January 31, 2010

Well, one month down, eleven more to go. I don't feel any the worse for wear, having run every day this month. I covered as many miles this January, as I did last: 195. That's about the same distance as it is from Warrenton, OR, to Coos Bay, but without the gorgeous rocky coastline and barking sea lions.

There were a few firsts around here today. Amy and I had a late brunch, more like a dunch at a cozy little cafe called Cozy's Cafe. We had eggs, bacon, hashbrowns and banana pancakes. It's a tidy place, with fresh flowers on every table. The silverware was clean, which Amy really appreciates, and the Mom and Pop who ran the place were very friendly.

The second first was that I ate a kumquat. I bought a pint of them, but I don't know if I'm going to be able to polish them off. Billed as "nature's original Sweettart," with a sweet peel, and a tart inside, I'd say they're mostly tart. It was like a grapefruit on meth. It singed my sinuses, which is not as pleasant as I make it sound. Pretty little orange-yellow guys, though. Plus, kumquat is a cool word to type.

Thirdly, I bathed the dog. He smelled so bad, the Health Department was beating on our door this morning. The only odor I can recall like it, was the one my brother gave off during the summer in which his goal was not to shower. As a seventeen year-old hormone farm, he went nowhere unnoticed that season. Blackie the Scottie was approaching that level of funkitude, so I sudsed him up, while Amy attended on-line church. The pastor admonished his congregation to be more Christlike, and by baptizing the dog for the sake of easing human suffering, this atheist did his part.

I hope your days went as well as mine.

Thanks for reading.

I'm Just a Run Machine January 30, 2010

It snowed enough last night to cover the ground, and not much more. KC was on the back end of a storm that poured ice and snow on Texas and Oklahoma, closing airports, and making roads dangerous to drive on. We just received picture-postcard snow: Enough to make trees and houses and yards look pretty, but not so much that we had to get the snow plows out again. Good thing, too, because most cities in the area are at, or over, their snow budget limit for the season.

The air was cold, but calm, when I headed out for my 6-miler. I didn't even take my watch. I wasn't interested in my pace, and since I've run this course many times, I know the distance down to the hundredth of a mile. My legs felt lively again, and my breathing was not too difficult, even on the first hill. In fact, I decided I would set my pace by my breathing: Fast enough to cause a little strain, but not so hard that I would gas myself.

I wore my Yak Trax, just in case I ran into some slippery spots, but I probably needn't have worried. The sand was almost entirely hard-packed-as if I were running on a firm beach. It was a very pleasant surface to run on.

The skies were overcast, but the sun was beginning to push open the clouds just above the horizon. If I had been going a longer distance, or if there had been clouds of gnats hearty enough to have survived sub-freezing temps, I might have needed my sunglasses, but not today.

The Mike Potts Machine made its way through the streets quietly and without stopping. I sometimes think of myself this way, not in the macho sense, as in "I am a freaking mo-chine," but just as this thing that has been set in motion to perform a very basic task. It runs every day, and in all kinds of weather. Juice it up and watch it go.

It's not at all degrading to compare myself to a generic, inanimate object. It's part of my identity: The Running Dude, The Runner Man, The I've Seen You Going Down 85th Street Guy. Those are all me. I run this town.

Thanks for reading.

Counter Intuitive 1/29/10

I got in a 3-miler this morning, and I felt pretty good. No ill effects the day after my long run. I was still tired, of course, but my legs weren't sore at all. Maybe running every day is actually good for me. Forget that the last time I tried something like this, I injured myself so badly that I missed most of that year-after only 100 consecutive days of running.

I am made of steel AND rubber. Bone AND brains. Snips AND snails. I am indestructible. Except for those hangnails I get in this dry air.

Thanks for humoring me.

Curtis, I hope you're feeling better.

An Unwelcome Guest 1/28/10

Here's a tip for those of you who are, like me, prone to "digestive events" while running: Even if you have been given clearance by your 70 year-old parents to enter their house whenever necessary, in order to avert a clustercrap of tragic dimensions, don't flippin' do it. I'm not saying you should take one in the pants for the team, but you should consider other options. Even if it means dangling your pale, puny patoot over a drainage canal behind an EPA Superfund clean-up site in the middle of Anytown, USA, do not use the access code to your parents' security system to gain entry to their placid retirement bungalow. Yeah, they gave you the code. But if you come in that way, through the garage, your father, deaf as a Republican Senator to logical health care reform arguments, won't hear you coming, no matter how loudly you yell upon entering the kitchen. He's not expecting you, so the thought that he might be accosted by his near-diarrheic son, at noon, while shuffling through his own hallway, isn't just not on his mind, it's not even on the list of things that could possibly occur. Finding out that health care reform passed with unanimous Republican support would seem reasonable by comparison. So, yelling that you are there would just seem like a stray thought he could not explain to himself, "Why am I here, anyway," he might wonder. "Oh, yeah, I'm going to butter the toast." And then he would continue into the kitchen, where you are stripping off your jacket and gloves, so you can be ready when you get to the damn bathroom, better use the one downstairs, this feels like it could be nasty. And then, he lifts up his head, sees you, recoils, just like he did when you came into the world, yells, "AAAAH!," likewise, and you are apologizing all the way down the stairs, and he is left groping for his inhaler. So, just don't drop in on your parents in order to drop a load. Own up to your decision to eat Fiber Flakes before going on your 17 mile run. Give the descendants of The Greatest Generation a break and crap somewhere else.

Thanks for humoring me.

