tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535591499146766042024-02-20T00:16:12.750-08:00Mike Potts' Running LogAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.comBlogger126125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-30655832686052704062013-05-29T17:20:00.000-07:002013-05-29T17:20:04.327-07:00THE DAY IS WASTED ON MY RUN (A Poem)The day is wasted on my run:<br />
Fifty degrees, calm, and clear.<br />
No pollen, dogs, nor drivers.<br />
But something is wrong in my gears:<br />
I go up hills too fast,<br />
Then shamble down them breathlessly.<br />
I huff hyperly,<br />
And like Harper Lee, <br />
I know a masterpiece <br />
When I've authored it.<br />
And I know when I've been mastered.<br />
I should quit.<br />
But, onward I range,<br />
Like an armadillo<br />
Escaped from a cage:<br />
Snorting and shuffling and<br />
Clanking my armored plates<br />
Over leprous flesh<br />
In search of snakes <br />
To divide and devour.<br />
The neighbors with their morning papers,<br />
Made friendly to strangers <br />
By their coffees<br />
And the mellow morn,<br />
Salute the crashing clod-<br />
He of the flailing arms<br />
And failed-spitting face-<br />
With Sunday edition and travel mug.<br />
These are gestures of balletic grace<br />
Which I cannot reciprocate.<br />
It is too much a circus trick<br />
When arms are heavy<br />
And saliva is thick.<br />
My heart appreciates the kindness,<br />
But my reply is stopped.<br />
Stuck somewhere between in and out.<br />
It seems that though the sun<br />
Has halved the shade<br />
On Nall, Linden, and Somerset,<br />
It hasn't righted my rhythm yet.<br />
<br />
Thank you for taking the time to read it.<br />
MPAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-78579438963067025092013-02-21T19:38:00.001-08:002013-02-21T19:47:00.213-08:00Yes, Virginia, There is a Randy SpoonnoggleSo, I'm bent over my little shovel in the right lane of traffic on I-435, in a blizzard, trying to dig a path from the muck where I had been for about two hours, to the relatively clear left lanes, when the zombies started trudging past. Wearing light jackets and shoes, without hats or gloves, they had abandoned their vehicles. As cold and frustrated as I was, I could not imagine leaving my car in the middle of the highway, as many had. I would shovel, go numb, get back in the car, inch it forward, go out, knock the ice off my wipers, shovel, get back in my car, inch backward, yell profanities... The zombies trudged on.
Another man driving a pickup with a camper top was behind me, and making some progress. Eventually, he got close enough that we could communicate. His truck only had rear-wheel drive, but he was trying to follow me out in my tracks. He hacked at the axle-high snow with a hoe, and I shoveled it away from the tires. Hack, shovel, go numb, get in car, other guy pushing, inch forward, repeat ad frustratem.
Eventually, all this sound and fury came to something, for me at least, and into the clear lane I slid, knowing I dare not stop to return the favor to that kind man, or I would find myself stuck again. I was free, but not clear, because my fast-approaching exit was blocked by at least three muck-mired cars. I rumbled past, screaming obscenities for the pure release it brought, and looked forward to the next exit, a mile away-and farther away from home. That one was also blocked by derelicts, so, onward and away. The next exit was at State Line Road- the border between Kansas and Missouri- that would have to be my point of departure from the freeway. There were warning messages above the roadway of lane closures ahead, so I would have to go for it at State Line.
There were three non-moving conveyances up to their headlights in chop that had tried and failed, but I would make it. With an approach angle, and a thought process both obtuse, I gave the mighty Sportage all the gas she would take...And Kia made four. There I sat, proclaiming maledictions so vile, they couldn't even be written into a Tarantino script, and needing desperately to piss. Out I went into the driving snow, shoveling, scraping ice from the windshield, going numb, reentering the vehicle.
I was spent from all the exertion and screaming, and remembering that I had brought food with me, I tucked into my pb&j. My energy, and my need to piss, returned. I recalled reading in a Cub Scout magazine as a kid, that if you wet yourself outside on a cold day, you would suffer rapid heat loss and die. That's why I stepped outside with something other than a sandwich in my hand, and using the car door for wind protection, went about my business as discretely as I could. (Here begins a brief exchange with a law-enforcement officer.)
"Sir, we'll be right over there," shouted one of Leawood's Finest, who was in the westbound lanes, helping some other misguided moron get moving. "Take your time, Sir," I replied, which must have seemed weird in the midst of a catastrophe. "Take your time rescuing me, I'll just urinate a while behind the car door while you attend to that good man." A couple of zombies slogged down the exit ramp. I quickly covered all visible flesh.
Back into the Sportage, grab the shovel, back out, shovel away the yellow snow, back in, warm up. A while later, a Humvee pulled up nearby. The driver came over. "I'll tow you out of there for twenty bucks." A good deal, for sure, especially since I had made an appointment over the phone sometime in the next four hours for a tow truck at ninety-five dollars. But I didn't have
the cash on hand for this Good Samaritan for Profit. "That's OK, I'll push you." And push he did. Mightily. And soon I was unstuck. And shortly thereafter I was home, numb feet and all.
Thanks to my smartphone, I was able to capture the man's phone number, and through an exchange of text messages, his name and address. The check is going in the mail tomorrow. Not that I'm driving, you understand. I'm walking that sucker to the nearest mailbox so that the guys who never get stopped by the weather can pick it up.
Thanks for reading.
