Saturday, February 27, 2010

Older Shoulder eb. 27, 2010

I don't know how I did it, but I screwed up my shoulder pretty badly. I can't recall trying to lift a football stadium over my head, or sleeping in the hand-stand position. It's gotten so bad that I can't take my wallet out of my back pocket. (Maybe there's an upside to this.) I can't reach down to pick up the dog's poop. (Ditto.) Nor can I play the violin, which is OK, since I couldn't play it before, either.

Funny thing, though, it didn't bother me this morning when I ran. Didn't set me back a bit. When I came home, and started in on my list of household chores, I found, however, that my shoulder was sending shooting pain all the way down to my navel. I'm saying that even my belly button was aching. I had to put an ice cube in it to keep down the inflammation.

I was ruined for the day-totally inoperative. Dishes were left unwashed-even the roaches were disgusted. The floor went unvacuumed-and the tumbleweeds rolled on. I had only enough range of motion to be able to work the TV and stereo remotes. As long as I yelled at my wife in the kitchen for food and drink, rather than going in there myself, I could not reaggravate the injury.

I've heard that large doses of Lardamide, an enzyme found only in Lamar's Donuts, can help lubricate the shoulder joint, so that it can function more smoothly. The New England Journal of Medicine Recommends a dozen. I'm going to have to ask someone to pick them up for me. Someone else will have to shoulder the burden for me.

Thanks for humoring me.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Haiku About Today's Run Feb.26, 2010

I ran like a rose
Petal falling from the hands
Of an old woman.

I think I did run like that today: Light, but grounded. Cared for, but released. Beautiful, even though my time is dying.

Thanks for reading.

Happy Birthday, Lisa.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

A Multiplex Morality Tale Feb.25, 2010

We saw the John Travolta cartoon-killorama, "From Paris, With Love," this evening. He kills fourteen spurious Chinese restaurant employees, equal to the number of miles I ran today, within three minutes of appearing on screen. Until we saw that, I thought I'd really done something with my morning.

We had been allowed to select our seats when we bought our tickets. There was already one space, but only one, highlighted in red. One seat taken-out of about fifty. With 98% of available seating, where did I put us? Well, my wife's seat was right behind the guy, mine was next to hers. The only decision more curious would have been to sit on either side of Patron #1. I'll tell you, however, two more people did show up just before the movie started, so if we had moved to another row, we could have been REALLY busted.

Let that be a lesson to you row-hopping hotheads out there in the blogosphere.

Thanks for reading.

Feb. 24, 2010

Do you want to know how cold it was this morning? I'd be happy to tell you. I wasn't happy to run in it, but I would get some satisfaction whining about it.

There is a school bus stop on one of my routes. The kids look like they're middle school-age, or else they are just puny high school specimens without a car-like I was. Whenever they see me go by, they almost always do the "Run, Forest, run," thing. As if it had never been done before. Very predictable. This morning, though, one of the kids peeled out of the pack and fell in running with me. Like most of the other zit generators, he had no serious coat, no hat, and no gloves. I had on my usual winter running attire: balaclava, ski mittens, jacket, special-purpose protecting wind briefs, and tights.

I expected some sophomoric, or even freshmanic quip to ensue, so I was surprised when he asked, "Do you run every morning?"

"Yeah," but my lower jaw was immobilized by the zero-degree wind chill, so all that came out were the first two letters. Good thing he wasn't being a jerk; I wouldn't have been able to deliver any kind of witty response.

"That's awesome," he said, unsarcastically.

"Thnx." I was not texting him. I just could not stretch my face enough for a proper "a" to come out.

"What's the farthest you've ever run," he asked, all sounds cleanly delivered.

I wanted to say "Fourty-four," which I have run twice, as a solo finisher during the Brew-to-Brew relay between Kansas City and Lawrence. But the "o"s went out my nose and bounced off my elbows. They didn't land on his ears. All I managed was "Frt-fr."

That's how cold it was. It made vowels freeze.

Thanks for reading.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Feb. 23,2010

It was about as pleasant a 19-degree day as I could have asked for. It was sunny, and there wasn't much wind. Almost all of the ice was gone from the streets, so there was no need to put sandpaper on my shoes. The pace for my ten-miler was about forty seconds faster than yesterday, mostly because of the good footing.

I'd like to wish my dad a happy 71st birthday. He started running in the mid-1970s, the era of the Great Running Boom. The Complete Book of Running was a best-seller, and we had a copy in our home.