On The Road With Joni 1/27/10

I think I mentioned once before that my wicked wife, who knows I am weak-minded, will sing a few bars of a song I can't stand, before I leave on my run. She does this because I once told her that the last song I hear is the one that will stay with me for the duration. It's usually just "the hook" that repeats itself, unto madness, when my mind should be free to pursue any thought that should cross it. Were it not for this psychosis, I could surely have come up with prize-winning and lucrative solutions to all kinds of conundrums, such as the struggle between Good and Republicanism, and the continued suckitude of the Royals.

And so, she used her powers of memory and singing to bedevil me. Her selection from the Shit Parade was "Both Sides Now," by Joni Mitchell. I love Joni Mitchell's music, but this is such a goofy song, I didn't even know she wrote it. I thought Neil Sedaka, or someone equally egregious had egested it just for Judy Collins. Not Joni, who wrote one of the best songs ever: The River. She could never have written such run-ruining crap lines as "Ice cream castles in the air." Alas, it's true, and my bountiful bride knew it. And she knew I would not be able to keep that drivel from running through my puny brain for 48 minutes. When will she use her powers for good?

Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on.

Thanks for humoring me.

January 26, 2010

Today I did 9 at 8-minute pace. It was still windy and cold, but the pace felt relatively easy. My left knee bothered me a little bit, but it was not really a problem.

I was very pleased with this one: it was longer than my usual run, but not so long that I felt totally wasted. Which is good, considering I still have to go in to work today.

Nine is not a distance I have trained, or raced, very often. Usually I would just go ten, just to give myself a round number. Nine would have felt insufficient. It didn't today.

Feeling relaxed, which is just what I needed after yesterday's fugu fiasco.

Thanks for reading.

Fugu Man Tells a Long-Winded Tale 1/25/10

Winter came back today. We had been frolicking in 40 degree temperatures for about a week, and we thought Winter had shown mercy on us and retired to the Dakotas. This morning was a f***ed up, repugnant dose of reality. The temperature was in the 20s, and so were the wind gauges. Winter had returned from Minot, bringing with him the scourge of toupees from Fargo to Chicago, The Alberta Clipper.

It's the kind of wind that makes your airway and your sphincter tighten. It gets under your warmest clothing and freezes your follicles. A poor sap in Sioux City had his spleen flash-frozen while walking to his car from his house on a Clippery January morning. If The Alberta Clipper were a paranoid, right-wing media figure, it would be Limbaugh, Savage, Beck and Coulter combined. An hour in such a wind has been known to make Al Gore drive his Escalade around the Arctic Circle, just to speed up global warming.

Nonetheless, I, bound by a peyote-induced resolution to run regardless of the weather, headed out into the maelstrom. My regular 6 mile loop first takes me south, then east, both of which were with the wind, then I would turn for home, going north and west, both into the wind, before finishing with a little southward stretch. I was just hoping my nose would not turn black from frostbite and fall off before I got out of the wind. I guess if it had, I would not have known until afterwards, when the warm, soothing shower water began to pool in my sinuses.

Despite my misgivings, I was actually feeling pretty fluid in the first couple of miles. Alberta was at my back, pushing me along. I was so warm, I even felt a little sweat under my arms. It was almost effortless. All this speedy pace was doing, however, was getting me to my turnaround point more quickly, so that I would have to face the frigid blast of The Clipper head-on.

At that point, not only do I turn, I begin what is about a .75 mile climb, up a pretty steep grade. I call it Mt. Woodson Avenue. I put my melon down, and dropped into low gear, all sweat now falling from my armpits as ice. My airway, irritated by the dry air, narrowed, and my breathing came a little shallower and faster. Halfway up, a blonde woman running with a Jack Russell terrier, came down the hill, passing on my left. She did not speak, probably because her words would instantly have been carried three blocks away. I did not speak, because I was afraid of being punched in the face by Alberta.

Then, another block on, something happened that would prove to have near-disastrous consequences for the protagonist of my story: another blonde woman passed me coming down the hill, with yet another Jack Russell, but this time on my right. A deja vu moment, or a glitch in the Matrix? Either way, it made me lift my head to look. In my hyperventilating state, I was in no position to ward off the tremendous volume of wind that entered my mouth just as I inhaled. Approximately three thousand cubic feet of air then took the Express Train down my throat, and into my lungs. Simultaneously, the woman lost control of her dog, and it was blown into my backside, effectively plugging my sphincter. The air trapped, I was instantly transformed into a 152-pound puffer fish, and lifted into the lower reaches of the atmosphere. I could see the blonde getting ever smaller, and a Japanese space station getting closer.

The crew members, ecstatic over their luck at this gigantic fugu filet floating toward them, a delicacy they were told they would not eat for six months, readied their kitchen utensils and sake. I knew I was done for, unless a major miracle happened. (As an atheist, I don't believe in such things, and reprimanded myself for my weakness.) I also wondered how I would taste with wasabi and ginger. That's when I realized that I could still save myself, if only I could get the air out. Butt, how? Oh, the plucky little dog! He was my deliverance. He had also spotted the space station, and in his excitement to greet those aboard, he wriggled himself free from my rump, allowing the air to escape.

I began to float back toward Earth. I realized that Jack would make a consolation snack for the disappointed astronauts, and hurriedly grabbed my little savior. (As an atheist, I don't mean that in the metaphysical sense.) Ten minutes later, a little singed from our reentry, Jack and I touched back down in exactly the same spot from which we had lifted off. His owner showed her gratitude by dousing me with pepper spray, and continuing on her run with Jack The Astro Dog. And I, not wishing to tangle with The Clipper Again, turned my back to the wind, and headed west, by heading east. I circumnavigated the globe, adding about 25,000 miles to my log book.

