I've always loved the thought of running on a beach. The tide laps at your feet. The ocean breeze lightly blows your hair away from your eyes. Music from "Chariots of Fire" plays as you bound effortlessly along in slow motion. As I found out in Crescent City, California on our recent trip, though, t'aint always so.
First, the lapping tide. Mostly it lapped over the eviscerated shells of crabs that had been picked over by various sea birds. Alfred Hitchcock would have been proud of them. All that remained were the sharpest, least edible crab parts. Dodging them added at least a half-mile to my run.
Second: the cold. Granted, we were in far northernest Cali, not San Diego, so what did I expect, right? Even though the sun was on full display, it was no more than fifty degrees, and the wind- Holy Chicken of the Sea, Batman!, it was an icy Mamma Jamma. Not only did it blow the hair out of my eyes, it blew the hairs out of my eyelids. I flossed sandsicles out of my teeth for days. And, if movie music had been playing, I wouldn't have been able to hear it, since my ear drums were beaten by Mother Nature the way the rest of me was beaten by Ron Smith in eighth grade.
On the other hand, I should say that running into that wind did create a sort of slow motion effect. Kind of like a mime going over the top on that "Man Walking into The Wind" routine.
So, I was nearly hacked to bleeding bits by dead crustaceans, blasted by freezing sand, and slowed to a pace that banana slugs would laugh at. I wasn't just going to sit in the motel and watch the waves roll up on the shore. Not running would have been out of the question in such a situation. We don't have beaches in Kansas, and who knows when I'll get back out to the coast.
Alright, cue the music- da-da-da-da-daah. Da-da-da-da-daah...
Thanks for reading.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Pop Goes Ploop
What would you do if you threw the chocolate blob at the end of your Tootsie Pop, stick attached, into a trash barrel, which was not a barrel filled with trash, but rather a barrel into which race volunteers dipped cups that would wind up in the hands of runners in the ninth mile of the Eugene, Oregon, Marathon and Half-Marathon. What would you do, if instead of hearing the "ssshhh-plink" of a Tootsie stick/blob sliding down a plastic liner and hitting a beer can, you hear "ploop," as your garbage breaks the surface of the water, and floats to the bottom of the now less-than-completely-fresh, life-giving substance your fellow racers will gratefully guzzle?
Would you instantly thrust your hand into the Hazmat Barrel, thinking that the Five Second Rule applies to acqueous violations as well, forgetting that you just wiped your nose with that same hand, the hand that was only fifteen minutes ago in a place where the sun don't shine, inside a thin coccoon of toilet paper, inside a Honey Pot (as they call them here), where you had to stop, because the crepes at Shari's had too many strawberries, and that impromptu crapador just happened to be out of hand sanitizer-SHIT! Shit, no! Don't put your hand-shaped germ-universe into all that water!
You should just turn quickly, and get away from the scene. Do not look back at the Aid Station Captain, who, hearing the "ploop," is watching the stick/blob settle to the bottom of a forty-gallon barrel of Cascade Mountain Spring Water helicoptered in by the Oregon Air National Guard at 3a.m. from the West Face of Mt. Hood, because, if you do, you will not be able to turn away in time to avoid locking eyes with him when he acts on that feeling we all have when someone is staring at us, and then he would know it was you who had ruined his Aid Station. You may mutter, "Sorry, Dude" under your breath, but take care, Pavarotti, that the sotto is very, very voce, for otherwise you would essentially be confessing to mass-poisoning of a public water source, which, in Oregon, is punishable by a minimum of fifty years in a sea-lion colony.
Just run away, Renee. Hustle your malfeasing little butt deep into the starting corral, and let your fear and shame transform themselves into an adrenaline rush that will propel you to one hell of a half-marathon time. And when all the Eugene TV stations put you on camera afterwards and ask how you did it, you can tell them it was all thanks to the thirteen cups of chocolate-flavored water you had at Aid Station Number Nine.
Thanks for reading.
Would you instantly thrust your hand into the Hazmat Barrel, thinking that the Five Second Rule applies to acqueous violations as well, forgetting that you just wiped your nose with that same hand, the hand that was only fifteen minutes ago in a place where the sun don't shine, inside a thin coccoon of toilet paper, inside a Honey Pot (as they call them here), where you had to stop, because the crepes at Shari's had too many strawberries, and that impromptu crapador just happened to be out of hand sanitizer-SHIT! Shit, no! Don't put your hand-shaped germ-universe into all that water!
You should just turn quickly, and get away from the scene. Do not look back at the Aid Station Captain, who, hearing the "ploop," is watching the stick/blob settle to the bottom of a forty-gallon barrel of Cascade Mountain Spring Water helicoptered in by the Oregon Air National Guard at 3a.m. from the West Face of Mt. Hood, because, if you do, you will not be able to turn away in time to avoid locking eyes with him when he acts on that feeling we all have when someone is staring at us, and then he would know it was you who had ruined his Aid Station. You may mutter, "Sorry, Dude" under your breath, but take care, Pavarotti, that the sotto is very, very voce, for otherwise you would essentially be confessing to mass-poisoning of a public water source, which, in Oregon, is punishable by a minimum of fifty years in a sea-lion colony.
Just run away, Renee. Hustle your malfeasing little butt deep into the starting corral, and let your fear and shame transform themselves into an adrenaline rush that will propel you to one hell of a half-marathon time. And when all the Eugene TV stations put you on camera afterwards and ask how you did it, you can tell them it was all thanks to the thirteen cups of chocolate-flavored water you had at Aid Station Number Nine.
Thanks for reading.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Like A Bad Penny 5/24/10
Sorry, hiatus lovers, but the blog is back- not new, not improved, and at least as pointless as ever. With a million-zillion times the hyperbole, yachtloads of made-up words, and all the movie line references (none before 1990) that you've come to expect/loathe.
The primary reason for the suspension of paragraphical hostilities was our long-delayed honeymoon. The "Honeymoon Period," the time after a marriage when mutual smittenness makes all shortcomings invisible, had been stretched out for almost two years, and behaviors that had once seemed endearing were becoming all-too visible. Amy had noticed that not only did I piss in the shower, I pissed ON the shower. (A habit developed during my freshman year of college that I never shed.) She was driving me crazy, too. Every time I pissed on the shower, she would throw a hammer at me. With frustration, and concussions, mounting, we plotted our trip.
We had to get out of town, and we had to go somewhere beautiful. Thus were Lenexa, Uvalde, Texas, and Riverside all quickly eliminated. We didn't have skiffloads of dinero, so, Jamaica, Hawaii, and Leawood were crossed off the list. And our destination couldn't be jammed by tour buses filled with nonagenarian food sample grubbers, which eliminated Branson. Only one region remained: The Pacific Northwest, where talking on your cell phone while driving is illegal, but, thanks to right to die laws, you have the right to off yourself at anytime and not face prosecution. Where the air is fresh, except for the medicinal marijuana haze, and everyone rides a bike- probably because they're unemployed and have had their cars repossessed.
It was to be an eight-day trip, with five of those spent in Oregon, one in California, and one in Washington. (The last day was spent at the Denver airport, funk you very much, Frontier Airlines, but our lawyer says I can't comment, until our plea agreement for verbal harassment of a Sky Marshall charges is accepted.)
The goal was to see the wonders of nature, like, mountains, wide beaches, waterfalls, mountain lakes, ocean sunsets, huge trees, and tidal pools, and, through those wonders, develop a sense of our insignificance in the universe, and through that sense of insignificance, realize just how alone and vulnerable we were, and through that realization of aloneness and vulnerability, cling to each other for dear life, literally, and so that inappropriate pissing would seem like triflingly smelly inconvenience. And to take a lot of cool pictures. And to come back with a ketchload of shotglasses etched with the silhouette of Mt. Hood.
How did it go? How did we do? What did we see? All will be revealed, except the details of the condition of the bathrooms in the more remote State Parks. (Hey, at least they were open. Funk you, very much, Arizona.) If it helps ease the suspense any, I'll just let you know that Amy and I are still married, and the Redwood Super Butt Fungus is responding to antibiotics.
Thanks for humoring me.
The primary reason for the suspension of paragraphical hostilities was our long-delayed honeymoon. The "Honeymoon Period," the time after a marriage when mutual smittenness makes all shortcomings invisible, had been stretched out for almost two years, and behaviors that had once seemed endearing were becoming all-too visible. Amy had noticed that not only did I piss in the shower, I pissed ON the shower. (A habit developed during my freshman year of college that I never shed.) She was driving me crazy, too. Every time I pissed on the shower, she would throw a hammer at me. With frustration, and concussions, mounting, we plotted our trip.
We had to get out of town, and we had to go somewhere beautiful. Thus were Lenexa, Uvalde, Texas, and Riverside all quickly eliminated. We didn't have skiffloads of dinero, so, Jamaica, Hawaii, and Leawood were crossed off the list. And our destination couldn't be jammed by tour buses filled with nonagenarian food sample grubbers, which eliminated Branson. Only one region remained: The Pacific Northwest, where talking on your cell phone while driving is illegal, but, thanks to right to die laws, you have the right to off yourself at anytime and not face prosecution. Where the air is fresh, except for the medicinal marijuana haze, and everyone rides a bike- probably because they're unemployed and have had their cars repossessed.
It was to be an eight-day trip, with five of those spent in Oregon, one in California, and one in Washington. (The last day was spent at the Denver airport, funk you very much, Frontier Airlines, but our lawyer says I can't comment, until our plea agreement for verbal harassment of a Sky Marshall charges is accepted.)
The goal was to see the wonders of nature, like, mountains, wide beaches, waterfalls, mountain lakes, ocean sunsets, huge trees, and tidal pools, and, through those wonders, develop a sense of our insignificance in the universe, and through that sense of insignificance, realize just how alone and vulnerable we were, and through that realization of aloneness and vulnerability, cling to each other for dear life, literally, and so that inappropriate pissing would seem like triflingly smelly inconvenience. And to take a lot of cool pictures. And to come back with a ketchload of shotglasses etched with the silhouette of Mt. Hood.
How did it go? How did we do? What did we see? All will be revealed, except the details of the condition of the bathrooms in the more remote State Parks. (Hey, at least they were open. Funk you, very much, Arizona.) If it helps ease the suspense any, I'll just let you know that Amy and I are still married, and the Redwood Super Butt Fungus is responding to antibiotics.
Thanks for humoring me.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
All Grown Up at Forty-Seven 4/27/10
Today, I did not run. I felt tired, and had the sniffles, which I took to be a precursor to another cold. Since I've already had a year's worth of colds, and we have a lot going on in the next week, I decided to take the day off from running.
Wow! That was totally...like...adult behavior, Man. Sort of like...mature...and stuff, you know? Now, if I could...like...do, you know...the same thing with my money...I might be able to, you know...like...buy a new, um...bottle of shampoo, or something.
Thanks for reading.
Wow! That was totally...like...adult behavior, Man. Sort of like...mature...and stuff, you know? Now, if I could...like...do, you know...the same thing with my money...I might be able to, you know...like...buy a new, um...bottle of shampoo, or something.
Thanks for reading.
Wasted Time 4/26/10
If I had kept track of the amount of time I have spent waiting for my Garmin Forerunner 205 to be located by the satellites necessary to track my speed and distance during the two years I have owned it, I would probably have accumulated the hours required to run ten marathons.
I have stood, nearly every morning during those two years, watching the red line that means "acquisition," move steadily across the watchface, until it reaches the end, only, for some reason to retreat toward the beginning. I curse and stomp my feet, look up at the sky to see where those f****** satellites are, then move forward, or back, a step until I make that red line move again toward completion of its path, which means I can finally start my run. Sometimes that works, most times it does not. I hold my watch above my head. I hold it out to the side. I curse. I stomp my feet. I move to the left. I move to the right. I consider not paying the portion of my federal taxes that goes to keeping Global Positioning Satellites in orbit.
I freeze, or sweat, depending on the season. I get soaked, or I watch the sun trace its path across the sky from east to west as morning turns to afternoon. The damned red line just won't commit. Why does it hesitate at the moment of consummation, in a sort of "acquisitionus interruptus?"
Do I live in an isolated Appalachian valley, or on a guano-caked South Pacific island? Of course not. Our expansive apartment complex lies in the very middle of North America, in, if not a densely populated area, at least one whose population is dense. Are the satellite positioners messing with me? Can they see me down here, cursing and stamping, and have just decided to jerk my chain for a while to see what other tricks they can make me do? Is it Revenge of The Nerds, Part VI?
The hell with it. Today I left the bleeping wonderwatch on the bedside table. I knew the route I was running was six miles, no need to measure that again. So as soon as my feet hit the asphalt, I was moving. I flipped off the Eye in the Sky, and scuffled up the hill, thinking, as a great space explorer might have said, "One step backward for technology- one giant step forward for mankind running."
Thanks for reading.
I have stood, nearly every morning during those two years, watching the red line that means "acquisition," move steadily across the watchface, until it reaches the end, only, for some reason to retreat toward the beginning. I curse and stomp my feet, look up at the sky to see where those f****** satellites are, then move forward, or back, a step until I make that red line move again toward completion of its path, which means I can finally start my run. Sometimes that works, most times it does not. I hold my watch above my head. I hold it out to the side. I curse. I stomp my feet. I move to the left. I move to the right. I consider not paying the portion of my federal taxes that goes to keeping Global Positioning Satellites in orbit.
I freeze, or sweat, depending on the season. I get soaked, or I watch the sun trace its path across the sky from east to west as morning turns to afternoon. The damned red line just won't commit. Why does it hesitate at the moment of consummation, in a sort of "acquisitionus interruptus?"
Do I live in an isolated Appalachian valley, or on a guano-caked South Pacific island? Of course not. Our expansive apartment complex lies in the very middle of North America, in, if not a densely populated area, at least one whose population is dense. Are the satellite positioners messing with me? Can they see me down here, cursing and stamping, and have just decided to jerk my chain for a while to see what other tricks they can make me do? Is it Revenge of The Nerds, Part VI?
The hell with it. Today I left the bleeping wonderwatch on the bedside table. I knew the route I was running was six miles, no need to measure that again. So as soon as my feet hit the asphalt, I was moving. I flipped off the Eye in the Sky, and scuffled up the hill, thinking, as a great space explorer might have said, "One step backward for technology- one giant step forward for mankind running."
Thanks for reading.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Keltraf the Konqueror 4/25/10
I did six-miles of hill fartlek today. What that means is that whenever I came to an uphill section along my route, I would pick up the pace, until I got to the top, then I would jog easily until the next uphill. It's a good way to practice the kinds of pace changes you find in races, and a relatively easy way to add some "quality" to my miles. It's a type of speed work that has a long history.
Fartlek, as I've mentioned before, is a Swedish word that means "speed play." It can be traced back several centuries, to the Vikings. The Vikings were long-distance sailors, and pillagers of great renown, not great distance runners to be sure. Their success was derived from making other people run- from the Vikings.
When the Viking ships would approach a defenseless village, say on the coast of Ireland, or Scotland, or Duluth, they would watch in great amusement as the locals would take off running away from the shore, and toward the hills. Their targets were not great runners, either. They had spent most of their time bent over, doing farm labor for 25 hours a day, every day. They didn't have time to run for fitness. So they were not in good enough shape to do the kind of running they would have to do to get away from the Vikings. They would have to stop after a few yards to catch their breath, then turn around and realize that the Norsemen had landed, and ever more frightened, turn and sprint again.
The cycle would repeat itself many times, with the townsfolk growing more weary with each burst, and the sacking Swedes advancing steadily, laughing so hard that their horny helmets fell off. Eventually the serfs would faint from exhaustion, the Vikings would catch them, and after their laugh-induced belly aches subsided, kill the luckless lumps of flesh about fourteen different ways, take everything they could stuff on their boats, and sell the rest on ebay.
Then they would sail for home, telling great tales of the battles they had fought with unconscious Duluthmen, and singing Viking ballads of villages burned to the ground. Those always made them homesick and sad. But only briefly. For then one of them would always cheer them up by asking them if they remembered how those Scottish saps would run and stop, run and stop, until they just gave out. And the Vikings would belly-laugh all over again. You see, it was speed play for the Vikings, and speed work for the villagers.
Thanks for reading.
Fartlek, as I've mentioned before, is a Swedish word that means "speed play." It can be traced back several centuries, to the Vikings. The Vikings were long-distance sailors, and pillagers of great renown, not great distance runners to be sure. Their success was derived from making other people run- from the Vikings.
When the Viking ships would approach a defenseless village, say on the coast of Ireland, or Scotland, or Duluth, they would watch in great amusement as the locals would take off running away from the shore, and toward the hills. Their targets were not great runners, either. They had spent most of their time bent over, doing farm labor for 25 hours a day, every day. They didn't have time to run for fitness. So they were not in good enough shape to do the kind of running they would have to do to get away from the Vikings. They would have to stop after a few yards to catch their breath, then turn around and realize that the Norsemen had landed, and ever more frightened, turn and sprint again.
The cycle would repeat itself many times, with the townsfolk growing more weary with each burst, and the sacking Swedes advancing steadily, laughing so hard that their horny helmets fell off. Eventually the serfs would faint from exhaustion, the Vikings would catch them, and after their laugh-induced belly aches subsided, kill the luckless lumps of flesh about fourteen different ways, take everything they could stuff on their boats, and sell the rest on ebay.
Then they would sail for home, telling great tales of the battles they had fought with unconscious Duluthmen, and singing Viking ballads of villages burned to the ground. Those always made them homesick and sad. But only briefly. For then one of them would always cheer them up by asking them if they remembered how those Scottish saps would run and stop, run and stop, until they just gave out. And the Vikings would belly-laugh all over again. You see, it was speed play for the Vikings, and speed work for the villagers.
Thanks for reading.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
A Haiku After The Rain 4/24/10
The pear-tree blossoms-
Their beauty no match for storms-
Float down asphalt streams.
Their beauty no match for storms-
Float down asphalt streams.
Add a Gorilla to The Mix 4/23/10
Tiny, unseen gremlins continued to whack me on both kneecaps during today's six-miler. They wore themselves out after about forty-five minutes, their lead pipes growing heavy in their hairy hands.
That left the last five minutes of the run to be dominated by the invisible gorilla who held my chest in his Mighty Joe Youngish grip. He clamped down hardest on that last uphill section. Satisfied with my hyperventilation, he jumped off when I bent over, gasping, at the finish.
