All Grown Up at Forty-Seven 4/27/10

Today, I did not run. I felt tired, and had the sniffles, which I took to be a precursor to another cold. Since I've already had a year's worth of colds, and we have a lot going on in the next week, I decided to take the day off from running.

Wow! That was totally...like...adult behavior, Man. Sort of like...mature...and stuff, you know? Now, if I could...like...do, you know...the same thing with my money...I might be able to, you know...like...buy a new, um...bottle of shampoo, or something.

Thanks for reading.

Wasted Time 4/26/10

If I had kept track of the amount of time I have spent waiting for my Garmin Forerunner 205 to be located by the satellites necessary to track my speed and distance during the two years I have owned it, I would probably have accumulated the hours required to run ten marathons.

I have stood, nearly every morning during those two years, watching the red line that means "acquisition," move steadily across the watchface, until it reaches the end, only, for some reason to retreat toward the beginning. I curse and stomp my feet, look up at the sky to see where those f****** satellites are, then move forward, or back, a step until I make that red line move again toward completion of its path, which means I can finally start my run. Sometimes that works, most times it does not. I hold my watch above my head. I hold it out to the side. I curse. I stomp my feet. I move to the left. I move to the right. I consider not paying the portion of my federal taxes that goes to keeping Global Positioning Satellites in orbit.

I freeze, or sweat, depending on the season. I get soaked, or I watch the sun trace its path across the sky from east to west as morning turns to afternoon. The damned red line just won't commit. Why does it hesitate at the moment of consummation, in a sort of "acquisitionus interruptus?"

Do I live in an isolated Appalachian valley, or on a guano-caked South Pacific island? Of course not. Our expansive apartment complex lies in the very middle of North America, in, if not a densely populated area, at least one whose population is dense. Are the satellite positioners messing with me? Can they see me down here, cursing and stamping, and have just decided to jerk my chain for a while to see what other tricks they can make me do? Is it Revenge of The Nerds, Part VI?

The hell with it. Today I left the bleeping wonderwatch on the bedside table. I knew the route I was running was six miles, no need to measure that again. So as soon as my feet hit the asphalt, I was moving. I flipped off the Eye in the Sky, and scuffled up the hill, thinking, as a great space explorer might have said, "One step backward for technology- one giant step forward for mankind running."

Thanks for reading.

Keltraf the Konqueror 4/25/10

I did six-miles of hill fartlek today. What that means is that whenever I came to an uphill section along my route, I would pick up the pace, until I got to the top, then I would jog easily until the next uphill. It's a good way to practice the kinds of pace changes you find in races, and a relatively easy way to add some "quality" to my miles. It's a type of speed work that has a long history.

Fartlek, as I've mentioned before, is a Swedish word that means "speed play." It can be traced back several centuries, to the Vikings. The Vikings were long-distance sailors, and pillagers of great renown, not great distance runners to be sure. Their success was derived from making other people run- from the Vikings.

When the Viking ships would approach a defenseless village, say on the coast of Ireland, or Scotland, or Duluth, they would watch in great amusement as the locals would take off running away from the shore, and toward the hills. Their targets were not great runners, either. They had spent most of their time bent over, doing farm labor for 25 hours a day, every day. They didn't have time to run for fitness. So they were not in good enough shape to do the kind of running they would have to do to get away from the Vikings. They would have to stop after a few yards to catch their breath, then turn around and realize that the Norsemen had landed, and ever more frightened, turn and sprint again.

The cycle would repeat itself many times, with the townsfolk growing more weary with each burst, and the sacking Swedes advancing steadily, laughing so hard that their horny helmets fell off. Eventually the serfs would faint from exhaustion, the Vikings would catch them, and after their laugh-induced belly aches subsided, kill the luckless lumps of flesh about fourteen different ways, take everything they could stuff on their boats, and sell the rest on ebay.

Then they would sail for home, telling great tales of the battles they had fought with unconscious Duluthmen, and singing Viking ballads of villages burned to the ground. Those always made them homesick and sad. But only briefly. For then one of them would always cheer them up by asking them if they remembered how those Scottish saps would run and stop, run and stop, until they just gave out. And the Vikings would belly-laugh all over again. You see, it was speed play for the Vikings, and speed work for the villagers.

Thanks for reading.