Thanks for humoring me.

January 24, 2010

Every time I prepare myself for my daily gallop through the concrete meadows, my wife facetiously asks if I would like to take our trusty canine with me. I shake my lank-haired mane, using the nuchal ligament to pull my equine head back, and stamp my right hoof twice, "No." She gently pats my withers, takes the bit from my mouth, slaps me on the rump, and away I go, with a whinny, up the hill.

You see, I am a thoroughbred. My legs were made for running. They are as long as one of my worst sentences. I defeat gravity one stride at a time. The dog, Blackie, is an earth-bound breed, a Scottish Terrier. His legs were made for firm and steady contact with the soil. His ancestors rooted rodents from their burrows, and shook them to death. They didn't run; they made other animals run. I read all of that in a little Scottie history book I bought at Pet Barn. I certainly haven't seen our dog exhibit any of those behaviors.

True, at thirteen, he can't be expected to zip around like he did when he was a puppy. But, c'mon, forget about voles, he sometimes has trouble rooting out his food dish. It took so long for him to crap the other day, it was yesterday by the time he was finished. I completed a New York Times Sunday crossword, and then composed another. This is not a running dog; he's barely a walking dog. He would have to speed up to stop. It's not that he's crippled, he has just seen everything over there, and he's not all that interested in it.

So, he sleeps while I run, and when I come home, he remains in the sleeping position. I stretch-he sleeps. I shower-the running water stirs his scruffy snout, but he does not rise. He sleeps while we work, dreaming of a nap he took last week. I got in six miles; he got forty thousand winks.

Sometimes I envy him. He agrees that I should.

Thanks for humoring me.

Maybe China Will Buy Them 1/23/10

Is there any reason why I would need six phone books? I could see it if some of them were for exotic cities like Yachats, or Tokyo (English edition, please.), or Rio de Janeiro (Women's National Beach Volleyball Headquarters, please, please.). All I get, however, are Yellow Pages for Kansas City Metro. Do I need the other five books to confirm that the International School of Professional Bartending really IS at 2001 Baltimore? C'mon Directory 4, start some shit. Tell everybody that the ISoPB is actually at 8600 Ward Parkway, Suite 150. Then you'll pique my interest.

What we need is a government agency to stop the flow of illegal phone books coming across the threshold of my apartment building. We need a Yellow Pages czar. I have heard that rival cartels, in Belton, and in Grandview, are fighting for distribution rights, and are waging a brutal war for control of the best transportation routes into the city, Interstates 35 and 70. This war has already claimed 3s of lives, and may cost 4 or so more before it's done. These desperadoes aren't even citizens, of Overland Park, yet they are wreaking information redundancy on a huge scale in our formerly just adequately directoried and fair city. Our neighbor won't even come out of his apartment to clear away all the books deposited on his doorstep, for fear he will be spotted by a delivery driver, and be given two more books to dispose of. He is a frail old man. Taking all those tree-wasting tomes to the recycling bin will kill him. I want air strikes called in on Belton and Grandview to protect the most vulnerable among us. Has Glenn Beck been informed?

In local running news: I ran four miles before the sun came up. The weather was great: 45 degrees and a steady, warm southeast wind. No complaints from your humble narrator.

Thanks for humoring me.

Blame it on Aristotle 1/22/10

Today I only ran the distance, two miles, that I decided would be the minimum for keeping my running streak alive. You might say that's pretty cheesy, running an insignificant distance just for the sake of keeping alive an ill-conceived resolution. Not cheesy, you fetaphobes. Traditional. Noble. I follow in the footsteps of the greatest streakers in History: The Greekers. Or as we know them in English: The Greeks.

You see, the word "streak" comes from the ancient Greek word "straekas," which can be very loosely translated as " to run naked in Sparta." In the fifth century B.C., or Before Cable, there were two rival city-states: Sparta and Athens. The Spartans were known for their militarism, huge chestoral muscles, and repressed homosexuality. The Athenians were known for their love of learning, sinewy calf muscles, and open homosexuality. (If their homosexuality were a U.S. state, it would be at least Montana.)

The Athenians loved to taunt the Spartans over this, and would stage regular "straeka," or nude running raids into the heart of their rival's city. They would stampede completely unarmed and togaless through the city center, not to kill, or loot treasure, but to force the Spartans to confront their own desires. To make them realize that their attraction for their fellow phalanxers was not unnatural, rather, in a city devoid of women, it was completely inevitable.

Unfortunately for the straekers, the Spartans, blinded by self-hatred and embarrassment at the spectacle of attractive, unarmed naked pacifists defiling their homeland, could not see things quite that way. They would mercilessly slaughter any Athenian who stopped to catch his breath.

As the centuries wore on, the straekers realized that if they were to survive, they would have to build a better aerobic base. This would require not just running naked on one day. No, they would have to run naked every day in Athens, if they did not want to perish naked in Sparta trying to promote their progressive ideals regarding male sexuality.

And so, they ran. Naked in the Agora. Unclothed in the Parthenon. Birthday-suited in the Acropolis, they ran, through heat, and sun, and under clear skies, nibbling fresh olives, and forming the principles of the rule of law and democracy. They did not miss a day, for they knew the consequence of failure: to have their lovely dark-haired skulls crushed by the massive pectoral muscles of King Leonidas and his repressed minions.

