Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Poetic License to Murder3/31/10

Papi didn't run today-long or otherwise. I am under the weather, again, and had absolutely no zip this morning. I can't breathe through my nose, and I have to urinate every five minutes, which makes me seem like an incontinent Neanderthal. Tomorrow is my day off, and I am scheduled for a twenty-miler. If I can't get it done, I may have to switch from the marathon to the half in Lawrence.

Since I had time this morning, I did get the laundry folded, and a Pablo Neruda poem translated from Spanish to English. One line did give me a lot of trouble, however. The best I could do with the penultimate line from En Ti La Tierra was "I measure hardly the eyes most extended to the sky..." Maybe I need to get a bigger dictionary, and stop using the one that fits into my wallet. Lo siento, Pablo.

Thanks for humoring me.

Pottspourri 3/30/10

I had to take a bathroom break at the Metcalf South Mall during my run this morning. It's hard to believe the thing hasn't been razed, since nearly all the retail shops left long ago. There are a fair number of wholesalers doing business by appointment only, but only two retailers that I could see: Sears, and Macy's. The place seems stuck in time, with the decor, and some store fronts, now defunct, unchanged for more than a decade. It's weird, but I find myself feeling sorry for a place that was bustling for a time, and is now all but abandoned.

Looks like it's time to put away the winter gear. Temperatures this week look like they'll get no colder than the 40s, so I can probably pack up the tights, the long-sleeved shirts, and the wind briefs. Vive le printemps!

I ran just three today, anticipating that I will do a long one tomorrow before work. Not looking forward to working after a three-hour run-in fact, I usually avoid doing both on the same day. But it will give me an extra day of rest before my marathon on April 18th.

Amy and I watched American Idol last night. Didi gave by far the worst performance, which may allow Tim to stay around for another week. More females seem to vote than males, and they seem to go for Tim because he's cute and affable. But, he is one strange dude: He stares vacantly into the camera, while singing a love song that is totally devoid of love, or even energy. I wanted to kill him a couple of weeks ago, when he did a reggae version of "Under My Thumb," during Rolling Stones Week. He gave a misogynistic lyric sort of a happy-go-lucky, Jack Johnson vibe. He almost smiled when he sang "...the squirming dog, who has just had her day." He should have been flushed that week, and banned from all singing, even in his own shower, for life.

Thanks for reading.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Head Up 3/29/10

I have been trying to improve my posture lately. I am a renown sloucher of long, crooked standing. My Fair Mother noticed my slanted stance when I was quite young, and sought to straighten me out. Her remedies included making me stand upright with shoulders back. Since I have never had any shoulders, this tactic was doomed to fail. Another method was ye olde Books on the Noggin While Reciting Inane Rhymes, made popular in a movie of the same name, starring Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn. The line about Spain, rain, and the plain, clashed with my musical references of the time, "I've never been to Spain, but I kind of like the people," by Three Dog Night, which confounded my mushy melon, causing me to lose focus, lean forward, and tumble the tomes onto the carpet.

Though her efforts failed back then, the importance of good posture on lung capacity and core strength were not lost on me-I have just not been able to implement it. Even now, I continue to try to straighten up and run right. During my last few runs, I have tried to concentrate on keeping my head up, and my back straight. I hope that by doing so, I will run more efficiently, reduce discomfort in my joints, and lose my Quasimodo hump.

I did pretty well on today's six-miler, never fixating too long on my moving feet. Whenever I did glance straight down, the post-it notes I'd stuck on my shoe tops admonishing me that "You are about to fall into a bottomless pit! Look up, Stoop-id!," frightened me back into proper form, with an effectiveness that Rex Harrison and my mother never would have imagined.

It was fascinating, too, all the things I noticed while I was running more like Homo Erectus, rather than Homo Slumpticus. Things like birds nests in tree tops, cars backing out of driveways, jet contrails in the clear, morning sky, and flying monkeys waiting to swoop down on plucky Cairn terriers.

I'm not going to be able to snap out of my tilted perspective in a week, I know. It took forty-six years to get where I am, so bringing me back to vertical might take just as long. Maybe the ninety-two year-old me will stand out, and stand tall in the crowd at the Retirement Corral, because of his perfect posture, when all his peers will be hunched over and shrunken. If I could just get close to straight, though, I'd be happy. If not the Washington Monument, then the Tower of Pisa. It's been standing longer, after all. Maybe it is better to be just a little bent.

Thanks for reading.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

3/28/10

I was back at the track today, after a month-long absence, which was precipitated by the last workout I did there. I overexerted myself, caught a cold, had to break my consecutive running days streak, and had a case of laryngitis so bad, even Tom Waits would have winced to hear me speak.

Despite all that, I was back at the oval this noon, banging away at the Mondo Rubber beneath my feet. It was not warm, and overcast, and windy. Perfect conditions for another rhino virus invasion, should I compromise in the care of my health, which, as a non-Republican, I am prone to do.

There is a concern more serious than the common cold that I carry with me, though. Whenever I run extremely hard, whether at the track, or in a race, I feel at some point as if I am going to die. My chest is expanding to its limits, trying to help the lungs pull in more air, and that hurts. My heart feels like it is beating about two hundred times per minute, which is much higher than the maximum listed for men my age. (Note: As a child, I was diagnosed with tachycardia, a condition in which the heart receives a false electrical signal that causes it to beat much faster than normal. In my pediatrician's office, I was clocked going over two hundred bpm.) I then picture myself collapsing, my heart so utterly destroyed that no one can save me.

Of course, it's not uncommon for people to have heart attacks while running. The man who literally wrote the book that helped start the running craze in the '70s, Jim Fixx, died from one, while running. My youngest brother, a great runner, felt the warning signs of a heart attack while working out on a track, and had the sense to get himself to a hospital to be checked out. He had two heart attacks-while there. He was two months shy of his fortieth birthday. The blockage was in the vessel that feeds the main pumping chamber of the heart. Infarctions here are called "Widow Makers," because they usually result in sudden death. My brother, probably because his heart was so strong from years of exercise, survived, though he cannot enjoy the same intensity, or duration, of running that he used to. He has celebrated five birthdays since the attack, however, for which I am grateful.

