not blue.  It has to do with the atmosphere and how light scattering makes the sky look blue.  The sky would like to apologize for the confusion.
• Cap'n Crunch hasn't done a single crunch his entire life.  That's why he wears the big coat.
• Pop singer by day; talk show host by night.  Now's the time JB.
• The Delorean never needed a flux capacitor.  There's no such thing.  It didn't work.  It was just lights and blinky parts.  Doc Brown and Marty McFly send their regrets.
• I took a drug cocktail of laxatives, Tylenol, salt tabs, potassium, and, post-race, Advil in the week leading up to and during the 2006 Chicago Marathon.  I finished 5,532nd and would probably have done no better than 5,857th without it.  To those 325 people that I defrauded, I apologize.
• Orphans.  They know where their parents are.
• Carly Rae Jepsen doesn't want you to call. Definitely.
• The NRA hated The Expendables 2. 
• OJ's glove did fit.  We shouldn't have acquitted. /ReverseCochran'd

It's never easy to confess but it sure does feel liberating.  Almost as liberating as wearing frilly panties around the house when no one's home.  I just hope everyone can find their way to forgive and forget (maybe not in the OJ situation but the rest, I think, we can move past). 

If you have any secrets to confess, now would be the time.  It's the Age of Liars.  Get in while the gettin's good.

By the way, we know that runners are certainly not taking any PED's to win these marathons right?  Right?!?  I call bullshit.  Ever try to run a five minute mile - let alone twenty-six of them in a row?  Based on my experience, it can't be done naturally.

Happy trails.

Thomas Gibson Hates Half Marathons

Apparently the star of one of those TV detective shows wandered onto the course of a nighttime half-marathon in Los Angeles the other night.  The star, Thomas Gibson (previously on a show called "Dharma & Greg" as, one assumes, either "Dharma" or "Greg") brought his Audi SUV with him which was a clear violation of race rules.  Audi's are not allowed as an authorized mode of transportation for this particular half-marathon.

He was also drunk according to the "police" and the "law" and "social customs".

I know celebrities get special breaks and all but now they are allowed to drive to the finish line of a half-marathon?  With adult beverages?

Or was this some sort of Rosie Ruiz style attempt to win that blew up in his face by (a) plowing through a race course barricade and (b) reeking of non-Gatorade based alcohol?

He was later released on a $15,000 bond which was approximately $14,925 more than had he just paid the race entry fee and wore a bib.

Actors aren't the brightest bulb in the carnival, we know, but I'm sure we'll enjoy his future work on Law & Order: Marathon Edition.

Happy trailers.
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The New Year brings you a NEW chance to get back into Bottle Fed Parents!  Yes, there's a new posting.  I explore the nightmare every parent faces Christmas morning.  I also do things with glue guns.  Check it out.

The Cleanse

Well, it’s a New Year. Again. It just never stops. Every tick of the clock is like the flick of an ole coot’s pocketknife whittling away at my youth. Sigh.

Well…Happy New Year. I guess.

Okay, truthfully, I’m just fuckin’ with you. I’m not that depressive. Actually, I’m kinda optimistic, generally speaking. I always believe that there is a chance that something good will happen even though we all know that optimists are just unevolved pessimists.

The New Year brings new hopes, new dreams, new runs, new races, and new PR’s. Unless you did some sort of New Year’s Day resolution run or the like, you haven’t yet felt the bitter, humiliating sting of disappointment this year. Your great fear of Not Being Good Enough has not yet materialized. It’s still out in front of you. By the end of this calendar, we’ll all be embarrassed and ashamed about our missed PR’s and half-assed training. But, for now, hope abounds! Foolish, ignorant, misguided hope!

It’s this time of year that I like to take stock of things. And that stock includes a half gallon of unfinished rum left over from the holidays anchoring my kitchen counter. In a non-literal sense of “taking stock”, I like to sit down, dwell reflect on my previous year’s lack of accomplishments - gulp rum – and consider the New Year’s unrealistic goals. And gulp rum. It’s important to lay out a plan for the coming year. Not only are races hard to enter these days due to demand but training for them takes so damn long. This year’s goals will become next year’s Tally of Failure at about this exact same time so it’s best to get a jump on things.

Reflect on the previous year. Drink rum. Write unfulfillable goals for this year. More rum. And then CLEANSE. Don’t forget the cleanse; it’s the most important part.

I’ve talked about it before. Long-time F.M.S. readers will remember the Empty Your Shitter directive from two years back. If you do, in fact, remember that, stop stalking me. You’re creeping me out. But it’s still great advice as only I can deliver.