Dad would go for jogs through our neighborhood in Montgomery, Alabama, and we kids would sometimes tag along. It was fun for the nippers, but, for him it was much more important. He has had to deal with asthma and allergies his entire life, so running was a way to make his body as strong as possible, in order to mitigate the effects of his ailments. These days, he is afflicted with COPD, which has further limited his lung capacity. He still jogs, mostly inside this time of year, but his doctor believes Dad's breathing would be even more impaired had he not stayed with running.

Kids need examples. Someone who can show them what it is possible to do. My dad showed me that I could make exercise an integral part of my life. Not everyone is so lucky. Some parents teach their kids that drinking, or smoking, can fill that role, and they end up paying the price later, in the forms of disabililty and early death. And the psychological benefits-stress relief, time to imagine, et.al, are equally important.

I've been running around since I was old enough to do so. But my Dad gave it more meaning, and for that I am very grateful.

Thanks for reading.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Slippin' & Slidin' Feb.22, 2010

Yesterday we had snow, topped by freezing rain, which became rain as the air warmed up, then turned to snow as the air cooled late in the afternoon. Snow, ice, and slush, all mixed together in a four-layer cake of atmospheric mysery, the frosting spread by the loving hand of Betty Crocker, a.k.a. The North Wind.

As I slogged slowly through the slush, slightly slipping, slanted, slumping slouchedly through the sludge, I wondered two things, firstly, why do all these words, describing ungainly movement on messy pavement, all start with "sl?" And, secondly, did I turn off the oven in the apartment before I left on this run?

I'll answer the second question firstly: No, of course not. It was just the same old anxiety that I've had ever since I was in junior high, and I read in the paper that a kid my age accidentally killed his parents in their sleep by leaving the gas oven on before he went to bed. They slept near the kitchen, he, in the basement. The pilot light went out after he warmed up his breadsticks and took them to his room to eat. He could have polished off the whole box, had he known he'd have them all to himself come morning.

I didn't leave the oven on. I never have. I was so afraid of killing my parents in their sleep, that I checked every nob on the stove to make sure they read "off," whether or not the oven had even been in use on any particular day. I don't even live with my parents, but I still worry about their oven, so I call them several times a day, just to make sure they know their its status. My mom doesn't mind; she's just happy to hear from me. Oh, and did I mention, I have an electric oven anyway?

Now, what was the first question? Oh, the "sl" words. I actually took my dictionary from the bookcase, shoveled off the dust, removed the ten spider carcasses, and began looking at etymology, which is the history of particular words, not entomology, which is the study of insects, not spiders. They are arachnids, which I would have known had I looked that up in my dictionary, an edition so old that the definition of "grunge" makes no reference to the Seattle music explosion of the early '90s.

So, as it turns out, words like "slush," and "slime," are built upon the Greek root word "sl," which translates as "consistency of goat entrails." Well, that certainly
gets to the heart, and intestines, of the matter. Running in slush is like running on goat guts. I'll buy that. Not at a Greek market, of course. But maybe I should. I hear their economy is struggling worse than ours.

Now, to more recent events. Today's men's running/figure skating exercise covered six miles on the ice rink that is central Overland Park. I received no style points from the Russian judge, who is still bitter over the whole Plushenko thing. That name means "placenta" in their language. (This dictionary is coming in handy.)

I have now run all fifty-three days this year, more than one-seventh of the calendar. My dad is not impressed by that fact. He fears I will get injured. He said, "Did I mention that I'm not really impressed?"

Slyly, I slunk away, slinging slander.

Thanks for humoring me.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

The Dark Side of Blackie Feb. 21, 2010

Standing in the freezing rain this morning, waiting for the dog to find just the right patch of slush on which to relieve myself, I had a realization: The dog hates me. He wants me to suffer. As if picking up his poop while holding back mine isn't bad enough,he makes me stand for ten minutes in soggy shoes with thirty-three degree rain rolling down my neck. What could he possibly be looking for? All the other dogs' scents have been covered in rain and snow. It is an olfactory void.

He must resent that he is a creature with the brain power of a two year-old child, and I am possessed of the most amazing thinking thing on the planet. Still, I'm picking up his crap, while he waits for me to let him back into the apartment, inside of which, he will spend the rest of his day sleeping and preserving his tiny intellect. He sure does make the most of what he's got. You have to give him that.

Thanks for humoring me.