And so, I run. Every day. Not naked, for this time of year there is no sun, nor olive to nibble on beneath it. Neither are my motives as lofty as those of ancient streakers. I run merely to burn off the Ho-Hos and Kettle Chips which comprise my diet. But I have principles. I believe in the rule of law and democracy. I believe our children are the future. And I believe major-league baseball is a monopoly/scam that needs to be placed under this nation's anti-trust laws for the common good.

Twenty-two days and counting. Wouldn't Euclid be proud?

Thanks for humoring me.

Waking Up is Hard to Do 1/21/10

My wife and I slept in today, since we were both off work. The rooster had crowed, hit the snooze button, reawakened, recrowed, and had a pot of coffee by the time we got up. My wife, in her usual, blissful manner, thanked God for my presence in her life, rubbed the dog under his chin, slid into her sandals, and gave me a strong embrace. She did not fart. I, in my hypoglycemic, semi-coherent grumpiness, heard the rumbling in my stomach, turned toward the kitchen, farted, failed to fend off a strong, wifely embrace, then refarted. "Well, no more yogurt at bedtime for you, Mr. Grumpy Man," she cooed. Damned acidophilus and bifidum. To say that I'm not much of a morning person, is like saying that Mt. Sunflower, the highest point in Kansas, is not much of a mountain. Understatement-O-Rama.

I dragged my Eggo and java-loving butt out the door about 3 hours after we got up. That was enough time for the coffee to completely pass out of my system, so that I felt even more tired when I went out the door, than I was when my wrestler-wife squeezed the methane out of me. I woke up about 4 miles into my 12-miler, when I began to sort out why my right hand was soaked through 3 layers of gloves and freezing on a 35-degree day: I hadn't properly secured the lid on my water bottle. Oversights like these, kids, will get you dehydrated and frostbit, so make sure you get plenty of sleep, unlike your humble narrator.

And try not to fart first thing in the morning.

Thanks for humoring me.

Birdman of Overland Park 1/20/10

Today's run was pretty uneventful, although I did flip-off a school bus driver. He squeezed me way too close to the curb. I also put an imprint of my right hand on his vehicle's rear end. My rule is that if I'm close enough to slap it, it's too f***ing close.

I started out tired and grouchy, with the intent of only going 4 miles. As related above, I was still irritable at that point, so I kept going until I felt more sociable. I went my usual 6, but it should have been 60, as the little old lady pushing the baby carriage- accompanied by the Boy Scout-all of whom I flattened crossing Metcalf Avenue, will attest. (Just because you're in the crosswalk, clowns, doesn't mean you have something approaching diplomatic immunity: I am RUNNING here!)

Hoping to get more sleep, and less caffeine, tonight.

Thanks for humoring me.

January 19, 2010.

Today's run was a 7-miler, the goal of which was to run each mile faster than the one before. It's called a "progressive run." The point is that it teaches you pacing, and improves endurance in a measured way. I managed to improve every mile, until the 5th and 6th, when I regressed a little. I picked it back up in the last mile, but I was left with a slight feeling of dissatisfaction that I hadn't achieved what I'd wanted to do.

Out of Massachusetts this evening comes the news that a Republican has won the special election to fill the seat of the late U.S. Senator, Ted Kennedy. It signals the end of the super-majority the Democrats had in that body, which allows them to prevent filibustering on key legislation. Doubtless, the G.O.P. is celebrating, and the Donkeys are moping, as was I after my run this morning. Now the party which brought us warrantless wiretapping, a ruined economy, and a needless war, has at least as much power as it needs to stop the progress Americans had voted for just a year ago.

We've made some positive steps as a nation over that time, but the going has been difficult to say the least. Now, it appears, that we're headed for a time of stalemate, if not outright regression, as the Democrats struggle to get anything done, and the Republicans dig in their heels and wait for the next Congressional election.

Call it a "Non-Progressive Run."

Ice Fog 4: Jan. 18, 2010

It's like living in a Sherlock Holmes story, not the modern bromance kind, the sodden, creepy, frigid kind. Today was our fourth straight with this atmospheric phenomenon. I have to say, though, I like it for running. The air isn't so cold that it freezes out all the moisture, and the damp air is easier for me to breathe. If we could get a good dose of this on July 17th, I'd be a happy little hombre. Enough with the meteorology.

Today, MLK Day, is for me, one of the most significant on the calendar. It seems that there has been a creeping acceptance that on many of our holidays, Memorial Day, The Fourth of July, and Veterans Day, we honor those who took up arms in order to preserve our American way of life. I guess I had the idea that the first was to remember all those we loved who had gone before us, whether or not they were soldiers. I thought the second celebrated the day on which our Founding Fathers declared our independence from England, in fact, it's known as Independence Day. November 11th was declared Armistice Day in honor of the pact that ended what was believed at the time to have been "The War to End All Wars." By changing the name to Veterans Day, the emphasis has been placed again on those who served in the Armed Forces, albeit with a focus on living veterans.

We should remember those who were called, or volunteered, to enter military service, on our behalf. I don't know that we need to do it every three months or so. It seems to me that we have placed a greater value on militarism, and achieving justice through force of arms, than on seeking justice through the ideals established in our Constitution. Because he gave his life in that cause, without taking up arms, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. is one of my greatest personal heroes, and one of the greatest people this nation has ever produced.