Cleanse the memory banks. Purge the body thetans (for you Scientologists). Turn the page. Insert Cliche #2. It’s better to have run and lost, than to have never run at all. Insert Cliché #4. Start fresh.

(The preceding paragraph brought to you by Madlibs. Feel free to fill in the clichés at your leisure.)

I like to cleanse cliché-free. I tell myself, “Nitmos, the hay is in the barn for 2012. You don’t want to be All Talk and No Action in 2013. Am I a man or a mouse? It’s make or break it time for 2013. After all, the more things change, the more they stay the same.”

Then, after my little cliché-free pep talk, I sip more rum, take a deep breath and CLEANSE the negative thoughts from the past year. It’s a new year and I’m turning over a new leaf.

The big NEW YEAR CLEANSE is about rebooting your personal hard drive. Unburdening your soul (or sole, as the case may be) about runs missed, races lost to superstorms and missed PRs. You don’t need a tube, lubricant, and gentle warm hands and ability for distracting small talk for this cleanse. It’s more of a deep breath, meditative type thing. The other stuff is purely your choice (though recommended as you’d be surprised where a Twix bar can get lodged).

To that end, I’ve already resumed my regular stretchy-banding, crunching, and push-uping routine left dormant during the extended holidays. During the evening, my living room is again resembling a home gym. I no longer drink wine every day. I set a PR between Thanksgiving and New Year’s this year for consecutive days drinking wine. It got to be like making coffee: wake up, scratch nuts, pee, head downstairs and uncork the wine bottle, and pour it into the coffee mug or onto the Frosted Flakes. It’s okay though, I was getting up at three in the afternoon. It’s not like I was some sort of alcoholic morning drinker.

By the way, for those following me on Twitter, I apologize for my uncalled for stream of Suzy Favor-Hamilton jokes a while back. That was the wine talking.

But I’m back now and supremely average as ever! No negative thoughts! No disappointing races! No missed PR’s! Yet. I’ve got a WHOLE YEAR for that! As Eddy says, “That is the gift that keeps on giving the whole year.” My shitter is empty and ready for the reload. And if you counted how many mini-Snickers I ate, you’d know that another unload is coming….hard. Probably mushroom-headed.

Get back up on that horse. Let’s have a great, cliché-free year running.

Right after I have me another little sip of that rum….

The more things change…

Happy trails.

The Year That Wasn't

How do you encapsulate a running year when you didn’t actually run a race during the ENTIRE YEAR?

You lie. The Koreans can have their “gangnam-style”; here on Feet Meet Street, I do it “Nitmos-style”. It just so happens that “Nitmos-style” involves prevaricating, expactorating, and swaggering. Good thing I have a blog! Reality gets so cliché…

So let’s review, Nitmos-style:

• Planned a spring half-marathon. Planned so hard I conveniently forgot to sign up because, you know, nothing fit into my “busy” schedule. I felt like I wasn’t in PR shape anyway.
• In July, decided I’d run the local festival race – that I once ran 8 years in a row but took the last two years off – then failed to sign up. I felt like I wasn’t in PR shape anyway.
• In September, RAN a 100k relay race, Dances with Dirt, with some friends. It’s a relay so…not relay a “race” per se (get it?). At least, not when all five of you are crossing the finish line trying not to spill your beer. Oh, and we got beat by a group of ladies in French maid outfits.

• Could have done the local half marathon in late September. I’ve done it three years in a row and set a better time each run. But the kids had soccer – stupid kids – and, really, I felt like I wasn’t in PR shape anyhow.
• But at least I got to run the New York Marathon right! Er, right? Of course, I totally was in PR shape too. If only the winds weren’t unusually strong…

And that’s it. Three near races. One relay. One canceled race that, no doubt, would have been an automatic PR.

Final tally? Not a single race run.

But here’s the good news: I’m on track for my second HIGHEST mileage year ever (only 40 miles off my most). So I’ve been running, training, expactorating…just not racing. I’m like Rocky without the ending fight. I scream “DRAGOOOOOOO!” from the mountain top and then….roll credits. It’s like being half way through sex (or “87 seconds” to the rest of you) and then saying “nah, I’m good” and rolling over…

I know you are thinking ‘but Nitmos there is still time for a Jingle Bells run or New Year’s run, don’t give up now’. Then, you are new here. Welcome. Do I look and sound like the type of guy that attends a run like that? You can put a red reindeer nose on me for a race when you pry my running shoes from my cold, dead feet.