That I now have a family history of heart disease also weighs on my mind, as I heave and gasp my way around the track. I could stop when it starts to get uncomfortable, or I could just not come here at all. I could choose never to push myself beyond an easy pace, and still enjoy the cardiovascular fitness jogging provides. But I haven't, and I won't. Going fast, even though it's not as fast as it used to be, is exciting, and I'm not yet ready to give up those thrills. I want to have some stories to tell the other geezers at the assisted care facility when I'm ninety-nine, and sucking my dinner through a straw. And not just about how bad things were during the Recession of The Aughts, either. I want to run until I die, and if I keep doing what I did today, I just might.

Thanks for humoring me.

Three A.M., W/Carlos 3/27/10

I can't sleep through the night anymore. I never have been a great sleeper, I must admit. Too many night terrors and anxieties. Too much sleep walking, and sensitivity to house sounds. But, there was one thing that could be said for me: I could hold more water than a water buffalo. I never got up at 3a.m. just to take a whizz. I might flail about until I knocked trophies off nightstands, and barstools onto the bridge of my nose, but I never made a conscious trip to the commode in order to assume the yoga position known as "The Pissing Crane."

The loss of capacity is doubtless age-related, as is my increased affection for the columns of Charles Guswelle. He is a 130 year-old KC Star columnist who writes often about cats and Russia, and in a rather stodgy style. I used to blow past his columns as quickly as I did the comic strip Mark Trail, but lately I have found my quartagenarian eyes straying to these two stalwarts. (Digression: I saw Mark stripped to the waist in a strip a few years back, and though his pecs were expectedly impressive, he had no nipples. Perhaps he has evolved faster than the rest of us fellows.) Since I want to be the next great, ancient cat columnist in KC, let me tell you about Carlos and I in the pissoir at 3a.m.

Carlos, our Cat Whom Hell Could Not Handle, is always up at that time, and he is always happy to see me. "Happy" is a wayy understatement. Obama was happy to get healthcare reform passed. Northern Iowa was happy to beat Kansas. Carlos is happy to the thirtieth power when I go into the bathroom er-lie in the mornin'. When I sit down-for two reasons: accuracy in the dark, and his tendency to give me love bites on the backs of my legs, which consequently decrease my accuracy in the dark-he throws himself down at my feet. He lolls. He purrs. So loudly, in fact that it registers on the Richter Scale. It makes me nervous, this joyous feline vibration. When I'm nervous, I can't pee. (Digression: I say "pee" more since I've gotten old, which I also said a lot when I was three. It probably means I'm going to start peeing more in my pants, necessitating a return to diaper usage. I doubt that Mark Trail will ever have any trouble with bladder control, which is fortunate, since he doesn't have a penis.) And when I can't pee, I spend way too much time on the crapper, which means I'm not in the bed sleeping.

So, the cat and my minuscule bladder keep me from getting the required amount of sleep. And insufficiency of sleep in my line of work, the proper fitting of running shoes, can have grave consequences. I once put a five-foot tall high-school sophomore girl into a pair of men's size 16 EEEEs. I just left the paper in. That afternoon at track practice, she tripped thirty times in one mile. Formerly a beautiful girl, she now has a nose like Mike Tyson. (Digression: More running shoes are misfit by the sleepy, than by the drunk, or those who text, and Mark Trail runs in his Ranger boots, but doesn't get blisters, because he doesn't have skin.)

In order to solve the problem, I am trying to get Carlos on the same nocturnal schedule as the rest of us. So far, a thousand dollars of quasi-legal Columbian cat tranquilizers have shown some promise, but I may have to dial back the dosage. He was out for a week, and I thought/hoped he might be dead. I've had pangs of conscience over my hopefulness ever since, which have cost me several nights' sleep. (Closing digression: Mark Trail loves his animal companion, the stout Saint Bernard, Andy, more than anything other than his own sideburns. Wishing him dead is unthinkable, even when The Big Fellow needs an expensive operation to fix his hip dysplasia.)

Thanks for reading.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

White Legs Johnson 3/26/10

I didn't run today, since I was still getting over yesterday's effort on the roads and the multiplex. So, today's entry relates to a windy, cold morning from a couple of weeks back, which was unrelated at the time, probably because I thought some list, or haiku would work better.

I was determined on that day to run in shorts, despite the temperature-about 32 degrees-and a wind so strong it deserved a reading on the Fujita scale, like F10. Before I undertake any run, I have to do my chores, which is why I had the trash bag in hand as I walked toward the dumpster in long-sleeved shirt, Nikes, and red short-shorts. My slouching gait allowed me to see, all at once: the bag, the shoes, and the legs, all of the same horrifying whiteness.

For the man who was the boy who wanted to be Jimi Hendrix, and Carlos Santana, and Willie Mays, this was a blood chilling sight. I got the chicken skin all over my pasty piernas. Where had all the melanin gone? Accursed Winter! Purloiner of pigment! I began the run with a feeling of loss, and a realization that I would never be more than seasonally sun-marked. I cursed my Hibernian ancestors and headed down the road.

My misery was made even greater, as if it needed to be, by a woman walking her dog the opposite way, who upon seeing my bare, white pines pushing palely up the hill, pulled back on her Schipperke, and shrieked, "Oh, my, your legs!." See, it's not just me.

Thanks for humoring me.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

A Post-Workout Workout 3/25/10

After a hard thirteen (Wasn't that Bernard Madoff's prison sentence?), like I did this morning, I probably shouldn't have gone to see "The Hurt Locker" in the afternoon. Normally, Amy and I would head over to the HyVee deli after a run like today's, but instead, we decided we wanted to try to catch up on our movie watching. Two slices of pepperoni pizza, and a Mountain Dew are usually all I need to get my old chassis restarted.

You probably know by now that this film won both the Best Picture, and Best Director Oscars. I would not argue with either verdict. There is no let-up, as the director packs drama into every moment, and the actors reveal their emotions, from fear, to rage, to horror, and even sardonic humor into every line of dialogue. It tells the story of an Army bomb technician and his team working in Iraq. The movie is so saturated with tension, that even the scenes between those related to bomb disposal are unbearably nerve-wracking. Those where they are out on missions keep the Oh-Shit-O-Meter pegged.