Thanks, Randy
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-84916917253183711582012-01-01T16:27:00.000-08:002012-01-01T17:22:34.539-08:00The Potts Year in Review- 2011Our little household, which consists of a sunny wife, a cynical husband, an oafish Corgi, and an aquaphilic cat, came through the past year fairly unscathed. We were very lucky, the cat most of all. <br />The Missus gained a long-overdue, and well-deserved, promotion to a training position. She is a natural at presenting in front of a group, whether she be singing, or explaining the minutiae of pharmacy overrides. She spent two weeks conducting a training class at a call center in Florida, and even though she had no appreciation of the warm December weather, she did brave it long enough to take some beautiful beach pictures. She is, herself, a portrait of loveliness. <br />The Hoosband continues to cripple Kansas City's running community with ill-fitting footwear. Now in his fourteenth year with the company, he has become eligible for The Golden Thumb, a gold-plated, asbestos replica of the most important tool of his trade. In accordance with his abilities, it will be a left. He completed four marathons this year, which somehow failed to make it onto any Top 10 Memorable Sports Achievement lists.<br />Chloe the Corgi continues to belch, grunt, bark, lumber, slobber, and flop her way through life. She spends both of her waking hours "sunny side-up," so that she can be patted and scratched on her magnificent white chest. Last week we noticed that she had gotten a tattoo on it which read, "Born to Kill Bunnies." <br />Carlos the Incorrigible Cat visited his father in Mexico over the summer. We then took the opportunity to stitch our wounds and change the locks. Alas, he returned, attached claw-wise to the back of one of our building's maintenance men. Carlos is a challenge- in the same way the Black Death was a challenge- that we hope to one day meet, before he annihilates us.<br />We sincerely wish you all a happy and prosperous New Year. A complete stranger wished me that today. It was unexpected, and very kind. I don't know how she meant "prosperous." She might have meant it in the financial sense, which in these times when so many are foundering under debt, joblessness, homelessness, and despair, would have been an uplifting enough sentiment. Or, maybe she meant it in the sense of prospering in all the other things that make life worth living: love, companionship, good health, and Nutella. <br />Thank you for reading,<br />MPAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-8778069494406604422011-08-18T05:37:00.000-07:002011-08-18T06:21:47.960-07:00Thursday Morning Coming Down6:30 a.m.: While taking the dog out for her breakpiss, the cat bolts past the not yet caffeinated hubby, and out the open apartment door. As the wife sings "Hit The Road, Jack," the hubby pursues, flipflops flapping down the steps, sotto voce profanities spilling like a fuzzy cat through an open apartment door, dog galumping behind.
<br />The cat wedges himself under the stairs, his loud purring echoing through the lobby. The hubby succeeds in enticing the cat from under the steps just as help arrives in the form of a perspiring Corgi snout. The hubby falls to his knees, profanities probably audible to other tenants, and grabs cat by the hind legs. As he crawls clumsily out from under the stairs, the cat's front claws tear the carpet with a sound like pulling apart the world's largest pieces of velcro.
<br />His knees pop as hubby stands with writhing, way overweight writhing still,loudly purring writhing cat. Hubby secures dog, who is standing outside an apartment door not her own, her nose-sweat staining the carpet. Before the party ascends the stairs, the hubby hears the wife singing "The Hallelujah Chorus."
<br />The flipflops flap, the dog galumps, the cat purrs and wriggles. Hubby opens the door, and catches what he will later recall is a look of murderous disappointment on the wife's face. The dog rushes in, collar jangling. Hubby hands escaped purring prisoner to wife, who is promptly whacked, to no one's surprise, by the purrball.
<br />Hubby flipflop runs down the stairs, dog dripping and galumping, as wife hums a melody from Sweeney Todd.
<br /> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-4841245509678883802011-06-28T07:26:00.000-07:002011-06-28T08:03:50.966-07:00He Literally Scared the...While fitting shoes on a customer at the store yesterday, I heard another customer tell her child, " Just go in your diaper, that's what it's there for." I assume the little pooper had said something like, "Gotta go potty," but I missed that, focused as I was on my job. But the word DIAPER always reorients my concentration. (As do words like NUCLEAR, WASTE, TOXIC, and DISASTER.)<br />A coworker, unaware of the imminent arrival of an S-Bomb, began to help the mother. In the previous week, he'd had surgery to remove part of an eyelid, on which a melanoma had been found. The surgery was considered successful, but it left his right eye mostly shut by stitches, and that side of his face somewhat swollen and discolored in a purplish-yellow sort of way. He was not easy to look at, even for those of us adults who work with him daily and have seen a lot of zombie movies.<br />A couple of minutes passed, and my customer was coming to a conclusion on his shoes, which allowed me to devote about 93 percent of my attention to the happy and curious toddler. He was exploring the stacks of shoe boxes, and trying to clamber up on one of the fitting stools just before it happened. The mother was trying on shoes, and, I'm guessing, not thinking any further about the doo-doo directive she had given the flesh of her flesh a few minutes ago.<br />Doubtless, he was not thinking about it either. He was testing the safety of his environment, and the strength of his muscles, when, nearly atop his Everest, the melanoma-free, purple-cheeked, child-friendly but one and a half-eyed old man with the gruff voice, and comedic intonation insufficient to convince a two-year old, said, "Hey, don't climb on my chair."<br />The child, now filled with fear, devoted all his muscular energy to getting the hell away from that face and voice, and laid down at the feet of his mother, crying softly. The employee apologized, and said that he had only been kidding, though his pirate-zombie face could never convince the child of it. Then, of course, the mother, keenly aware of the scent of her offspring said, "Well, I guess, you did use your diaper, didn't you?" I vomited inside my own mind.<br />Thanks for reading,<br />MPAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-4750256417733718492011-06-20T18:16:00.000-07:002011-06-20T18:57:24.991-07:00What I Learned From An Iowa Marathon#1. The lake part of Storm Lake is no more than twenty feet deep, which means Jimmy Hoffa is not playing bocce ball and wearing cement shoes down there.