Even so, it was better than getting kicked in the head by a real, live mule.
Thanks for humoring me.
That left the last five minutes of the run to be dominated by the invisible gorilla who held my chest in his Mighty Joe Youngish grip. He clamped down hardest on that last uphill section. Satisfied with my hyperventilation, he jumped off when I bent over, gasping, at the finish.
Even so, it was better than getting kicked in the head by a real, live mule.
Thanks for humoring me.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Thumbs Up 4/21/10
I had a flashback during today's run, to something that may have been a formative moment in my adolescence. Actually, it happened when I was in seventh grade, which meant that I was still several years, and lowered voice octaves, away from puberty.
Specifically, it happened in Shop Class, which was optionally mandatory- the other offering being Home Ec. Ec is short for ectoplasm, which is "a viscous substance claimed by spiritualists to emanate from the body of a medium and then produce life forms." That definition was both disgusting, and perfectly descriptive of me at the age of thirteen. Since I did not want to be singled out every day as ectoplasmic, I chose Shop Class.
There, I would stand out only for my inability to make anything resembling anything we were supposed to make. I couldn't even form my sheet of green, molten plastic into the candy dish/ashtray it was supposed to become, and that was during the mid-70s, when a straw encased in a chunk of asphalt sold for $1 million at an auction in London. Therefore, I was in way over my head when we had to mine iron ore, smelt it, and upon cooling, form it into toolboxes for our fathers. I panicked at the thought of losing multiple appendages in the process, and so, handed in my father's own toolbox as my own creation. Yes, I should have removed his tools in advance, not claimed them as extra credit projects done "with the time I had left over." Maybe then, I would not have been on the verge of failing Shop Class, going into the final exam.
And, maybe Mr. Silber- I'm using his real name, because I'm sure he's suffering from dementia caused by inhaling too much sawdust, and doesn't have the faculties to sue me- wouldn't have made the cruel remark that led me to hate my opposable appendages for the rest of my life. While explaining the rules for the final- yes, a written final in Shop, he caught me fantasizing about my once certain F, turning into a D, and said in front of my mustachioed classmates, "Potts, get your thumbs out of your ass!"
My thumbs separated me from the lesser primates-who were all turning around and laughing at me- why would I abuse them in that base, if possibly exciting, manner? And, since he had in an earlier class, during the disastrous "bird-house meets arc welder incident," described me as "all thumbs," he must have intended to imply that my nether regions were awash in them. I was confused, disgusted, and filled with self-loathing. I was forever after opposed to my thumbs.
Which proved to be my ruination on the final. I refused to hold my no.2 pencil between unmentionable digit and forefinger, using instead the middle two fingers, with the outsiders as a sort of movable platform. It took me the entire hour to finish the first question, which was "What is the corollary of 'Righty Tighty?'"
Even that answer he marked wrong, as it looked to him like "Lift a Lunacy."
So, I failed Shop, which actually did no harm to my chances for advancement to eighth grade, as all thirteen-year-olds were automatically promoted, out of fear that they were a dangerous subspecies that needed to be moved out of the education system as soon as possible. In those days, the really hard cases were given Ph.Ds, just so they wouldn't spend all their time blowing up toilets and hiding in the girls' locker room.
But it did cause enormous psychological damage. I was caught just a few months later slicing my own thumbs in the bathtub. Later, I went into a stage in which I refused to acknowledge them at all, telling everyone that I "only have eight fingers. I'm just watching those other two things for a friend in Switzerland."
So, hey, all you Industrial Ed., teachers out there(Ed being short for "edentulous," meaning "toothless."), take more care in addressing your charges. We live in a more litigious society today than that of 1975. If you make the kind of comment to one of your little simians, like that Mr.Silber made to me, you might just be looking at a multi-million dollar lawsuit for alienation of thumb affection. But, more importantly, you might be distorting the thumb self-image of a very vulnerable little lemur, like I was.
Please, stop the suffering before it starts. And I will stop this blathering blog.
Thanks for reading.
Specifically, it happened in Shop Class, which was optionally mandatory- the other offering being Home Ec. Ec is short for ectoplasm, which is "a viscous substance claimed by spiritualists to emanate from the body of a medium and then produce life forms." That definition was both disgusting, and perfectly descriptive of me at the age of thirteen. Since I did not want to be singled out every day as ectoplasmic, I chose Shop Class.
There, I would stand out only for my inability to make anything resembling anything we were supposed to make. I couldn't even form my sheet of green, molten plastic into the candy dish/ashtray it was supposed to become, and that was during the mid-70s, when a straw encased in a chunk of asphalt sold for $1 million at an auction in London. Therefore, I was in way over my head when we had to mine iron ore, smelt it, and upon cooling, form it into toolboxes for our fathers. I panicked at the thought of losing multiple appendages in the process, and so, handed in my father's own toolbox as my own creation. Yes, I should have removed his tools in advance, not claimed them as extra credit projects done "with the time I had left over." Maybe then, I would not have been on the verge of failing Shop Class, going into the final exam.
And, maybe Mr. Silber- I'm using his real name, because I'm sure he's suffering from dementia caused by inhaling too much sawdust, and doesn't have the faculties to sue me- wouldn't have made the cruel remark that led me to hate my opposable appendages for the rest of my life. While explaining the rules for the final- yes, a written final in Shop, he caught me fantasizing about my once certain F, turning into a D, and said in front of my mustachioed classmates, "Potts, get your thumbs out of your ass!"
My thumbs separated me from the lesser primates-who were all turning around and laughing at me- why would I abuse them in that base, if possibly exciting, manner? And, since he had in an earlier class, during the disastrous "bird-house meets arc welder incident," described me as "all thumbs," he must have intended to imply that my nether regions were awash in them. I was confused, disgusted, and filled with self-loathing. I was forever after opposed to my thumbs.
Which proved to be my ruination on the final. I refused to hold my no.2 pencil between unmentionable digit and forefinger, using instead the middle two fingers, with the outsiders as a sort of movable platform. It took me the entire hour to finish the first question, which was "What is the corollary of 'Righty Tighty?'"
Even that answer he marked wrong, as it looked to him like "Lift a Lunacy."
So, I failed Shop, which actually did no harm to my chances for advancement to eighth grade, as all thirteen-year-olds were automatically promoted, out of fear that they were a dangerous subspecies that needed to be moved out of the education system as soon as possible. In those days, the really hard cases were given Ph.Ds, just so they wouldn't spend all their time blowing up toilets and hiding in the girls' locker room.
But it did cause enormous psychological damage. I was caught just a few months later slicing my own thumbs in the bathtub. Later, I went into a stage in which I refused to acknowledge them at all, telling everyone that I "only have eight fingers. I'm just watching those other two things for a friend in Switzerland."
So, hey, all you Industrial Ed., teachers out there(Ed being short for "edentulous," meaning "toothless."), take more care in addressing your charges. We live in a more litigious society today than that of 1975. If you make the kind of comment to one of your little simians, like that Mr.Silber made to me, you might just be looking at a multi-million dollar lawsuit for alienation of thumb affection. But, more importantly, you might be distorting the thumb self-image of a very vulnerable little lemur, like I was.
Please, stop the suffering before it starts. And I will stop this blathering blog.
Thanks for reading.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Unbearable Wetness of Being 4/22/10
Mother Earth celebrated Earth Day in Kansas City by pouring rain on us all day. She did not allow a respite for my twelve-mile run, in spite of my pleas.
I enjoy running in a light rain- for a little while. This was one hundred minutes of sloshing through moderately heavy precipitation. In fact, I was already soaked before my Garmin acquired its satellites. I guess you could say it was somewhat fortunate that the temperatures were in the 50s, and not the 30s, and you would be right: the cold would certainly have made things more miserable. But, hey, look at the freakin' calendar: April 22nd, not February 22nd! But, the bitchy blogger doth protest too much, methinks. Onward.
I had a romantic notion that for today's hydroplaning, I would wear some old Nikes in the University of Oregon colorway: grass-green, with golden yellow. I had retired them a couple of years ago due to failing performance, but since the missus and I are heading out to The Beaver State next week, and we're going to be doing races in Eugene that weekend, I wanted to see if the Duck shoes had enough bounce to do a half-marathon. And if they did, I would leave them at Pre's Rock afterwards.
Well, they weren't so ducky today. I wouldn't say the discomfort was excruciating, but it was enough to tell me that if I ran the half in them one week hence, I would be spending the majority of our Oregon vacation waddling around like a lame duck. Thus did patella tendinitis trump romance.
Upon finishing today, I set about the task of removing my saturated clothing, and wringing it out. Let me just say that I am an ardent believer in wearing wicking clothing. But even those wonderful synthetics get overwhelmed when exposed to the kind of wetness I was dealing with today. Not only were my clothes and my skin completely soaked, my pores, which are supposed to block incoming substances, failed during the downpour. They went completely open, allowing the deluge to pour in to my gutty-wutts. My spleen was swimming. My liver was liquefied. My islands of Langerhans were turned into actual islands.
Feeling waterlogged, I wrung myself out by setting the washing machine on the spin cycle and jumping in. Upon completion, my wife pulled me out, and even though I was a bit shaken up, I was not agitated with her.
I learned a couple of things today. First, even though I'm an aqueous creature, but that doesn't mean I would enjoy living in a watery world full time. Evolution has made me a lover of the terra firma, so "Viva La Asfalta!" And, second, like The Who, retired shoes should stay that way, even if they died before they got old.
I won't get fooled again.
Thanks for reading.
I enjoy running in a light rain- for a little while. This was one hundred minutes of sloshing through moderately heavy precipitation. In fact, I was already soaked before my Garmin acquired its satellites. I guess you could say it was somewhat fortunate that the temperatures were in the 50s, and not the 30s, and you would be right: the cold would certainly have made things more miserable. But, hey, look at the freakin' calendar: April 22nd, not February 22nd! But, the bitchy blogger doth protest too much, methinks. Onward.
I had a romantic notion that for today's hydroplaning, I would wear some old Nikes in the University of Oregon colorway: grass-green, with golden yellow. I had retired them a couple of years ago due to failing performance, but since the missus and I are heading out to The Beaver State next week, and we're going to be doing races in Eugene that weekend, I wanted to see if the Duck shoes had enough bounce to do a half-marathon. And if they did, I would leave them at Pre's Rock afterwards.
Well, they weren't so ducky today. I wouldn't say the discomfort was excruciating, but it was enough to tell me that if I ran the half in them one week hence, I would be spending the majority of our Oregon vacation waddling around like a lame duck. Thus did patella tendinitis trump romance.
Upon finishing today, I set about the task of removing my saturated clothing, and wringing it out. Let me just say that I am an ardent believer in wearing wicking clothing. But even those wonderful synthetics get overwhelmed when exposed to the kind of wetness I was dealing with today. Not only were my clothes and my skin completely soaked, my pores, which are supposed to block incoming substances, failed during the downpour. They went completely open, allowing the deluge to pour in to my gutty-wutts. My spleen was swimming. My liver was liquefied. My islands of Langerhans were turned into actual islands.
Feeling waterlogged, I wrung myself out by setting the washing machine on the spin cycle and jumping in. Upon completion, my wife pulled me out, and even though I was a bit shaken up, I was not agitated with her.
I learned a couple of things today. First, even though I'm an aqueous creature, but that doesn't mean I would enjoy living in a watery world full time. Evolution has made me a lover of the terra firma, so "Viva La Asfalta!" And, second, like The Who, retired shoes should stay that way, even if they died before they got old.
I won't get fooled again.
Thanks for reading.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Guns and Photos 4/20/10
On page 2 of Tuesday's sports section there was a picture of the women's winner of the Boston Marathon, Teyba Erkesso of Ethiopia, receiving the traditional olive wreath given to winners of that race. She is holding her hands to her face, and appears to be in, or near, tears. She covered the 26.2 miles in 2hours, 26min., and 11seconds. That would make her average pace about 5min., and 35sec., per mile- which she did under her own power. She had no mechanical engine, and no chassis- other than her own body.
Denny Hamlin's picture was also on page 2. In his post-race photo, he is seen at a podium holding two pistols skyward. Whether he was given those guns as a prize, or waved them at his competitors in rage during the contest, is not known. What we do know is that he won a 500-mile race in Texas on Monday, with the benefit of a high-powered stock car, and a pit crew. He emerged the winner after 334 laps, despite an injured knee that he said left him feeling about "60 percent." How amazingly brave- to drive 500 miles with a bad knee! The impact on that joint when working the clutch must have been tremendous.
It is extremely unlikely that Ms. Erkesso would have performed as she did, had one of her knees been as injured as Mr. Hamlin's. And I doubt that she is as handy with a Colt .45 as he is. Perhaps her nearest competitor would have been more than 3 seconds behind her, if she had sported a sidearm while running.
That car racing is considered a sport on a level with long-distance running doesn't bother me anymore. It can't possibly be- since comparing the endurance of a vehicle, and the endurance of a runner is not a fair. It's like judging the steam engine superior to John Henry. But people would seem to prefer watching men and women whose faces they can't even see, drive cars around in an oval for hours, than watch real live human beings that they could see, run around a track, or through the streets of one of America's greatest cities, and all my bitching is not going to change that.
But what really irritated me about the two stories, was that Mr. Hamlin was lauded for being courageous and tough, when his knee had to bear no weight, just be strong enough to push in the clutch. While no mention was made of the strength and determination it takes just to RUN 26 miles, let alone to do it at the pace which Ms. Erkesso did. If she'd had an injured knee, she would never have even been able to toe the line, so great would the demands of the race been upon it, and we would not have been so fortunate as to see her, completely disarmed, in her moment of triumph.
Hell, the Boston Marathon wasn't even on local TV here, but the NASCAR race was. I guess the airwaves were just too crowded at 11a.m. on a Monday for two grueling tests of human endurance.
Thanks for reading.
Denny Hamlin's picture was also on page 2. In his post-race photo, he is seen at a podium holding two pistols skyward. Whether he was given those guns as a prize, or waved them at his competitors in rage during the contest, is not known. What we do know is that he won a 500-mile race in Texas on Monday, with the benefit of a high-powered stock car, and a pit crew. He emerged the winner after 334 laps, despite an injured knee that he said left him feeling about "60 percent." How amazingly brave- to drive 500 miles with a bad knee! The impact on that joint when working the clutch must have been tremendous.
It is extremely unlikely that Ms. Erkesso would have performed as she did, had one of her knees been as injured as Mr. Hamlin's. And I doubt that she is as handy with a Colt .45 as he is. Perhaps her nearest competitor would have been more than 3 seconds behind her, if she had sported a sidearm while running.
That car racing is considered a sport on a level with long-distance running doesn't bother me anymore. It can't possibly be- since comparing the endurance of a vehicle, and the endurance of a runner is not a fair. It's like judging the steam engine superior to John Henry. But people would seem to prefer watching men and women whose faces they can't even see, drive cars around in an oval for hours, than watch real live human beings that they could see, run around a track, or through the streets of one of America's greatest cities, and all my bitching is not going to change that.
But what really irritated me about the two stories, was that Mr. Hamlin was lauded for being courageous and tough, when his knee had to bear no weight, just be strong enough to push in the clutch. While no mention was made of the strength and determination it takes just to RUN 26 miles, let alone to do it at the pace which Ms. Erkesso did. If she'd had an injured knee, she would never have even been able to toe the line, so great would the demands of the race been upon it, and we would not have been so fortunate as to see her, completely disarmed, in her moment of triumph.
Hell, the Boston Marathon wasn't even on local TV here, but the NASCAR race was. I guess the airwaves were just too crowded at 11a.m. on a Monday for two grueling tests of human endurance.
Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Band-Aids Help, Too 4/19/10
Here's a tip for you first-time marathoners to be: I usually go for a short run the day after a marathon. Even one as brief as two miles, ungainly as it may be, helps me to move the lactic acid out of my system. And, as we all know, an unchecked buildup of lactic acid usually leads to Spontaneous Male Lactation. And isn't that a bummer when you've worn a bright shirt to work? So, a run, no matter how awkward, can save even greater embarrassment down the line.
I am udderly grateful for your attention.
I am udderly grateful for your attention.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Marathon #21-4/18/10
There's a strange kind of euphoria that sets in when I finish a marathon. Strange because I'm always utterly exhausted, and usually pretty sore. I don't know if it's the endorphins- those pain-blocking chemicals released during exercise- or just relief at being finished with something that is completely taxing, both mentally and physically. Doesn't matter. I'm gonna do the "airplane swoop" in the final straightaway regardless.
There was a band playing at the finish line, rather than an announcer calling out our names as we came across. I didn't care- I sang right along with a Celtic/Zydeco cover of "Hey, Hey, What Can I Do?" (Of all the songs to give a Chieftains meets Clifton Chenier treatment...) Then, it took me five minutes, and five hip cramps, to put my warm-up pants back on. S'all good, Bruh- I may have come up with five new, advanced yoga poses. "Now, who else can hold 'The Screaming Salamander' for sixty seconds?"
You also get to eat like Biblical locusts- another possible cause of Temporary Post-Marathon Insanely Happy-ness. I polished off a foot-long meatball grinder, with jalapenos and provolone, in about ten minutes. That's fifty seconds per inch. We're talking Professional Eating Tour type numbers here. If Kobayashi wants to regain his Coney Dog-eating title this Fourth of July, he should run a marathon that morning.
I would have to say, however, that the real reason for my "Marathoner's High," is probably just that I finished the damned thing. I ran twenty-six miles, which is never a sure deal, no matter how well prepared I am- and I did not feel that I was ready for this one. I had been sick a lot this Winter and Spring, and had even fizzled out on my last long run due to The Return of the Creeping Crud. I had a plan that I thought might get me through, and it did. I finished with my best marathon time in four years- and on a difficult course.
It's now about six hours since I finished, and I'm still buzzing. I'm about as far from needing a nap as Radiohead is from reggae. But I don't have any plans, either. Just going to read the Sunday paper, and rebuild my massacred musculature. Eat, eat, eat. Or, at least I will as soon as I get over the hiccups I kick-started by eating that grinder.
Thanks for reading.
There was a band playing at the finish line, rather than an announcer calling out our names as we came across. I didn't care- I sang right along with a Celtic/Zydeco cover of "Hey, Hey, What Can I Do?" (Of all the songs to give a Chieftains meets Clifton Chenier treatment...) Then, it took me five minutes, and five hip cramps, to put my warm-up pants back on. S'all good, Bruh- I may have come up with five new, advanced yoga poses. "Now, who else can hold 'The Screaming Salamander' for sixty seconds?"