So, it was not the best choice for maxin', and relaxin'. I was wound up tight from the beginning, to the end, and then some. I think, actually, that the residual anxiety colored the rest of my evening. The mellowness that had followed my hard workout was transformed, after leaving the movie, into a sullen distancing from what should have been enjoyable activities, like watching the sunset with Amy, grocery shopping, watching basketball on TV, and walking the dog.

But, that transformative effect is what movies should always provide, and so rarely do. Most films are content to be mere entertainment, and there is nothing wrong with that. There are so many movies that we lower our expectations, knowing that they can't all be masterworks. I think we forget, however, that movies are an art form. They create an image of the world that had not existed before, so, they should provoke us to think about the world in ways that we had not previously. Movies should affect our feelings, if they are excellent, at least for a short time.

That's what "The Hurt Locker" did for me. It short-circuited my recovery process, to be sure, and it may have even put me in a funk for the rest of the evening. It was one of the most powerful experiences I have ever had while watching a movie, and one I will carry with me for a very long time. I'd trade a nap, a bottle of Mountain Dew, and two slices of pizza for that anyday.

Thanks for reading.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

The Magic Shoes 3/24/10

Even now, in my declining years, I get a childlike excitement from running in new shoes. They are bright and clean, and at the peak of their physical capabilities. Just as I once was. And I mean once. I think the date was July 31, 1980, two weeks before my eighteenth birthday.

With new shoes, I trick myself into believing that the creaks I've been hearing in my joints will magically disappear, my training plan is invigorated, and delusions of One More Great Marathon fill my foggy brainpan. Lost in the fog is the reality of diminished oxygen-carrying capacity, creeping arthritis, and intermittent willpower. Yes, new shoes even trump physical decadence.

Today's six-miler was actually slower by eight seconds than yesterday's, even though the new shoes are lighter and bouncier. My breathing was somewhat labored, just like it was yesterday, even though atmospheric conditions were perfect-cool and humid, with light wind and rain-and the new, magic shoes were sending positive messages to my brain about how strong my lungs were. My knees were a little stiff, too, despite the new, bouncy foam tied to the ends of my legs.

All in all, it was a typical run: not extraordinarily fast, slow, mind-opening, or depressing. It was the equivalent of flossing my teeth. Not the kind of thing you wax excitedly about for hours, nor the kind of thing that makes you want to convert your shoelaces into a noose. It certainly didn't meet the expectations I had generated, simply by bringing home new shoes. I should just learn to face reality, I suppose, and remember that shoes are just tools, like hammers and computers. They only work within a range determined by their operator's ability to wield them. Or, I could just return these crappy old shoes, and get another pair.

Thanks for reading.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Weightless March 23, 2010

A quick look at my physique will tell you that I am no body builder. In fact, most people only take a quick look at me before looking down, and mumbling, "Damn, that fifth-grader is tall. And he has a mustache, too."

As a long-distance runner, I spend most of my exercise time tearing down muscle. Pumped up biceps and pecs would be too bulky to allow me to run comfortably for a long time. Their undulations would also leave oncoming drivers nauseated.

I'm not sure I could even grow large muscles. I took a summer weightlifting course in junior high, which produced no positive results at all. Even the lightest dumbbell on the rack was beyond my ability to move. It was almost as if they had been glued in place. Most of the other participants were football players or wrestlers looking to bulk up before their practices started in the Fall and Winter. They had no empathy for a human stick figure who kept yelling out things like, "I know it says 'ten pounds,' but you have to multiply that by ten times, so it's really like one hundred pounds." (That I can't lift.) And when you can't even do one rep of the lightest weight, how can you do a set? And if you can't do one set, how can you drop the bar on the floor and yell, "Damn, that's what I'm talking about! How you like me now, Ahnold?"

Through physical maturation-finally-in my thirties, I have been able to do a little more heavy lifting. It's still not easy, however. I can shoulder press twenty-five pounds with one arm, eleven times. By the twelfth rep, my arm is shaking like a Ramen noodle holding up a hippo. Once, the cat came up and rubbed himself against my leg while I was in this state, and the resulting shock wave traveled up my torso, and into my shoulder. This triggered the collapse of the entire structure of the upper Mike Potts. The falling tonnage nearly flattened the feline, who would have had it coming.

I used to be embarrassed by my wimpiness, but no longer. My grandmother, eighty-nine years of age, has been doing some lifting as a way to improve her bone density. Except for those in my head, I would agree her bones are denser than mine, because, not only can she lift more than I, she can crush me in arm wrestling. As a result, all the ladies in her social circle have taken up the weights, in hopes of one day pinning the back of my hand to the table. It doesn't bother me any: being trash-talked by your grandma just doesn't have the same stigma as it would coming from one of your peers, "And I, an elderly lady, just defeated you in this test of strength, in which you would clearly, as a man, and younger, have seemed to be at an advantage-Beeyotch." You see what I'm saying?

Besides, I'm strong enough to do most of the things I need to do to survive. I can start the car, steer it to the store, push the cart, load it with food, and swipe my debit card at the register to pay for it. Thank God, though, that they have someone to bag it up for me. That would take me all day. So many Eggo cartons!

A Hog on Ice 3/ 22/ 2010

Our apartment building sits at the bottom of a long hill, in a sort of cul-de-sac. And when it rains, or snow melts, the water gets stuck down there until it evaporates, or until migrating herds of wildebeest come to drink it.

This morning, before the wildebeesties came, I set out in the dark for my run. As soon as I stepped into the road, I slipped on the water, or ice, as the water from the snowmelt had refrozen, trapping several crocodiles beneath. Collecting myself after this near disaster, I headed back into the building, in order to warn my wife of the icy danger. As soon as I hit the sidewalk, I nearly hit the sidewalk, finding yet another swatch of slickness with my oafish hooves. I think the only reason I didn't fall was that I flailed about so wildly, one arm up, the other down, one foot going east, the other southeast, I confounded gravity into momentarily releasing its grip upon me. When I finished this impromptu Triple Toe-Loop, I stuck out my arms, thrust back my head and sang, "Ta-da!" The judge from Burkina Faso gave me a 5.0, purely out of sympathy.

Winter gave it one more try; I have to hand it to her. She tried to knock me down, spit in my face, and slander my name all over the place. But I prevailed. I stuck the landing, and came up smiling.