Where Have You Gone, Bob Brown? Feb.20, 2010

Even though I pay for it in fatigue later in the day, I like getting out before dawn on Saturdays when I have to be to work early. By early, I mean 8a.m., which while earlier than my usually scheduled arrival time of 10a.m., or even 2p.m., is typical for many.

And since I have to get up at least four hours in advance, just so I can get in six miles, it means I have the streets almost entirely to myself. So,I can run right down Metcalf Avenue, which I did this morning. If I even tried that later in the day, I'd be Beamer Bait for some clown late for his date with the Starbucks drive-thru.

There used to be a Chrysler dealership south of 91st Street on Metcalf. I only noticed this morning that it was gone. I drive past that enormous lot nearly every day, and its glaring absence was never apparent. It must have been one of the many dealerships slated to be closed as part of the Chrysler restructuring. It went all the way to 93rd Street, almost a quarter of a mile. What else can fill all that space? They're not likely to put a shipyard in there. Or an amusement park.

Salespersons, sales managers, car washers, mechanics. They would all have had to find other work somewhere else. Lives disrupted, or even destroyed. Plans put on hold, or canceled. Have they been able to successfully take up at another dealership, or have they taken themselves in new directions? Maybe started businesses of their own. Or, are they still searching?

Momentous events sometimes happen right in front of us, and we're not even aware of them. Little tragedies, or triumphs, that go on all the time. Sometimes they make it into the media, and sometimes they don't. There is no telling how long it would have taken me to notice the dealership was gone, if I hadn't run past its former location a couple of hours before sunrise on a Saturday in February. It's somewhat depressing to think that I could be so wrapped up in my life, that I would miss something of such importance to so many people.

Thanks for reading.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Damn it, Tanith Feb.19, 2010

Don't white people just come up with the weirdest names for their kids sometimes? Like what's with this trend of naming 20th and 21st Century babies after 19th Century American presidents? Tell me, Mr. and Mrs. Addison, just why did you name your lovely daughter, Madison? Did you admire his work on The Federalist Papers? Or,was it his framing of the Bill of Rights, which guarantees that you will never be harassed by your government for giving your children pretentious names?

Zachary, for boys, and Taylor, for girls, serves both genders, which he failed to do in life-women's suffrage not passing until seventy years after his mercifully brief tenure. California was admitted to the Union on his watch, however, and in that state today folks are fighting it out over the right of Zachs to marry Abes, and Taylors to tie the knox with Tylers. No comment at this time from Old Rough and Ready over Prop 8.

But the Caucasian appellation that is sweeping the nation these days is Tanith Belbin. Eh? She is the Canadian-born, naturalized-American pairs ice dancer, who is getting ready to skate, gyrate, and belbinate all over her Olympic competitors in Vancouver. Hers is just one weird-ass name. When I first heard it, four things came to mind. I present them here in the order of their distance from the pseudo-sport of ice dancing. Tanith Belbin is:
1)A horny-footed denizen of Middle Earth.
2)Something Jerry Lewis may have said in "The Geisha Boy." As in, "Lady, you
tanithed my belbin!"
3)The capital city of the former Soviet republic of Tajerkistan, Tanith-Belbin.
Stalin exiled Trotsky there, I think.
4)The phrase that is the only one that comes close to rhyming with "Damn it,
Melvin."

I have a creeping fear that in ten years, when I am finally released from a federal penitentiary for viciously slandering Tanith Belbin, I will read in the online version of The Kansas City Star that the most common name for baby girls-for the tenth consecutive year, was- Tanith, with Rutherford B. Hayes a strong second.

Oh, and I ran three miles today.

Thanks for humoring me.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Totally Non-Verbose Feb.18, 2010

And now, a short poem commemorating today's long run, written by Chad Dingle-Berry, the Poet Laureate of The Short Attention Span Generation:

Twenty...
Was plenty.

The author will be signing copies of his six-page memoir "Chad: A Life... You Know?" in the lobby after this blog.

Thanks for reading.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Run, Squirrel, Run 2/18/10

Part of our job as shoe fitters is to ask customers how much running they do, so that we can get an idea of how much shoe they need, and how it should fit. I'd say 15-20 miles per week is average. Of course, a relative few will run 50 or more.

But there is a sizable number who don't do any running at all. Some just want shoes they can walk in, or work in. Some just want to try the latest models, because they may have some exciting innovation that they've read about. And that's all fine, of course. We're a running shoe store, so basically we want to sell running shoes, and we try not to be too judgmental about how they're used.