A Haiku After The Rain 4/24/10

The pear-tree blossoms-
Their beauty no match for storms-
Float down asphalt streams.

Add a Gorilla to The Mix 4/23/10

Tiny, unseen gremlins continued to whack me on both kneecaps during today's six-miler. They wore themselves out after about forty-five minutes, their lead pipes growing heavy in their hairy hands.

That left the last five minutes of the run to be dominated by the invisible gorilla who held my chest in his Mighty Joe Youngish grip. He clamped down hardest on that last uphill section. Satisfied with my hyperventilation, he jumped off when I bent over, gasping, at the finish.

Even so, it was better than getting kicked in the head by a real, live mule.

Thanks for humoring me.

Thumbs Up 4/21/10

I had a flashback during today's run, to something that may have been a formative moment in my adolescence. Actually, it happened when I was in seventh grade, which meant that I was still several years, and lowered voice octaves, away from puberty.

Specifically, it happened in Shop Class, which was optionally mandatory- the other offering being Home Ec. Ec is short for ectoplasm, which is "a viscous substance claimed by spiritualists to emanate from the body of a medium and then produce life forms." That definition was both disgusting, and perfectly descriptive of me at the age of thirteen. Since I did not want to be singled out every day as ectoplasmic, I chose Shop Class.

There, I would stand out only for my inability to make anything resembling anything we were supposed to make. I couldn't even form my sheet of green, molten plastic into the candy dish/ashtray it was supposed to become, and that was during the mid-70s, when a straw encased in a chunk of asphalt sold for $1 million at an auction in London. Therefore, I was in way over my head when we had to mine iron ore, smelt it, and upon cooling, form it into toolboxes for our fathers. I panicked at the thought of losing multiple appendages in the process, and so, handed in my father's own toolbox as my own creation. Yes, I should have removed his tools in advance, not claimed them as extra credit projects done "with the time I had left over." Maybe then, I would not have been on the verge of failing Shop Class, going into the final exam.

And, maybe Mr. Silber- I'm using his real name, because I'm sure he's suffering from dementia caused by inhaling too much sawdust, and doesn't have the faculties to sue me- wouldn't have made the cruel remark that led me to hate my opposable appendages for the rest of my life. While explaining the rules for the final- yes, a written final in Shop, he caught me fantasizing about my once certain F, turning into a D, and said in front of my mustachioed classmates, "Potts, get your thumbs out of your ass!"

My thumbs separated me from the lesser primates-who were all turning around and laughing at me- why would I abuse them in that base, if possibly exciting, manner? And, since he had in an earlier class, during the disastrous "bird-house meets arc welder incident," described me as "all thumbs," he must have intended to imply that my nether regions were awash in them. I was confused, disgusted, and filled with self-loathing. I was forever after opposed to my thumbs.

Which proved to be my ruination on the final. I refused to hold my no.2 pencil between unmentionable digit and forefinger, using instead the middle two fingers, with the outsiders as a sort of movable platform. It took me the entire hour to finish the first question, which was "What is the corollary of 'Righty Tighty?'"
Even that answer he marked wrong, as it looked to him like "Lift a Lunacy."

So, I failed Shop, which actually did no harm to my chances for advancement to eighth grade, as all thirteen-year-olds were automatically promoted, out of fear that they were a dangerous subspecies that needed to be moved out of the education system as soon as possible. In those days, the really hard cases were given Ph.Ds, just so they wouldn't spend all their time blowing up toilets and hiding in the girls' locker room.

But it did cause enormous psychological damage. I was caught just a few months later slicing my own thumbs in the bathtub. Later, I went into a stage in which I refused to acknowledge them at all, telling everyone that I "only have eight fingers. I'm just watching those other two things for a friend in Switzerland."

So, hey, all you Industrial Ed., teachers out there(Ed being short for "edentulous," meaning "toothless."), take more care in addressing your charges. We live in a more litigious society today than that of 1975. If you make the kind of comment to one of your little simians, like that Mr.Silber made to me, you might just be looking at a multi-million dollar lawsuit for alienation of thumb affection. But, more importantly, you might be distorting the thumb self-image of a very vulnerable little lemur, like I was.

Please, stop the suffering before it starts. And I will stop this blathering blog.

Thanks for reading.

Unbearable Wetness of Being 4/22/10

Mother Earth celebrated Earth Day in Kansas City by pouring rain on us all day. She did not allow a respite for my twelve-mile run, in spite of my pleas.