You also get to eat like Biblical locusts- another possible cause of Temporary Post-Marathon Insanely Happy-ness. I polished off a foot-long meatball grinder, with jalapenos and provolone, in about ten minutes. That's fifty seconds per inch. We're talking Professional Eating Tour type numbers here. If Kobayashi wants to regain his Coney Dog-eating title this Fourth of July, he should run a marathon that morning.
I would have to say, however, that the real reason for my "Marathoner's High," is probably just that I finished the damned thing. I ran twenty-six miles, which is never a sure deal, no matter how well prepared I am- and I did not feel that I was ready for this one. I had been sick a lot this Winter and Spring, and had even fizzled out on my last long run due to The Return of the Creeping Crud. I had a plan that I thought might get me through, and it did. I finished with my best marathon time in four years- and on a difficult course.
It's now about six hours since I finished, and I'm still buzzing. I'm about as far from needing a nap as Radiohead is from reggae. But I don't have any plans, either. Just going to read the Sunday paper, and rebuild my massacred musculature. Eat, eat, eat. Or, at least I will as soon as I get over the hiccups I kick-started by eating that grinder.
Thanks for reading.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Carbo-Overload 4/17/10
This afternoon, we were at my favorite pre-marathon gluttonization station, Cinzetti's, for one last calorie-fest before the marathon.
There are about six bread stations, fifteen pasta dishes, eight pizzas, crepes (are those Italian?), and two kinds of potato pie. I took at least a tongful, or a spoonful, from every one. As I heffalumped my way back to our table, I thought I saw some fresh fruit, too, but I figured it would only take up space in my stomach-dumpster that I would later need for desert.
Mama mia, the desert: Tiramisu, The Chocolate Cookie of Death, Raspberry Crostata (Dean Martin's birth name.), bread pudding, and thirteen variations on pistachio ice cream. I took all of those, too. My arms were so laden with plates full of treats that I almost- ALMOST- passed on the cannoli.
For me, it is the signature Italian meal-topper. Probably because I have seen The Godfather so many times, and the lines, "Leave the gun. Take the cannoli," spill from my slobbering lips whenever cannoli comes up. I can't pass it by. Clemenza tells me to take it- I take it. I don't want to end up like Paulie: Slumped against the steering wheel with a hole the size of Sicily in my head.
I ate enough food to provide fuel for four marathons. So what if I had to be wheeled out of Cinzetti's on a forklift? I will not be one of those poor buffoni staggering through the final miles. I will finish strong, my engine humming away on a full tank of pasta, marinara sauce, pepperoni, and ricotta cheese. "Molto Grazie!" I will shout when I joyfully cross the finish line. "Viva Italia!"
Thanks for reading.
There are about six bread stations, fifteen pasta dishes, eight pizzas, crepes (are those Italian?), and two kinds of potato pie. I took at least a tongful, or a spoonful, from every one. As I heffalumped my way back to our table, I thought I saw some fresh fruit, too, but I figured it would only take up space in my stomach-dumpster that I would later need for desert.
Mama mia, the desert: Tiramisu, The Chocolate Cookie of Death, Raspberry Crostata (Dean Martin's birth name.), bread pudding, and thirteen variations on pistachio ice cream. I took all of those, too. My arms were so laden with plates full of treats that I almost- ALMOST- passed on the cannoli.
For me, it is the signature Italian meal-topper. Probably because I have seen The Godfather so many times, and the lines, "Leave the gun. Take the cannoli," spill from my slobbering lips whenever cannoli comes up. I can't pass it by. Clemenza tells me to take it- I take it. I don't want to end up like Paulie: Slumped against the steering wheel with a hole the size of Sicily in my head.
I ate enough food to provide fuel for four marathons. So what if I had to be wheeled out of Cinzetti's on a forklift? I will not be one of those poor buffoni staggering through the final miles. I will finish strong, my engine humming away on a full tank of pasta, marinara sauce, pepperoni, and ricotta cheese. "Molto Grazie!" I will shout when I joyfully cross the finish line. "Viva Italia!"
Thanks for reading.
The Runner's Sabbath 4/16/10
My four-miler today was the last run before the marathon on Sunday. Tomorrow I do nothing-no running, no working, no signaling turns while driving, no driving, no folding of linens, no slaughtering of animals, no flossing of teeth, no blogging. Well, I don't put much work into this- as you've probably already figured out- so, I'll probably type a few disconnected sentences, slap a nearly-clever title on it, and send it out to the world. Thank Al Gore for the Internet! If I had to do this on a stone tablet with a chisel, it would definitely break the strictures of "The Running Sabbath," as laid out in The Runner's Bible. I will attempt to paraphrase.
We are supposed to save all our energy for The Big Event, not expend our glycogen on trivialities like buttering our Eggos. A runner doesn't want to blame his collapse at mile 22 on the calories he lost the day before clipping his own toenails. My wife has been very understanding in this regard. Thanks to her, I will not have to walk the dog, brush my own teeth, or put my own feet up on the couch. She will read the entire paper to me, so that I won't have to put on my own glasses. And, if there is any complaining on her part, but I will decline to argue with her- as I can't spare the saliva- and she'll give up when she realizes that, if she wants an opponent, she'll have to play Devil's Advocate.
The sloth will end, hopefully, at 7:30 Sunday morning, when the starting gun goes off. I can only hope that my get-up-and-go will actually go at that time. Even I know that I'm not going to be able to get my wife to do the race for me. But, afterwards, when I'm tired, stiff, and hobbling, then I can invoke the stricture known in The Runner's Bible as "The Stricken Marathoner's Infirmity," to score a popsicle and a leg rub.
Thanks for humoring me, Amy.
We are supposed to save all our energy for The Big Event, not expend our glycogen on trivialities like buttering our Eggos. A runner doesn't want to blame his collapse at mile 22 on the calories he lost the day before clipping his own toenails. My wife has been very understanding in this regard. Thanks to her, I will not have to walk the dog, brush my own teeth, or put my own feet up on the couch. She will read the entire paper to me, so that I won't have to put on my own glasses. And, if there is any complaining on her part, but I will decline to argue with her- as I can't spare the saliva- and she'll give up when she realizes that, if she wants an opponent, she'll have to play Devil's Advocate.
The sloth will end, hopefully, at 7:30 Sunday morning, when the starting gun goes off. I can only hope that my get-up-and-go will actually go at that time. Even I know that I'm not going to be able to get my wife to do the race for me. But, afterwards, when I'm tired, stiff, and hobbling, then I can invoke the stricture known in The Runner's Bible as "The Stricken Marathoner's Infirmity," to score a popsicle and a leg rub.
Thanks for humoring me, Amy.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
I Render Schlock 4/15/10
Today's run was none too taxing: Just four miles at an easy pace. I could have had a service, like H and R Starting Blocks, do the run for me, but I found the deduction-two miles off my regular distance-all by myself. I only hope I don't have to pay a penalty during my marathon on Sunday.
Thanks for humoring me.
Thanks for humoring me.
Penguins and Paolo 4/14/10
Well, it was a beautiful day for anything: From arrowhead hunting, to zebra tipping. I did my little six-miler at a reasonable pace, getting some sun on my penguin tattoo in the process. It makes him look Italian. Which makes me think that...
To be a live penguin in an Italian zoo would have to be one of the coolest things ever. First, the Italians know ice. Wouldn't it be great to live on an enormous island of gelato al limon? Second, even though your habitat was kept cold, outside is this beautiful, warm, sunny place. So, whenever you get tired of eating herring and diving into the near-freezing water, you can towel off, throw on some sunscreen, and head over to the zoo bistro for some wine and bruschetta.
I have a greatest hits CD by an Italian singer named Paolo Conte. You get the feeling from the picture on the cover, that this guy started smoking cigarettes when he was about four. He plays piano in a Dixieland saloon style, and sings in a sweet, gravelly style that is just north of Tom Waits. And, he looks like a penguin. Check him out sometime.
Thanks for humoring me.
To be a live penguin in an Italian zoo would have to be one of the coolest things ever. First, the Italians know ice. Wouldn't it be great to live on an enormous island of gelato al limon? Second, even though your habitat was kept cold, outside is this beautiful, warm, sunny place. So, whenever you get tired of eating herring and diving into the near-freezing water, you can towel off, throw on some sunscreen, and head over to the zoo bistro for some wine and bruschetta.
I have a greatest hits CD by an Italian singer named Paolo Conte. You get the feeling from the picture on the cover, that this guy started smoking cigarettes when he was about four. He plays piano in a Dixieland saloon style, and sings in a sweet, gravelly style that is just north of Tom Waits. And, he looks like a penguin. Check him out sometime.
Thanks for humoring me.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
An Atheist Plays God 4/13/10
The dog was squatting in the dewy darkness, his tail twitching, trying to grace the grass with the by-product of yesterday's gorging. His human was at the other end of the leash, slipping his forearm inside the plastic sheath that had recently held the morning paper, and trying to aim the flashlight so that it would find the hazmat, and not the dog, who disdains the spotlight at such times.
The dog, committed to his downward-facing position for at least two minutes, was not scanning the near distance for bunnines, but the human saw one: Very still, perpindicular to the dog, and staring at him sideways. The rabbit, in his sideways-facing position, could not see the black cat stalking him from behind. Neither did the dog. But the human did. The human who does not believe in an omnipotent, omniscient, benevolent Supreme Being. Who accepts that tragedies occur for many reasons, but not because there is some Master Plan. He saw the cat bent on bunny beheading.
And he did just what a kind God would do-that is, if he were a God for bunnies, and not for cats. He made a noise like "Sssst!" And the bunny bolted, and the cat went futilely after him. The noise startled the dog, which caused him to finally drop his baggage, which the atheist God then grabbed with his plasticized hand.
So, the bunny survived to procreate for the quadrillionth time, and the cat, unable to bring home rabbit stakes for his missus, was denied conjugal congratulations. And the atheist felt pretty proud of himself for spoiling this Wild Kingdom moment, and couldn't wait to tell his wife. And the dog, who almost didn't give a shit, turned and trotted back toward his smelly bed and his kibble.
Thanks for humoring me.
The dog, committed to his downward-facing position for at least two minutes, was not scanning the near distance for bunnines, but the human saw one: Very still, perpindicular to the dog, and staring at him sideways. The rabbit, in his sideways-facing position, could not see the black cat stalking him from behind. Neither did the dog. But the human did. The human who does not believe in an omnipotent, omniscient, benevolent Supreme Being. Who accepts that tragedies occur for many reasons, but not because there is some Master Plan. He saw the cat bent on bunny beheading.
And he did just what a kind God would do-that is, if he were a God for bunnies, and not for cats. He made a noise like "Sssst!" And the bunny bolted, and the cat went futilely after him. The noise startled the dog, which caused him to finally drop his baggage, which the atheist God then grabbed with his plasticized hand.
So, the bunny survived to procreate for the quadrillionth time, and the cat, unable to bring home rabbit stakes for his missus, was denied conjugal congratulations. And the atheist felt pretty proud of himself for spoiling this Wild Kingdom moment, and couldn't wait to tell his wife. And the dog, who almost didn't give a shit, turned and trotted back toward his smelly bed and his kibble.
Thanks for humoring me.
High Anxiety 4/12/10
I took the day off from running, which left me plenty of time and energy for worrying about my marathon on Sunday in Lawrence.
With a week to go before the big day, one is supposed to cut back on the mileage, ramp up the carb consumption, and work out all the little details. The run less/eat more dictum is intended to keep your energy stores at a higher level. In other words, "The training for this race is done, don't knock yourself out the week before your big event." For me, it means, "Feeling like a whale on meth, rampage through your kitchen, and rake in all digestibles with your flailing flippers." But the last part-the logistical planning-is the one that allows my imagination to go wilding.
"How many gels do I take? At what intervals? Should I put some in my hair, since I'm not showering beforehand, and my hair will look like a plate of cooked spaghetti? Did I eat enough pasta for dinner? I feel like a python that swallowed a bowling ball.
How am I going to get to the race? Should I get up early? No, I'll be too tired, and might fall asleep on the crapper. I'll take a cab. No, because then I'll have to take money with me for the return trip, and what if the driver takes me to the start via Cheyenne, WY? Why is Wyoming called that? But what if the driver is an honest, God-fearing man, and The Rapture happens while we are en route? Given my God-slandering history, I will surely be left alone in the cab. I don't have a cabbie's license. I will have to survive the crash, then run to the start.
What if it rains? Should I wear a trash bag over my clothes to stay dry? And what about the garbage that spills out? Whatever happened to that band named Garbage from the '90s? What if they're one of the bands playing on the course? Will I have time to get the red-headed chick-singer's autograph and still qualify for Boston? Have I run too many garbage miles, and not enough quality?
I need to fall asleep. What if the ceiling falls while I'm staring at it? Will I have enough time to get under the bed before I am crushed? Because if I don't, I will miss the race. Why is race called 'The Third Rail of American Politics?' What if there is a Tea Party rally blocking my rapture-prone cab driver? I need to fall asleep. Man, it hurts just to close my eyes. Why did I eat so much for dinner?'
A marathon is an all or nothing proposition. All the time one spends away from family, household chores that aren't finished, bills that are not paid-leading to home foreclosure-those can all be redeemed by a successful marathon performance. But so many factors outside of one's control can send the day into The Dismal Abyss of Disappointment, which makes you wonder why you gave up all those things you used to love doing, like, going to your children's activities, tequila shootathons with complete strangers, and Sunday morning sleep.
It's the nature of the marathon beast, I suppose. We don't have to put ourselves through all this inner torment. But, we do. And it's probably because that to finish another one of these goofy things still seems like such a tremendous accomplishment-just like it did the first time. I think I got two, non-consecutive hours of sleep the night before my first one, but, man, was I pumped up when I finished.
Thanks for reading.
With a week to go before the big day, one is supposed to cut back on the mileage, ramp up the carb consumption, and work out all the little details. The run less/eat more dictum is intended to keep your energy stores at a higher level. In other words, "The training for this race is done, don't knock yourself out the week before your big event." For me, it means, "Feeling like a whale on meth, rampage through your kitchen, and rake in all digestibles with your flailing flippers." But the last part-the logistical planning-is the one that allows my imagination to go wilding.
"How many gels do I take? At what intervals? Should I put some in my hair, since I'm not showering beforehand, and my hair will look like a plate of cooked spaghetti? Did I eat enough pasta for dinner? I feel like a python that swallowed a bowling ball.
How am I going to get to the race? Should I get up early? No, I'll be too tired, and might fall asleep on the crapper. I'll take a cab. No, because then I'll have to take money with me for the return trip, and what if the driver takes me to the start via Cheyenne, WY? Why is Wyoming called that? But what if the driver is an honest, God-fearing man, and The Rapture happens while we are en route? Given my God-slandering history, I will surely be left alone in the cab. I don't have a cabbie's license. I will have to survive the crash, then run to the start.
What if it rains? Should I wear a trash bag over my clothes to stay dry? And what about the garbage that spills out? Whatever happened to that band named Garbage from the '90s? What if they're one of the bands playing on the course? Will I have time to get the red-headed chick-singer's autograph and still qualify for Boston? Have I run too many garbage miles, and not enough quality?
I need to fall asleep. What if the ceiling falls while I'm staring at it? Will I have enough time to get under the bed before I am crushed? Because if I don't, I will miss the race. Why is race called 'The Third Rail of American Politics?' What if there is a Tea Party rally blocking my rapture-prone cab driver? I need to fall asleep. Man, it hurts just to close my eyes. Why did I eat so much for dinner?'
A marathon is an all or nothing proposition. All the time one spends away from family, household chores that aren't finished, bills that are not paid-leading to home foreclosure-those can all be redeemed by a successful marathon performance. But so many factors outside of one's control can send the day into The Dismal Abyss of Disappointment, which makes you wonder why you gave up all those things you used to love doing, like, going to your children's activities, tequila shootathons with complete strangers, and Sunday morning sleep.
It's the nature of the marathon beast, I suppose. We don't have to put ourselves through all this inner torment. But, we do. And it's probably because that to finish another one of these goofy things still seems like such a tremendous accomplishment-just like it did the first time. I think I got two, non-consecutive hours of sleep the night before my first one, but, man, was I pumped up when I finished.
Thanks for reading.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Gone Runnin' 4/11/10
"The worst day running, is still better than the best day fishing," is my personal credo, and one I will invoke to describe today's ten-miler.
The weather was perfect, save for a few billion pollen bombs, and the racing flats were stomping around by the front door, begging to be set loose so that they could set the streets afire. What was needed was a vehicle capable of keeping up with them, of taking advantage of the cool temperature, sunny skies, and slack winds. But it was The Lumberjack, a.k.a. The Ice Wagon, The Train Wreck, and The Wheeze Box, who laced up the Adidas Adizeros on this spectacular Sunday.
My form was ungainly, the way a bear who has broken into the Jack Daniel's distillery is ungainly. My breathing was labored, even more so than that of a woman who is in labor. At least she would have someone "coaching" her on how to breathe. I seemed to have forgotten everything I'd learned on the subject of respiring while exercising. Inhaling and exhaling at the same time. Through the ears, and not the nose and mouth. I aspired to aspirate my PowerGel, choke-choke, cough-cough.
Ten miles is one of my favorite distances to run. It's longer than my average daily run, but not so far that I have to spend all afternoon hooked up to an IV drip and a ventilator recovering. It's also very easy to compute my per mile pace when dividing by ten. I ran so slowly today, however, that even after decimating the total time, I came up with a number that resembled the average number of clowns in a circus carpool.
But, still, I believe I was better off running today, than I would have been if I had stayed in bed. I burned some calories. I hawked up some righteous Technicolor loogies. And I entertained hundreds of motorists with my "marionette controlled by a drunken puppetmaster" routine. All in all, not a bad way to spend a couple hours. Sure beats fishing.
Thanks for humoring me.
The weather was perfect, save for a few billion pollen bombs, and the racing flats were stomping around by the front door, begging to be set loose so that they could set the streets afire. What was needed was a vehicle capable of keeping up with them, of taking advantage of the cool temperature, sunny skies, and slack winds. But it was The Lumberjack, a.k.a. The Ice Wagon, The Train Wreck, and The Wheeze Box, who laced up the Adidas Adizeros on this spectacular Sunday.