Thanks for humoring me.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Another List March 21, 2010

Five Things You Won't Catch People Other Than Mike Potts Doing

1. Joe Mauer Telling The Truth, "No, of course I'm not worth $23 million a year, just for playing baseball. But the Yankees would have offered me $24 million eventually, and if they had me, face it, they would rule the world forever. The sun would be blacked out of the sky, and baseball fans who don't live in NYC would be crushed by red-eyed automatons wearing pinstripes. It would make 'The Terminator' look like 'Fantasia.'"

2. KU Basketball Fans Gaining Perspective: James Naismith is not going to rise from his grave, just because the Jayhawks were knocked out of the NCAA Men's B-Ball Tournament. It was a shocking defeat in a basketball game, that's all. For heart-rending emotion, it can't even touch the death of Bambi's mother. Next year, if they lose their annual "match-up" with Chanute State, or whatever Kansas Division VI school they have scheduled, then you can give Elizabeth Kubler-Ross a call.

3. Picking Up Their Own Dog's Crap: I thought all civilized people had agreed to do this. Isn't the U.S. a signatory to the Kyoto Pooper Scooper Treaty? Our Scottish Terrier takes three or four dumps a day. The gross (and I do mean gross) weight of said shit is about one one-millionth of a nanogram. I pick it up every time, regardless of rain, wind, mushiness, or dark of night. (I have night-vision, heat-sensitive goggles.) Meanwhile, the guy who owns the boxer leaves about ten pounds of processed Alpo and hog jowls to burn deep holes in the Earth. I don't say anything because I don't have health insurance, and both he and the dog are bigger than I am.

4. Getting Busted For Turning Right on Red, Without Coming to a Full Stop: I'm the only person who has ever gotten a ticket for this. Naturally, I did it right in front of an officer of the North Kansas City Department of Revenue, who told me that he honestly didn't think he'd ever seen that before. I was held for three days in the City Jail, while the City Attorney combed the statute book for the proper fine to be levied. Six thousand, three hundred, twenty-four dollars. Thanks to me, NKC was able to break ground on its new community center. In order to make up for the loss of half my yearly wages, I began a second career giving cautionary speeches to high-school kids, telling them how this archaic transgression had ruined my life, but that there was still time for them to avoid such a financially-strapped fate. Sadly for my credit rating, attendance was not mandatory, and society is more endangered for it.

5. Going To The Counter at Taco Bell, Instead of the Drive-Thru: It does not matter if you are the only one at the counter, and there are twenty cars outside in that long, gray, ozone line, you will wait for your food until every single one of those cars is gone, even if you only ordered one, lettuce-laden, regular taco. They have a time goal of three minutes for every car, and one week for every walk-in customer. Americans love polar bears, but they love tostadas handed to them while they listen to John Mayer on their car stereos even more.

Thanks for humoring me.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

March 20, 2010

My wife is to blame for the snow that fell last night and this morning. She loves snow; can't get enough of it. If she were President of the World, the atmosphere would be covered in cheap plastic, thereby turning the planet into a snowglobe.

Last Winter, her first in Kansas City, was mild, and nearly snow-free. It made her pine for the snowbound seasons of her Iowa youth. Her husband is allergic to pain, and boycotted any return to the Frozen Freakin' Hawkeye State, because, whereas gay marriage is recognized there, the recreational use of morphine to combat frostbite is not.

And so, she prayed for snow and cold weather here this Winter. And, as she is a good and pious woman, who has suffered mightily during her time in this not-so-severe land, the Lord heard her cries. Amy, to paraphrase Richard Pryor, is tight with God. And, since her husband is a godless proponent of Big Government, his pleas for deliverance from the icy tempest were ignored. Perhaps he should seek redress from Barack the Almighty.

Well, she got her old-fashioned, cold, snowy Winter, which has now rolled over into Spring. I can only hope she does not begin to negotiate with The Almighty over a White Fourth of July.

Thanks for reading.

Friday, March 19, 2010

Cracked Bracket March 19, 2010

I took today off, a decision made within three seconds of finishing yesterday's Masochism Marathon. Even though I'm a glutton for punishment, I go to Royals games after all, I'm not a complete dope. I actually took a picture of myself with my phone, just in case I rationalized a way to sneak in a run. Something like, "You can really run quite will with only one functioning kidney." I looked at the guy in the picture this morning while I was slipping on my Pumas. The guy looked like he ought to be on a terrorism watch list: sunken cheeks, dried mucus on his shirt, thousand-yard stare, fuse sticking out of his shorts. Gasping, I took off my Pumas and decided to do something else.

Like, fill in my NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament bracket. I didn't do too badly, for a guy who pays as much attention to college hoops, as he does to speed limit signs. I lost a couple of tough ones-Northern Iowa and Murray State beat me on last second shots, and Notre Dame beat me by missing theirs. (No carryover for Irish luck on March 18th?) I picked UTEP to beat Butler, mostly because I think UTEP is cool to say. It sounds like the name of an Egyptian pharaoh. But Butler kicked their butts all the way back to EP. I'm not even sure where Butler is? Butlerville? Are they from Canada?

The biggest hit of the day was delivered by the Bobcats of Ohio University. THE Ohio university, that is. They smote the Hoyas of Georgetown, who played so badly, they should get a loss in their first game next year, too. There is no way I would have picked this one right. A coworker did, though. She said she picked the Ohioans because she couldn't read the seedings in the paper, and just went with the one she liked better. Ohio was seeded 14th. They were just fodder to be fed to one of the Beasts of the East. Well, the Noyas choked on it, so now they have to go back to Washington D.C., and listen to arguments in the health care reform debate as their punishment.

I had a good day, all in all. My record was 11-5. Not bad for a novice whose basketball expertise goes no farther than knowing that technically, a technical foul is not really a foul, and there is no such thing as traveling.

Thanks for humoring me.

March 18, 2010

Twenty-three is such a weird number. I really just pulled that out of thin air as my distance for today's run. Halfway between twenty, which I have already accomplished, and twenty-six, the marathon distance.

It was Michael Jordan's uniform number, and is LeBron James', too, but I'm not a fan of either, so I couldn't draw inspiration from those sources.

It's a prime number, indivisible by any number other than itself, or one. I was a very poor math student, but at least I remember that. I also remember that I saw a classmate snort cocaine off his desk during a high-school geometry class. He was the only kid who managed to stay awake for that hour.