Occasionally, though, some customers will take pride in the fact that they don't run, "I only run if I'm being chased," they'll say. Moreover, they'll go so far as to call people that do run, "fanatical," or "hard-core." Heh? I just want to ask them, "Do you brush your teeth every day? Yes? Do you consider yourself a 'fanatical' toothbrusher? And how do you know that when you are running for your life, you can get away from whichever horror has it in for you? Wouldn't you want to train for the big moment, so that should it arrive, in the form of a marauding elephant, raptured and driverless SUV, or DEA agents who don't see it your way on medicinal marijuana, you can get the fungowee?

Take for example a daring little squirrel that I saw today while I was out training for my 10-K With Destiny. He was darting across his grassy sanctuary, chasing and being chased by his squirrel friends, preparing for that moment when he would have to outrun a hawk or an owl trolling for a rodent appetizer. Apparently, it was going well, he was feeling confident, and he wanted to kick it up a notch. It's the only reason I can imagine for what he did next. He bolted out of his yard, and onto Lowell Avenue, in front of an oncoming car. This silly squirrel must have thought, "If I can beat a Honda Odyssey, I can beat a barn owl." I gasped, not just because I was running uphill, but because I knew I was going to see what happens when overwhelming automotive pressure is applied to a squirrel abdomen.

But, no. The furry little Usain Bolt survived his Odyssey. What he couldn't have known until it was too late, though, was that there was a Chevy Traverse about to intersect his path as it traversed the other lane. I was still gasping, expecting to witness the little guy's transition to the afterlife. But, no. He dodged the front wheel, without slowing down, and got up and over the curb, just before the rear wheel would have pulverized his melon. Incredible! I pumped my fist from relief and happiness that this pint-sized daredevil had actually made it.


He was worried about being in good enough shape to elude animal predators. But the real test for him was made in Michigan, and Japan. Would his reflexes and muscles have been prepared for the challenge, if he hadn't been working out in the front yard with his buddies? And here's another little acorn of truth you can store in a hollow tree for the rest of the Winter: Squirrels who run at least 10 minutes a day, 4 days a week, are less likely to die of heart attack or stroke, than those who don't. And if you run out of juice in the middle of the street, you're going to get flatlined by a four-wheeler, and be a crow's lunch. It takes a tough nut to survive out on the street. You gotta be hardcore.

Thanks for reading.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Mardi Froid February 16, 2010

Happy Mardi Gras, y'all! Laissez les bon temps roulez! Get your rocks off before Lent, and the season of self-denial, begins. Maybe they're running around half-naked in Brazil, and New Orleans, but here in the umpteenth Circle of Hell, we're already into the mortification of the flesh thing. Or, maybe it's just frostbite. If Donald Trump fired the cleaning woman with six kids it wouldn't be any colder than this.

Four miles into my six, I crossed the 300-mile mark for the year. It was my 47th day in a row. One for every year I've been on this frozen rock, and one for every brain cell I have left.

Thanks for humoring me.

Monday, February 15, 2010

February 15, 2010

The wind chill this morning was 3 degrees. Wasn't that a lame singing group from the '70s? It was so cold that I understood why some people kill themselves by putting their heads in ovens. At least then they'll be warm when they check out. Even if they were to be condemned to Hell for taking their own lives, they could look up at me and laugh, "Hey, I'm not wearing ANY layers, how 'bout you, Mr. Five Frozen Extremities?"

Thanks for humoring me.

Saint Amy Day 2/14/10

Looks like a billion Chinese can be wrong about something. Today is their New Year's Day-the biggest holiday on their calendar. But what they don't know is that today is also my wife's birthday. It's also Valentine's Day, which is an over-blown, pseudo-holiday, concocted by the flower and chocolate industries, so as to boost their heart-shaped bottom lines. No, Saint Amy Day is the big one. The day on which we celebrate the birth and life of America's Sweetheart.

She was such an adorable baby, that, upon her return from the hospital, the mayor of her hometown of Pierson, IA, banned further baby production for that year, as all would seem merely wrinkled and stinky by comparison.

Every morning before grade school, she would rise and deliver the paper which contained stories reported and written by her, amongst the advertisements she had solicited from the local businesses. She did this without fail, regardless of the weather, which could be cruel, especially in Winter. Said she, "I love Winter, especially the blizzards, for then I am unable to ride my bike, and I get to deliver my route barefoot."