My form was ungainly, the way a bear who has broken into the Jack Daniel's distillery is ungainly. My breathing was labored, even more so than that of a woman who is in labor. At least she would have someone "coaching" her on how to breathe. I seemed to have forgotten everything I'd learned on the subject of respiring while exercising. Inhaling and exhaling at the same time. Through the ears, and not the nose and mouth. I aspired to aspirate my PowerGel, choke-choke, cough-cough.
Ten miles is one of my favorite distances to run. It's longer than my average daily run, but not so far that I have to spend all afternoon hooked up to an IV drip and a ventilator recovering. It's also very easy to compute my per mile pace when dividing by ten. I ran so slowly today, however, that even after decimating the total time, I came up with a number that resembled the average number of clowns in a circus carpool.
But, still, I believe I was better off running today, than I would have been if I had stayed in bed. I burned some calories. I hawked up some righteous Technicolor loogies. And I entertained hundreds of motorists with my "marionette controlled by a drunken puppetmaster" routine. All in all, not a bad way to spend a couple hours. Sure beats fishing.
Thanks for humoring me.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
The Polleneater 4/10/10
My six-miler this morning was not run for selfish reasons. Oh, no, my fellow blogospherians. I pounded the prairie pavement this fine, fertile morning, in order to save you from all the pollen in the air.
You see, I have a unique ability, only manifest in Spring, to draw the poison pollen to me, and to hold it with my nasal tissue, tear ducts, and cake hole, until it can be washed harmlessly down the bathtub drain, into the Mississippi River watershed, and out into the Gulf of Mexico, where it will eventually contribute to the genetic mutation of brine shrimp and clams into fifty-foot, bipedal behemoths that will wreak their vengeance on coastal towns and cities. (I'll figure out later how to fix that little problem.)
I can see the spores floating through the atmosphere, much the way Neo could read the Matrix. I, like he, can move effortlessly through my environment, taking advantage of my superior understanding of it, to take its most toxic asset upon myself, all for the betterment of the human race.
I sneeze for you. I cough for you. My eyes burn so that yours won't. My phlegm is the phlegm of freedom. You may thank me only by enjoying an existence untouched by the dreaded yellow dust.
Thank you for reading.
You see, I have a unique ability, only manifest in Spring, to draw the poison pollen to me, and to hold it with my nasal tissue, tear ducts, and cake hole, until it can be washed harmlessly down the bathtub drain, into the Mississippi River watershed, and out into the Gulf of Mexico, where it will eventually contribute to the genetic mutation of brine shrimp and clams into fifty-foot, bipedal behemoths that will wreak their vengeance on coastal towns and cities. (I'll figure out later how to fix that little problem.)
I can see the spores floating through the atmosphere, much the way Neo could read the Matrix. I, like he, can move effortlessly through my environment, taking advantage of my superior understanding of it, to take its most toxic asset upon myself, all for the betterment of the human race.
I sneeze for you. I cough for you. My eyes burn so that yours won't. My phlegm is the phlegm of freedom. You may thank me only by enjoying an existence untouched by the dreaded yellow dust.
Thank you for reading.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Old Times Need Be Forgotten 4/9/10
I am not sure why Virginia Gov. Bob McDonnell and his ilk feel it is so important to commemorate the history of the Confederacy this month. I have never understood why the Confederacy, which stood for the rights of white people to own slaves, to murder them, rape them, separate them from their families, and deny them all human rights, is looked upon nostalgically by so many white people.
I see it as a tragic era in the history of The United States, which was only ended by an incredibly divisive and destructive war. I see the Confederate Army as the military arm of an ideology of inequality, hatred, and injustice. And I view anyone who glamorizes it, or even wishes to commemorate it, as a sympathizer with evil. The same way I regard neo-Nazis, Holocaust deniers, and Al-Qaeda supporters.
So, I can't relate to what Gov. McDonnell, who is considered a rising star in the Republican Party-the party of Abraham Lincoln-thinks when he glamorizes the Confederate soldier as one who was just fighting to defend his homeland, and leaves out any mention of slavery from his initial proclamation. But, I get it. I know why he did it. Because he represents that wing of the Republican Party that knows, deep down, and History has shown it to be accurate, that his party was resurrected in the South, the day the Democratic Party adopted a civil rights plank in its national platform in 1948. The Republicans ceded the moral highground on race, which they had held since Lincoln, so that they could gain the southern white vote. And sadly, it has largely worked.
McDonnell and his Klan just cannot help themselves. The man who gave the GOP rebuttal to President Obama's State of the Union speech, saw an opportunity to pander to whites who are suspicious of a black President with an ambitious social reform agenda. Suspicions which have largely been stoked by prominent Republican figures like Sarah Palin, Rush Limbaugh, and Governor McDonnell. It is cynical, and it is calculated, and it is terrible for the future of this country that we love.
By the way, today marks the 145th anniversary of Lee's surrender to Grant at Appomattox, VA. The Confederacy lost. I would say the right side one the Civil War. But Governor McDonnell would like us to believe that the good guys lost. That the cause they fought for-defense of liberty-was just, and that slavery was just a minor issue. When, actually, it was THE issue. Just as today, when the issue really is race.
Thanks for reading.
I see it as a tragic era in the history of The United States, which was only ended by an incredibly divisive and destructive war. I see the Confederate Army as the military arm of an ideology of inequality, hatred, and injustice. And I view anyone who glamorizes it, or even wishes to commemorate it, as a sympathizer with evil. The same way I regard neo-Nazis, Holocaust deniers, and Al-Qaeda supporters.
So, I can't relate to what Gov. McDonnell, who is considered a rising star in the Republican Party-the party of Abraham Lincoln-thinks when he glamorizes the Confederate soldier as one who was just fighting to defend his homeland, and leaves out any mention of slavery from his initial proclamation. But, I get it. I know why he did it. Because he represents that wing of the Republican Party that knows, deep down, and History has shown it to be accurate, that his party was resurrected in the South, the day the Democratic Party adopted a civil rights plank in its national platform in 1948. The Republicans ceded the moral highground on race, which they had held since Lincoln, so that they could gain the southern white vote. And sadly, it has largely worked.
McDonnell and his Klan just cannot help themselves. The man who gave the GOP rebuttal to President Obama's State of the Union speech, saw an opportunity to pander to whites who are suspicious of a black President with an ambitious social reform agenda. Suspicions which have largely been stoked by prominent Republican figures like Sarah Palin, Rush Limbaugh, and Governor McDonnell. It is cynical, and it is calculated, and it is terrible for the future of this country that we love.
By the way, today marks the 145th anniversary of Lee's surrender to Grant at Appomattox, VA. The Confederacy lost. I would say the right side one the Civil War. But Governor McDonnell would like us to believe that the good guys lost. That the cause they fought for-defense of liberty-was just, and that slavery was just a minor issue. When, actually, it was THE issue. Just as today, when the issue really is race.
Thanks for reading.
I Could Have Done That 4/8/10
Have you ever, after a few failed attempts at starting your vehicle, called a tow truck to haul it off to some garage, which you notified in advance of your non-starting vehicle's assisted arrival, only to have the driver of the aforementioned tow truck, upon dismounting the cab, walk right up to your decrepit driving-machine, reach in and turn the key, and in that moment, know that your car was absolutely, positively going to turn over? And it did? No? I never have either. Not today; not ever. It was just something I was wondering about, while, for some reason, I was feeling simultaneously sheepish and relieved that I was not going to have to lay out several hundred dollars on some hypothetical emergency expense.
I hope nothing like that ever not happens to you, too.
Thanks for reading.
I hope nothing like that ever not happens to you, too.
Thanks for reading.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Fox Trot 4/7/10
I saw a red fox sitting in the middle of the street, just as I turned a corner on one of my regular running routes. It saw me coming first, of course, and had already positioned itself to run, should I come its direction. So, I was not destined to study it for long, as I must have seemed like a fast-approaching threat, and foxes don't live long in the city when they don't take such threats seriously. Dogs, cars, and running men have already beat the fox populace to an airy thinness.
It accelerated across the suburban lawnscape with an ease this jogger has never even dreamed of, and was probably somewhere in the brush watching me as I went lumbering by.
Thanks for reading.
It accelerated across the suburban lawnscape with an ease this jogger has never even dreamed of, and was probably somewhere in the brush watching me as I went lumbering by.
Thanks for reading.
Let The Nuns Have Them 4/6/10
The Five Bad Habits of a Mostly Ineffective Person
1. Nose Picking. I picked a bad one, or rather, it was picked badly for me by my parents. It veers left almost instantly, eliminating me from The Symmetry Sweepstakes. Once you lose that, you'll always look like a gangster, or a Martian. My mom had a theory that my nose was straight until I got my braces at the age of twelve, but the orthodontist reached up into my sinus cavity, i.e.: my brainpan, and toggled my nose until my teeth lined up in the holes they were supposed to push through. It's not a theory that has gained much traction in orthodontia trade journals, and she's never had any luck with it in the courts, but it helps assuage the guilt she feels over the faulty nose-direction gene she gave me.
2. Not Asking Enough Questions. You know how most kids will bug you to death with a million back-to-back queries? Not me. I was very credulous. You say the fire's hot, I believe you, Dad. I don't need to ask "Why," and touch the exhaust pipe on your Harley. Unfortunately, I've carried this into adulthood. I wish I'd asked the salesman at the Chrysler dealership which way the assets were supposed to flow when I went in to participate in the Cash For Clunkers program. You tell me I give you $3500, and my '97 Jeep Cherokee, in exchange for stimulating the economy? I'm all in. I got a good deal on the payments, too.
3. Rooting For/Betting On The Underdog In Any Contest. There's a reason they're the underdogs, which is that they are not supposed to win. They are too slow, too old, too underpaid, too underfunded, or just flat-out too lousy at what they do. I took the Utah Jazz, twice, against the Michael Jordans in the NBA Finals. Have you ever heard any kid say he wanted to be like Bryan (Russell)? I also voted for Ralph Nader, twice. Looking back, I don't think that even HE took Ralph Nader seriously as a candidate. If he was so smart, why couldn't he figure out how to shave?
4. Correcting Mispronunciations. I should just let it slide, but there really is only one way to pronounce the name of the "big burrito place" chain restaurants that crank the toonz up to infinity, have wickedly uncomfortable chairs, and are impossible to get into at lunch and dinner. And that is chi-POTE-leh. Not chi-POLE-tee, or chi-PO-teez. I've told forty million people so far, and they have all threatened to kill me. And none would let me cut in front of them in line. I told them that the intelligent should be allowed first pick of the fruits of the land, in order to fuel our ability to educate the violently stupid. Then, I was beat up.
5. Procrastinating. This is the worst for me. That's why I saved it for last. I always feel that I can make a better decision, if I just have more time to think about it. Sometimes, as it turns out, that ends up being no decision. Once, while walking in a yellow wood, I came to a place where two roads diverged. I mulled over which was the better path to take. I thought I would take the one less traveled by, believing that if I could make the opposite choice from my predecessors, it might make all the difference. But I couldn't even decide which was the less-beaten path, so I pondered some more. So long I stood in that spot that the two paths were beaten down by dirt-bikers and trail-runners, getting their recreation on outside the crowded city. Then the paths were paved to allow developers to put up acres and acres of subdivisions promising "Country living, just minutes from downtown." Then the paved paths were widened to four lanes, then six, then eight, and they all seemed pretty well traveled by speeding three-trailer semis, and Prius minivans.
Thanks for reading.
1. Nose Picking. I picked a bad one, or rather, it was picked badly for me by my parents. It veers left almost instantly, eliminating me from The Symmetry Sweepstakes. Once you lose that, you'll always look like a gangster, or a Martian. My mom had a theory that my nose was straight until I got my braces at the age of twelve, but the orthodontist reached up into my sinus cavity, i.e.: my brainpan, and toggled my nose until my teeth lined up in the holes they were supposed to push through. It's not a theory that has gained much traction in orthodontia trade journals, and she's never had any luck with it in the courts, but it helps assuage the guilt she feels over the faulty nose-direction gene she gave me.
2. Not Asking Enough Questions. You know how most kids will bug you to death with a million back-to-back queries? Not me. I was very credulous. You say the fire's hot, I believe you, Dad. I don't need to ask "Why," and touch the exhaust pipe on your Harley. Unfortunately, I've carried this into adulthood. I wish I'd asked the salesman at the Chrysler dealership which way the assets were supposed to flow when I went in to participate in the Cash For Clunkers program. You tell me I give you $3500, and my '97 Jeep Cherokee, in exchange for stimulating the economy? I'm all in. I got a good deal on the payments, too.
3. Rooting For/Betting On The Underdog In Any Contest. There's a reason they're the underdogs, which is that they are not supposed to win. They are too slow, too old, too underpaid, too underfunded, or just flat-out too lousy at what they do. I took the Utah Jazz, twice, against the Michael Jordans in the NBA Finals. Have you ever heard any kid say he wanted to be like Bryan (Russell)? I also voted for Ralph Nader, twice. Looking back, I don't think that even HE took Ralph Nader seriously as a candidate. If he was so smart, why couldn't he figure out how to shave?
4. Correcting Mispronunciations. I should just let it slide, but there really is only one way to pronounce the name of the "big burrito place" chain restaurants that crank the toonz up to infinity, have wickedly uncomfortable chairs, and are impossible to get into at lunch and dinner. And that is chi-POTE-leh. Not chi-POLE-tee, or chi-PO-teez. I've told forty million people so far, and they have all threatened to kill me. And none would let me cut in front of them in line. I told them that the intelligent should be allowed first pick of the fruits of the land, in order to fuel our ability to educate the violently stupid. Then, I was beat up.
5. Procrastinating. This is the worst for me. That's why I saved it for last. I always feel that I can make a better decision, if I just have more time to think about it. Sometimes, as it turns out, that ends up being no decision. Once, while walking in a yellow wood, I came to a place where two roads diverged. I mulled over which was the better path to take. I thought I would take the one less traveled by, believing that if I could make the opposite choice from my predecessors, it might make all the difference. But I couldn't even decide which was the less-beaten path, so I pondered some more. So long I stood in that spot that the two paths were beaten down by dirt-bikers and trail-runners, getting their recreation on outside the crowded city. Then the paths were paved to allow developers to put up acres and acres of subdivisions promising "Country living, just minutes from downtown." Then the paved paths were widened to four lanes, then six, then eight, and they all seemed pretty well traveled by speeding three-trailer semis, and Prius minivans.
Thanks for reading.
Monday, April 5, 2010
The 163rd Game of 2009. 4/5/10
I ran two miles today. It was my first time on the roads since last Thursday, and even though it was not the smoothest run of my life, it left me feeling optimistic that I was getting back to regular.
On top of that good vibe, the Royals' Season Opener was this afternoon, and we had it on at the store. Their Cy Young Award-winning pitcher, Zack Greinke, was taking the mound, the day was warm and sunny...More optimism!
(Spoiler alert: If you haven't heard the result already, don't worry, it won't really be a surprise.)
The store was too busy this afternoon to just sit and watch the game for more than a few seconds at a time, so let me sum it up for you as best I can. The Royals gave up a run in the first inning, but then they came back a little while later and went ahead 2-1. Later, they were ahead 4-2 when Greinke was replaced by a relief pitcher. To put it another way, it was a relief for the Tigers when Greinke was replaced by another "pitcher." Just like last year, the bullpen snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, with the Royals losing 8-4.
It was just like watching many of their games from last year. The only comparable feeling I can relate to you, would be of stepping in a pile of dog shit just before the ground is covered by snow in the Winter, then, after the snow has melted in the Spring, you walk out your door and step in the same pile of dog shit. Have you gotten the sense, yet, that my optimism is waning just a bit?
I am going to have to run a lot tomorrow to make up for this.
Thanks for reading.
On top of that good vibe, the Royals' Season Opener was this afternoon, and we had it on at the store. Their Cy Young Award-winning pitcher, Zack Greinke, was taking the mound, the day was warm and sunny...More optimism!
(Spoiler alert: If you haven't heard the result already, don't worry, it won't really be a surprise.)
The store was too busy this afternoon to just sit and watch the game for more than a few seconds at a time, so let me sum it up for you as best I can. The Royals gave up a run in the first inning, but then they came back a little while later and went ahead 2-1. Later, they were ahead 4-2 when Greinke was replaced by a relief pitcher. To put it another way, it was a relief for the Tigers when Greinke was replaced by another "pitcher." Just like last year, the bullpen snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, with the Royals losing 8-4.
It was just like watching many of their games from last year. The only comparable feeling I can relate to you, would be of stepping in a pile of dog shit just before the ground is covered by snow in the Winter, then, after the snow has melted in the Spring, you walk out your door and step in the same pile of dog shit. Have you gotten the sense, yet, that my optimism is waning just a bit?
I am going to have to run a lot tomorrow to make up for this.
Thanks for reading.
Easter Eggs 4/4/10
Here's the main reason why I wanted to never have children. I did not want to have to participate in The Big Easter Lie. How could I teach a child to value the truth, when every Easter, I would have to tell her that a large, upright walking rabbit, had dropped eggs all over our front yard while we had been sleeping?
An egg-laying rabbit? Rabbits are mammals; they have wabbity bweasts for nursing their young. They lovingly place them under cabbage leaves at birth. They don't drop them from an ovipositor. And they hippity flippin' hop, they don't walk around like the guy on the Johnny Walker Red Whiskey label. Only a kid taught biology from a Texas school book could believe such things. Surely a child who was half-mine, or adopted by me, would be smarter than the average Fort Worth fourth-grader.
I mean, wouldn't it make sense for a chocolate peep to fly around dropping eggs for the little candy grubbers? That at least makes some sense, from a reproductive consistency standpoint.
Thanks for reading.
An egg-laying rabbit? Rabbits are mammals; they have wabbity bweasts for nursing their young. They lovingly place them under cabbage leaves at birth. They don't drop them from an ovipositor. And they hippity flippin' hop, they don't walk around like the guy on the Johnny Walker Red Whiskey label. Only a kid taught biology from a Texas school book could believe such things. Surely a child who was half-mine, or adopted by me, would be smarter than the average Fort Worth fourth-grader.
I mean, wouldn't it make sense for a chocolate peep to fly around dropping eggs for the little candy grubbers? That at least makes some sense, from a reproductive consistency standpoint.