I enjoy running in a light rain- for a little while. This was one hundred minutes of sloshing through moderately heavy precipitation. In fact, I was already soaked before my Garmin acquired its satellites. I guess you could say it was somewhat fortunate that the temperatures were in the 50s, and not the 30s, and you would be right: the cold would certainly have made things more miserable. But, hey, look at the freakin' calendar: April 22nd, not February 22nd! But, the bitchy blogger doth protest too much, methinks. Onward.

I had a romantic notion that for today's hydroplaning, I would wear some old Nikes in the University of Oregon colorway: grass-green, with golden yellow. I had retired them a couple of years ago due to failing performance, but since the missus and I are heading out to The Beaver State next week, and we're going to be doing races in Eugene that weekend, I wanted to see if the Duck shoes had enough bounce to do a half-marathon. And if they did, I would leave them at Pre's Rock afterwards.

Well, they weren't so ducky today. I wouldn't say the discomfort was excruciating, but it was enough to tell me that if I ran the half in them one week hence, I would be spending the majority of our Oregon vacation waddling around like a lame duck. Thus did patella tendinitis trump romance.

Upon finishing today, I set about the task of removing my saturated clothing, and wringing it out. Let me just say that I am an ardent believer in wearing wicking clothing. But even those wonderful synthetics get overwhelmed when exposed to the kind of wetness I was dealing with today. Not only were my clothes and my skin completely soaked, my pores, which are supposed to block incoming substances, failed during the downpour. They went completely open, allowing the deluge to pour in to my gutty-wutts. My spleen was swimming. My liver was liquefied. My islands of Langerhans were turned into actual islands.

Feeling waterlogged, I wrung myself out by setting the washing machine on the spin cycle and jumping in. Upon completion, my wife pulled me out, and even though I was a bit shaken up, I was not agitated with her.

I learned a couple of things today. First, even though I'm an aqueous creature, but that doesn't mean I would enjoy living in a watery world full time. Evolution has made me a lover of the terra firma, so "Viva La Asfalta!" And, second, like The Who, retired shoes should stay that way, even if they died before they got old.

I won't get fooled again.

Thanks for reading.

Guns and Photos 4/20/10

On page 2 of Tuesday's sports section there was a picture of the women's winner of the Boston Marathon, Teyba Erkesso of Ethiopia, receiving the traditional olive wreath given to winners of that race. She is holding her hands to her face, and appears to be in, or near, tears. She covered the 26.2 miles in 2hours, 26min., and 11seconds. That would make her average pace about 5min., and 35sec., per mile- which she did under her own power. She had no mechanical engine, and no chassis- other than her own body.

Denny Hamlin's picture was also on page 2. In his post-race photo, he is seen at a podium holding two pistols skyward. Whether he was given those guns as a prize, or waved them at his competitors in rage during the contest, is not known. What we do know is that he won a 500-mile race in Texas on Monday, with the benefit of a high-powered stock car, and a pit crew. He emerged the winner after 334 laps, despite an injured knee that he said left him feeling about "60 percent." How amazingly brave- to drive 500 miles with a bad knee! The impact on that joint when working the clutch must have been tremendous.

It is extremely unlikely that Ms. Erkesso would have performed as she did, had one of her knees been as injured as Mr. Hamlin's. And I doubt that she is as handy with a Colt .45 as he is. Perhaps her nearest competitor would have been more than 3 seconds behind her, if she had sported a sidearm while running.

That car racing is considered a sport on a level with long-distance running doesn't bother me anymore. It can't possibly be- since comparing the endurance of a vehicle, and the endurance of a runner is not a fair. It's like judging the steam engine superior to John Henry. But people would seem to prefer watching men and women whose faces they can't even see, drive cars around in an oval for hours, than watch real live human beings that they could see, run around a track, or through the streets of one of America's greatest cities, and all my bitching is not going to change that.

But what really irritated me about the two stories, was that Mr. Hamlin was lauded for being courageous and tough, when his knee had to bear no weight, just be strong enough to push in the clutch. While no mention was made of the strength and determination it takes just to RUN 26 miles, let alone to do it at the pace which Ms. Erkesso did. If she'd had an injured knee, she would never have even been able to toe the line, so great would the demands of the race been upon it, and we would not have been so fortunate as to see her, completely disarmed, in her moment of triumph.