Surely one day a year is not too much to set aside for reflection upon what he stood for, what he achieved, and how he achieved it. He never fired a shot. He never even lifted a finger in his own defense. His weapons were love, peace, justice, and the promise of America. No one ever should have been beaten, attacked by dogs, jailed, or lynched to make our nation live up to its promise-the truth was self-evident. But King and many others took up the challenge, faced its horrors, and paid the ultimate price. They laid down their lives so that future generations of Americans could live in a land that not only paid lip-service to the ideals of liberty and equality, it practiced them. We are not there yet, but we are much closer than we were sixty years ago.

Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day!

The Hills Are Alive... 1/17/10

...with the sounds of fartlek. Just like Julie Andrews in the opening sequence of "The Sound Of Music," I was careering up steep hills, singing with complete breath control, and in perfect pitch. The lederhosen chafed a wee bit, but experiencing the mountain grandeur of Prairie Village on a Sunday morning was more than worth it.

I climbed every mountain, and coasted down, having confidence in confidence alone. I waved to a lonely, yodeling goatherd. I solved a problem like Maria. And when the Nazis showed up to conscript me into the Prairie Village Navy, I put on a final burst of speed that carried me across the Alps, and into Overland Park. It all worked out in the end, as I finished my 6-mile fartathon in 46:35, or about 3 hours shorter than it took all those Von Trapps to get out of Salzburg.

Auf wiedersehn, goodnight.

Well-Connected 1/16/10

The ice fog returned today, and if anything, it was worse. I couldn't even see myself in the mirror-it was that thick. If ice fog were a recent political figure, it would be Dick Cheney. And if it were a fruit, it would be a pomegranate. Therefore, it follows logically that, if Dick Cheney were a fruit, he would be a pomegranate: you practically have to crack him open with a hammer to get anything out of him, and once you do, what you get is seedy and bitter. If there is truly no rest for the wicked, then Cheney and pomegranates will be awake forever.

What the heck does that have to do with running? Nothing. I'm just covering familiar ground until I can remember what I meant by the title of today's entry. Ok. Now I've got it. Here I go:

Despite the above-mentioned atmospheric apocalypse, I had a fantastic run this morning. I had to get up much earlier than normal, and was out the door by 5a.m. I wasn't groggy, though, I was ready. As soon as I got going up the hill behind our apartment building, I could tell that my breathing and my legs were in sync. I had already found the right rhythm, and as soon as my left knee loosened up, I would probably be able to pick up the pace, without losing "the flow."

Such would indeed be the case. The first mile was slow, as usual, but as the second mile went downhill, I leaned into it and just started rolling. All I could hear were my own steps, unobstructed by car noise. I moved down the black strip of asphalt between the white snowbanks without concern for traffic, unseen by anyone but my fellow running rodents, the rabbits and squirrels.
The air was mountain-top clean, and seaside moist. It was just the perfect combination of coolness and humidity for me. I didn't stop once for traffic, which is always great for an urban runner. I finished my six miles in 48:47, and still got home in time to help wake my sweet, sleepy wife. It was a perfect start to my day.

Thanks for humoring me.

A Scourge on Our Roadways 1/15/10

Haven't we all just sat around on a pleasant May morning, with absolutely no worries in the world, drinking mimosas, feeling the gentle spin of the planet beneath our feet, when suddenly, a pang of emptiness overtakes us? A feeling that things are just perfect, and that is wrong? That there needs to be some blight upon the wonderful, woolly world, and we say, with a certainty tinged by the dread we know it will bring to our loved ones, "I sure do wish we could have a good ole bout of ice-fog?"
When we do that, we'll cast our mushy minds back to this diamond of a day, when ice gradually descended from Heaven upon our still-snowy sidewalks, joining the refrozen water that didn't quite make its way into the sewers, to turn our suburban hills and plains into an ice-skating rink with a capacity of about 200,000. Oh, the fond memories we'll conjure of happy chauffeurs careening toward us on the narrow, icy avenues. Oh, how we will chortle when those same drivers return in kind the one-fingered salute we gave them, in thanks for spicing up our 2-mile slide with a near-death experience. Never have we felt so alive!
Yes, it's true, there are some who look upon ice fog as a "scourge," as feared and hated as Attila The Hun, Adolf Hitler, neo-conservativism, and pomegranates. They say ice fog must be a sign of the End Times, that God is declaring open season by simultaneously making it impossible to drive, and impossible to see. To them we will say, "Bah, go sit on a pomegranate and rotate." They don't understand that these trials are the way we were meant to live, and that pleasant, mimosa-swilling May days only leave us with the empty illusion of comfort.
Oh, sweet ice-fog. Thank goodness at last you've come.

Thanks for humoring me.

January 14, 2010

Today's 15-miler went well. I finished in 2:03:52, which is 8:15/mile pace. I thought about many things during the course of that time, but an odd flicker from a Seinfeld episode had the most impact. I seem to remember that a storyline from one of their shows was about an elite Haitian runner who had come to New York to compete in the marathon. I think the punchline was that somehow he overslept the morning of the race, and missed it.
How did the writers decide the runner would be Haitian? That impoverished, star-crossed country is not known to have produced very many world-class athletes, let alone marathoners. The vague memory of that show made me think about what a luxury it is to have two hours to do nothing but run for the sake of running. Not running from poverty, or machete-wielding thugs, or government corruption, or natural disasters. Just running because I wanted to, and I had the time.
Ever since there has been a Haiti, there has been suffering. Its problems seem so intractable, that they are almost a legacy that gets passed from one generation to the next, not just in that country, which is the poorest in our hemisphere, but in our country as well, the richest.
Haiti is on my mind tonight, and I feel committed to doing what I can to help. If anything positive can come from the devastating earthquake, hopefully it will be that the world decides that this generation is the one that pulled Haiti up from the rubble and abetted its renaissance.