Thanks for reading.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Pinch, or Pull? 4/3/10
My nose was the only part of my body that ran yesterday. It ran all day long-thereby showing great endurance. It threw in a few intervals for variety-picking up the pace whenever I wasn't near a tissue box.
While I was in the throes of this Snotathon, a customer came up to me at work and said that she had noticed that I was somewhat congested. (It must have caught her attention that my sinuses had swollen to thrice their normal sizes, giving me the appearance of a hard-core Botox abuser.) She introduced herself as a massage and acupuncture therapist. She said that she'd had success treating her patients' allergies by inserting needles into their fingertips. Really? "Under the nails," I asked, thinking that she might be practicing a form of Pain Relocation Therapy. She answered "No" in a way that indicated she might be getting ready to skewer my eyeballs.
By placing them just so, toward the fingertips, the therapist could intercept the messages my brain was sending to my sinuses. "But, would I have to leave the needles in all month to keep the allergies at bay," I asked, this time covering both eyes with my hands. The needles were not absolutely necessary, she hissed, patiently, merely pinching the fingertips would produce the desired result. So, I don't need the ten tetanus injections to bring about a sniffle-free existence? (I only thought this sentence, not even projecting it toward her.)
I immediately set upon this course of therapy, right in front of the kindly, yet dangerously well-trained in the use of sharp rusty objects, savior of my schnoz. It was hard to believe that it could be so simple. I thought that I must have been dreaming. I needed someone to pinch me.
I pinched, sometimes squeezing, but never for very long, because I had to constantly switch fingers from pinched, to pinchee. Some pinches were so hard that I cried out for my mother to help me beat up the kid who was hurting me. Some, on the other hand, were so soft that they barely met the definition-they were more like nips. I pinched every finger seven times seven times, but still the snot kept coming. I became frustrated, then angry, until finally, I became downright snotty. I suggested a different methodology, "What if I just put my fingers up my nose? I bet that would stop it from running." She was not mellow in responding, and I have the bruised liver to prove it.
From now on, no more New Age remedies for me. I'll stick to the traditional, tried and true methods for combating allergies. Like, medicines that don't work. And lying in bed for eight hours a day. And hoping the trees stop blooming, and the wind stops blowing. Yeah, that's more realistic than pinching your fingers.
Thanks for humoring me.
While I was in the throes of this Snotathon, a customer came up to me at work and said that she had noticed that I was somewhat congested. (It must have caught her attention that my sinuses had swollen to thrice their normal sizes, giving me the appearance of a hard-core Botox abuser.) She introduced herself as a massage and acupuncture therapist. She said that she'd had success treating her patients' allergies by inserting needles into their fingertips. Really? "Under the nails," I asked, thinking that she might be practicing a form of Pain Relocation Therapy. She answered "No" in a way that indicated she might be getting ready to skewer my eyeballs.
By placing them just so, toward the fingertips, the therapist could intercept the messages my brain was sending to my sinuses. "But, would I have to leave the needles in all month to keep the allergies at bay," I asked, this time covering both eyes with my hands. The needles were not absolutely necessary, she hissed, patiently, merely pinching the fingertips would produce the desired result. So, I don't need the ten tetanus injections to bring about a sniffle-free existence? (I only thought this sentence, not even projecting it toward her.)
I immediately set upon this course of therapy, right in front of the kindly, yet dangerously well-trained in the use of sharp rusty objects, savior of my schnoz. It was hard to believe that it could be so simple. I thought that I must have been dreaming. I needed someone to pinch me.
I pinched, sometimes squeezing, but never for very long, because I had to constantly switch fingers from pinched, to pinchee. Some pinches were so hard that I cried out for my mother to help me beat up the kid who was hurting me. Some, on the other hand, were so soft that they barely met the definition-they were more like nips. I pinched every finger seven times seven times, but still the snot kept coming. I became frustrated, then angry, until finally, I became downright snotty. I suggested a different methodology, "What if I just put my fingers up my nose? I bet that would stop it from running." She was not mellow in responding, and I have the bruised liver to prove it.
From now on, no more New Age remedies for me. I'll stick to the traditional, tried and true methods for combating allergies. Like, medicines that don't work. And lying in bed for eight hours a day. And hoping the trees stop blooming, and the wind stops blowing. Yeah, that's more realistic than pinching your fingers.
Thanks for humoring me.
My Superpowers 4/2/10
I am Mucus Man-Slimer of The Universe! I can cover evildoers in a thick coating of goo that will render them unable to wreak havoc on the innocent!
My sneezes are so powerful, they can send our enemies' nuclear missiles harmlessly into the outer reaches of the universe, where they might, or might not, make impact on another planet that might, or might not, have life forms similar to our own!
My dripping nose will provide enough moisture to end droughts in desert lands!
I will use up every Kleenex in the city, thereby revitalizing the moribund logging industry!
(There just has to be SOME upside to having a cold during allergy season.)
Thanks for reading.
My sneezes are so powerful, they can send our enemies' nuclear missiles harmlessly into the outer reaches of the universe, where they might, or might not, make impact on another planet that might, or might not, have life forms similar to our own!
My dripping nose will provide enough moisture to end droughts in desert lands!
I will use up every Kleenex in the city, thereby revitalizing the moribund logging industry!
(There just has to be SOME upside to having a cold during allergy season.)
Thanks for reading.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
No Foolin' -Another List 4/1/10
Five Things I Used to Believe:
1. That I could run twenty miles, even if I had a cold and allergies. I made it about 3.5, before turning around today. My chest hurt so badly, I thought an alien baby was going to burst forth from it.
2. That the meanings of "cheap" and "expensive" were reversed. Given my credit score and my retirement fund, I'd say this one hung on well into adulthood.
3. That if I just got close enough to the TV screen, I could see things that weren't really visible. I remember as a five year-old, crawling all the way up, so that I could see what was under Tina Turner's fringe dress as she and The Ikettes did "Proud Mary" on the Mike Douglas Show. As an older man, I can say I am grateful that, even with Hi-Def TV, we cannot see what's under Betty White's dress.
4. That I would one day be a wide receiver for the Chiefs. There may have been a time in NFL history-say, during the Great Depression-when people ate once a month, that 150-pounders ran amok on the gridiron, and were not flattened into something that would fit into a standard business envelope. But the end of the Great Depression, selective breeding, free agency, steroids, and discrimination against skinny people, have all made sure that it will never come again.
5. That the sidewalk was the only thing separating us from oblivion. I really thought there was nothing underneath it. Plus, I had seen some movie in which luckless cave explorers fell into a bottomless pit. Maybe I thought they just fell all the way through Earth, and wound up on Pluto. (Which I used to believe was a planet.) Now I know there are no bottomless pits. Except for Rush Limbaugh.
I also used to believe in the Easter Bunny, Kirby Puckett, a place called Hope, and the infallibility of R.E.M.
Thanks for reading.
1. That I could run twenty miles, even if I had a cold and allergies. I made it about 3.5, before turning around today. My chest hurt so badly, I thought an alien baby was going to burst forth from it.
2. That the meanings of "cheap" and "expensive" were reversed. Given my credit score and my retirement fund, I'd say this one hung on well into adulthood.
3. That if I just got close enough to the TV screen, I could see things that weren't really visible. I remember as a five year-old, crawling all the way up, so that I could see what was under Tina Turner's fringe dress as she and The Ikettes did "Proud Mary" on the Mike Douglas Show. As an older man, I can say I am grateful that, even with Hi-Def TV, we cannot see what's under Betty White's dress.
4. That I would one day be a wide receiver for the Chiefs. There may have been a time in NFL history-say, during the Great Depression-when people ate once a month, that 150-pounders ran amok on the gridiron, and were not flattened into something that would fit into a standard business envelope. But the end of the Great Depression, selective breeding, free agency, steroids, and discrimination against skinny people, have all made sure that it will never come again.
5. That the sidewalk was the only thing separating us from oblivion. I really thought there was nothing underneath it. Plus, I had seen some movie in which luckless cave explorers fell into a bottomless pit. Maybe I thought they just fell all the way through Earth, and wound up on Pluto. (Which I used to believe was a planet.) Now I know there are no bottomless pits. Except for Rush Limbaugh.
I also used to believe in the Easter Bunny, Kirby Puckett, a place called Hope, and the infallibility of R.E.M.
Thanks for reading.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Poetic License to Murder3/31/10
Papi didn't run today-long or otherwise. I am under the weather, again, and had absolutely no zip this morning. I can't breathe through my nose, and I have to urinate every five minutes, which makes me seem like an incontinent Neanderthal. Tomorrow is my day off, and I am scheduled for a twenty-miler. If I can't get it done, I may have to switch from the marathon to the half in Lawrence.
Since I had time this morning, I did get the laundry folded, and a Pablo Neruda poem translated from Spanish to English. One line did give me a lot of trouble, however. The best I could do with the penultimate line from En Ti La Tierra was "I measure hardly the eyes most extended to the sky..." Maybe I need to get a bigger dictionary, and stop using the one that fits into my wallet. Lo siento, Pablo.
Thanks for humoring me.
Since I had time this morning, I did get the laundry folded, and a Pablo Neruda poem translated from Spanish to English. One line did give me a lot of trouble, however. The best I could do with the penultimate line from En Ti La Tierra was "I measure hardly the eyes most extended to the sky..." Maybe I need to get a bigger dictionary, and stop using the one that fits into my wallet. Lo siento, Pablo.
Thanks for humoring me.
Pottspourri 3/30/10
I had to take a bathroom break at the Metcalf South Mall during my run this morning. It's hard to believe the thing hasn't been razed, since nearly all the retail shops left long ago. There are a fair number of wholesalers doing business by appointment only, but only two retailers that I could see: Sears, and Macy's. The place seems stuck in time, with the decor, and some store fronts, now defunct, unchanged for more than a decade. It's weird, but I find myself feeling sorry for a place that was bustling for a time, and is now all but abandoned.
Looks like it's time to put away the winter gear. Temperatures this week look like they'll get no colder than the 40s, so I can probably pack up the tights, the long-sleeved shirts, and the wind briefs. Vive le printemps!
I ran just three today, anticipating that I will do a long one tomorrow before work. Not looking forward to working after a three-hour run-in fact, I usually avoid doing both on the same day. But it will give me an extra day of rest before my marathon on April 18th.
Amy and I watched American Idol last night. Didi gave by far the worst performance, which may allow Tim to stay around for another week. More females seem to vote than males, and they seem to go for Tim because he's cute and affable. But, he is one strange dude: He stares vacantly into the camera, while singing a love song that is totally devoid of love, or even energy. I wanted to kill him a couple of weeks ago, when he did a reggae version of "Under My Thumb," during Rolling Stones Week. He gave a misogynistic lyric sort of a happy-go-lucky, Jack Johnson vibe. He almost smiled when he sang "...the squirming dog, who has just had her day." He should have been flushed that week, and banned from all singing, even in his own shower, for life.
Thanks for reading.
Looks like it's time to put away the winter gear. Temperatures this week look like they'll get no colder than the 40s, so I can probably pack up the tights, the long-sleeved shirts, and the wind briefs. Vive le printemps!
I ran just three today, anticipating that I will do a long one tomorrow before work. Not looking forward to working after a three-hour run-in fact, I usually avoid doing both on the same day. But it will give me an extra day of rest before my marathon on April 18th.
Amy and I watched American Idol last night. Didi gave by far the worst performance, which may allow Tim to stay around for another week. More females seem to vote than males, and they seem to go for Tim because he's cute and affable. But, he is one strange dude: He stares vacantly into the camera, while singing a love song that is totally devoid of love, or even energy. I wanted to kill him a couple of weeks ago, when he did a reggae version of "Under My Thumb," during Rolling Stones Week. He gave a misogynistic lyric sort of a happy-go-lucky, Jack Johnson vibe. He almost smiled when he sang "...the squirming dog, who has just had her day." He should have been flushed that week, and banned from all singing, even in his own shower, for life.
Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Head Up 3/29/10
I have been trying to improve my posture lately. I am a renown sloucher of long, crooked standing. My Fair Mother noticed my slanted stance when I was quite young, and sought to straighten me out. Her remedies included making me stand upright with shoulders back. Since I have never had any shoulders, this tactic was doomed to fail. Another method was ye olde Books on the Noggin While Reciting Inane Rhymes, made popular in a movie of the same name, starring Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn. The line about Spain, rain, and the plain, clashed with my musical references of the time, "I've never been to Spain, but I kind of like the people," by Three Dog Night, which confounded my mushy melon, causing me to lose focus, lean forward, and tumble the tomes onto the carpet.
Though her efforts failed back then, the importance of good posture on lung capacity and core strength were not lost on me-I have just not been able to implement it. Even now, I continue to try to straighten up and run right. During my last few runs, I have tried to concentrate on keeping my head up, and my back straight. I hope that by doing so, I will run more efficiently, reduce discomfort in my joints, and lose my Quasimodo hump.
I did pretty well on today's six-miler, never fixating too long on my moving feet. Whenever I did glance straight down, the post-it notes I'd stuck on my shoe tops admonishing me that "You are about to fall into a bottomless pit! Look up, Stoop-id!," frightened me back into proper form, with an effectiveness that Rex Harrison and my mother never would have imagined.
It was fascinating, too, all the things I noticed while I was running more like Homo Erectus, rather than Homo Slumpticus. Things like birds nests in tree tops, cars backing out of driveways, jet contrails in the clear, morning sky, and flying monkeys waiting to swoop down on plucky Cairn terriers.
I'm not going to be able to snap out of my tilted perspective in a week, I know. It took forty-six years to get where I am, so bringing me back to vertical might take just as long. Maybe the ninety-two year-old me will stand out, and stand tall in the crowd at the Retirement Corral, because of his perfect posture, when all his peers will be hunched over and shrunken. If I could just get close to straight, though, I'd be happy. If not the Washington Monument, then the Tower of Pisa. It's been standing longer, after all. Maybe it is better to be just a little bent.
Thanks for reading.
Though her efforts failed back then, the importance of good posture on lung capacity and core strength were not lost on me-I have just not been able to implement it. Even now, I continue to try to straighten up and run right. During my last few runs, I have tried to concentrate on keeping my head up, and my back straight. I hope that by doing so, I will run more efficiently, reduce discomfort in my joints, and lose my Quasimodo hump.
I did pretty well on today's six-miler, never fixating too long on my moving feet. Whenever I did glance straight down, the post-it notes I'd stuck on my shoe tops admonishing me that "You are about to fall into a bottomless pit! Look up, Stoop-id!," frightened me back into proper form, with an effectiveness that Rex Harrison and my mother never would have imagined.
It was fascinating, too, all the things I noticed while I was running more like Homo Erectus, rather than Homo Slumpticus. Things like birds nests in tree tops, cars backing out of driveways, jet contrails in the clear, morning sky, and flying monkeys waiting to swoop down on plucky Cairn terriers.
I'm not going to be able to snap out of my tilted perspective in a week, I know. It took forty-six years to get where I am, so bringing me back to vertical might take just as long. Maybe the ninety-two year-old me will stand out, and stand tall in the crowd at the Retirement Corral, because of his perfect posture, when all his peers will be hunched over and shrunken. If I could just get close to straight, though, I'd be happy. If not the Washington Monument, then the Tower of Pisa. It's been standing longer, after all. Maybe it is better to be just a little bent.
Thanks for reading.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
3/28/10
I was back at the track today, after a month-long absence, which was precipitated by the last workout I did there. I overexerted myself, caught a cold, had to break my consecutive running days streak, and had a case of laryngitis so bad, even Tom Waits would have winced to hear me speak.
Despite all that, I was back at the oval this noon, banging away at the Mondo Rubber beneath my feet. It was not warm, and overcast, and windy. Perfect conditions for another rhino virus invasion, should I compromise in the care of my health, which, as a non-Republican, I am prone to do.
There is a concern more serious than the common cold that I carry with me, though. Whenever I run extremely hard, whether at the track, or in a race, I feel at some point as if I am going to die. My chest is expanding to its limits, trying to help the lungs pull in more air, and that hurts. My heart feels like it is beating about two hundred times per minute, which is much higher than the maximum listed for men my age. (Note: As a child, I was diagnosed with tachycardia, a condition in which the heart receives a false electrical signal that causes it to beat much faster than normal. In my pediatrician's office, I was clocked going over two hundred bpm.) I then picture myself collapsing, my heart so utterly destroyed that no one can save me.
Of course, it's not uncommon for people to have heart attacks while running. The man who literally wrote the book that helped start the running craze in the '70s, Jim Fixx, died from one, while running. My youngest brother, a great runner, felt the warning signs of a heart attack while working out on a track, and had the sense to get himself to a hospital to be checked out. He had two heart attacks-while there. He was two months shy of his fortieth birthday. The blockage was in the vessel that feeds the main pumping chamber of the heart. Infarctions here are called "Widow Makers," because they usually result in sudden death. My brother, probably because his heart was so strong from years of exercise, survived, though he cannot enjoy the same intensity, or duration, of running that he used to. He has celebrated five birthdays since the attack, however, for which I am grateful.
That I now have a family history of heart disease also weighs on my mind, as I heave and gasp my way around the track. I could stop when it starts to get uncomfortable, or I could just not come here at all. I could choose never to push myself beyond an easy pace, and still enjoy the cardiovascular fitness jogging provides. But I haven't, and I won't. Going fast, even though it's not as fast as it used to be, is exciting, and I'm not yet ready to give up those thrills. I want to have some stories to tell the other geezers at the assisted care facility when I'm ninety-nine, and sucking my dinner through a straw. And not just about how bad things were during the Recession of The Aughts, either. I want to run until I die, and if I keep doing what I did today, I just might.
Thanks for humoring me.
Despite all that, I was back at the oval this noon, banging away at the Mondo Rubber beneath my feet. It was not warm, and overcast, and windy. Perfect conditions for another rhino virus invasion, should I compromise in the care of my health, which, as a non-Republican, I am prone to do.
There is a concern more serious than the common cold that I carry with me, though. Whenever I run extremely hard, whether at the track, or in a race, I feel at some point as if I am going to die. My chest is expanding to its limits, trying to help the lungs pull in more air, and that hurts. My heart feels like it is beating about two hundred times per minute, which is much higher than the maximum listed for men my age. (Note: As a child, I was diagnosed with tachycardia, a condition in which the heart receives a false electrical signal that causes it to beat much faster than normal. In my pediatrician's office, I was clocked going over two hundred bpm.) I then picture myself collapsing, my heart so utterly destroyed that no one can save me.