As a choir singer in high school, she stood out for her remarkable ability to sing soprano, alto, tenor, and bass parts simultaneously. So, in fact, she was a choir of one. This allowed her school to save money on transportation, as she could drive to performances in her own car. And her would-be choir mates could spare themselves the frustration of falling short of her abilities, and could then pursue other interests, in which they might actually possess some competence.

After graduation, Amy entered the optical industry, so that she could use her own keen "eye" for astigmatism and fashion, in order to get America seeing and looking better. She once told a woman with an angular face, that if she purchased the rectangular frames she was considering, she would look like nothing more than a well-educated horse, and perhaps she should consider something rounder. Through tears, and with absolutely no anger, the woman shouted "Thank you very much," before running off to the Better Business Bureau to tell them what a solid addition to the mercantile community Amy was.

Now, as the beloved wife of the author, and motherly mother of a Scottish Terrier and Diablo-Teufel shorthair cat, Amy nurtures, feeds, and removes mats from the fur of us all. Her angelic/booming voice fills these walls with music that stirs the soul, and puts hair back on our chests. Her sunny smile radiates a zest for life and a fondness for toothpaste. Her bright blue eyes are like the Mediterranean Sea at dawn, minus the industrial pollution and hordes of jellyfish.

Her birth is cause for celebration, every day. And if I were you, China, I would get on the stick, off your butt, and with the program. People from Iowa to Kansas, and everywhere in between, are down. I mean, could five billion non-Chinese be wrong?

Thanks for humoring me.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

February 13, 2010

Did you know there was a nation-wide Eggo shortage? It seems that Kellogg has had to close some of their frozen waffle plants in the U.S., which means less of the tasty, round gridirons for an Eggo-centric nation. We ran out of said breakfast treats yesterday, and set out immediately for our local edible disc dispensary.

Upon arrival at Freezer 12, Section 38, we found a note from the grocer where the Eggos should have been. It read, in part, "Dear Eggo Slave, your reason for living is in short supply, due to supply shortages arising from unforseen deficits in the amount of Eggos. We believe it is related to the fact that the manager of our plant in Crowville, GA forgot to bring his keys to the building. Production was delayed for two days while he searched for the keys, had lunch, searched some more, took a nap, greeted his kids when they came home from school (They and their pot-smoking friends were very surprised to see him.), greeted his wife when she came home from "work" (She and her boyfriend were really surprised to see him.), went to a bar and drank all night, slept in his clothes in his car, woke up and realized that he had left his keys under the Welcome Mat by the front door of the plant, then went back and unlocked the door so that all the Eggo Elves could get busy with production. We at Kellogg's are sincerely sorry for any inconvenience this may cause you. Also, when the Eggos are restocked, they will be twice as expensive. Thank you."

Inconvenience? How about distress? How about desperation? I did not sleep at all that night, worrying about how I would fuel up for my morning run without those 200 empty calories and artificial fruit flavor. How did they solve these dilemmas in days gone by?

In the end, I turned to Charlie Chaplin's Little Tramp for inspiration. Starving, and with nothing to eat but a shoe, he made of it a feast. So, when morning broke, I fished the empty Eggo box from the trash, cutting out the picture of the Eggo itself. I placed it in the toaster as I would usually have done, except that I had to remove it when it caught fire and set off the smoke alarm. With the flames doused, I put it on my little plate and slathered it with butter. Then I poured on some Essence of Blueberry. No, it did not taste good. I couldn't fool myself to that extent. In fact, I couldn't distinguish the flavor of burnt, buttered paper-board from the coffee grounds in the bottom of my cup. But my belly was full of something, and those calories would be enough to fuel me for six miles, interrupted though they were by horrible cramps and retching.

I received word while I was here in the Emergency Room, that the Eggo Wagon would be pulling up to our local Grocery Garage before sunrise tomorrow. I will be there, bagloads of money in hand. 'Cause there aint nothin like the real thing, Baby.

February 12, 2010

Today I felt like a six-foot tall pile of dog crap with wind briefs and running shoes. Two miles felt like two hundred. No joy of running for this very pedestrian pedestrian.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

February 11, 2010

Amy and I received some bad news today. We found out that her beloved companion, Blackie, has prostate cancer. He has been a wonderful pet and friend to Amy for almost 13 years, helping to get her through some very difficult times. To say that he is "laid-back," is like saying that Mt. Everest is tall. It's true, but insufficient. Blackie has an agenda, and he's not going to rush through it. A plan as involved as walking over to get a drink of water may only come together after several hours of concentrated sleep.