Well, no matter the reason, I elected to try twenty-three miles, one week after I was so under the weather, that I couldn't do more than two without coughing up my spleen. It would be seven more miles than I ran all last week. A little bit of a stretch, I know, but I only have a month until my marathon, so there's no way to push this back any farther.

I didn't quite make it. I chugged along pretty well until fourteen, when the granola I had with my yogurt late Wednesday night asserted itself. I think that therein lay the nuggets of my undoing. The time I spent in the bathroom caused my quads to stiffen up, and the sweat to pour off my inwardly-sloping brow.

The next five-and-a-half miles were more of a slog than they were before I stopped. When my knees are in motion, they will stay in motion until some force, like fiber, acts to stop them. And when they are at rest, they will remain at rest, until some force, my wavering will, forces them back into motion. At nineteen-and-a-half, I was wobbling like a zombie in a liquor store, so I started walking.

It was a tenth of a mile walk, then four-tenths of a mile scuffling while looking at my GPS, chug water, repeat, for the remainder. I finished the distance, if not quite in the glorious fashion I had previously envisioned. I could barely make it up the stairs, and since Amy was working, there was no one home to feel sorry for me, tell me how brave I was, and hook up my IV drip of Sunny Delight. I even had to peel my own banana-the eating of which took about an hour.

I have another long run in two weeks, and I plan to let the lessons from this one inform my choice of distance. Should I scale it back, or try to tackle twenty-three again, since I was so close? My guess is that not only will I have forgotten all about today's difficulty, I will convince myself that I need to try to get even closer to the marathon distance, in order to prepare mentally, as well as physically.
I'm guessing that I'll say, as Ernie Banks might, "Today is a great day to go twenty-five."

Thanks for humoring me.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

A Wee Leprechaun 3/17/10

Here's a mercifully short entry after yesterday's blarney-blog:

I ran an easy six today, with no major problems. The cold seems to be almost gone, but the Tom Waits vocals remain. Mucinex did me no good, but at least I can tell my Mom I tried it, since she was pretty adamant that it would put me back in Pavarotti voice immediately.

Tomorrow I have the long run I postponed last week. Hoping to go 23. Stay tuned to this space for results.

Thanks for reading.

Nipular Tectonics 3/16/10

I put prophylactics on my nipples before every run. Not in the condomular sense, of course. I am not worried about my nipples reproducing while I exercise. I am a man; I cannot give birth to nipples. I mean prophylactic in the sense of being a preventive measure against disease or injury.

When I say disease, I do not mean something as terrifying as Alzheimer's Disease of the Nipple-a band-aid cannot stop that. Only by keeping your nipples mentally active can you prevent them from forgetting who you are later in life. They might wander off and attach themselves to someone else's chest in your eighties, if you do not engage them in activities that challenge them, such as crossword puzzles, yoga, and piano lessons.

And when I say injury, I do not mean something like a sprained nipple. I once tripped while running on a rocky trail, landing flat on my very flat chest. My right nipple took the majority of the impact, suffering a severe sprain. I can tell you that my Nip-Guards had not signed up for that kind of duty. I was in a nipple brace for six weeks, with two months of intense rehab afterwards. I was given an arduous series of strengthening and stretching exercises, in order to re-train my nipples to do what they had so naturally done before the fall: bounce up and down.

And that bouncing is precisely why I need to cover my utterly unprotected udders. You see, I suffer from exercise-induced propulsive nippleitis, or EIPN. When I start to run, my nipples instantly go from subterranean, to Himalayan, a process that has been likewise applied to the formation of continents, mountain ranges, and fault lines. Uncovered, they thrust their points right between the fibers of my shirt. Thus trapped, they panic, flailing about desperately, bruising and cutting themselves.

From my description of the violent forces at work, you might think that some elaborately constructed system of counter weights and hydraulic levers might be necessary to counteract the destruction wrought by nipular upthrusting. They have been tried, and they have failed. You can find on youtube, a horrifying video of The Nipple Pounder 3000, which a Finninsh engineer, Maki Ruotimaki built and suspended over my chest. It featured a network of 22 cables, and three water flumes, all coordinated to drive two ten-inch teak pillars into my nipples, as soon as nipular propulsion was detected. The results, played out over thirty, soggy, bloody seconds, have become the most-watched video ever on the above-mentioned site. There I am, writhing in pain, swearing at Maki in Finnish to turn the damned thing off, while these pillars pound my chest to hamburger, cables snap and blind my support crew, and a torrent of water floods an unsuspecting Helsinki suburb.

While convalescing, and plotting to kill Mr. Ruotimaki, I was inadvertently administered the solution to my lifelong problem. A kind nurse, Hoikkala Parvatsalainen, bandaged my chestular contusions daily, and in the most simple way: by cutting off the adhesive ends, and placing them on my teetering teats. Not only did the swelling subside after several years, but lo, the nipples were neutralized. Never once did they rise to sea level. Eureka! Ikea! I asked Hoikkala where she had come up with this most simple and likely non-litigable solution. She answered in the way that all Finns do: in a completely indecipherable mishmash of consonants and vowels that is the Finnish language. My head was spinning, but my nipples were suppressed, which I considered answer enough.

These days I keep a well-stocked inventory of inexpensive bandages in the linen closet. So many, in fact, that I no longer have room for towels. Whenever I cut off the ends, I place one each on my precious pectoral protuberances. On the left, I always draw the flag of Finland: white background, with a light blue cross turned on its side. On the right, I inscribe the name of my Finnish Florence Nightingale, but only her first name. And really, not even all of that, since there isn't enough room, and I don't want to waste another band-aid. So, in my concise way, I thank Hoikk, from the bottom of my left nipple, just above my heart.

Thanks for humoring me.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Things I Will Never Do 3/15/ 2010

1. Birth no babies. (Or even contribute to making one. You can thank me anytime, world.)

2. Dunk a basketball on a ten foot-high basket. (In my prime I could barely touch the net. No one ever called me Potts Skywalker.)

3. Pass on the highway a vehicle bearing dealer plates. (They must always be on the run from angry customers, or the law.)

4. Have any kind of primate for a pet. (Other than our 200-lb chimpanzee-cat hybrid, Carlos.)

5. Understand which song really is American Idol judge Randy Jackson's all-time favorite. (I think he said that three songs in a row, on a recent show.)