Of course, it's not uncommon for people to have heart attacks while running. The man who literally wrote the book that helped start the running craze in the '70s, Jim Fixx, died from one, while running. My youngest brother, a great runner, felt the warning signs of a heart attack while working out on a track, and had the sense to get himself to a hospital to be checked out. He had two heart attacks-while there. He was two months shy of his fortieth birthday. The blockage was in the vessel that feeds the main pumping chamber of the heart. Infarctions here are called "Widow Makers," because they usually result in sudden death. My brother, probably because his heart was so strong from years of exercise, survived, though he cannot enjoy the same intensity, or duration, of running that he used to. He has celebrated five birthdays since the attack, however, for which I am grateful.
That I now have a family history of heart disease also weighs on my mind, as I heave and gasp my way around the track. I could stop when it starts to get uncomfortable, or I could just not come here at all. I could choose never to push myself beyond an easy pace, and still enjoy the cardiovascular fitness jogging provides. But I haven't, and I won't. Going fast, even though it's not as fast as it used to be, is exciting, and I'm not yet ready to give up those thrills. I want to have some stories to tell the other geezers at the assisted care facility when I'm ninety-nine, and sucking my dinner through a straw. And not just about how bad things were during the Recession of The Aughts, either. I want to run until I die, and if I keep doing what I did today, I just might.
Thanks for humoring me.
Three A.M., W/Carlos 3/27/10
I can't sleep through the night anymore. I never have been a great sleeper, I must admit. Too many night terrors and anxieties. Too much sleep walking, and sensitivity to house sounds. But, there was one thing that could be said for me: I could hold more water than a water buffalo. I never got up at 3a.m. just to take a whizz. I might flail about until I knocked trophies off nightstands, and barstools onto the bridge of my nose, but I never made a conscious trip to the commode in order to assume the yoga position known as "The Pissing Crane."
The loss of capacity is doubtless age-related, as is my increased affection for the columns of Charles Guswelle. He is a 130 year-old KC Star columnist who writes often about cats and Russia, and in a rather stodgy style. I used to blow past his columns as quickly as I did the comic strip Mark Trail, but lately I have found my quartagenarian eyes straying to these two stalwarts. (Digression: I saw Mark stripped to the waist in a strip a few years back, and though his pecs were expectedly impressive, he had no nipples. Perhaps he has evolved faster than the rest of us fellows.) Since I want to be the next great, ancient cat columnist in KC, let me tell you about Carlos and I in the pissoir at 3a.m.
Carlos, our Cat Whom Hell Could Not Handle, is always up at that time, and he is always happy to see me. "Happy" is a wayy understatement. Obama was happy to get healthcare reform passed. Northern Iowa was happy to beat Kansas. Carlos is happy to the thirtieth power when I go into the bathroom er-lie in the mornin'. When I sit down-for two reasons: accuracy in the dark, and his tendency to give me love bites on the backs of my legs, which consequently decrease my accuracy in the dark-he throws himself down at my feet. He lolls. He purrs. So loudly, in fact that it registers on the Richter Scale. It makes me nervous, this joyous feline vibration. When I'm nervous, I can't pee. (Digression: I say "pee" more since I've gotten old, which I also said a lot when I was three. It probably means I'm going to start peeing more in my pants, necessitating a return to diaper usage. I doubt that Mark Trail will ever have any trouble with bladder control, which is fortunate, since he doesn't have a penis.) And when I can't pee, I spend way too much time on the crapper, which means I'm not in the bed sleeping.
So, the cat and my minuscule bladder keep me from getting the required amount of sleep. And insufficiency of sleep in my line of work, the proper fitting of running shoes, can have grave consequences. I once put a five-foot tall high-school sophomore girl into a pair of men's size 16 EEEEs. I just left the paper in. That afternoon at track practice, she tripped thirty times in one mile. Formerly a beautiful girl, she now has a nose like Mike Tyson. (Digression: More running shoes are misfit by the sleepy, than by the drunk, or those who text, and Mark Trail runs in his Ranger boots, but doesn't get blisters, because he doesn't have skin.)
In order to solve the problem, I am trying to get Carlos on the same nocturnal schedule as the rest of us. So far, a thousand dollars of quasi-legal Columbian cat tranquilizers have shown some promise, but I may have to dial back the dosage. He was out for a week, and I thought/hoped he might be dead. I've had pangs of conscience over my hopefulness ever since, which have cost me several nights' sleep. (Closing digression: Mark Trail loves his animal companion, the stout Saint Bernard, Andy, more than anything other than his own sideburns. Wishing him dead is unthinkable, even when The Big Fellow needs an expensive operation to fix his hip dysplasia.)
Thanks for reading.
The loss of capacity is doubtless age-related, as is my increased affection for the columns of Charles Guswelle. He is a 130 year-old KC Star columnist who writes often about cats and Russia, and in a rather stodgy style. I used to blow past his columns as quickly as I did the comic strip Mark Trail, but lately I have found my quartagenarian eyes straying to these two stalwarts. (Digression: I saw Mark stripped to the waist in a strip a few years back, and though his pecs were expectedly impressive, he had no nipples. Perhaps he has evolved faster than the rest of us fellows.) Since I want to be the next great, ancient cat columnist in KC, let me tell you about Carlos and I in the pissoir at 3a.m.
Carlos, our Cat Whom Hell Could Not Handle, is always up at that time, and he is always happy to see me. "Happy" is a wayy understatement. Obama was happy to get healthcare reform passed. Northern Iowa was happy to beat Kansas. Carlos is happy to the thirtieth power when I go into the bathroom er-lie in the mornin'. When I sit down-for two reasons: accuracy in the dark, and his tendency to give me love bites on the backs of my legs, which consequently decrease my accuracy in the dark-he throws himself down at my feet. He lolls. He purrs. So loudly, in fact that it registers on the Richter Scale. It makes me nervous, this joyous feline vibration. When I'm nervous, I can't pee. (Digression: I say "pee" more since I've gotten old, which I also said a lot when I was three. It probably means I'm going to start peeing more in my pants, necessitating a return to diaper usage. I doubt that Mark Trail will ever have any trouble with bladder control, which is fortunate, since he doesn't have a penis.) And when I can't pee, I spend way too much time on the crapper, which means I'm not in the bed sleeping.
So, the cat and my minuscule bladder keep me from getting the required amount of sleep. And insufficiency of sleep in my line of work, the proper fitting of running shoes, can have grave consequences. I once put a five-foot tall high-school sophomore girl into a pair of men's size 16 EEEEs. I just left the paper in. That afternoon at track practice, she tripped thirty times in one mile. Formerly a beautiful girl, she now has a nose like Mike Tyson. (Digression: More running shoes are misfit by the sleepy, than by the drunk, or those who text, and Mark Trail runs in his Ranger boots, but doesn't get blisters, because he doesn't have skin.)
In order to solve the problem, I am trying to get Carlos on the same nocturnal schedule as the rest of us. So far, a thousand dollars of quasi-legal Columbian cat tranquilizers have shown some promise, but I may have to dial back the dosage. He was out for a week, and I thought/hoped he might be dead. I've had pangs of conscience over my hopefulness ever since, which have cost me several nights' sleep. (Closing digression: Mark Trail loves his animal companion, the stout Saint Bernard, Andy, more than anything other than his own sideburns. Wishing him dead is unthinkable, even when The Big Fellow needs an expensive operation to fix his hip dysplasia.)
Thanks for reading.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
White Legs Johnson 3/26/10
I didn't run today, since I was still getting over yesterday's effort on the roads and the multiplex. So, today's entry relates to a windy, cold morning from a couple of weeks back, which was unrelated at the time, probably because I thought some list, or haiku would work better.
I was determined on that day to run in shorts, despite the temperature-about 32 degrees-and a wind so strong it deserved a reading on the Fujita scale, like F10. Before I undertake any run, I have to do my chores, which is why I had the trash bag in hand as I walked toward the dumpster in long-sleeved shirt, Nikes, and red short-shorts. My slouching gait allowed me to see, all at once: the bag, the shoes, and the legs, all of the same horrifying whiteness.
For the man who was the boy who wanted to be Jimi Hendrix, and Carlos Santana, and Willie Mays, this was a blood chilling sight. I got the chicken skin all over my pasty piernas. Where had all the melanin gone? Accursed Winter! Purloiner of pigment! I began the run with a feeling of loss, and a realization that I would never be more than seasonally sun-marked. I cursed my Hibernian ancestors and headed down the road.
My misery was made even greater, as if it needed to be, by a woman walking her dog the opposite way, who upon seeing my bare, white pines pushing palely up the hill, pulled back on her Schipperke, and shrieked, "Oh, my, your legs!." See, it's not just me.
Thanks for humoring me.
I was determined on that day to run in shorts, despite the temperature-about 32 degrees-and a wind so strong it deserved a reading on the Fujita scale, like F10. Before I undertake any run, I have to do my chores, which is why I had the trash bag in hand as I walked toward the dumpster in long-sleeved shirt, Nikes, and red short-shorts. My slouching gait allowed me to see, all at once: the bag, the shoes, and the legs, all of the same horrifying whiteness.
For the man who was the boy who wanted to be Jimi Hendrix, and Carlos Santana, and Willie Mays, this was a blood chilling sight. I got the chicken skin all over my pasty piernas. Where had all the melanin gone? Accursed Winter! Purloiner of pigment! I began the run with a feeling of loss, and a realization that I would never be more than seasonally sun-marked. I cursed my Hibernian ancestors and headed down the road.
My misery was made even greater, as if it needed to be, by a woman walking her dog the opposite way, who upon seeing my bare, white pines pushing palely up the hill, pulled back on her Schipperke, and shrieked, "Oh, my, your legs!." See, it's not just me.
Thanks for humoring me.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
A Post-Workout Workout 3/25/10
After a hard thirteen (Wasn't that Bernard Madoff's prison sentence?), like I did this morning, I probably shouldn't have gone to see "The Hurt Locker" in the afternoon. Normally, Amy and I would head over to the HyVee deli after a run like today's, but instead, we decided we wanted to try to catch up on our movie watching. Two slices of pepperoni pizza, and a Mountain Dew are usually all I need to get my old chassis restarted.
You probably know by now that this film won both the Best Picture, and Best Director Oscars. I would not argue with either verdict. There is no let-up, as the director packs drama into every moment, and the actors reveal their emotions, from fear, to rage, to horror, and even sardonic humor into every line of dialogue. It tells the story of an Army bomb technician and his team working in Iraq. The movie is so saturated with tension, that even the scenes between those related to bomb disposal are unbearably nerve-wracking. Those where they are out on missions keep the Oh-Shit-O-Meter pegged.
So, it was not the best choice for maxin', and relaxin'. I was wound up tight from the beginning, to the end, and then some. I think, actually, that the residual anxiety colored the rest of my evening. The mellowness that had followed my hard workout was transformed, after leaving the movie, into a sullen distancing from what should have been enjoyable activities, like watching the sunset with Amy, grocery shopping, watching basketball on TV, and walking the dog.
But, that transformative effect is what movies should always provide, and so rarely do. Most films are content to be mere entertainment, and there is nothing wrong with that. There are so many movies that we lower our expectations, knowing that they can't all be masterworks. I think we forget, however, that movies are an art form. They create an image of the world that had not existed before, so, they should provoke us to think about the world in ways that we had not previously. Movies should affect our feelings, if they are excellent, at least for a short time.
That's what "The Hurt Locker" did for me. It short-circuited my recovery process, to be sure, and it may have even put me in a funk for the rest of the evening. It was one of the most powerful experiences I have ever had while watching a movie, and one I will carry with me for a very long time. I'd trade a nap, a bottle of Mountain Dew, and two slices of pizza for that anyday.
Thanks for reading.
You probably know by now that this film won both the Best Picture, and Best Director Oscars. I would not argue with either verdict. There is no let-up, as the director packs drama into every moment, and the actors reveal their emotions, from fear, to rage, to horror, and even sardonic humor into every line of dialogue. It tells the story of an Army bomb technician and his team working in Iraq. The movie is so saturated with tension, that even the scenes between those related to bomb disposal are unbearably nerve-wracking. Those where they are out on missions keep the Oh-Shit-O-Meter pegged.
So, it was not the best choice for maxin', and relaxin'. I was wound up tight from the beginning, to the end, and then some. I think, actually, that the residual anxiety colored the rest of my evening. The mellowness that had followed my hard workout was transformed, after leaving the movie, into a sullen distancing from what should have been enjoyable activities, like watching the sunset with Amy, grocery shopping, watching basketball on TV, and walking the dog.
But, that transformative effect is what movies should always provide, and so rarely do. Most films are content to be mere entertainment, and there is nothing wrong with that. There are so many movies that we lower our expectations, knowing that they can't all be masterworks. I think we forget, however, that movies are an art form. They create an image of the world that had not existed before, so, they should provoke us to think about the world in ways that we had not previously. Movies should affect our feelings, if they are excellent, at least for a short time.
That's what "The Hurt Locker" did for me. It short-circuited my recovery process, to be sure, and it may have even put me in a funk for the rest of the evening. It was one of the most powerful experiences I have ever had while watching a movie, and one I will carry with me for a very long time. I'd trade a nap, a bottle of Mountain Dew, and two slices of pizza for that anyday.
Thanks for reading.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The Magic Shoes 3/24/10
Even now, in my declining years, I get a childlike excitement from running in new shoes. They are bright and clean, and at the peak of their physical capabilities. Just as I once was. And I mean once. I think the date was July 31, 1980, two weeks before my eighteenth birthday.
With new shoes, I trick myself into believing that the creaks I've been hearing in my joints will magically disappear, my training plan is invigorated, and delusions of One More Great Marathon fill my foggy brainpan. Lost in the fog is the reality of diminished oxygen-carrying capacity, creeping arthritis, and intermittent willpower. Yes, new shoes even trump physical decadence.
Today's six-miler was actually slower by eight seconds than yesterday's, even though the new shoes are lighter and bouncier. My breathing was somewhat labored, just like it was yesterday, even though atmospheric conditions were perfect-cool and humid, with light wind and rain-and the new, magic shoes were sending positive messages to my brain about how strong my lungs were. My knees were a little stiff, too, despite the new, bouncy foam tied to the ends of my legs.
All in all, it was a typical run: not extraordinarily fast, slow, mind-opening, or depressing. It was the equivalent of flossing my teeth. Not the kind of thing you wax excitedly about for hours, nor the kind of thing that makes you want to convert your shoelaces into a noose. It certainly didn't meet the expectations I had generated, simply by bringing home new shoes. I should just learn to face reality, I suppose, and remember that shoes are just tools, like hammers and computers. They only work within a range determined by their operator's ability to wield them. Or, I could just return these crappy old shoes, and get another pair.
Thanks for reading.
With new shoes, I trick myself into believing that the creaks I've been hearing in my joints will magically disappear, my training plan is invigorated, and delusions of One More Great Marathon fill my foggy brainpan. Lost in the fog is the reality of diminished oxygen-carrying capacity, creeping arthritis, and intermittent willpower. Yes, new shoes even trump physical decadence.
Today's six-miler was actually slower by eight seconds than yesterday's, even though the new shoes are lighter and bouncier. My breathing was somewhat labored, just like it was yesterday, even though atmospheric conditions were perfect-cool and humid, with light wind and rain-and the new, magic shoes were sending positive messages to my brain about how strong my lungs were. My knees were a little stiff, too, despite the new, bouncy foam tied to the ends of my legs.
All in all, it was a typical run: not extraordinarily fast, slow, mind-opening, or depressing. It was the equivalent of flossing my teeth. Not the kind of thing you wax excitedly about for hours, nor the kind of thing that makes you want to convert your shoelaces into a noose. It certainly didn't meet the expectations I had generated, simply by bringing home new shoes. I should just learn to face reality, I suppose, and remember that shoes are just tools, like hammers and computers. They only work within a range determined by their operator's ability to wield them. Or, I could just return these crappy old shoes, and get another pair.
Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Weightless March 23, 2010
A quick look at my physique will tell you that I am no body builder. In fact, most people only take a quick look at me before looking down, and mumbling, "Damn, that fifth-grader is tall. And he has a mustache, too."
As a long-distance runner, I spend most of my exercise time tearing down muscle. Pumped up biceps and pecs would be too bulky to allow me to run comfortably for a long time. Their undulations would also leave oncoming drivers nauseated.
I'm not sure I could even grow large muscles. I took a summer weightlifting course in junior high, which produced no positive results at all. Even the lightest dumbbell on the rack was beyond my ability to move. It was almost as if they had been glued in place. Most of the other participants were football players or wrestlers looking to bulk up before their practices started in the Fall and Winter. They had no empathy for a human stick figure who kept yelling out things like, "I know it says 'ten pounds,' but you have to multiply that by ten times, so it's really like one hundred pounds." (That I can't lift.) And when you can't even do one rep of the lightest weight, how can you do a set? And if you can't do one set, how can you drop the bar on the floor and yell, "Damn, that's what I'm talking about! How you like me now, Ahnold?"
Through physical maturation-finally-in my thirties, I have been able to do a little more heavy lifting. It's still not easy, however. I can shoulder press twenty-five pounds with one arm, eleven times. By the twelfth rep, my arm is shaking like a Ramen noodle holding up a hippo. Once, the cat came up and rubbed himself against my leg while I was in this state, and the resulting shock wave traveled up my torso, and into my shoulder. This triggered the collapse of the entire structure of the upper Mike Potts. The falling tonnage nearly flattened the feline, who would have had it coming.
I used to be embarrassed by my wimpiness, but no longer. My grandmother, eighty-nine years of age, has been doing some lifting as a way to improve her bone density. Except for those in my head, I would agree her bones are denser than mine, because, not only can she lift more than I, she can crush me in arm wrestling. As a result, all the ladies in her social circle have taken up the weights, in hopes of one day pinning the back of my hand to the table. It doesn't bother me any: being trash-talked by your grandma just doesn't have the same stigma as it would coming from one of your peers, "And I, an elderly lady, just defeated you in this test of strength, in which you would clearly, as a man, and younger, have seemed to be at an advantage-Beeyotch." You see what I'm saying?
Besides, I'm strong enough to do most of the things I need to do to survive. I can start the car, steer it to the store, push the cart, load it with food, and swipe my debit card at the register to pay for it. Thank God, though, that they have someone to bag it up for me. That would take me all day. So many Eggo cartons!