January 13, 2010

I had a good run today. I took the Yak Trax off, since the streets were almost entirely free of ice and snow. I did the same course as yesterday, wanting to see if I could go much faster without the extra traction. I averaged 7:46/mile pace, versus 8:14 for 6 miles yesterday. I took a few strides until I got to the ice, and just slid my way around the neighborhood. It was exhilirating, especially at the traffic lights. Now I know how lugers feel.

The Five Best Things to Come Out of The 80s:
1. Skinny Ties. These were a reaction against the wide, comically short (above the navel) ties of our fathers' generation. It made them look like drunken clowns. Which many of them were.
2. R.E.M. and U2. Until they realized that more than three people liked them, and they started writing crappy mass-appeal songs like "Everybody Hurts," and "Mysterious Ways," respectively.
3. Mike Potts as a Sexual Dynamo. I did have sex in this decade: on New Year's Eve, 1989. I'll admit that the dynamism aspect is still being debated by Ivy League historians.
4. Short Sideburns. This was a reaction against "the Elvis look." Elvis became a joke in the 70s with those mutton chops and jump suits. This one was obvious and inevitable. Failure to recognize the trend at the time kept me from getting laid until the last five minutes of the decade.
5. Extremely Expensive Gasoline. Americans realized that they would have to reduce their dependency on foreign oil by building more fuel-efficient cars, driving less, and lowering speed limits. Just like they would, again, in 2007.

Thanks for humoring me.

The Flying Fink 1/12/10

Man, was I burning up the icy roadways this morning. I did my 6 miles in 49:24, for a pace of 8:14 per mile. Wouldn't Paavo Nurmi be proud?
I probably could have done without the Yak Trax today, as about 90% of the streets I ran on were clear. I could have skated through the rest alright, I suppose, but I'm afraid of the consequences of falling. I know someone who broke her ankle last year, on a day when there was almost no visible ice anywhere, and missed six months of running. I couldn't stand that.
Tomorrow, I run naked. At least as far as having traction devices on my shoes. Calm down, Overland Park Nudity Patrol.
Thanks for humoring me.

January 11, 2010. Meat The Author

I was up before sunrise on what I would call a popsicle-cold morning. The temp. was in the low 20s, with very little wind, so there was no "hammer of Thor" feeling in the air. Funny how you get acclimated to the, uh, climate. It was almost Miami-like, compared to the past week. Miami, Oklahoma, that is. Miami, Florida would be quite a reach, for sure, although I heard that they were Kansas City-cold there for a while. Two retirees were actually seen wearing long pants at noon in Boynton Beach. Oh, the horror!
I ran like an ice-wagon, to borrow an expression from my boss. I rumbled along, without grace or style, but I got where I was going, which was home. Unlike real ice wagons, which don't exist anymore, and went to people's tenement apartments, putting chunks of lake ice in their "ice boxes." Most lakes these days are too polluted to take ice from, even if the ice were only for cooling rancid sausage, and not putting into Grape Nehi, which I don't think exists anymore, either. I guess my boss' anachronism goes to show that he is the product of the last Great Ice Age, and I am a witless writer desperate for filler in my rancid sausage-quality blog.
Thanks for nearly humoring me.

The stats: 6miles in 49:57, or 8:20/mile. (That would be a world record for a one-legged 60 year-old man running backwards.)

Who Let The Dogs Out? 1/10/10

I seem to have a problem with the dry, winter air. I can tell because when I push the pace, like today, I breathe harder during the run, and hyperventilate when I'm done. Since I was struggling a bit at the 5-mile mark, I welcomed the chance to stop, but only because I had to. I'd never pause, just because I was winded.
An exuberant Border Collie, no leash in tow-owner ineffectually yelling from a distance, came bounding through muzzle-deep snow to see what all the running was about. I stopped, because you're supposed to. The dog will then either stop, or, grateful for a stationary target, eviscerate you on the spot. This pooch was obviously just curious-she never even barked-and came up to me wagging her tail. She let me rub under her chin and across the top of her head, finally heeding her owner's commands to come, which were still being shouted from a distance.
The owner never said anything to me, which is the norm in these cases. Either they are embarrassed, or clueless as to courtesy. That used to really piss me off, and I would usually demand acknowledgment of having been inconvenienced and scared. Usually that was greeted with silence, too. I didn't do it this time, and I probably won't in the future, for the same reason I don't flip off as many motorists as I used to: I'm not running to get stressed out; I'm running to relieve stress, among other reasons.
If I were to need an outlet for my running-related anger, what would it be? Violent video games? Spelunking? Numismatics? What would I do with all my shoes?
Thanks for humoring me.

The stats:
6 mi. 49:30, or 8:15/mi.
Sunny, 15 degrees, s.w. wind.