Perhaps This is 40, Running.* Running fits around a busy kid schedule. Running fits around a busy work schedule. Running fits around a busy…I don’t need to give excuses I just don’t feel like it schedule. As a competitor, running, for me, is about challenging my best times. When I don’t feel that I can do that, I don’t really feel like racing. It’s not about red noses and shitty times, for me. Never has been. I enjoy running and being “in shape”. I can do that without the race fees. The race is about the time challenge, for me.  The stark reality of 'peaking out' is fast approaching.  Will I find enjoyment in attending races with absolutely no hope of PR'ing?  Stay tuned.

So what will 2013 bring?

I wish I could say. I know I’ll be running, training, expactorating, prevaricating and swaggering. Will I be racing? If I were to bet, I’d bet on a Yes. A little time away from a timed event…you start to miss it. Besides, I receive almost all of my personal validation from a stopwatch. And that is in no way pathetic whatsoever.

In the meantime, I'll continue posting...sporadically.  And, yes, I realize that this is my lowest number of postings in a year since 2006.  But, ask yourself, have you done your part?  Who's really to blame here?  Are blogs becoming more like MySpace or AOL, a relic of the past that only the coolest of people hang on to?  Those same people may also have an extensive Beanie Baby and Silly Bandz collection that can be purchased by inquiring at the email address in the preceding sentence.  Used Kajagoogoo CD's also available.

I tweet some.  Always witty, sometimes malicious, rarely important. 

I'll be along soccer pitches through-out mid, western and southeastern Michigan every weekend starting January watching the filly knock in goals and the colt destroy attacking forwards. 

Considering the popularity of racing, it’s also time – probably well past time – to start scheduling next year’s events. Hell, it might even be time to start planning 2014 events before they sell out.

But you can count on me running no matter what. I’m always running. I hope you are too.

Happy Holidays!**

*I’m totally copyrighting that title.
** I don’t even have the energy to compose a full length post this year about the ridiculous “Merry Christmas” vs. “Happy Holidays” debate. Suffice it to say, I will now always say “Happy Holidays” simply because I know it annoys a certain segment of our population despite the religious etymology of the word “holiday” (i.e. “The word holiday derived from the notion of "Holy Day". The word originally referred only to special religious days. In modern use, it means any special day of rest or relaxation, as opposed to normal days away from work or school.) It seems so easy, people. Keep teeing ‘em up for me.  Let's all pretend that the word "holiday" doesn't have religious connotations so we can engage in an asinine debate!

Food Goes in Here

Tomorrow, we celebrate Thanksgiving. Happy Thanksgiving America! For non-Americans and native Americans, have a great Thursday! My gift to you is to present my Detroit Lions humiliating themselves before a national television audience once again. If you think you received this gift before, you’re right. It just keeps on giving…since the 1950’s!



A turkey?  A bunch of rebel fighters attacking the Death Star?  'A' for effort; 'F' for execution, kid.

I’ve been ravenously hungry lately. You’d almost think I ran a marathon. Wait, let me rephrase that: I think I almost ran a marathon.

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite times of year. It signals the point at which I throw away 11 months of vigilance over my financial budget and spend like a Michael Jackson in a creepy mannequin store.

It brings me closer to my family. Yes, closer to the people I purposely moved away from.

It brings lots of drinking which, in turn, lowers inhibitions which, in another turn, allows us all to tell each other what we really think. You know that old saying, ‘What starts with the pop of a wine cork, ends with a splash of “Shut the hell up, motherfucker!”’

And the eating? Oh, the humanity! It’s elastic-waisted wind pants season, my friends. It comes in with a turkey and leaves six weeks later amidst the confetti and empty bottles with a serving of shame and despair. The only good thing about all of this eating? The pooping. Sometimes twice a day! You can imagine all of the reading I get done too.

But we are runners and so we can run our calories away. Want that extra scoop of mashed potatoes? Run an extra mile. Want another piece of your Aunt’s pecan pie? Eat up, your shoes are right over there. Add two miles, please. There’s another old saying: “You can take what you want but you run what you eat.” It goes something like that…

In case you’ve forgotten, food goes here:

1990's goatee!  (Not me)

If you are “cat people”, for some reason, food goes here:

And if you are dog people:

Afterwards, of course, run forest run!

Enjoy your Thanksgiving. For my money, I have the Lions winning tomorrow.*

We plan to celebrate a “traditional” Thanksgiving this year. Along with the turkey and squash and corn, half of us are going to get smallpox and the other half will steal our cars while we writhe around in agony.

Now, let's get our uvula massage on!

Happy gobbles.

* In Lions fan lexicon, a “win” is described as losing by less than 2 touchdowns.