Hell, the Boston Marathon wasn't even on local TV here, but the NASCAR race was. I guess the airwaves were just too crowded at 11a.m. on a Monday for two grueling tests of human endurance.

Thanks for reading.

Band-Aids Help, Too 4/19/10

Here's a tip for you first-time marathoners to be: I usually go for a short run the day after a marathon. Even one as brief as two miles, ungainly as it may be, helps me to move the lactic acid out of my system. And, as we all know, an unchecked buildup of lactic acid usually leads to Spontaneous Male Lactation. And isn't that a bummer when you've worn a bright shirt to work? So, a run, no matter how awkward, can save even greater embarrassment down the line.

I am udderly grateful for your attention.

Marathon #21-4/18/10

There's a strange kind of euphoria that sets in when I finish a marathon. Strange because I'm always utterly exhausted, and usually pretty sore. I don't know if it's the endorphins- those pain-blocking chemicals released during exercise- or just relief at being finished with something that is completely taxing, both mentally and physically. Doesn't matter. I'm gonna do the "airplane swoop" in the final straightaway regardless.

There was a band playing at the finish line, rather than an announcer calling out our names as we came across. I didn't care- I sang right along with a Celtic/Zydeco cover of "Hey, Hey, What Can I Do?" (Of all the songs to give a Chieftains meets Clifton Chenier treatment...) Then, it took me five minutes, and five hip cramps, to put my warm-up pants back on. S'all good, Bruh- I may have come up with five new, advanced yoga poses. "Now, who else can hold 'The Screaming Salamander' for sixty seconds?"

You also get to eat like Biblical locusts- another possible cause of Temporary Post-Marathon Insanely Happy-ness. I polished off a foot-long meatball grinder, with jalapenos and provolone, in about ten minutes. That's fifty seconds per inch. We're talking Professional Eating Tour type numbers here. If Kobayashi wants to regain his Coney Dog-eating title this Fourth of July, he should run a marathon that morning.

I would have to say, however, that the real reason for my "Marathoner's High," is probably just that I finished the damned thing. I ran twenty-six miles, which is never a sure deal, no matter how well prepared I am- and I did not feel that I was ready for this one. I had been sick a lot this Winter and Spring, and had even fizzled out on my last long run due to The Return of the Creeping Crud. I had a plan that I thought might get me through, and it did. I finished with my best marathon time in four years- and on a difficult course.

It's now about six hours since I finished, and I'm still buzzing. I'm about as far from needing a nap as Radiohead is from reggae. But I don't have any plans, either. Just going to read the Sunday paper, and rebuild my massacred musculature. Eat, eat, eat. Or, at least I will as soon as I get over the hiccups I kick-started by eating that grinder.

Thanks for reading.

Carbo-Overload 4/17/10

This afternoon, we were at my favorite pre-marathon gluttonization station, Cinzetti's, for one last calorie-fest before the marathon.

There are about six bread stations, fifteen pasta dishes, eight pizzas, crepes (are those Italian?), and two kinds of potato pie. I took at least a tongful, or a spoonful, from every one. As I heffalumped my way back to our table, I thought I saw some fresh fruit, too, but I figured it would only take up space in my stomach-dumpster that I would later need for desert.

Mama mia, the desert: Tiramisu, The Chocolate Cookie of Death, Raspberry Crostata (Dean Martin's birth name.), bread pudding, and thirteen variations on pistachio ice cream. I took all of those, too. My arms were so laden with plates full of treats that I almost- ALMOST- passed on the cannoli.

For me, it is the signature Italian meal-topper. Probably because I have seen The Godfather so many times, and the lines, "Leave the gun. Take the cannoli," spill from my slobbering lips whenever cannoli comes up. I can't pass it by. Clemenza tells me to take it- I take it. I don't want to end up like Paulie: Slumped against the steering wheel with a hole the size of Sicily in my head.

I ate enough food to provide fuel for four marathons. So what if I had to be wheeled out of Cinzetti's on a forklift? I will not be one of those poor buffoni staggering through the final miles. I will finish strong, my engine humming away on a full tank of pasta, marinara sauce, pepperoni, and ricotta cheese. "Molto Grazie!" I will shout when I joyfully cross the finish line. "Viva Italia!"

Thanks for reading.