Everyone loves Blackie: He is cute, despite his massive melon of a head. In fact, 90% of his body's weight is north of his neck. Most of the year he is shaggy, which gives him a sort of adorable, TV sitcom family look. People just want to pet him, but reciprocation is often slow in coming. A small child at the grooming salon was so excited to see him, he squatted down to Blackie's level and squealed, "Come here, Mr. Blackie!" To my wife's surprise, the dog responded. He immediately walked toward the child with those tiny, purposeful steps of his, and as the kid clapped his hands with happiness, the dog kept right on going past him, in order to sniff some spot on the floor.

He is a great guy to have around, even if he doesn't do much. When he's up, he follows one or both of us around from room to room, laying down but looking up, just being there. A few times a day, he will chase the cat down the hall, which seems to be exactly what the cat wants. The cat will hop sideways toward him, back arched, until the two are nose to nose. Blackie's head is so big, it would seem capable of swallowing Carlos in one gulp. But the cat has no fear. Maybe he knows the dog just wants to play, too. Blackie's tail goes up, twitches, then the cat turns and sprints away, with Blackie in futile, barking pursuit.

We're going to try to make the most of our remaining time with him. We didn't even ask the vet how long that might be. We just want to enjoy the elusive charms of His Royal Blackness until he's too tired to chase the cat, or open the bathroom door with his head.

Thanks for reading.

Get Your Head on Straight February 10, 2010

I had a bumping headache when I woke up, and it lasted throughout my run. I say "bumping"because it was by no means a migraine, but it was definitely making life uncomfortable for the owner of the cabeza in question.

I still managed to get my six miles in, nonetheless. I don't think I've run with a headache since my college days, when I was often hungover, dehydrated, nauseated, a bit disoriented, and late for class. My running during that time was mostly drinking-related. I didn't have a car, so I would have to get a ride with my dormmates to whatever party was happening. Over the course of a few hours, we would get separated from each other, which was probably best, since such a high concentration of failure pheromones mixed with alcohol and pot could have caused massive structural failure in most houses, and I would invariably lose my ride home. Lacking money for cab fare, and not having secured a female chauffeur for the drive to someone's home, I would run. In whatever smoke-smelling jeans and flannel shirt I'd arrived in, and with my Chuck Taylor's soaked by Schell's beer I would hit the bricks.

And, man, would I run. Fast. All sense of distance and pace, any sense at all, was lost after five minutes in front of the bong. All the euphoria, or frustration, I'd built up at the party, poured out of me. I'd get back up to my dorm floor, go to the bathroom, throw up, weave down the hall to my room, pass out, having forgotten to set my alarm, maybe throw up again in the night, and oversleep at least my first class.

Then the running would begin again, head pounding, just so I could hear the all too sonorous voice of Professor Mrs. Dunham, explaining the foundations of the Whig Party in 18th Century American History. I hoped that the pounding in my head was an impending aneurysm, but it was only Knowledge knocking with futility on my gray matter.

But, hey, kids, don't do what I did. Don't drink and run. Even if it improves your cardiovascular fitness, it will turn your brain into a hard little pellet, into which no knowledge can seep. That is the Devil's Bargain. Better just to drink, and not run. Or run, and not drink. Except water, of course, because dehydration is a common cause of headaches.

Thanks for humoring me.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Springsteen Reference February 9, 2010

We had the kind of weather today that makes you realize that we must all work toward a nuclear weapon-free world. Why? Because it was Nuclear Winter cold out there. And the wind was blowing right through houses and turning them into piles of toothpicks, just as if it had been generated by an H-Bomb blast. We're talking Ice Road Truckers cold here. If there were a Tenth Avenue around here, it would be frozen out. Even Nanook would have said, "Day-um!" if he'd been out seal hunting today.

And, actually, he was. Over at the little corporate pond near the office building. I saw him early in my 7-mile run. He caught a big one, and gave me some of the blubber to wear inside my jacket for added insulation. He knew without my telling him that I needed a little help. A very intuitive Inuit. But seal hunting, especially without a license, is frowned upon in this part of Kansas, so he and his family had to light out in their kayak to avoid the Sheriff. Only I was left to tell the tale.