As a long-distance runner, I spend most of my exercise time tearing down muscle. Pumped up biceps and pecs would be too bulky to allow me to run comfortably for a long time. Their undulations would also leave oncoming drivers nauseated.
I'm not sure I could even grow large muscles. I took a summer weightlifting course in junior high, which produced no positive results at all. Even the lightest dumbbell on the rack was beyond my ability to move. It was almost as if they had been glued in place. Most of the other participants were football players or wrestlers looking to bulk up before their practices started in the Fall and Winter. They had no empathy for a human stick figure who kept yelling out things like, "I know it says 'ten pounds,' but you have to multiply that by ten times, so it's really like one hundred pounds." (That I can't lift.) And when you can't even do one rep of the lightest weight, how can you do a set? And if you can't do one set, how can you drop the bar on the floor and yell, "Damn, that's what I'm talking about! How you like me now, Ahnold?"
Through physical maturation-finally-in my thirties, I have been able to do a little more heavy lifting. It's still not easy, however. I can shoulder press twenty-five pounds with one arm, eleven times. By the twelfth rep, my arm is shaking like a Ramen noodle holding up a hippo. Once, the cat came up and rubbed himself against my leg while I was in this state, and the resulting shock wave traveled up my torso, and into my shoulder. This triggered the collapse of the entire structure of the upper Mike Potts. The falling tonnage nearly flattened the feline, who would have had it coming.
I used to be embarrassed by my wimpiness, but no longer. My grandmother, eighty-nine years of age, has been doing some lifting as a way to improve her bone density. Except for those in my head, I would agree her bones are denser than mine, because, not only can she lift more than I, she can crush me in arm wrestling. As a result, all the ladies in her social circle have taken up the weights, in hopes of one day pinning the back of my hand to the table. It doesn't bother me any: being trash-talked by your grandma just doesn't have the same stigma as it would coming from one of your peers, "And I, an elderly lady, just defeated you in this test of strength, in which you would clearly, as a man, and younger, have seemed to be at an advantage-Beeyotch." You see what I'm saying?
Besides, I'm strong enough to do most of the things I need to do to survive. I can start the car, steer it to the store, push the cart, load it with food, and swipe my debit card at the register to pay for it. Thank God, though, that they have someone to bag it up for me. That would take me all day. So many Eggo cartons!
A Hog on Ice 3/ 22/ 2010
Our apartment building sits at the bottom of a long hill, in a sort of cul-de-sac. And when it rains, or snow melts, the water gets stuck down there until it evaporates, or until migrating herds of wildebeest come to drink it.
This morning, before the wildebeesties came, I set out in the dark for my run. As soon as I stepped into the road, I slipped on the water, or ice, as the water from the snowmelt had refrozen, trapping several crocodiles beneath. Collecting myself after this near disaster, I headed back into the building, in order to warn my wife of the icy danger. As soon as I hit the sidewalk, I nearly hit the sidewalk, finding yet another swatch of slickness with my oafish hooves. I think the only reason I didn't fall was that I flailed about so wildly, one arm up, the other down, one foot going east, the other southeast, I confounded gravity into momentarily releasing its grip upon me. When I finished this impromptu Triple Toe-Loop, I stuck out my arms, thrust back my head and sang, "Ta-da!" The judge from Burkina Faso gave me a 5.0, purely out of sympathy.
Winter gave it one more try; I have to hand it to her. She tried to knock me down, spit in my face, and slander my name all over the place. But I prevailed. I stuck the landing, and came up smiling.
Thanks for humoring me.
This morning, before the wildebeesties came, I set out in the dark for my run. As soon as I stepped into the road, I slipped on the water, or ice, as the water from the snowmelt had refrozen, trapping several crocodiles beneath. Collecting myself after this near disaster, I headed back into the building, in order to warn my wife of the icy danger. As soon as I hit the sidewalk, I nearly hit the sidewalk, finding yet another swatch of slickness with my oafish hooves. I think the only reason I didn't fall was that I flailed about so wildly, one arm up, the other down, one foot going east, the other southeast, I confounded gravity into momentarily releasing its grip upon me. When I finished this impromptu Triple Toe-Loop, I stuck out my arms, thrust back my head and sang, "Ta-da!" The judge from Burkina Faso gave me a 5.0, purely out of sympathy.
Winter gave it one more try; I have to hand it to her. She tried to knock me down, spit in my face, and slander my name all over the place. But I prevailed. I stuck the landing, and came up smiling.
Thanks for humoring me.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Another List March 21, 2010
Five Things You Won't Catch People Other Than Mike Potts Doing
1. Joe Mauer Telling The Truth, "No, of course I'm not worth $23 million a year, just for playing baseball. But the Yankees would have offered me $24 million eventually, and if they had me, face it, they would rule the world forever. The sun would be blacked out of the sky, and baseball fans who don't live in NYC would be crushed by red-eyed automatons wearing pinstripes. It would make 'The Terminator' look like 'Fantasia.'"
2. KU Basketball Fans Gaining Perspective: James Naismith is not going to rise from his grave, just because the Jayhawks were knocked out of the NCAA Men's B-Ball Tournament. It was a shocking defeat in a basketball game, that's all. For heart-rending emotion, it can't even touch the death of Bambi's mother. Next year, if they lose their annual "match-up" with Chanute State, or whatever Kansas Division VI school they have scheduled, then you can give Elizabeth Kubler-Ross a call.
3. Picking Up Their Own Dog's Crap: I thought all civilized people had agreed to do this. Isn't the U.S. a signatory to the Kyoto Pooper Scooper Treaty? Our Scottish Terrier takes three or four dumps a day. The gross (and I do mean gross) weight of said shit is about one one-millionth of a nanogram. I pick it up every time, regardless of rain, wind, mushiness, or dark of night. (I have night-vision, heat-sensitive goggles.) Meanwhile, the guy who owns the boxer leaves about ten pounds of processed Alpo and hog jowls to burn deep holes in the Earth. I don't say anything because I don't have health insurance, and both he and the dog are bigger than I am.
4. Getting Busted For Turning Right on Red, Without Coming to a Full Stop: I'm the only person who has ever gotten a ticket for this. Naturally, I did it right in front of an officer of the North Kansas City Department of Revenue, who told me that he honestly didn't think he'd ever seen that before. I was held for three days in the City Jail, while the City Attorney combed the statute book for the proper fine to be levied. Six thousand, three hundred, twenty-four dollars. Thanks to me, NKC was able to break ground on its new community center. In order to make up for the loss of half my yearly wages, I began a second career giving cautionary speeches to high-school kids, telling them how this archaic transgression had ruined my life, but that there was still time for them to avoid such a financially-strapped fate. Sadly for my credit rating, attendance was not mandatory, and society is more endangered for it.
5. Going To The Counter at Taco Bell, Instead of the Drive-Thru: It does not matter if you are the only one at the counter, and there are twenty cars outside in that long, gray, ozone line, you will wait for your food until every single one of those cars is gone, even if you only ordered one, lettuce-laden, regular taco. They have a time goal of three minutes for every car, and one week for every walk-in customer. Americans love polar bears, but they love tostadas handed to them while they listen to John Mayer on their car stereos even more.
Thanks for humoring me.
1. Joe Mauer Telling The Truth, "No, of course I'm not worth $23 million a year, just for playing baseball. But the Yankees would have offered me $24 million eventually, and if they had me, face it, they would rule the world forever. The sun would be blacked out of the sky, and baseball fans who don't live in NYC would be crushed by red-eyed automatons wearing pinstripes. It would make 'The Terminator' look like 'Fantasia.'"
2. KU Basketball Fans Gaining Perspective: James Naismith is not going to rise from his grave, just because the Jayhawks were knocked out of the NCAA Men's B-Ball Tournament. It was a shocking defeat in a basketball game, that's all. For heart-rending emotion, it can't even touch the death of Bambi's mother. Next year, if they lose their annual "match-up" with Chanute State, or whatever Kansas Division VI school they have scheduled, then you can give Elizabeth Kubler-Ross a call.
3. Picking Up Their Own Dog's Crap: I thought all civilized people had agreed to do this. Isn't the U.S. a signatory to the Kyoto Pooper Scooper Treaty? Our Scottish Terrier takes three or four dumps a day. The gross (and I do mean gross) weight of said shit is about one one-millionth of a nanogram. I pick it up every time, regardless of rain, wind, mushiness, or dark of night. (I have night-vision, heat-sensitive goggles.) Meanwhile, the guy who owns the boxer leaves about ten pounds of processed Alpo and hog jowls to burn deep holes in the Earth. I don't say anything because I don't have health insurance, and both he and the dog are bigger than I am.
4. Getting Busted For Turning Right on Red, Without Coming to a Full Stop: I'm the only person who has ever gotten a ticket for this. Naturally, I did it right in front of an officer of the North Kansas City Department of Revenue, who told me that he honestly didn't think he'd ever seen that before. I was held for three days in the City Jail, while the City Attorney combed the statute book for the proper fine to be levied. Six thousand, three hundred, twenty-four dollars. Thanks to me, NKC was able to break ground on its new community center. In order to make up for the loss of half my yearly wages, I began a second career giving cautionary speeches to high-school kids, telling them how this archaic transgression had ruined my life, but that there was still time for them to avoid such a financially-strapped fate. Sadly for my credit rating, attendance was not mandatory, and society is more endangered for it.
5. Going To The Counter at Taco Bell, Instead of the Drive-Thru: It does not matter if you are the only one at the counter, and there are twenty cars outside in that long, gray, ozone line, you will wait for your food until every single one of those cars is gone, even if you only ordered one, lettuce-laden, regular taco. They have a time goal of three minutes for every car, and one week for every walk-in customer. Americans love polar bears, but they love tostadas handed to them while they listen to John Mayer on their car stereos even more.
Thanks for humoring me.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
March 20, 2010
My wife is to blame for the snow that fell last night and this morning. She loves snow; can't get enough of it. If she were President of the World, the atmosphere would be covered in cheap plastic, thereby turning the planet into a snowglobe.
Last Winter, her first in Kansas City, was mild, and nearly snow-free. It made her pine for the snowbound seasons of her Iowa youth. Her husband is allergic to pain, and boycotted any return to the Frozen Freakin' Hawkeye State, because, whereas gay marriage is recognized there, the recreational use of morphine to combat frostbite is not.
And so, she prayed for snow and cold weather here this Winter. And, as she is a good and pious woman, who has suffered mightily during her time in this not-so-severe land, the Lord heard her cries. Amy, to paraphrase Richard Pryor, is tight with God. And, since her husband is a godless proponent of Big Government, his pleas for deliverance from the icy tempest were ignored. Perhaps he should seek redress from Barack the Almighty.
Well, she got her old-fashioned, cold, snowy Winter, which has now rolled over into Spring. I can only hope she does not begin to negotiate with The Almighty over a White Fourth of July.
Thanks for reading.
Last Winter, her first in Kansas City, was mild, and nearly snow-free. It made her pine for the snowbound seasons of her Iowa youth. Her husband is allergic to pain, and boycotted any return to the Frozen Freakin' Hawkeye State, because, whereas gay marriage is recognized there, the recreational use of morphine to combat frostbite is not.
And so, she prayed for snow and cold weather here this Winter. And, as she is a good and pious woman, who has suffered mightily during her time in this not-so-severe land, the Lord heard her cries. Amy, to paraphrase Richard Pryor, is tight with God. And, since her husband is a godless proponent of Big Government, his pleas for deliverance from the icy tempest were ignored. Perhaps he should seek redress from Barack the Almighty.
Well, she got her old-fashioned, cold, snowy Winter, which has now rolled over into Spring. I can only hope she does not begin to negotiate with The Almighty over a White Fourth of July.
Thanks for reading.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Cracked Bracket March 19, 2010
I took today off, a decision made within three seconds of finishing yesterday's Masochism Marathon. Even though I'm a glutton for punishment, I go to Royals games after all, I'm not a complete dope. I actually took a picture of myself with my phone, just in case I rationalized a way to sneak in a run. Something like, "You can really run quite will with only one functioning kidney." I looked at the guy in the picture this morning while I was slipping on my Pumas. The guy looked like he ought to be on a terrorism watch list: sunken cheeks, dried mucus on his shirt, thousand-yard stare, fuse sticking out of his shorts. Gasping, I took off my Pumas and decided to do something else.
Like, fill in my NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament bracket. I didn't do too badly, for a guy who pays as much attention to college hoops, as he does to speed limit signs. I lost a couple of tough ones-Northern Iowa and Murray State beat me on last second shots, and Notre Dame beat me by missing theirs. (No carryover for Irish luck on March 18th?) I picked UTEP to beat Butler, mostly because I think UTEP is cool to say. It sounds like the name of an Egyptian pharaoh. But Butler kicked their butts all the way back to EP. I'm not even sure where Butler is? Butlerville? Are they from Canada?
The biggest hit of the day was delivered by the Bobcats of Ohio University. THE Ohio university, that is. They smote the Hoyas of Georgetown, who played so badly, they should get a loss in their first game next year, too. There is no way I would have picked this one right. A coworker did, though. She said she picked the Ohioans because she couldn't read the seedings in the paper, and just went with the one she liked better. Ohio was seeded 14th. They were just fodder to be fed to one of the Beasts of the East. Well, the Noyas choked on it, so now they have to go back to Washington D.C., and listen to arguments in the health care reform debate as their punishment.
I had a good day, all in all. My record was 11-5. Not bad for a novice whose basketball expertise goes no farther than knowing that technically, a technical foul is not really a foul, and there is no such thing as traveling.
Thanks for humoring me.
Like, fill in my NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament bracket. I didn't do too badly, for a guy who pays as much attention to college hoops, as he does to speed limit signs. I lost a couple of tough ones-Northern Iowa and Murray State beat me on last second shots, and Notre Dame beat me by missing theirs. (No carryover for Irish luck on March 18th?) I picked UTEP to beat Butler, mostly because I think UTEP is cool to say. It sounds like the name of an Egyptian pharaoh. But Butler kicked their butts all the way back to EP. I'm not even sure where Butler is? Butlerville? Are they from Canada?
The biggest hit of the day was delivered by the Bobcats of Ohio University. THE Ohio university, that is. They smote the Hoyas of Georgetown, who played so badly, they should get a loss in their first game next year, too. There is no way I would have picked this one right. A coworker did, though. She said she picked the Ohioans because she couldn't read the seedings in the paper, and just went with the one she liked better. Ohio was seeded 14th. They were just fodder to be fed to one of the Beasts of the East. Well, the Noyas choked on it, so now they have to go back to Washington D.C., and listen to arguments in the health care reform debate as their punishment.
I had a good day, all in all. My record was 11-5. Not bad for a novice whose basketball expertise goes no farther than knowing that technically, a technical foul is not really a foul, and there is no such thing as traveling.
Thanks for humoring me.
March 18, 2010
Twenty-three is such a weird number. I really just pulled that out of thin air as my distance for today's run. Halfway between twenty, which I have already accomplished, and twenty-six, the marathon distance.
It was Michael Jordan's uniform number, and is LeBron James', too, but I'm not a fan of either, so I couldn't draw inspiration from those sources.
It's a prime number, indivisible by any number other than itself, or one. I was a very poor math student, but at least I remember that. I also remember that I saw a classmate snort cocaine off his desk during a high-school geometry class. He was the only kid who managed to stay awake for that hour.
Well, no matter the reason, I elected to try twenty-three miles, one week after I was so under the weather, that I couldn't do more than two without coughing up my spleen. It would be seven more miles than I ran all last week. A little bit of a stretch, I know, but I only have a month until my marathon, so there's no way to push this back any farther.
I didn't quite make it. I chugged along pretty well until fourteen, when the granola I had with my yogurt late Wednesday night asserted itself. I think that therein lay the nuggets of my undoing. The time I spent in the bathroom caused my quads to stiffen up, and the sweat to pour off my inwardly-sloping brow.
The next five-and-a-half miles were more of a slog than they were before I stopped. When my knees are in motion, they will stay in motion until some force, like fiber, acts to stop them. And when they are at rest, they will remain at rest, until some force, my wavering will, forces them back into motion. At nineteen-and-a-half, I was wobbling like a zombie in a liquor store, so I started walking.
It was a tenth of a mile walk, then four-tenths of a mile scuffling while looking at my GPS, chug water, repeat, for the remainder. I finished the distance, if not quite in the glorious fashion I had previously envisioned. I could barely make it up the stairs, and since Amy was working, there was no one home to feel sorry for me, tell me how brave I was, and hook up my IV drip of Sunny Delight. I even had to peel my own banana-the eating of which took about an hour.
I have another long run in two weeks, and I plan to let the lessons from this one inform my choice of distance. Should I scale it back, or try to tackle twenty-three again, since I was so close? My guess is that not only will I have forgotten all about today's difficulty, I will convince myself that I need to try to get even closer to the marathon distance, in order to prepare mentally, as well as physically.
I'm guessing that I'll say, as Ernie Banks might, "Today is a great day to go twenty-five."
Thanks for humoring me.
It was Michael Jordan's uniform number, and is LeBron James', too, but I'm not a fan of either, so I couldn't draw inspiration from those sources.
It's a prime number, indivisible by any number other than itself, or one. I was a very poor math student, but at least I remember that. I also remember that I saw a classmate snort cocaine off his desk during a high-school geometry class. He was the only kid who managed to stay awake for that hour.
Well, no matter the reason, I elected to try twenty-three miles, one week after I was so under the weather, that I couldn't do more than two without coughing up my spleen. It would be seven more miles than I ran all last week. A little bit of a stretch, I know, but I only have a month until my marathon, so there's no way to push this back any farther.
I didn't quite make it. I chugged along pretty well until fourteen, when the granola I had with my yogurt late Wednesday night asserted itself. I think that therein lay the nuggets of my undoing. The time I spent in the bathroom caused my quads to stiffen up, and the sweat to pour off my inwardly-sloping brow.
The next five-and-a-half miles were more of a slog than they were before I stopped. When my knees are in motion, they will stay in motion until some force, like fiber, acts to stop them. And when they are at rest, they will remain at rest, until some force, my wavering will, forces them back into motion. At nineteen-and-a-half, I was wobbling like a zombie in a liquor store, so I started walking.