I did run five miles today, and it went alright.

Thanks for reading.

A Sign of Maturity March 14, 2010

I didn't run today. I got dressed for it, did my core exercises, walked out of the building, then...walked back into the building and went to bed. I had caught a chill at some point, and just couldn't shake it. I didn't warm up, no matter what I did. I turned up the heater. Then I burned our credit card bills-that was quite a blaze, and our hearts were filled with joy, but it didn't make me feel any better physically.

So, I took a zero for the day. There was a time not all that long ago when I ran with a fever. I cut my route short that day because I couldn't breathe, and I felt like my skin was on fire. It turned out that I had an ear infection requiring antibiotics, and my running had not helped at all. Well, it might have helped the ER staff at the hospital to have something to laugh about during their long, stressful shifts.

No miles today; no problem. I'll take another whack at it again tomorrow.

Thanks for reading.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

The Vito Voce 3/13/10

For the last couple of days, my voice has descended into a depressing Corleonean rasp. On the one hand, it's the only good thing to come from this never-ending cold, on the other, I'm afraid that it might be here to stay. I love Godfather, and G-II, so much that I find myself inserting lines of dialogue from them into my real life. Yesterday at work, I asked a man to sign his receipt, but he refused, saying that he didn't have to sign when his card was used as a debit, rather than credit. Perhaps I went a little too heavy when I told him, "Either your brains or your signature are going to be on that paper before you leave here." His teenage son thought it was cool, but only because he temporarily hates his dad. When the father, with shaking hand, did as I had asked, I told him, "It's not personal, you understand, only business." Then he kissed my ring, and asked, "Will you be my friend, Godfather?" Actually, I could get used to that.

Thanks for humoring me.

S'not Bad March 12,2010

Still carrying more phlegm and bile than Dick Cheney waterboarding the U.S. Constitution, my cold-afflicted mug coughed, spit, and blew mucus on the formerly phlegm-free streets of my neighborhood this morning. I expected to expectorate, if not so frequently, and with such an array of colors: puce, fuchsia, taupe, mauve, lavender, chili verde-it was like a moving Jackson Pollock painting.

I remember that my dad used to run with a handkerchief-perhaps he still does-so that he wouldn't goober up the public byways. It was a very gentlemanly thing to do, a step back to an earlier time, an age before facial tissue. In those days, people felt a personal responsibility for their snot. So much so, in fact, that they would rather carry a rag saturated with it in their shirt pocket for an entire day. While I admire that ethic, pulling a drenched clot of cloth from behind your pocket protector in the age of H1N1 and the Civet Cat Crud, might just land a guy in a quarantined boat off the coast of Wahoozistan.

I mean, there just ain't enough hand sanitizer in this world...Better to get rid of it in the light of day, where sunshine and ravens can dispense with it. As long as I don't lay a lugie on a cop's shoe, I don't see any punishable offense here. And the sooner I get the junk out of my system, the sooner I can get back to being a productive, non-infectious worker bee.

Thanks for reading.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Idiot Out Running Around 3/11/10

I expected to wake up this morning cold-free and loving it. Instead, I was still a little achy, chilled, and tired. My marathon-training schedule called for a twenty-three miler, but I was willing to scale that back, be realistic. Maybe just sixteen. O.K., maybe just ten. Then, definitely no more than six. Six is my average. I could do that on one leg. On one lung. In a superhero comic-book universe of my life, maybe.

I started slowly up the first hill-I didn't care about pace-I just wanted to log some time. It didn't matter. My body was struggling with whatever Death Funk had invaded it, though, so adding the stress of elective exercise shot my heart and respiratory rates out of sight. I felt as if I had climbed Mt.Everest without oxygen, while carrying a Sherpa. I thought I might drop dead, then roll back down the hill. Wouldn't that have been interesting to our cat, who was probably still sitting in the window, watching? I think the first fish-ape-humanoid who crawled out of the water, saw the saber-toothed giant rat coming for him, and scurried up a tree, had probably felt better than I did.

My goal then changed from six, to two miles-and after a phlegm-cleanse, make sure the life insurance policy was in order. This run sucked, as my wife says, "Like peanut butter through a straw." (Chunky would suck even worse, Darlin') A billion people in India, when asked for their opinion, replied, "Duh," which is short for "Duhmmy."

Thanks for humoring me.

Ssspring is Coming 3/10/10

The not-running streak, that is. Didn't feel any worse, but no better, either, so no run for Papi. I'm not sure how I'm going to run twenty-three tomorrow. When asked for their opinion on the matter, millions in Haiti, Chile, and Turkey said in their respective languages, "Who gives a f***?"

Baseball season begins in a couple of weeks, and that makes me think of grass, sunshine, warm weather, seven-dollar light beer, and snakes. Another harbinger of Spring is the season's first snake, which my wife photographed, then scooched into the yard with a piece of mail, so that it wouldn't get squished. The yard may actually be the more dangerous habitat. The Last Snake of Autumn was decapitated in the same yard by one of those lawn service mega-mowers, then left on the sidewalk to intimidate the other snakes into considering early hibernation. It worked. St. Patrick couldn't have done it any better.

We found a live snake in the bedroom of our old apartment, which was in this same complex. My wife, the Snake Whisperer, found the little viper in a pile of dirty laundry. It was making one of her blouses dance in a way that neither God, nor the Devil, intended. I was called in, as the newly appointed head of the Poisonous Reptile Removal Unit, to dispatch said serpent in a manner that would provide swift, and lethal, results. I did so by smothering him with a twice-used pair of running shorts that had been sitting in that pile for a couple of weeks. It was an epic struggle: Man vs. Pencil-Thin Pre-Pubescent Garter Snake. It went on for fives of seconds.

Unjustifiably proud of my accomplishment, I had the demon skinned. His hide now adorns our toilet handle.

These are the things I think about when I don't get to run.

Thanks for reading.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

The Streak Ends 3/9/10

I woke up this morning with my throat still scratchy, my body aching, and as tired as Hillary Clinton after a night of drinking with John McCain. It's the third time this year I've come down with a cold. In a normal year, I'd catch one or two.

I'm just not getting enough rest, so, today, the streak ends after sixty-seven days. I have a twenty-three miler scheduled for Thursday, so I want to be able to get that in. I was depressed and grumpy this morning, but taking the day off was really the best thing to do.