<br /><br />#2. The county where the marathon was held is Buena Vista. Pronounced like "bee-yu-na." Such a mauling of this bee-oot-i-ful Spanish word makes me think that we need more immigration from Me-hee-co.<br /><br />#3. That is the smell of money, not manure.<br /><br />#4. Iowans are friendly-even when treated rudely. I don't know what the jerk-off with the earbuds said to the teenage volunteer at the mile 23 waterstop (Other than it wasn't "Thank you."), but she apologized to him.<br /><br />#5. There is always someone who has done more marathons than you. Unless you're the guy I talked to afterwards who had just finished his 151st. I could have said that I'd done 152, but I was in a small town in Iowa-I just couldn't bring myself to lie.<br /><br />#6. Spectators should never shout out, with about 1400 meters to go, that there are only "1400 meters to go to the finish." A meter being about one step's worth of distance, 1400 of them seems like a trip around the Equator. Just say things like, "Almost there," or, "Just around the corner." The promise of imminent relief from pain, even if false, is what's needed.<br /><br />#7. There is always enough gas in the tank for a couple of "fly-bys" in the home stretch. I extended my trembling arms shoulder high and swooped from side to side, like a drunk walking a tightrope. The spectators loved it, and I only knocked down two of my fellow participants, who were dueling it out for 96th place.<br /><br />#8 Lastly, I love Iowa. It's a beautiful state, with well-kept farms, and hard-working, fun-loving people who will come out to watch and help complete strangers exhaust themselves running from one end of a county to the other. They thanked me for coming and doing my silly airplane swoop. <br />My wife is a native Iowan, and she came out to support me and those who were strangers to her. She wandered about the county roads, taking pictures of sheep, and breathing in the smell of money. She was a small-town girl who had come home. She is kind, and decent, and hard-working, and loving, and funny. She is the thing I love best about Iowa.<br /><br />Thanks for reading,<br />MPAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-68111390419339149122010-06-17T15:49:00.000-07:002010-06-17T16:48:08.003-07:00Take That Beach 6/17/10I've always loved the thought of running on a beach. The tide laps at your feet. The ocean breeze lightly blows your hair away from your eyes. Music from "Chariots of Fire" plays as you bound effortlessly along in slow motion. As I found out in Crescent City, California on our recent trip, though, t'aint always so.<br /><br />First, the lapping tide. Mostly it lapped over the eviscerated shells of crabs that had been picked over by various sea birds. Alfred Hitchcock would have been proud of them. All that remained were the sharpest, least edible crab parts. Dodging them added at least a half-mile to my run.<br /><br />Second: the cold. Granted, we were in far northernest Cali, not San Diego, so what did I expect, right? Even though the sun was on full display, it was no more than fifty degrees, and the wind- Holy Chicken of the Sea, Batman!, it was an icy Mamma Jamma. Not only did it blow the hair out of my eyes, it blew the hairs out of my eyelids. I flossed sandsicles out of my teeth for days. And, if movie music had been playing, I wouldn't have been able to hear it, since my ear drums were beaten by Mother Nature the way the rest of me was beaten by Ron Smith in eighth grade.<br /><br />On the other hand, I should say that running into that wind did create a sort of slow motion effect. Kind of like a mime going over the top on that "Man Walking into The Wind" routine.<br /><br />So, I was nearly hacked to bleeding bits by dead crustaceans, blasted by freezing sand, and slowed to a pace that banana slugs would laugh at. I wasn't just going to sit in the motel and watch the waves roll up on the shore. Not running would have been out of the question in such a situation. We don't have beaches in Kansas, and who knows when I'll get back out to the coast.<br /><br />Alright, cue the music- da-da-da-da-daah. Da-da-da-da-daah...<br /><br />Thanks for reading.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-76739439667632957122010-06-08T17:59:00.000-07:002010-06-08T19:16:13.232-07:00Pop Goes PloopWhat would you do if you threw the chocolate blob at the end of your Tootsie Pop, stick attached, into a trash barrel, which was not a barrel filled with trash, but rather a barrel into which race volunteers dipped cups that would wind up in the hands of runners in the ninth mile of the Eugene, Oregon, Marathon and Half-Marathon. What would you do, if instead of hearing the "ssshhh-plink" of a Tootsie stick/blob sliding down a plastic liner and hitting a beer can, you hear "ploop," as your garbage breaks the surface of the water, and floats to the bottom of the now less-than-completely-fresh, life-giving substance your fellow racers will gratefully guzzle?<br /><br />Would you instantly thrust your hand into the Hazmat Barrel, thinking that the Five Second Rule applies to acqueous violations as well, forgetting that you just wiped your nose with that same hand, the hand that was only fifteen minutes ago in a place where the sun don't shine, inside a thin coccoon of toilet paper, inside a Honey Pot (as they call them here), where you had to stop, because the crepes at Shari's had too many strawberries, and that impromptu crapador just happened to be out of hand sanitizer-SHIT! Shit, no! Don't put your hand-shaped germ-universe into all that water! <br /><br />You should just turn quickly, and get away from the scene. Do not look back at the Aid Station Captain, who, hearing the "ploop," is watching the stick/blob settle to the bottom of a forty-gallon barrel of Cascade Mountain Spring Water helicoptered in by the Oregon Air National Guard at 3a.m. from the West Face of Mt. Hood, because, if you do, you will not be able to turn away in time to avoid locking eyes with him when he acts on that feeling we all have when someone is staring at us, and then he would know it was you who had ruined his Aid Station. You may mutter, "Sorry, Dude" under your breath, but take care, Pavarotti, that the sotto is very, very voce, for otherwise you would essentially be confessing to mass-poisoning of a public water source, which, in Oregon, is punishable by a minimum of fifty years in a sea-lion colony.<br /><br />Just run away, Renee. Hustle your malfeasing little butt deep into the starting corral, and let your fear and shame transform themselves into an adrenaline rush that will propel you to one hell of a half-marathon time. And when all the Eugene TV stations put you on camera afterwards and ask how you did it, you can tell them it was all thanks to the thirteen cups of chocolate-flavored water you had at Aid Station Number Nine.<br /><br />Thanks for reading.