1/09/10: One Plus Nine Equals Ten

This must surely be an auspicious date! Look at the way the numbers add up! Just thinking about it has me wearing out my ! key! Such a mathematical coincidence will only happen n!ne t!mes th!s year.
The Mayans must be behind it all. Their calendar foretold the end of the world, many centuries ago, before the invention of the Apocalyptic Prediction of the Day desk calendars we have today. Everything fit together, like cogs in a gear, inside the cosmic machine that is the cosmos, which is a Greek word meaning "vast, yet orderly place, whose meaning will be revealed to us by a tribe of homicidal Mesoamerican, mathematical prodigies." Let's go ask the Maya what the significance of today's date is. Oh, we can't. They're not around anymore.
Could it be that the above-written date is just another in a counting sequence we've adopted to track, as exactly as we can from our nearly round planet's trip around the Sun, the passage of unfathomable time, the meaning of which comes not from a Benevolent Father who has set the celestial bodies in motion in an orderly and purposeful way, but rather by a Heavenly Toddler, who having started all his tops spinning, has toddled off to another corner of the Universe to check out some shiny object he saw there?
If so, then it is like today's run: no purpose, other than to get a couple of miles in before work. Two miles in 17 minutes.
Thanks for humoring me.
M!ke

January 8, 2010

At 8a.m., it was my favorite temperature: zero degrees. That's a big O, with a little o slightly above the first one, and to the right. That is so cool. In fact, it's so cold. Rush Limbaugh cold. The wind chill was 15 below. Popsicles in my freezer just shuddered thinking about that. My face was frozen so quickly and severely, I looked like Dr. Sardonicus. You get the picture-and it's ugly. It is the horrifying visage of a man who grins savagely in the face of adversity, and can't stop, because his facial muscles have all been flash-frozen by the Alberta Clipper. January can not beat this man, but it can make him a terrifying sight to children.
I spit in your eye, January, and frozen spit can really do damage.
Mr. Garmin 205 says: 6miles in 51:25, which is 8:34 per mile.

Driftin', on a sunny afternoon. 1/7/10

We received another dose of Winter last night and today-more snow, sub-zero temperatures, and breath-taking wind. I believe today is a great counterargument for those codgers who say, "Winters were colder in my day." The codgers of the late 21st Century will long remember this one. "Dude, like 'member back in '10, that gnarly, like, day, when it was, like, really freakin', like, windy and stuff, and, like, cold?"
It was Fargo cold today. I should know, because I lived across the river from Fargo, in Moorhead, MN, for two years, while I finished my degree in Hyperbolic Sentence Construction at the State University there. It's one of the windiest places in America, in fact plastic grocery-store bags from Vladivostok, USSR would routinely be seen blowing across the palm tree-lined quad at Moorhead State. I mean, it was windy.
That didn't stop me from running whenever I needed to. Only hangovers did that. I ran four miles when the air temperature was 33 below zero. That was back in 1987, and I didn't have the benefit of the lighter, yet warmer, running clothing I have today. The strategy then was to put on two of everything. Long johns under sweat pants. A flannel shirt under my parka. Heavy crew socks under heavy crew socks. My roommates' size 13 shoes over my size 10 1/2s. It took me an hour to get dressed, about 40 minutes to run 4 miles, and another hour to get undressed when I returned, not including the time it took to chisel off the ice. I couldn't run for another week, because it took that long to dry out all that stuff. Nor could I go to classes during that time.
Today's 6-miler was run in 8:53 pace, on snow packed streets, through wind gusts of up to 280mph. I didn't wear a stitch of cotton, only bulk-free synthetics that wick moisture, and block winds moving at up to 281mph. I was as comfortable as could be, though I did worry about the economy of Egypt, now that running apparel has forsaken its most outstanding export.
One other thing. I tried again, and again unsuccessfully, to help push a vehicle stuck in the snow. My skinny ass arriving on the scene must be a bit of a mixed blessing for these desperate souls. On the one hand, "Alright, Dude. I could use the help." On the other, "Why are you out here in non-cotton running clothes? Do you even weigh a buck fitty?" But, I'll keep on trying. Maybe on one of these afternoons when kids are out of school-we never got out of school, even when it was 100 below-I'll find a conveyance I can move with my limited bulk. Maybe a little shaver whose Big Wheel got mired in snow up to the axel on some wind-blown cul-de-sac. I think that might have happened to me when I was a little tyke on a trike.
Thanks for humoring me.
P.S.: The 5 Greatest Inventions Ever
1. The Wheel (not necessarily Big)
2. Sugoi Windproof Boxers (not Evander Holyfield-he's a win-proof boxer)
3. Indoor Plumbing (so we don't have to go out in this to relieve ourselves)
4. Oranges (for boosting the immune system after stupidly running in the cold)
5. Yak Trax (for allowing me to pedestriate through streets plowed, and un.)

Jan. 6, 2010

I thought I was running fast today, but the watch told the real story: 6 miles in 50:37, or 8:26 per mile. Patience, winter running is about patience. And getting slower.
This one actually went pretty well, probably because I didn't push myself very hard. A columnist in the current issue of Runner's World says keep up the hard stuff, even if you can't get to a track, or do races. I've never liked doing workouts this time of year, because I seem to have trouble with seasonal asthma, and I get exhausted to the point where I leave myself susceptible to colds.
I did manage to elevate my heart rate briefly, when I had to hop onto an unshoveled sidewalk, to avoid a numbnuts driver who wouldn't give me enough space on the road. I was back on the hardpacked snow thirty yards later, having approximated the gait of two people in a three-legged race. I cursed the driver, and the dipshit who didn't clear the sidewalk. Rage expressed and released, I shuffled on in search of blissful exhaustion.