Thanks for reading.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Let Me Sleep on It March 8, 2010

I felt a little tired this morning. Perhaps yesterday's studly workout ran me down more than I thought. Or, maybe it was conjuring all those images of Olympic glory that taxed my brain beyond its 3% operating capacity. Or, I might have been demoralized by the movie "Avatar" being shut out of the major Academy Awards. I can only hope its studio will be consoled by the rivers of money flowing into its coffers.

Or, I could just be tired because I don't sleep enough. It is a lifelong problem. I have not been a good sleeper-ever. Even as an infant, I would stay up all night worrying about whether or not I was missing anything by dozing off. I mean, there was just so much going on. I was the only newborn at the hospital with bags under his eyes from lack of rest. The maternity ward nurses said that like all infants, "the little Potts baby does look like Winston Churchill-after a night of drinking with Stalin."

As an adolescent I was kept awake at night by insecurity about my appearance. I was skinny, had a crooked nose, and acne. I can vividly remember being jerked back from the sleepy abyss by the clamor of facial pores opening and closing, trapping more oil than the Saudi Arabian sands. Clearasil was no match for my slimy skin, it only made me look like a palsied clown who had tried to apply his own makeup.

One of the benefits of running is said to be an improvement in both the amount and quality of sleep. These benefits have been squandered on me. I run a lot, but I worry a lot more. Not about acne anymore, but about more adult things. Like that gurgling noise the humidifier makes, "Is it leaking all over the carpet?" And the check I wrote for sixty-seven cents to cover my taquito purchase at Quik Trip, "Will I be able to find enough change in the sofa, and get it to the bank before the check goes through?"

It's a struggle I fear will derail my goal of running every day, as I can feel that tickle in the back of my throat that harbinges the coming of a cold. The Mike Potts Running Machine needs rest, if it plans to keep on running. By the way, one sign of chronic fatigue is when someone compares himself to an inanimate object-in the third person. I'll have to watch out for that.

Thanks for reading.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

On Track March 7, 2010

I am a stud. I will wait for you to stop laughing before I continue. Do I have to get Brigadier General Bicep out here to restore calm to the blogosphere? Silencio! Thank you. I did four, one mile repeats on the track today, all of them at a much faster pace than I had planned, and without killing myself. Please stifle the sarcastic sobbing.

The track is where I go for my serious running. The speed doesn't match the seriousness like it did backintheday, but I don't mind. There is no point to measuring myself against my times from ten years ago. It wouldn't be realistic, because, let's face it-I used illegal substances to achieve those marks. I was on everything from asbestos to zebra tail, from abalone to zircon.

I ran my fastest marathon in 1999, while under the influence of periwinkle greens. I had heard that a tribe of natives in Mission Hills, KS, ate them to stave off fatigue. I had a great race, but I turned an enchanting, purplish shade of blue for a month.

It got so bad that I woke up before a big 5-K surrounded by locust husks. Where were the cicadas? OMG, was I buzzin'. I wiped out the entire 17-year crop. Oh,the shame.

No, I was flying free today. High on life and Eggos-not illegal yet, thank you, President Barack STALIN Obama. I was running so easily that I felt like the great Ethiopian, Abebe Bikila, even if the reality looked more like a sickeningly pale-legged hog on ice.

On the track, I loose my dreams of Olympic glory before the vast, empty high school bleachers. I am Billy Mills, in the 1964 10-K in Tokyo, coming from behind to complete one of the greatest American success stories ever. I am Frank Shorter in the 1972 marathon, on the cusp of starting an American running boom. I am the fearless Steve Prefontaine, dueling with the unflappable Finn, Lasse Viren, even if I am really just excited about running a mile in seven minutes, rather than four.

On the track, I am a runner. I run to reach my potential, wherever that might be.

Thanks for reading.

A Slow Starter March 6, 2010

I ran seven today, and as usual, the first was the slowest. That has probably been the case for every run I've ever had, going back to high school cross-country. I just can't seem to get myself to go hard from the beginning. It just seems to take a mile or so to get my breathing in a regular rhythm with my legs, but once they're in synch, I can pick up the pace without a lot of trouble.

As it has been my preference on my average training runs, so is it in my races, too. I don't mind feeling out of breath and exhausted at the end of a competition, as much as I hate being gassed before the first split. Because, when that happens, I begin to flail and lose form in the middle portions, before fading at the end. I prefer to have a stronger finish, rather than a blazing start. I love being able to pass people in the last moments, and hate it like Hell when someone does it to me.

I have likewise been a slow starter in The Race of Life. I was not just a late bloomer, I was a bloom buster. The first appearance of a "muscle" was actually a smudge of dirt on my forearm that I left unwashed my entire sophomore year in high school, in the vain hope that I would no longer be challenged to arm-wrestling matches by girls from the junior high. Chest hair had to be taken from more mature teenagers, then laid in strips between my nipples, the same way new yards are sodded.

Financially, too, I am a little behind my peers. I am not just working on my first million at 47, I'm working on my first thousand. Maybe I should count my net worth in Paraguayan guarani. That way I could issue impressive statements like: "I have 40 million in the bank." (Of Asuncion.)

But, perhaps I've only begun the second mile of my life-long jog. Even if the first 47 years were done at the equivalent of a ten-minute pace, I feel as though my legs are finally under me, my heart is strong, and my lungs are moving in and out with an unstoppable rhythm. As long as my knees hold up, and I live to be one hundred-and- forty, I can catch anybody.

Thanks for reading.

Friday, March 5, 2010

My First Reuben March 5, 2010

It was actually pretty darn good, and I didn't have to drink too much alcohol to work up the nerve to eat it. Just one Black Russian that I sipped along with the sandwich. When I convince myself that I need to try to conquer some long-held food phobia, alcohol is my weaponry of choice. I usually have to drink an entire bottle of beer before the food arrives. On my fortieth birthday, I tried to tackle the crawfish menace. Before the platter was placed in front of me, I'd already downed a shot of Jack Daniel's. When the creepy crustaceans were plopped down in front of me, antennae still shaking, I grabbed the bottle of Lynchburg's finest and said, "Put this on my tab, Al. It's my birthday."