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-64963656072441010122010-05-19T18:35:00.000-07:002010-05-24T18:27:44.066-07:00Like A Bad Penny 5/24/10Sorry, hiatus lovers, but the blog is back- not new, not improved, and at least as pointless as ever. With a million-zillion times the hyperbole, yachtloads of made-up words, and all the movie line references (none before 1990) that you've come to expect/loathe.<br /><br />The primary reason for the suspension of paragraphical hostilities was our long-delayed honeymoon. The "Honeymoon Period," the time after a marriage when mutual smittenness makes all shortcomings invisible, had been stretched out for almost two years, and behaviors that had once seemed endearing were becoming all-too visible. Amy had noticed that not only did I piss in the shower, I pissed ON the shower. (A habit developed during my freshman year of college that I never shed.) She was driving me crazy, too. Every time I pissed on the shower, she would throw a hammer at me. With frustration, and concussions, mounting, we plotted our trip. <br /><br />We had to get out of town, and we had to go somewhere beautiful. Thus were Lenexa, Uvalde, Texas, and Riverside all quickly eliminated. We didn't have skiffloads of dinero, so, Jamaica, Hawaii, and Leawood were crossed off the list. And our destination couldn't be jammed by tour buses filled with nonagenarian food sample grubbers, which eliminated Branson. Only one region remained: The Pacific Northwest, where talking on your cell phone while driving is illegal, but, thanks to right to die laws, you have the right to off yourself at anytime and not face prosecution. Where the air is fresh, except for the medicinal marijuana haze, and everyone rides a bike- probably because they're unemployed and have had their cars repossessed.<br /><br />It was to be an eight-day trip, with five of those spent in Oregon, one in California, and one in Washington. (The last day was spent at the Denver airport, funk you very much, Frontier Airlines, but our lawyer says I can't comment, until our plea agreement for verbal harassment of a Sky Marshall charges is accepted.)<br /><br />The goal was to see the wonders of nature, like, mountains, wide beaches, waterfalls, mountain lakes, ocean sunsets, huge trees, and tidal pools, and, through those wonders, develop a sense of our insignificance in the universe, and through that sense of insignificance, realize just how alone and vulnerable we were, and through that realization of aloneness and vulnerability, cling to each other for dear life, literally, and so that inappropriate pissing would seem like triflingly smelly inconvenience. And to take a lot of cool pictures. And to come back with a ketchload of shotglasses etched with the silhouette of Mt. Hood. <br /><br />How did it go? How did we do? What did we see? All will be revealed, except the details of the condition of the bathrooms in the more remote State Parks. (Hey, at least they were open. Funk you, very much, Arizona.) If it helps ease the suspense any, I'll just let you know that Amy and I are still married, and the Redwood Super Butt Fungus is responding to antibiotics.<br /><br />Thanks for humoring me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-91361206791888610482010-04-27T18:03:00.000-07:002010-04-27T18:10:37.242-07:00All Grown Up at Forty-Seven 4/27/10Today, I did not run. I felt tired, and had the sniffles, which I took to be a precursor to another cold. Since I've already had a year's worth of colds, and we have a lot going on in the next week, I decided to take the day off from running. <br /><br />Wow! That was totally...like...adult behavior, Man. Sort of like...mature...and stuff, you know? Now, if I could...like...do, you know...the same thing with my money...I might be able to, you know...like...buy a new, um...bottle of shampoo, or something.<br /><br />Thanks for reading.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-18619383919490001162010-04-27T06:54:00.000-07:002010-04-27T07:45:46.610-07:00Wasted Time 4/26/10If I had kept track of the amount of time I have spent waiting for my Garmin Forerunner 205 to be located by the satellites necessary to track my speed and distance during the two years I have owned it, I would probably have accumulated the hours required to run ten marathons. <br /><br />I have stood, nearly every morning during those two years, watching the red line that means "acquisition," move steadily across the watchface, until it reaches the end, only, for some reason to retreat toward the beginning. I curse and stomp my feet, look up at the sky to see where those f****** satellites are, then move forward, or back, a step until I make that red line move again toward completion of its path, which means I can finally start my run. Sometimes that works, most times it does not. I hold my watch above my head. I hold it out to the side. I curse. I stomp my feet. I move to the left. I move to the right. I consider not paying the portion of my federal taxes that goes to keeping Global Positioning Satellites in orbit. <br /><br />I freeze, or sweat, depending on the season. I get soaked, or I watch the sun trace its path across the sky from east to west as morning turns to afternoon. The damned red line just won't commit. Why does it hesitate at the moment of consummation, in a sort of "acquisitionus interruptus?" <br /><br />Do I live in an isolated Appalachian valley, or on a guano-caked South Pacific island? Of course not. Our expansive apartment complex lies in the very middle of North America, in, if not a densely populated area, at least one whose population is dense. Are the satellite positioners messing with me? Can they see me down here, cursing and stamping, and have just decided to jerk my chain for a while to see what other tricks they can make me do? Is it Revenge of The Nerds, Part VI? <br /><br />The hell with it. Today I left the bleeping wonderwatch on the bedside table. I knew the route I was running was six miles, no need to measure that again. So as soon as my feet hit the asphalt, I was moving. I flipped off the Eye in the Sky, and scuffled up the hill, thinking, as a great space explorer might have said, "One step backward for technology- one giant step forward for mankind running."<br /><br />Thanks for reading.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-2461689284610375602010-04-26T19:10:00.000-07:002010-04-26T19:55:09.424-07:00Keltraf the Konqueror 4/25/10I did six-miles of hill fartlek today. What that means is that whenever I came to an uphill section along my route, I would pick up the pace, until I got to the top, then I would jog easily until the next uphill. It's a good way to practice the kinds of pace changes you find in races, and a relatively easy way to add some "quality" to my miles. It's a type of speed work that has a long history.