It was a tenth of a mile walk, then four-tenths of a mile scuffling while looking at my GPS, chug water, repeat, for the remainder. I finished the distance, if not quite in the glorious fashion I had previously envisioned. I could barely make it up the stairs, and since Amy was working, there was no one home to feel sorry for me, tell me how brave I was, and hook up my IV drip of Sunny Delight. I even had to peel my own banana-the eating of which took about an hour.
I have another long run in two weeks, and I plan to let the lessons from this one inform my choice of distance. Should I scale it back, or try to tackle twenty-three again, since I was so close? My guess is that not only will I have forgotten all about today's difficulty, I will convince myself that I need to try to get even closer to the marathon distance, in order to prepare mentally, as well as physically.
I'm guessing that I'll say, as Ernie Banks might, "Today is a great day to go twenty-five."
Thanks for humoring me.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
A Wee Leprechaun 3/17/10
Here's a mercifully short entry after yesterday's blarney-blog:
I ran an easy six today, with no major problems. The cold seems to be almost gone, but the Tom Waits vocals remain. Mucinex did me no good, but at least I can tell my Mom I tried it, since she was pretty adamant that it would put me back in Pavarotti voice immediately.
Tomorrow I have the long run I postponed last week. Hoping to go 23. Stay tuned to this space for results.
Thanks for reading.
I ran an easy six today, with no major problems. The cold seems to be almost gone, but the Tom Waits vocals remain. Mucinex did me no good, but at least I can tell my Mom I tried it, since she was pretty adamant that it would put me back in Pavarotti voice immediately.
Tomorrow I have the long run I postponed last week. Hoping to go 23. Stay tuned to this space for results.
Thanks for reading.
Nipular Tectonics 3/16/10
I put prophylactics on my nipples before every run. Not in the condomular sense, of course. I am not worried about my nipples reproducing while I exercise. I am a man; I cannot give birth to nipples. I mean prophylactic in the sense of being a preventive measure against disease or injury.
When I say disease, I do not mean something as terrifying as Alzheimer's Disease of the Nipple-a band-aid cannot stop that. Only by keeping your nipples mentally active can you prevent them from forgetting who you are later in life. They might wander off and attach themselves to someone else's chest in your eighties, if you do not engage them in activities that challenge them, such as crossword puzzles, yoga, and piano lessons.
And when I say injury, I do not mean something like a sprained nipple. I once tripped while running on a rocky trail, landing flat on my very flat chest. My right nipple took the majority of the impact, suffering a severe sprain. I can tell you that my Nip-Guards had not signed up for that kind of duty. I was in a nipple brace for six weeks, with two months of intense rehab afterwards. I was given an arduous series of strengthening and stretching exercises, in order to re-train my nipples to do what they had so naturally done before the fall: bounce up and down.
And that bouncing is precisely why I need to cover my utterly unprotected udders. You see, I suffer from exercise-induced propulsive nippleitis, or EIPN. When I start to run, my nipples instantly go from subterranean, to Himalayan, a process that has been likewise applied to the formation of continents, mountain ranges, and fault lines. Uncovered, they thrust their points right between the fibers of my shirt. Thus trapped, they panic, flailing about desperately, bruising and cutting themselves.
From my description of the violent forces at work, you might think that some elaborately constructed system of counter weights and hydraulic levers might be necessary to counteract the destruction wrought by nipular upthrusting. They have been tried, and they have failed. You can find on youtube, a horrifying video of The Nipple Pounder 3000, which a Finninsh engineer, Maki Ruotimaki built and suspended over my chest. It featured a network of 22 cables, and three water flumes, all coordinated to drive two ten-inch teak pillars into my nipples, as soon as nipular propulsion was detected. The results, played out over thirty, soggy, bloody seconds, have become the most-watched video ever on the above-mentioned site. There I am, writhing in pain, swearing at Maki in Finnish to turn the damned thing off, while these pillars pound my chest to hamburger, cables snap and blind my support crew, and a torrent of water floods an unsuspecting Helsinki suburb.
While convalescing, and plotting to kill Mr. Ruotimaki, I was inadvertently administered the solution to my lifelong problem. A kind nurse, Hoikkala Parvatsalainen, bandaged my chestular contusions daily, and in the most simple way: by cutting off the adhesive ends, and placing them on my teetering teats. Not only did the swelling subside after several years, but lo, the nipples were neutralized. Never once did they rise to sea level. Eureka! Ikea! I asked Hoikkala where she had come up with this most simple and likely non-litigable solution. She answered in the way that all Finns do: in a completely indecipherable mishmash of consonants and vowels that is the Finnish language. My head was spinning, but my nipples were suppressed, which I considered answer enough.
These days I keep a well-stocked inventory of inexpensive bandages in the linen closet. So many, in fact, that I no longer have room for towels. Whenever I cut off the ends, I place one each on my precious pectoral protuberances. On the left, I always draw the flag of Finland: white background, with a light blue cross turned on its side. On the right, I inscribe the name of my Finnish Florence Nightingale, but only her first name. And really, not even all of that, since there isn't enough room, and I don't want to waste another band-aid. So, in my concise way, I thank Hoikk, from the bottom of my left nipple, just above my heart.
Thanks for humoring me.
When I say disease, I do not mean something as terrifying as Alzheimer's Disease of the Nipple-a band-aid cannot stop that. Only by keeping your nipples mentally active can you prevent them from forgetting who you are later in life. They might wander off and attach themselves to someone else's chest in your eighties, if you do not engage them in activities that challenge them, such as crossword puzzles, yoga, and piano lessons.
And when I say injury, I do not mean something like a sprained nipple. I once tripped while running on a rocky trail, landing flat on my very flat chest. My right nipple took the majority of the impact, suffering a severe sprain. I can tell you that my Nip-Guards had not signed up for that kind of duty. I was in a nipple brace for six weeks, with two months of intense rehab afterwards. I was given an arduous series of strengthening and stretching exercises, in order to re-train my nipples to do what they had so naturally done before the fall: bounce up and down.
And that bouncing is precisely why I need to cover my utterly unprotected udders. You see, I suffer from exercise-induced propulsive nippleitis, or EIPN. When I start to run, my nipples instantly go from subterranean, to Himalayan, a process that has been likewise applied to the formation of continents, mountain ranges, and fault lines. Uncovered, they thrust their points right between the fibers of my shirt. Thus trapped, they panic, flailing about desperately, bruising and cutting themselves.
From my description of the violent forces at work, you might think that some elaborately constructed system of counter weights and hydraulic levers might be necessary to counteract the destruction wrought by nipular upthrusting. They have been tried, and they have failed. You can find on youtube, a horrifying video of The Nipple Pounder 3000, which a Finninsh engineer, Maki Ruotimaki built and suspended over my chest. It featured a network of 22 cables, and three water flumes, all coordinated to drive two ten-inch teak pillars into my nipples, as soon as nipular propulsion was detected. The results, played out over thirty, soggy, bloody seconds, have become the most-watched video ever on the above-mentioned site. There I am, writhing in pain, swearing at Maki in Finnish to turn the damned thing off, while these pillars pound my chest to hamburger, cables snap and blind my support crew, and a torrent of water floods an unsuspecting Helsinki suburb.
While convalescing, and plotting to kill Mr. Ruotimaki, I was inadvertently administered the solution to my lifelong problem. A kind nurse, Hoikkala Parvatsalainen, bandaged my chestular contusions daily, and in the most simple way: by cutting off the adhesive ends, and placing them on my teetering teats. Not only did the swelling subside after several years, but lo, the nipples were neutralized. Never once did they rise to sea level. Eureka! Ikea! I asked Hoikkala where she had come up with this most simple and likely non-litigable solution. She answered in the way that all Finns do: in a completely indecipherable mishmash of consonants and vowels that is the Finnish language. My head was spinning, but my nipples were suppressed, which I considered answer enough.
These days I keep a well-stocked inventory of inexpensive bandages in the linen closet. So many, in fact, that I no longer have room for towels. Whenever I cut off the ends, I place one each on my precious pectoral protuberances. On the left, I always draw the flag of Finland: white background, with a light blue cross turned on its side. On the right, I inscribe the name of my Finnish Florence Nightingale, but only her first name. And really, not even all of that, since there isn't enough room, and I don't want to waste another band-aid. So, in my concise way, I thank Hoikk, from the bottom of my left nipple, just above my heart.
Thanks for humoring me.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Things I Will Never Do 3/15/ 2010
1. Birth no babies. (Or even contribute to making one. You can thank me anytime, world.)
2. Dunk a basketball on a ten foot-high basket. (In my prime I could barely touch the net. No one ever called me Potts Skywalker.)
3. Pass on the highway a vehicle bearing dealer plates. (They must always be on the run from angry customers, or the law.)
4. Have any kind of primate for a pet. (Other than our 200-lb chimpanzee-cat hybrid, Carlos.)
5. Understand which song really is American Idol judge Randy Jackson's all-time favorite. (I think he said that three songs in a row, on a recent show.)
I did run five miles today, and it went alright.
Thanks for reading.
2. Dunk a basketball on a ten foot-high basket. (In my prime I could barely touch the net. No one ever called me Potts Skywalker.)
3. Pass on the highway a vehicle bearing dealer plates. (They must always be on the run from angry customers, or the law.)
4. Have any kind of primate for a pet. (Other than our 200-lb chimpanzee-cat hybrid, Carlos.)
5. Understand which song really is American Idol judge Randy Jackson's all-time favorite. (I think he said that three songs in a row, on a recent show.)
I did run five miles today, and it went alright.
Thanks for reading.
A Sign of Maturity March 14, 2010
I didn't run today. I got dressed for it, did my core exercises, walked out of the building, then...walked back into the building and went to bed. I had caught a chill at some point, and just couldn't shake it. I didn't warm up, no matter what I did. I turned up the heater. Then I burned our credit card bills-that was quite a blaze, and our hearts were filled with joy, but it didn't make me feel any better physically.
So, I took a zero for the day. There was a time not all that long ago when I ran with a fever. I cut my route short that day because I couldn't breathe, and I felt like my skin was on fire. It turned out that I had an ear infection requiring antibiotics, and my running had not helped at all. Well, it might have helped the ER staff at the hospital to have something to laugh about during their long, stressful shifts.
No miles today; no problem. I'll take another whack at it again tomorrow.
Thanks for reading.
So, I took a zero for the day. There was a time not all that long ago when I ran with a fever. I cut my route short that day because I couldn't breathe, and I felt like my skin was on fire. It turned out that I had an ear infection requiring antibiotics, and my running had not helped at all. Well, it might have helped the ER staff at the hospital to have something to laugh about during their long, stressful shifts.
No miles today; no problem. I'll take another whack at it again tomorrow.
Thanks for reading.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The Vito Voce 3/13/10
For the last couple of days, my voice has descended into a depressing Corleonean rasp. On the one hand, it's the only good thing to come from this never-ending cold, on the other, I'm afraid that it might be here to stay. I love Godfather, and G-II, so much that I find myself inserting lines of dialogue from them into my real life. Yesterday at work, I asked a man to sign his receipt, but he refused, saying that he didn't have to sign when his card was used as a debit, rather than credit. Perhaps I went a little too heavy when I told him, "Either your brains or your signature are going to be on that paper before you leave here." His teenage son thought it was cool, but only because he temporarily hates his dad. When the father, with shaking hand, did as I had asked, I told him, "It's not personal, you understand, only business." Then he kissed my ring, and asked, "Will you be my friend, Godfather?" Actually, I could get used to that.
Thanks for humoring me.
Thanks for humoring me.
S'not Bad March 12,2010
Still carrying more phlegm and bile than Dick Cheney waterboarding the U.S. Constitution, my cold-afflicted mug coughed, spit, and blew mucus on the formerly phlegm-free streets of my neighborhood this morning. I expected to expectorate, if not so frequently, and with such an array of colors: puce, fuchsia, taupe, mauve, lavender, chili verde-it was like a moving Jackson Pollock painting.
I remember that my dad used to run with a handkerchief-perhaps he still does-so that he wouldn't goober up the public byways. It was a very gentlemanly thing to do, a step back to an earlier time, an age before facial tissue. In those days, people felt a personal responsibility for their snot. So much so, in fact, that they would rather carry a rag saturated with it in their shirt pocket for an entire day. While I admire that ethic, pulling a drenched clot of cloth from behind your pocket protector in the age of H1N1 and the Civet Cat Crud, might just land a guy in a quarantined boat off the coast of Wahoozistan.
I mean, there just ain't enough hand sanitizer in this world...Better to get rid of it in the light of day, where sunshine and ravens can dispense with it. As long as I don't lay a lugie on a cop's shoe, I don't see any punishable offense here. And the sooner I get the junk out of my system, the sooner I can get back to being a productive, non-infectious worker bee.
Thanks for reading.
I remember that my dad used to run with a handkerchief-perhaps he still does-so that he wouldn't goober up the public byways. It was a very gentlemanly thing to do, a step back to an earlier time, an age before facial tissue. In those days, people felt a personal responsibility for their snot. So much so, in fact, that they would rather carry a rag saturated with it in their shirt pocket for an entire day. While I admire that ethic, pulling a drenched clot of cloth from behind your pocket protector in the age of H1N1 and the Civet Cat Crud, might just land a guy in a quarantined boat off the coast of Wahoozistan.
I mean, there just ain't enough hand sanitizer in this world...Better to get rid of it in the light of day, where sunshine and ravens can dispense with it. As long as I don't lay a lugie on a cop's shoe, I don't see any punishable offense here. And the sooner I get the junk out of my system, the sooner I can get back to being a productive, non-infectious worker bee.
Thanks for reading.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Idiot Out Running Around 3/11/10
I expected to wake up this morning cold-free and loving it. Instead, I was still a little achy, chilled, and tired. My marathon-training schedule called for a twenty-three miler, but I was willing to scale that back, be realistic. Maybe just sixteen. O.K., maybe just ten. Then, definitely no more than six. Six is my average. I could do that on one leg. On one lung. In a superhero comic-book universe of my life, maybe.
I started slowly up the first hill-I didn't care about pace-I just wanted to log some time. It didn't matter. My body was struggling with whatever Death Funk had invaded it, though, so adding the stress of elective exercise shot my heart and respiratory rates out of sight. I felt as if I had climbed Mt.Everest without oxygen, while carrying a Sherpa. I thought I might drop dead, then roll back down the hill. Wouldn't that have been interesting to our cat, who was probably still sitting in the window, watching? I think the first fish-ape-humanoid who crawled out of the water, saw the saber-toothed giant rat coming for him, and scurried up a tree, had probably felt better than I did.
My goal then changed from six, to two miles-and after a phlegm-cleanse, make sure the life insurance policy was in order. This run sucked, as my wife says, "Like peanut butter through a straw." (Chunky would suck even worse, Darlin') A billion people in India, when asked for their opinion, replied, "Duh," which is short for "Duhmmy."
Thanks for humoring me.
I started slowly up the first hill-I didn't care about pace-I just wanted to log some time. It didn't matter. My body was struggling with whatever Death Funk had invaded it, though, so adding the stress of elective exercise shot my heart and respiratory rates out of sight. I felt as if I had climbed Mt.Everest without oxygen, while carrying a Sherpa. I thought I might drop dead, then roll back down the hill. Wouldn't that have been interesting to our cat, who was probably still sitting in the window, watching? I think the first fish-ape-humanoid who crawled out of the water, saw the saber-toothed giant rat coming for him, and scurried up a tree, had probably felt better than I did.
My goal then changed from six, to two miles-and after a phlegm-cleanse, make sure the life insurance policy was in order. This run sucked, as my wife says, "Like peanut butter through a straw." (Chunky would suck even worse, Darlin') A billion people in India, when asked for their opinion, replied, "Duh," which is short for "Duhmmy."
Thanks for humoring me.
Ssspring is Coming 3/10/10
The not-running streak, that is. Didn't feel any worse, but no better, either, so no run for Papi. I'm not sure how I'm going to run twenty-three tomorrow. When asked for their opinion on the matter, millions in Haiti, Chile, and Turkey said in their respective languages, "Who gives a f***?"
Baseball season begins in a couple of weeks, and that makes me think of grass, sunshine, warm weather, seven-dollar light beer, and snakes. Another harbinger of Spring is the season's first snake, which my wife photographed, then scooched into the yard with a piece of mail, so that it wouldn't get squished. The yard may actually be the more dangerous habitat. The Last Snake of Autumn was decapitated in the same yard by one of those lawn service mega-mowers, then left on the sidewalk to intimidate the other snakes into considering early hibernation. It worked. St. Patrick couldn't have done it any better.
We found a live snake in the bedroom of our old apartment, which was in this same complex. My wife, the Snake Whisperer, found the little viper in a pile of dirty laundry. It was making one of her blouses dance in a way that neither God, nor the Devil, intended. I was called in, as the newly appointed head of the Poisonous Reptile Removal Unit, to dispatch said serpent in a manner that would provide swift, and lethal, results. I did so by smothering him with a twice-used pair of running shorts that had been sitting in that pile for a couple of weeks. It was an epic struggle: Man vs. Pencil-Thin Pre-Pubescent Garter Snake. It went on for fives of seconds.
Unjustifiably proud of my accomplishment, I had the demon skinned. His hide now adorns our toilet handle.
These are the things I think about when I don't get to run.
Thanks for reading.
Baseball season begins in a couple of weeks, and that makes me think of grass, sunshine, warm weather, seven-dollar light beer, and snakes. Another harbinger of Spring is the season's first snake, which my wife photographed, then scooched into the yard with a piece of mail, so that it wouldn't get squished. The yard may actually be the more dangerous habitat. The Last Snake of Autumn was decapitated in the same yard by one of those lawn service mega-mowers, then left on the sidewalk to intimidate the other snakes into considering early hibernation. It worked. St. Patrick couldn't have done it any better.
We found a live snake in the bedroom of our old apartment, which was in this same complex. My wife, the Snake Whisperer, found the little viper in a pile of dirty laundry. It was making one of her blouses dance in a way that neither God, nor the Devil, intended. I was called in, as the newly appointed head of the Poisonous Reptile Removal Unit, to dispatch said serpent in a manner that would provide swift, and lethal, results. I did so by smothering him with a twice-used pair of running shorts that had been sitting in that pile for a couple of weeks. It was an epic struggle: Man vs. Pencil-Thin Pre-Pubescent Garter Snake. It went on for fives of seconds.
Unjustifiably proud of my accomplishment, I had the demon skinned. His hide now adorns our toilet handle.
These are the things I think about when I don't get to run.
Thanks for reading.
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