Thanks for humoring me.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Just A Little Kiss February 8, 2010

I didn't sleep at all last night, as the man sang. My wife suggested that I probably have a guilty conscience-that there must be some transgression worrying my soul. I suggested that since I have neither a conscience, nor a soul worth worrying about, the culprit was most likely the second helping of Super Bowl chili I'd had for dinner. In either case, I was a Grumpy Gussie.

I figured a run was just the thing to snap me out of my humanity-hatin' haze. And so it was. I had an easy 5-miler on a beautiful, winter morning. The air was still, and snow covered the trees, leaving the streets mostly clear. It was great to be out in it. I returned with a smile, whistling "Zip a Dee Doo Dah," kissed the dog and the cat full on their mouths, and would have given the missus the same treatment, but I had gotten the order wrong, and was denied.

I could feel my Happy Meter starting to nosedive, so I went back out for another 5 miles, came home more elated than before, and flew up the stairs and into our apartment to kiss my beloved. But, it was too late, she had already left for work. She had left a note, however, on a picture of a donkey with an arrow pointing toward it's hind end, and the caption, "Kiss this, Romeo." I was bummed. What could I do? I still had my running clothes on.

Out the door I ran. It was only 5 miles to where she works...

Thanks for humoring me.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

A Sick Man 2/7/10

The running experts say that you don't have to miss runs, just because you have a head cold. As long as it is only in your head, not in the throat or lungs, you should be able to do your daily run with only a moderate chance of major organ failure. My mother, when she found out I exploited this "logic" when deciding to run today, said that my brain had already failed. I should also clarify that my brain is not a "major" organ.

The weird thing is that I had a pretty good six miles today. I didn't go long, and I didn't go hard, and I didn't feel any worse when I was done. So what if my head felt like a bale of hay? I don't remember where I went, or what day it is, but dat's a'ight. I still hustled along. In fact, it was one of my quicker paces for the week. So it wasn't just a sick run-yo, it was SICK!

Thanks for humoring me.

Snowballs 2/06/10

We had a wet snowfall last night and early this morning. The temperature stayed at, or above, freezing, so the streets were watery, but not icy. I didn't feel great at the start, owing to an incoming head cold, but out I went into the pre-dawn slush.

Some of the tree branches had collected clumps of snow, which had an appearance similar to round, white Christmas ornaments. One short, bushy tree was covered in these snowballs, reminding me of a stalk of cauliflower. And, the image of a black ribbon of asphalt winding between the white yards on either side was quite beautiful as I worked my way along.

Today would have been Bob Marley's 65th birthday. If I believed in a karmic form of Divine Justice, I would say that Mr. Marley was put on this Earth to even out the damage done to the world by Ronald Reagan, who was born on the same day, many years earlier, in an idyllic Illinois village. That Bob died the year Ron took office is the reason why I don't believe in karma, or Divine Justice.

Get up, stand up...

Thanks for reading.

Friday, February 5, 2010

February 5, 2010

We had a very nice morning for running here in KC. A light, wet snow was falling-straight down, not from the side like. The streets weren't slippery, even though some snow had collected on them. I only had a 3-miler scheduled for today, which was plenty, considering that I was still pretty tired from yesterday's long run.

I must have gone through a big old patch of rhinovirus out there somewhere, 'cuz I've had that scratchy feeling in the back of my throat all afternoon and evening. Almost like swallowing coffee grounds. Looks like I'm going to be up all night eating popsicles.

We'll, I'm off to bed. Got to get in a run before going in early to work.

Thanks for reading.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

A Little Problem 2/4/10

I got 14 in today, mostly along the Indian Creek and Tomahawk Creek trails. I hadn't run east of Roe in a while, due to the weather, and the construction that had torn up that section of the trail last year. I plugged along without any problems, no dogs, no drivers, no midgets.

Oh, that reminds me of a strange dream I had last night, which later led to a very disturbing event. In the dream, I was watching a KU basketball game, and it was pretty rough, with a lot of collisions and injuries. And every time a Jayhawks player had to leave the court, he was replaced by either a midget, or a hairless boy with jowls. They weren't too bad, either, because the play-by-play announcer kept saying things like, "I don't know how Coach Self is doing it, but his team is hanging in there." The problem was that the little guys weren't very strong, so they kept getting beat up, and had to leave the game. Finally, they ran out of midget/boys, so they put in little girls in hockey uniforms. One even had goalie pads. That was the point when the surreality overwhelmed my brain, and I woke up.