<br /><br />Fartlek, as I've mentioned before, is a Swedish word that means "speed play." It can be traced back several centuries, to the Vikings. The Vikings were long-distance sailors, and pillagers of great renown, not great distance runners to be sure. Their success was derived from making other people run- from the Vikings. <br /><br />When the Viking ships would approach a defenseless village, say on the coast of Ireland, or Scotland, or Duluth, they would watch in great amusement as the locals would take off running away from the shore, and toward the hills. Their targets were not great runners, either. They had spent most of their time bent over, doing farm labor for 25 hours a day, every day. They didn't have time to run for fitness. So they were not in good enough shape to do the kind of running they would have to do to get away from the Vikings. They would have to stop after a few yards to catch their breath, then turn around and realize that the Norsemen had landed, and ever more frightened, turn and sprint again. <br /><br />The cycle would repeat itself many times, with the townsfolk growing more weary with each burst, and the sacking Swedes advancing steadily, laughing so hard that their horny helmets fell off. Eventually the serfs would faint from exhaustion, the Vikings would catch them, and after their laugh-induced belly aches subsided, kill the luckless lumps of flesh about fourteen different ways, take everything they could stuff on their boats, and sell the rest on ebay.<br /><br />Then they would sail for home, telling great tales of the battles they had fought with unconscious Duluthmen, and singing Viking ballads of villages burned to the ground. Those always made them homesick and sad. But only briefly. For then one of them would always cheer them up by asking them if they remembered how those Scottish saps would run and stop, run and stop, until they just gave out. And the Vikings would belly-laugh all over again. You see, it was speed play for the Vikings, and speed work for the villagers.<br /><br />Thanks for reading.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-71609663077744770922010-04-25T08:30:00.000-07:002010-04-25T08:47:49.322-07:00A Haiku After The Rain 4/24/10The pear-tree blossoms-<br />Their beauty no match for storms-<br />Float down asphalt streams.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-1754865411661005512010-04-25T08:13:00.000-07:002010-04-25T08:28:26.799-07:00Add a Gorilla to The Mix 4/23/10Tiny, unseen gremlins continued to whack me on both kneecaps during today's six-miler. They wore themselves out after about forty-five minutes, their lead pipes growing heavy in their hairy hands.<br /><br />That left the last five minutes of the run to be dominated by the invisible gorilla who held my chest in his Mighty Joe Youngish grip. He clamped down hardest on that last uphill section. Satisfied with my hyperventilation, he jumped off when I bent over, gasping, at the finish.<br /><br />Even so, it was better than getting kicked in the head by a real, live mule.<br /><br />Thanks for humoring me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-70297067861330493502010-04-23T17:58:00.000-07:002010-04-23T19:25:30.836-07:00Thumbs Up 4/21/10I had a flashback during today's run, to something that may have been a formative moment in my adolescence. Actually, it happened when I was in seventh grade, which meant that I was still several years, and lowered voice octaves, away from puberty. <br /><br />Specifically, it happened in Shop Class, which was optionally mandatory- the other offering being Home Ec. Ec is short for ectoplasm, which is "a viscous substance claimed by spiritualists to emanate from the body of a medium and then produce life forms." That definition was both disgusting, and perfectly descriptive of me at the age of thirteen. Since I did not want to be singled out every day as ectoplasmic, I chose Shop Class.<br /><br />There, I would stand out only for my inability to make anything resembling anything we were supposed to make. I couldn't even form my sheet of green, molten plastic into the candy dish/ashtray it was supposed to become, and that was during the mid-70s, when a straw encased in a chunk of asphalt sold for $1 million at an auction in London. Therefore, I was in way over my head when we had to mine iron ore, smelt it, and upon cooling, form it into toolboxes for our fathers. I panicked at the thought of losing multiple appendages in the process, and so, handed in my father's own toolbox as my own creation. Yes, I should have removed his tools in advance, not claimed them as extra credit projects done "with the time I had left over." Maybe then, I would not have been on the verge of failing Shop Class, going into the final exam.<br /><br />And, maybe Mr. Silber- I'm using his real name, because I'm sure he's suffering from dementia caused by inhaling too much sawdust, and doesn't have the faculties to sue me- wouldn't have made the cruel remark that led me to hate my opposable appendages for the rest of my life. While explaining the rules for the final- yes, a written final in Shop, he caught me fantasizing about my once certain F, turning into a D, and said in front of my mustachioed classmates, "Potts, get your thumbs out of your ass!" <br /><br />My thumbs separated me from the lesser primates-who were all turning around and laughing at me- why would I abuse them in that base, if possibly exciting, manner? And, since he had in an earlier class, during the disastrous "bird-house meets arc welder incident," described me as "all thumbs," he must have intended to imply that my nether regions were awash in them. I was confused, disgusted, and filled with self-loathing. I was forever after opposed to my thumbs.<br /><br />Which proved to be my ruination on the final. I refused to hold my no.2 pencil between unmentionable digit and forefinger, using instead the middle two fingers, with the outsiders as a sort of movable platform. It took me the entire hour to finish the first question, which was "What is the corollary of 'Righty Tighty?'"<br />Even that answer he marked wrong, as it looked to him like "Lift a Lunacy." <br /><br />So, I failed Shop, which actually did no harm to my chances for advancement to eighth grade, as all thirteen-year-olds were automatically promoted, out of fear that they were a dangerous subspecies that needed to be moved out of the education system as soon as possible. In those days, the really hard cases were given Ph.Ds, just so they wouldn't spend all their time blowing up toilets and hiding in the girls' locker room. <br /><br />But it did cause enormous psychological damage. I was caught just a few months later slicing my own thumbs in the bathtub. Later, I went into a stage in which I refused to acknowledge them at all, telling everyone that I "only have eight fingers. I'm just watching those other two things for a friend in Switzerland."