Randumbery Bats Eyes at New York, Still

You come here for the snark; you stay for the soccer updates; you click away unfulfilled. Such is life on Feet Meet Street. Now you know how Mrs. Nitmos feels.

Randumbery lives! Do I need to explain this segment still after five years?? On with the shooooowwww…..

Kummerpecking Like a Motherspecker

Have you worked kummerspeck into a conversation yet? Ten points for Gryffindor if you have. I don’t need to ‘work’ kummerspecking into anything. I’ve literally been eating my grief bacon for a week now since the cancellation of the NYC Marathon. I’ve been kummerspecking the hell out of our leftover Halloween candy reservoir. And, to be honest, who’s kidding who about this “leftover candy” bin? I purposely bought way too much candy to give away full well knowing that there would be some left over. When events transpired that threatened to call my favorite candy into action Halloween night, I took control of the Front Door Sweet Dispersal Interface and reportioned our, ahem, rather generous contributions to a more modest size. Voila! My favorite candy saved just for me and my self-pity.

Is that a dickish move? I don’t care. If you want my fun-size Heath bars and giant fecal-reminiscent Tootsie Roll turds, you better not be the 17th Power Ranger I’ve seen. Or the 22nd Cinderella. Is that a magic wand or did you glue some glitter on star shaped cardboard and tape it to a pencil? #cheapskateheresabutterscotchdrop

One Bite of the Apple is Not Enough

Running a HUGE marathon is more about the event itself rather than the purity of running for running’s sake. My best race times have been at smaller races. I’ve enjoyed the sport more at those smaller events also. However, there is a tangible and invigorating energy surrounding these BIG ROCK STAR SUPER GALACTIC events that is missing at the small localized races. Though financially and logistically they are often a nightmare to deal with, I still like to experience them on occasion to take a dip in full on runner porn. Plus, let’s face it, the New York Marathon is a big “get”. Boston was a fun experience but New York was the one I was really looking forward to.

Did you know I didn’t get to run it? Did you drop out of the sky and start reading at this paragraph as that would be the only explanation?

After doing a few “laps” around Central Park that fateful Sunday, I can definitely say I’m still hungry for more. In fact, I think that only stoked my appetite. Before, I wanted to do New York. Now, I believe I NEED to do it. And I will….pending word from NYRR about how they are handling this year’s entrants. Next time, my bite of the Big Apple won’t have a worm in it.

FU Sandy.  I ran anyhow!

There can’t possibly be another inconvenient hurricane next year, can there Al?  I want to race down those streets like the winds of a....nevermind.

Oh, yeah, and rebuild Staten Island! Preferably with a heated indoor lounge able to house approximately 47,000 people once a year (or twice, pending natural disasters.)

Lemonade!

This lady used her time NOT running New York to give the running community a good name. What a terrific ambassador(s) for the sport! Me? Too busy hobnobbing with huge international celebs here, here, here and here to be bothered.  Big gold star for her; picture with The Fonz for me.  Who won?

Mercury Up, Nipples Out

What has two nipples and ran shirtless the other day? You can’t see but my nipples are bending playfully back towards my areola as if to say “THIS GUY”. That’s right, 65 degrees in Michigan, in November! Oh yeah, I popped my top. It might be months before I get another chance. I was so excited that if Joe Francis and his Girls Gone Wild motor home been around, I might have giggled playfully, signed a release form, and stepped aboard in exchange for a t-shirt.

Soccer! Me, This Time

What has two aching hamstrings and doesn’t know its age? My spasmic hamstrings, bending like angry electrical arches, are saying “THIS GUY!” Is there anything more futile than running to near exhaustion, to a 6-6 tie in an over-30 co-ed league, against opponents of which half do not have functioning ACL’s and are forced to wear a knee brace?

It turns out, I’m much better telling my kids how to play rather than doing it myself. Speaking of which…

Soccer! The Colt and Filly, for the Final Time…This Season

Since I know you care and haven’t clicked away unfulfilled yet, here’s the final soccer update for the year. The colt’s J.V. team finished 10-2-3 allowing only 8 goals against this season to go with 10 shutouts - his stat sheet as a defender.

The filly’s team finished 5-3. As striker, she converted 16 goals in 8 games on the year (and about 6 other crossbars, ggrrrrr) and took home the team MVP trophy for her club team at the end of season banquet. The filly feels she can do better next year!?! Why do I think she’ll be complaining of sore hamstrings as a 41 year adult in a co-ed league one day? Circle of life!

That’s all...until January when it begins again. And again. And again…

Randumbery out.

Happy Seacresting.
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Running isn't as popular as the NFL.  Who knew?