The Runner's Sabbath 4/16/10

My four-miler today was the last run before the marathon on Sunday. Tomorrow I do nothing-no running, no working, no signaling turns while driving, no driving, no folding of linens, no slaughtering of animals, no flossing of teeth, no blogging. Well, I don't put much work into this- as you've probably already figured out- so, I'll probably type a few disconnected sentences, slap a nearly-clever title on it, and send it out to the world. Thank Al Gore for the Internet! If I had to do this on a stone tablet with a chisel, it would definitely break the strictures of "The Running Sabbath," as laid out in The Runner's Bible. I will attempt to paraphrase.

We are supposed to save all our energy for The Big Event, not expend our glycogen on trivialities like buttering our Eggos. A runner doesn't want to blame his collapse at mile 22 on the calories he lost the day before clipping his own toenails. My wife has been very understanding in this regard. Thanks to her, I will not have to walk the dog, brush my own teeth, or put my own feet up on the couch. She will read the entire paper to me, so that I won't have to put on my own glasses. And, if there is any complaining on her part, but I will decline to argue with her- as I can't spare the saliva- and she'll give up when she realizes that, if she wants an opponent, she'll have to play Devil's Advocate.

The sloth will end, hopefully, at 7:30 Sunday morning, when the starting gun goes off. I can only hope that my get-up-and-go will actually go at that time. Even I know that I'm not going to be able to get my wife to do the race for me. But, afterwards, when I'm tired, stiff, and hobbling, then I can invoke the stricture known in The Runner's Bible as "The Stricken Marathoner's Infirmity," to score a popsicle and a leg rub.

Thanks for humoring me, Amy.

I Render Schlock 4/15/10

Today's run was none too taxing: Just four miles at an easy pace. I could have had a service, like H and R Starting Blocks, do the run for me, but I found the deduction-two miles off my regular distance-all by myself. I only hope I don't have to pay a penalty during my marathon on Sunday.

Thanks for humoring me.

Penguins and Paolo 4/14/10

Well, it was a beautiful day for anything: From arrowhead hunting, to zebra tipping. I did my little six-miler at a reasonable pace, getting some sun on my penguin tattoo in the process. It makes him look Italian. Which makes me think that...

To be a live penguin in an Italian zoo would have to be one of the coolest things ever. First, the Italians know ice. Wouldn't it be great to live on an enormous island of gelato al limon? Second, even though your habitat was kept cold, outside is this beautiful, warm, sunny place. So, whenever you get tired of eating herring and diving into the near-freezing water, you can towel off, throw on some sunscreen, and head over to the zoo bistro for some wine and bruschetta.

I have a greatest hits CD by an Italian singer named Paolo Conte. You get the feeling from the picture on the cover, that this guy started smoking cigarettes when he was about four. He plays piano in a Dixieland saloon style, and sings in a sweet, gravelly style that is just north of Tom Waits. And, he looks like a penguin. Check him out sometime.

Thanks for humoring me.

An Atheist Plays God 4/13/10

The dog was squatting in the dewy darkness, his tail twitching, trying to grace the grass with the by-product of yesterday's gorging. His human was at the other end of the leash, slipping his forearm inside the plastic sheath that had recently held the morning paper, and trying to aim the flashlight so that it would find the hazmat, and not the dog, who disdains the spotlight at such times.

The dog, committed to his downward-facing position for at least two minutes, was not scanning the near distance for bunnines, but the human saw one: Very still, perpindicular to the dog, and staring at him sideways. The rabbit, in his sideways-facing position, could not see the black cat stalking him from behind. Neither did the dog. But the human did. The human who does not believe in an omnipotent, omniscient, benevolent Supreme Being. Who accepts that tragedies occur for many reasons, but not because there is some Master Plan. He saw the cat bent on bunny beheading.

And he did just what a kind God would do-that is, if he were a God for bunnies, and not for cats. He made a noise like "Sssst!" And the bunny bolted, and the cat went futilely after him. The noise startled the dog, which caused him to finally drop his baggage, which the atheist God then grabbed with his plasticized hand.

So, the bunny survived to procreate for the quadrillionth time, and the cat, unable to bring home rabbit stakes for his missus, was denied conjugal congratulations. And the atheist felt pretty proud of himself for spoiling this Wild Kingdom moment, and couldn't wait to tell his wife. And the dog, who almost didn't give a shit, turned and trotted back toward his smelly bed and his kibble.