<br /><br />So, hey, all you Industrial Ed., teachers out there(Ed being short for "edentulous," meaning "toothless."), take more care in addressing your charges. We live in a more litigious society today than that of 1975. If you make the kind of comment to one of your little simians, like that Mr.Silber made to me, you might just be looking at a multi-million dollar lawsuit for alienation of thumb affection. But, more importantly, you might be distorting the thumb self-image of a very vulnerable little lemur, like I was.<br /><br />Please, stop the suffering before it starts. And I will stop this blathering blog.<br /><br />Thanks for reading.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-61292819564307755572010-04-22T19:01:00.000-07:002010-04-24T08:15:04.447-07:00Unbearable Wetness of Being 4/22/10Mother Earth celebrated Earth Day in Kansas City by pouring rain on us all day. She did not allow a respite for my twelve-mile run, in spite of my pleas. <br /><br />I enjoy running in a light rain- for a little while. This was one hundred minutes of sloshing through moderately heavy precipitation. In fact, I was already soaked before my Garmin acquired its satellites. I guess you could say it was somewhat fortunate that the temperatures were in the 50s, and not the 30s, and you would be right: the cold would certainly have made things more miserable. But, hey, look at the freakin' calendar: April 22nd, not February 22nd! But, the bitchy blogger doth protest too much, methinks. Onward.<br /><br />I had a romantic notion that for today's hydroplaning, I would wear some old Nikes in the University of Oregon colorway: grass-green, with golden yellow. I had retired them a couple of years ago due to failing performance, but since the missus and I are heading out to The Beaver State next week, and we're going to be doing races in Eugene that weekend, I wanted to see if the Duck shoes had enough bounce to do a half-marathon. And if they did, I would leave them at Pre's Rock afterwards. <br /><br />Well, they weren't so ducky today. I wouldn't say the discomfort was excruciating, but it was enough to tell me that if I ran the half in them one week hence, I would be spending the majority of our Oregon vacation waddling around like a lame duck. Thus did patella tendinitis trump romance.<br /><br />Upon finishing today, I set about the task of removing my saturated clothing, and wringing it out. Let me just say that I am an ardent believer in wearing wicking clothing. But even those wonderful synthetics get overwhelmed when exposed to the kind of wetness I was dealing with today. Not only were my clothes and my skin completely soaked, my pores, which are supposed to block incoming substances, failed during the downpour. They went completely open, allowing the deluge to pour in to my gutty-wutts. My spleen was swimming. My liver was liquefied. My islands of Langerhans were turned into actual islands. <br /><br />Feeling waterlogged, I wrung myself out by setting the washing machine on the spin cycle and jumping in. Upon completion, my wife pulled me out, and even though I was a bit shaken up, I was not agitated with her. <br /><br />I learned a couple of things today. First, even though I'm an aqueous creature, but that doesn't mean I would enjoy living in a watery world full time. Evolution has made me a lover of the terra firma, so "Viva La Asfalta!" And, second, like The Who, retired shoes should stay that way, even if they died before they got old.<br /><br />I won't get fooled again.<br /><br />Thanks for reading.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-65683729407529950902010-04-21T07:09:00.000-07:002010-04-21T18:40:53.118-07:00Guns and Photos 4/20/10On page 2 of Tuesday's sports section there was a picture of the women's winner of the Boston Marathon, Teyba Erkesso of Ethiopia, receiving the traditional olive wreath given to winners of that race. She is holding her hands to her face, and appears to be in, or near, tears. She covered the 26.2 miles in 2hours, 26min., and 11seconds. That would make her average pace about 5min., and 35sec., per mile- which she did under her own power. She had no mechanical engine, and no chassis- other than her own body. <br /><br />Denny Hamlin's picture was also on page 2. In his post-race photo, he is seen at a podium holding two pistols skyward. Whether he was given those guns as a prize, or waved them at his competitors in rage during the contest, is not known. What we do know is that he won a 500-mile race in Texas on Monday, with the benefit of a high-powered stock car, and a pit crew. He emerged the winner after 334 laps, despite an injured knee that he said left him feeling about "60 percent." How amazingly brave- to drive 500 miles with a bad knee! The impact on that joint when working the clutch must have been tremendous.<br /><br />It is extremely unlikely that Ms. Erkesso would have performed as she did, had one of her knees been as injured as Mr. Hamlin's. And I doubt that she is as handy with a Colt .45 as he is. Perhaps her nearest competitor would have been more than 3 seconds behind her, if she had sported a sidearm while running. <br /><br />That car racing is considered a sport on a level with long-distance running doesn't bother me anymore. It can't possibly be- since comparing the endurance of a vehicle, and the endurance of a runner is not a fair. It's like judging the steam engine superior to John Henry. But people would seem to prefer watching men and women whose faces they can't even see, drive cars around in an oval for hours, than watch real live human beings that they could see, run around a track, or through the streets of one of America's greatest cities, and all my bitching is not going to change that. <br /><br />But what really irritated me about the two stories, was that Mr. Hamlin was lauded for being courageous and tough, when his knee had to bear no weight, just be strong enough to push in the clutch. While no mention was made of the strength and determination it takes just to RUN 26 miles, let alone to do it at the pace which Ms. Erkesso did. If she'd had an injured knee, she would never have even been able to toe the line, so great would the demands of the race been upon it, and we would not have been so fortunate as to see her, completely disarmed, in her moment of triumph.<br /><br />Hell, the Boston Marathon wasn't even on local TV here, but the NASCAR race was. I guess the airwaves were just too crowded at 11a.m. on a Monday for two grueling tests of human endurance.<br /><br />Thanks for reading.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-49649120184224740802010-04-20T19:27:00.000-07:002010-04-20T19:46:10.540-07:00Band-Aids Help, Too 4/19/10Here's a tip for you first-time marathoners to be: I usually go for a short run the day after a marathon. Even one as brief as two miles, ungainly as it may be, helps me to move the lactic acid out of my system. And, as we all know, an unchecked buildup of lactic acid usually leads to Spontaneous Male Lactation. And isn't that a bummer when you've worn a bright shirt to work? So, a run, no matter how awkward, can save even greater embarrassment down the line.