The sandwich was not as intimidating. The meat was a little salty, but I guess that goes with the territory when you're in Corned Beef Country. It's really just a reddish, stringy salt lick. There are worse things than salt. Sauerkraut being one of them. It is the primary reason I've never eaten a reuben. Translucent food reminds me of jellyfish, so a reuben creates an image of a jellyfish sitting atop a stringy salt lick, trying to digest it. I had asked the waitress to have the cook "de-emphasize" the kraut, which, mercifully he did, and it was not on top of the meat, but mixed in with it. So it looked like the salt lick was digesting the jellyfish.

I didn't get much of the Thousand Island dressing flavor, for which I am also grateful. When I think of a thousand islands, I think of the Philippines, which has given the world karaoke bars. For this alone, the archipelago should have been made a member of George Bush's Axis of Evil. I recently read that several Tagalog-singing Sinatras have been beaten up or killed after doing "My Way." What would Francis Albert have done? He would have ordered the sandwich, with extra dressing, sung his song-in perfect Tagalog, sipped his Jack Daniel's and taken on all comers. But Jilly Rizzo knew Frank, and Mike Potts, you are no Frank Sinatra.

Well, I'd better sign off. The combination of the sandwich and the adult beverage have set my boat a-sail for the Seven Hundred Islands of Sleep. I'll float down the bayou teeming with crawfish, and out into the open water, where jellyfish will open jars of jelly with their long, strong tentacles, and sea cows will contentedly lick their salt.

Thanks for humoring me.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Mastodons & Clooney March 4, 2010

This was the nicest day we've had in KC since mastodons resumed walking the frozen earth on Christmas Eve. Purty. Sunny, with a south wind, and temps in the 50s. If House Minority Leader John Boehner were suddenly revealed to be an agent of the Devil, working in his capacity to hasten the arrival of the Antichrist, I would not have had as warm a feeling.

We saw the movie "Up in The Air" today. Very funny, and at times, quite touching. George Clooney has been nominated for a Best Actor Oscar. If the award is given for the performance most closely approximating George Clooney, I'd say he's a lock. My wife says that I am even better looking than he is, and that she would not in a million years trade me for him. By that time, he and I will look the same, so I guess that makes sense.

Thanks for humoring me.

March 3, 2010

I felt surprisingly springy on my seven-miler today. Must be the shoes-or the Eggos. I'm so paranoid now about running out of them, that I buy a box every time I'm at Hy-Vee. That's also a good strategy for keeping a plentiful toilet paper supply. I don't want to wait until I'm in the middle of a muddle, and have to drive to the store with my Sponge Bob skivvies around my ankles. I also buy a thirty-one-foot ladder every time I'm at Home Depot, because I never know where, or when, I'll need one. Once, I was lost in an aisle with the pallets stacked thirty feet high, and had to climb on top of them to see my way out.

Thanks for humoring me.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Moony March 2, 2010

The gibbous moon was still visible in the western sky when I got out the door this morning, even though the sun had not crested the tree tops. Gibbous comes from a Greek word that means "hump." (I'm not kidding about this one.) The term is used to describe a phase in which the moon is more than half full, but not completely so. Its yellow color, against the electric blue backdrop, was very pretty. It was, in short, a pretty humpy, yellow moon.

As my posture is somewhat stooped, pronounced like "stupid," when running, you might say that I am a gibbous runner. Hopefully, when saying that, they don't mean that I am a gibbon, who happens to be running. It would be wildly unusual to see a gibbon running on the streets in this part of the world, as they are native to south Asia, and are tree dwellers. I would also be pretty darn big for a gibbon.

I also hope these same hypercritically posture postulators are not mistaking me for a griffon, a mythical hybrid, which was said to have the head and wings of an eagle, and the body of a lion. If such a creature were seen running through the streets of Overland Park, it would probably be on all fours, which I would not be able to sustain for very long.

I am sometimes mistaken for Garry Gribble, who is an actual creature. He is, in fact, the owner of the store where I work. He is not arboreal, or south Asian, so it would not be unusual to see him running the streets. The mixups, though, usually occur at the store, when a salesperson is in on a cold-call. They will ask Garry if the owner is in, and he will point wordlessly in my direction.

This morning's lunar display faded, as the sun rose ever higher. Fortunately, it was not gibbous, as that would indicate that part of it was missing, perhaps having prematurely begun to implode. I'm not an astrophysicist, but I have a feeling that would be bad. Rather, it was orbicular, or round. The only part of my body that fits that description, would be my head. So round, actually, that there is absolutely no way to rest anything on it for more than a second. My head is also unlike our sun in that it generates no light of its own. But it does shine quite brightly when light is cast through it, or on it. Kind of like the moon.

Thanks for reading.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Kudos to The Ladies March 1, 2010

Big, hairy shout-outs to some of my co-workers at Garry Gribble's: For Candice Rhodes and Sarah Flogel who finished the New Orleans Marathon this past Sunday. It was Sarah's first marathon, and also, her PR for that distance. I am told that Candice never slowed down during the course of the race, neither her pace, nor her ability to carry-on a high-speed conversation.

Also, Connie Abbott was the second female finisher in the Cowtown Half-Marathon, which was held in a large cowtown in Texas, Fort Worth, on Saturday. Connie followed my expert training advice to the letter, but had a great race anyway. Well done!

Thanks for humoring me.

Feb. 28, 2010

O.K., two months of consecutive running in the book. Not such a big deal, really. it hasn't raised any money for charity, nor has it helped feed the homeless, or shelter the displaced in Chile or Haiti.

Running is a selfish act-I do it for me alone. I make no pretense that it does the world any good. Sure, it makes me a mellower Mike, and that's good for my fellow motorists, my enchanting esposa, and the dog and the cat, but so would potsmoking, or yoga. Both of which are even smellier activities than running. I run simply because I like to.

I will do what I can in other ways for the victims of the earthquakes in Haiti and Chile, and for the homeless and hungry in the city where I live. Running can not protect them from hunger, or the elements. Only my time and money, directed through well-staffed and managed aid organizations can help meet their basic needs. Having the time to run for enjoyment, and not for safety, is a luxury many do not have right now. I am not sure that I have always been aware of that fact. Right now, we must do all we can to help them get back on their feet, after which they might find time for moving them swiftly down the road a few miles.

Thanks for reading.