January 5, 2010

Temperature at 6 above when I started, with a light northwest wind. Footing was pretty good, better than Sunday, as most remaining road snow was packed from traffic, and crunchy from the cold. The sun was just getting over the treetops, so needed my Oakleys.
It was another "non-stopper," my second in a week, which was surprising, since it was during morning rush hour, and I had to cross some major streets. No serious trouble with traffic, other than getting squeezed onto an uncleared sidewalk near a stoplight. It wasn't enough to cloud my mood, however.
Mr. Garmin 205 says: 6.13miles, in 51:20. Avg. pace: 8:23/mile.
More snow in the forecast for tomorrow night, followed by extremely cold temp's Th. and Fri.
This weather report brought to you by the Hawaii Board of Tourism.

Happy Birthday, Stipe. 1/4/10

Today is the 50th birthday of the R.E.M. singer, Michael Stipe. In the mid 80's, they were one of only two bands that really mattered to me, the other being U2. Both were hard-working groups of friends from cities far removed from the centers of the musical universe, Athens, GA, and Dublin, respectively. Nothing was as important in those days as the latest release, on vinyl, from either of these two bands. I remember my brothers and I taking our newly-acquired copy of R.E.M.'s Reckoning album down into the basement, so that we could listen to, and analyze, every single track.
The obsessions of my youth have gone-there are just too many things to worry about these days. Too many responsibilities. I didn't worry about my paychecks in my early 20's, I was more interested in trying to figure out what the Hell Stipe was talking about when he sang, "Seven Chinese brothers swallowing the ocean/Seven thousand years to take away the pain." I still listen to music, but not with the same focus. It doesn't have the same importance that it once had. Mostly, it has become something to listen to while I am doing something else, like the dishes, or going to work.
I always have songs in my head while I'm running, but I don't take an mp3 player with me. It could be the last song I heard on the radio before I went out the door, or something my wife sang when she got up, like "My Favorite Things." (That is torture on a long-run day.) I only went two this morning, but for those17 minutes an appropriate line kept repeating itself: "Waste of time sitting still."
I can hear you. Can you hear me?

Not Dashing Through The Snow

January 3, 2010:
A pretty unremarkable run, despite the newly-fallen snow on the streets. I had to wear my Yak Trax, and had only some minor slips throughout. I stayed off busy streets, just doing a few out and backs where I wouldn't have to compete with cars for the best line. I didn't get pissed at any drivers, and wouldn't that have defeated one of the purposes of running anyway: to diffuse my frustrations by prolonged energy expenditure?
I think patience is one of the great lessons of outdoor,winter running, especially when the footing is iffy. You just have to slow down. Accept that you're not going to run the pace you would on a day when the streets are clear. Enjoy being in the elements and moving through space under your own power.
The stats:
12.11 miles.
1:45:15.
8:51/mile
Overcast, w/light snow, 10 degrees/5 wind chill.

Where is Thumbtip, Where is Thumbtip 1/2/10

The weather this morning sorely tested my resolution to run every day this year. It was gulag cold. Dry ice cold. Neptune has a more hospitable atmosphere than we did in KC at 6:30a.m.
My snot froze so quickly, it burned. All my nose hairs were incinerated. My thumbtips were disconnected from my central nervous system within ten minutes-and I was wearing my warmest mittens. A prominent part of my genitalia suffered frostbite, which will probably result in increased sensitivity to temperature for the rest of my life. No, I don't see an upside to that. The cat is laying on my lap right now, and God, it burns!
The temperature was officially 1 degree just before I went stupidly out the door. One little Fahrenheit to warm all that air, and it did a piss-poor job. My trainers, which are so soft and light I usually can't hear my own footfalls, were turned into clog-like horseshoes. Had I not been in so much digital distress, the noise would have driven me crazy. Congealed globs of spit and snot stayed on my clothing, from which I just brushed them off. With some of my eight remaining fingers.
There were a couple of memorable moments, though. The first was the sight of a fire raging from a trash barrell in a park near downtown OP. There was a man standing near it, warming himself. Not the kind of vagrancy usually tolerated in our suburban Eden. Or, he was the Devil, pulling all the warmth from the world, and commanding it with his fingertips, so that we might question the existence of a benevolent God. Pretty unusual either way.
The other highlight was the early stage of what was surely going to be a riotously colorful sunrise, which I caught from a high point near the end of my run. Red was becoming purple and orange simultaneously, and the cruel coldness seemed to stop the clouds as they were stretching across the sky. It was a beautiful scene to have had all to myself, and one I wish I could have shared.
I got in six again today, albeit at a pace of 8:22 per mile, much slower than yesterday. The hostile weather may have slowed me, but it couldn't stop me. It may have frozen my special purpose, but I'm a middle-aged man, so I don't have much use for it anyway. The quest for perfection continues, my friends. Let the Devil keep my thumbtips!

The New Year's Running Goal

For 2009, my major running goal was to average six miles per day, or 2190 for the year. I ended up with 2282, which isn't bad for a 47 year-old man with independent knees, and a short attention span.
My goal this calendar year is to run every single day, regardless of the weather, illness, infirmity, schizophrenia, or morbid rectal itching. The minimum run will be two miles-the maximum is limitless. If I do the Western States 100, I'll get in at least two the next day, regardless of lost toes.
I'll also put here a few details from that day's run: mileage, weather, how many times I spit on cars that crowded me.
So, here we go. I'm perfect so far. I got in six today, the temperature was 11 degrees, with a slight wind bringing the chill factor down to 2 degrees. My time was 47:22, which gave me an average pace of 7:54/mile. I did not have to stop even once for traffic, which doesn't happen often. I did have to haul ass across Metcalf Avenue, through a red light, which pissed off a couple of drivers, who spit on me.