<br /><br />I am udderly grateful for your attention.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-22235779135413028812010-04-18T14:58:00.000-07:002010-04-18T15:45:51.183-07:00Marathon #21-4/18/10There's a strange kind of euphoria that sets in when I finish a marathon. Strange because I'm always utterly exhausted, and usually pretty sore. I don't know if it's the endorphins- those pain-blocking chemicals released during exercise- or just relief at being finished with something that is completely taxing, both mentally and physically. Doesn't matter. I'm gonna do the "airplane swoop" in the final straightaway regardless. <br /><br />There was a band playing at the finish line, rather than an announcer calling out our names as we came across. I didn't care- I sang right along with a Celtic/Zydeco cover of "Hey, Hey, What Can I Do?" (Of all the songs to give a Chieftains meets Clifton Chenier treatment...) Then, it took me five minutes, and five hip cramps, to put my warm-up pants back on. S'all good, Bruh- I may have come up with five new, advanced yoga poses. "Now, who else can hold 'The Screaming Salamander' for sixty seconds?" <br /><br />You also get to eat like Biblical locusts- another possible cause of Temporary Post-Marathon Insanely Happy-ness. I polished off a foot-long meatball grinder, with jalapenos and provolone, in about ten minutes. That's fifty seconds per inch. We're talking Professional Eating Tour type numbers here. If Kobayashi wants to regain his Coney Dog-eating title this Fourth of July, he should run a marathon that morning. <br /><br />I would have to say, however, that the real reason for my "Marathoner's High," is probably just that I finished the damned thing. I ran twenty-six miles, which is never a sure deal, no matter how well prepared I am- and I did not feel that I was ready for this one. I had been sick a lot this Winter and Spring, and had even fizzled out on my last long run due to The Return of the Creeping Crud. I had a plan that I thought might get me through, and it did. I finished with my best marathon time in four years- and on a difficult course.<br /><br />It's now about six hours since I finished, and I'm still buzzing. I'm about as far from needing a nap as Radiohead is from reggae. But I don't have any plans, either. Just going to read the Sunday paper, and rebuild my massacred musculature. Eat, eat, eat. Or, at least I will as soon as I get over the hiccups I kick-started by eating that grinder.<br /><br />Thanks for reading.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-10278815543557655562010-04-17T16:12:00.000-07:002010-04-17T17:00:33.779-07:00Carbo-Overload 4/17/10This afternoon, we were at my favorite pre-marathon gluttonization station, Cinzetti's, for one last calorie-fest before the marathon. <br /><br />There are about six bread stations, fifteen pasta dishes, eight pizzas, crepes (are those Italian?), and two kinds of potato pie. I took at least a tongful, or a spoonful, from every one. As I heffalumped my way back to our table, I thought I saw some fresh fruit, too, but I figured it would only take up space in my stomach-dumpster that I would later need for desert.<br /><br />Mama mia, the desert: Tiramisu, The Chocolate Cookie of Death, Raspberry Crostata (Dean Martin's birth name.), bread pudding, and thirteen variations on pistachio ice cream. I took all of those, too. My arms were so laden with plates full of treats that I almost- ALMOST- passed on the cannoli. <br /><br />For me, it is the signature Italian meal-topper. Probably because I have seen The Godfather so many times, and the lines, "Leave the gun. Take the cannoli," spill from my slobbering lips whenever cannoli comes up. I can't pass it by. Clemenza tells me to take it- I take it. I don't want to end up like Paulie: Slumped against the steering wheel with a hole the size of Sicily in my head.<br /><br />I ate enough food to provide fuel for four marathons. So what if I had to be wheeled out of Cinzetti's on a forklift? I will not be one of those poor buffoni staggering through the final miles. I will finish strong, my engine humming away on a full tank of pasta, marinara sauce, pepperoni, and ricotta cheese. "Molto Grazie!" I will shout when I joyfully cross the finish line. "Viva Italia!" <br /><br />Thanks for reading.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-63602257687547364452010-04-17T15:30:00.000-07:002010-04-17T16:10:39.781-07:00The Runner's Sabbath 4/16/10My four-miler today was the last run before the marathon on Sunday. Tomorrow I do nothing-no running, no working, no signaling turns while driving, no driving, no folding of linens, no slaughtering of animals, no flossing of teeth, no blogging. Well, I don't put much work into this- as you've probably already figured out- so, I'll probably type a few disconnected sentences, slap a nearly-clever title on it, and send it out to the world. Thank Al Gore for the Internet! If I had to do this on a stone tablet with a chisel, it would definitely break the strictures of "The Running Sabbath," as laid out in The Runner's Bible. I will attempt to paraphrase. <br /><br />We are supposed to save all our energy for The Big Event, not expend our glycogen on trivialities like buttering our Eggos. A runner doesn't want to blame his collapse at mile 22 on the calories he lost the day before clipping his own toenails. My wife has been very understanding in this regard. Thanks to her, I will not have to walk the dog, brush my own teeth, or put my own feet up on the couch. She will read the entire paper to me, so that I won't have to put on my own glasses. And, if there is any complaining on her part, but I will decline to argue with her- as I can't spare the saliva- and she'll give up when she realizes that, if she wants an opponent, she'll have to play Devil's Advocate.<br /><br />The sloth will end, hopefully, at 7:30 Sunday morning, when the starting gun goes off. I can only hope that my get-up-and-go will actually go at that time. Even I know that I'm not going to be able to get my wife to do the race for me. But, afterwards, when I'm tired, stiff, and hobbling, then I can invoke the stricture known in The Runner's Bible as "The Stricken Marathoner's Infirmity," to score a popsicle and a leg rub.<br /><br />Thanks for humoring me, Amy.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-33746904852464648382010-04-15T19:12:00.000-07:002010-04-15T19:33:53.814-07:00I Render Schlock 4/15/10Today's run was none too taxing: Just four miles at an easy pace. I could have had a service, like H and R Starting Blocks, do the run for me, but I found the deduction-two miles off my regular distance-all by myself. I only hope I don't have to pay a penalty during my marathon on Sunday.