I had to run for almost two hours to shake the weirdness. Then my kindly wife made lunch, after which we went to the barbershop. I was surprised when we walked in, and the place was empty. I was seated right away, and the talented Brandy set out to make me look less like a 47 year-old slob, and more like the distinguished men of business whose likenesses top ads for various barbering products found in the shop.

She was nearly finished with this Olympian feat, when a noisy band of scruffniks came in, barely supervised by their mother. Horror of horrors! They were all wearing KU replica basketball jerseys! And when they took off their stocking caps, they were nearly hairless, and the chubby little beggars were sporting jowls as well. Surely they must have been brought to the barbershop to torture me, and my "dream" hadn't been a dream after all. My miniscule mind was teetering on the brink of insanity. I jumped out of the chair, fallen hair flying from the apron, tossed 20 bucks on the register, threw my wife over my shoulder, and ran out the door.

After six hours in the bathtub with the lights off, and the gentle reassurances of my wife that the brain damage would not be entirely permanent, I'm not sure what that means anymore, I have returned to the world I thought I knew. I feel like a wall has been torn down. The wall that separated my dreams from reality. The wall that the little people could not surmount. Please keep an eye on them for me.

Thanks for humoring me.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Six More Miles of Winter 2/3/10

You know those runs in which everything falls into place? Where your legs are strong, your breathing easy, the drivers courteous? This was not one of those. My legs felt like bowling pins that were about to go down. My breathing was like that of a woman in the late stages of labor-before I'd even taken a step. And the one driver I encountered was a toad-he looked right at me and smiled as he rolled through a crosswalk on a red light.

But it was great, nonetheless, I stayed in touch with my inner five year-old: The kid who ran all the way to kindergarten on the first day of school. So happy to be in motion, that not even the fact that I showed up an hour early could get me down. I'd like to think I'm closer to him than I am to the sedentary, unhealthy, frustrated version of me that I would be if I let the toads of this world keep me from running the streets.

And, next time, I'm going to spit on his minivan when he goes by.

Thanks for reading.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Solitary Liberation 2/2/10

I covered nine miles today, by myself, as I almost always do. A friend at work told me the other day that she thought it was amazing I ran so many solitary miles. It doesn't seem at all extraordinary to me, of course, because that is just how I do it.

As a practical matter, it would be pretty hard to have a running partner who has the same schedule I do: Out the door before dawn some days, closer to noon on others. And it takes me a while to get going, as I've mentioned before, and I wouldn't want the pressure of having other people waiting on me to finish all my little rituals.

Running partners do, however, make you "accountable." They provide motivation to get out on bad-weather days, or mornings when you're just too tired, and don't want to exhaust yourself further. Motivation isn't really a problem for me. Yeah, there are those days when all I want is coffee and the morning paper. But all I have to think of is the 200-lb version of me who gave in too many times to those messages of desired comfort. Even a bad run, and there aren't many, is better than not running.

My course today took me down a three-block stretch of tall, birch trees on both sides of the road. The bark is dark at the lower levels, but it peels off as your eyes go higher, giving the trees a snow-topped appearance. Their formation reminds me of the flying buttresses at Notre Dame in Paris, meant to lift the viewer's eyes and soul heavenward. It is a reminiscence I might not have, were I chatting with a fellow runner about school tax levies, or the Chiefs.

I don't feel myself superior to those who prefer, or need, to run with others. If they are running at all, they are doing their minds and bodies a tremendous favor, and it doesn't matter how they got there. I also believe that those who are interested in improving some aspect of their running, like speed, or endurance, benefit from having partners who can push them beyond their former limits. It was true for me in the days when I did more group running. I had all my PRs during that time.

Now, I have only myself to answer to, and I am an honest critic. I chide myself for relaxing when I should have pushed, and pointlessly exhausting myself when an easy jog around the block would have sufficed. When I start speedwork again this Spring, I will run every lap around the track as if a little old man with a stopwatch were standing in the infield, exhorting me to lift my knees; keep my back straight; do one more. Faster!

There is no loneliness for this long-distance runner.

Thanks for reading.

Monday, February 1, 2010

February 1, 2010-No Gross Stuff

I had another "excretory emergency" on my pre-dawn trot. Fortunately, the local mall was already open for walkers, and I was able to sprint to the bathroom. Unlike last Thursday, my dad was not padding around looking for toothpicks, so the only one about to get the crap scared out of him was me. Nothing will turn an easy jog into an Olympic event like the moment that yesterday's fiber kicks in. All ended well for me, but not for the guy who came in just after I sat down.

Thanks for humoring me.