<br /><br />Thanks for humoring me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-68439779198697315532010-04-15T18:54:00.000-07:002010-04-15T19:10:41.175-07:00Penguins and Paolo 4/14/10Well, it was a beautiful day for anything: From arrowhead hunting, to zebra tipping. I did my little six-miler at a reasonable pace, getting some sun on my penguin tattoo in the process. It makes him look Italian. Which makes me think that... <br /><br />To be a live penguin in an Italian zoo would have to be one of the coolest things ever. First, the Italians know ice. Wouldn't it be great to live on an enormous island of gelato al limon? Second, even though your habitat was kept cold, outside is this beautiful, warm, sunny place. So, whenever you get tired of eating herring and diving into the near-freezing water, you can towel off, throw on some sunscreen, and head over to the zoo bistro for some wine and bruschetta.<br /><br />I have a greatest hits CD by an Italian singer named Paolo Conte. You get the feeling from the picture on the cover, that this guy started smoking cigarettes when he was about four. He plays piano in a Dixieland saloon style, and sings in a sweet, gravelly style that is just north of Tom Waits. And, he looks like a penguin. Check him out sometime.<br /><br />Thanks for humoring me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-1754275157896939592010-04-13T18:22:00.000-07:002010-04-13T18:57:23.972-07:00An Atheist Plays God 4/13/10The dog was squatting in the dewy darkness, his tail twitching, trying to grace the grass with the by-product of yesterday's gorging. His human was at the other end of the leash, slipping his forearm inside the plastic sheath that had recently held the morning paper, and trying to aim the flashlight so that it would find the hazmat, and not the dog, who disdains the spotlight at such times. <br /><br />The dog, committed to his downward-facing position for at least two minutes, was not scanning the near distance for bunnines, but the human saw one: Very still, perpindicular to the dog, and staring at him sideways. The rabbit, in his sideways-facing position, could not see the black cat stalking him from behind. Neither did the dog. But the human did. The human who does not believe in an omnipotent, omniscient, benevolent Supreme Being. Who accepts that tragedies occur for many reasons, but not because there is some Master Plan. He saw the cat bent on bunny beheading. <br /><br />And he did just what a kind God would do-that is, if he were a God for bunnies, and not for cats. He made a noise like "Sssst!" And the bunny bolted, and the cat went futilely after him. The noise startled the dog, which caused him to finally drop his baggage, which the atheist God then grabbed with his plasticized hand. <br /><br />So, the bunny survived to procreate for the quadrillionth time, and the cat, unable to bring home rabbit stakes for his missus, was denied conjugal congratulations. And the atheist felt pretty proud of himself for spoiling this Wild Kingdom moment, and couldn't wait to tell his wife. And the dog, who almost didn't give a shit, turned and trotted back toward his smelly bed and his kibble.<br /><br />Thanks for humoring me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53559149914676604.post-40851614643360280542010-04-13T07:19:00.000-07:002010-04-13T18:21:06.631-07:00High Anxiety 4/12/10I took the day off from running, which left me plenty of time and energy for worrying about my marathon on Sunday in Lawrence.<br /><br />With a week to go before the big day, one is supposed to cut back on the mileage, ramp up the carb consumption, and work out all the little details. The run less/eat more dictum is intended to keep your energy stores at a higher level. In other words, "The training for this race is done, don't knock yourself out the week before your big event." For me, it means, "Feeling like a whale on meth, rampage through your kitchen, and rake in all digestibles with your flailing flippers." But the last part-the logistical planning-is the one that allows my imagination to go wilding. <br /><br />"How many gels do I take? At what intervals? Should I put some in my hair, since I'm not showering beforehand, and my hair will look like a plate of cooked spaghetti? Did I eat enough pasta for dinner? I feel like a python that swallowed a bowling ball.<br /><br />How am I going to get to the race? Should I get up early? No, I'll be too tired, and might fall asleep on the crapper. I'll take a cab. No, because then I'll have to take money with me for the return trip, and what if the driver takes me to the start via Cheyenne, WY? Why is Wyoming called that? But what if the driver is an honest, God-fearing man, and The Rapture happens while we are en route? Given my God-slandering history, I will surely be left alone in the cab. I don't have a cabbie's license. I will have to survive the crash, then run to the start. <br /><br />What if it rains? Should I wear a trash bag over my clothes to stay dry? And what about the garbage that spills out? Whatever happened to that band named Garbage from the '90s? What if they're one of the bands playing on the course? Will I have time to get the red-headed chick-singer's autograph and still qualify for Boston? Have I run too many garbage miles, and not enough quality?<br /><br />I need to fall asleep. What if the ceiling falls while I'm staring at it? Will I have enough time to get under the bed before I am crushed? Because if I don't, I will miss the race. Why is race called 'The Third Rail of American Politics?' What if there is a Tea Party rally blocking my rapture-prone cab driver? I need to fall asleep. Man, it hurts just to close my eyes. Why did I eat so much for dinner?'<br /><br />A marathon is an all or nothing proposition. All the time one spends away from family, household chores that aren't finished, bills that are not paid-leading to home foreclosure-those can all be redeemed by a successful marathon performance. But so many factors outside of one's control can send the day into The Dismal Abyss of Disappointment, which makes you wonder why you gave up all those things you used to love doing, like, going to your children's activities, tequila shootathons with complete strangers, and Sunday morning sleep. <br /><br />It's the nature of the marathon beast, I suppose. We don't have to put ourselves through all this inner torment. But, we do. And it's probably because that to finish another one of these goofy things still seems like such a tremendous accomplishment-just like it did the first time. I think I got two, non-consecutive hours of sleep the night before my first one, but, man, was I pumped up when I finished. <br /><br />Thanks for reading.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04118856059507456828noreply@blogger.com0