Thanks for humoring me.

High Anxiety 4/12/10

I took the day off from running, which left me plenty of time and energy for worrying about my marathon on Sunday in Lawrence.

With a week to go before the big day, one is supposed to cut back on the mileage, ramp up the carb consumption, and work out all the little details. The run less/eat more dictum is intended to keep your energy stores at a higher level. In other words, "The training for this race is done, don't knock yourself out the week before your big event." For me, it means, "Feeling like a whale on meth, rampage through your kitchen, and rake in all digestibles with your flailing flippers." But the last part-the logistical planning-is the one that allows my imagination to go wilding.

"How many gels do I take? At what intervals? Should I put some in my hair, since I'm not showering beforehand, and my hair will look like a plate of cooked spaghetti? Did I eat enough pasta for dinner? I feel like a python that swallowed a bowling ball.

How am I going to get to the race? Should I get up early? No, I'll be too tired, and might fall asleep on the crapper. I'll take a cab. No, because then I'll have to take money with me for the return trip, and what if the driver takes me to the start via Cheyenne, WY? Why is Wyoming called that? But what if the driver is an honest, God-fearing man, and The Rapture happens while we are en route? Given my God-slandering history, I will surely be left alone in the cab. I don't have a cabbie's license. I will have to survive the crash, then run to the start.

What if it rains? Should I wear a trash bag over my clothes to stay dry? And what about the garbage that spills out? Whatever happened to that band named Garbage from the '90s? What if they're one of the bands playing on the course? Will I have time to get the red-headed chick-singer's autograph and still qualify for Boston? Have I run too many garbage miles, and not enough quality?

I need to fall asleep. What if the ceiling falls while I'm staring at it? Will I have enough time to get under the bed before I am crushed? Because if I don't, I will miss the race. Why is race called 'The Third Rail of American Politics?' What if there is a Tea Party rally blocking my rapture-prone cab driver? I need to fall asleep. Man, it hurts just to close my eyes. Why did I eat so much for dinner?'

A marathon is an all or nothing proposition. All the time one spends away from family, household chores that aren't finished, bills that are not paid-leading to home foreclosure-those can all be redeemed by a successful marathon performance. But so many factors outside of one's control can send the day into The Dismal Abyss of Disappointment, which makes you wonder why you gave up all those things you used to love doing, like, going to your children's activities, tequila shootathons with complete strangers, and Sunday morning sleep.

It's the nature of the marathon beast, I suppose. We don't have to put ourselves through all this inner torment. But, we do. And it's probably because that to finish another one of these goofy things still seems like such a tremendous accomplishment-just like it did the first time. I think I got two, non-consecutive hours of sleep the night before my first one, but, man, was I pumped up when I finished.

Thanks for reading.

Gone Runnin' 4/11/10

"The worst day running, is still better than the best day fishing," is my personal credo, and one I will invoke to describe today's ten-miler.

The weather was perfect, save for a few billion pollen bombs, and the racing flats were stomping around by the front door, begging to be set loose so that they could set the streets afire. What was needed was a vehicle capable of keeping up with them, of taking advantage of the cool temperature, sunny skies, and slack winds. But it was The Lumberjack, a.k.a. The Ice Wagon, The Train Wreck, and The Wheeze Box, who laced up the Adidas Adizeros on this spectacular Sunday.

My form was ungainly, the way a bear who has broken into the Jack Daniel's distillery is ungainly. My breathing was labored, even more so than that of a woman who is in labor. At least she would have someone "coaching" her on how to breathe. I seemed to have forgotten everything I'd learned on the subject of respiring while exercising. Inhaling and exhaling at the same time. Through the ears, and not the nose and mouth. I aspired to aspirate my PowerGel, choke-choke, cough-cough.

Ten miles is one of my favorite distances to run. It's longer than my average daily run, but not so far that I have to spend all afternoon hooked up to an IV drip and a ventilator recovering. It's also very easy to compute my per mile pace when dividing by ten. I ran so slowly today, however, that even after decimating the total time, I came up with a number that resembled the average number of clowns in a circus carpool.

But, still, I believe I was better off running today, than I would have been if I had stayed in bed. I burned some calories. I hawked up some righteous Technicolor loogies. And I entertained hundreds of motorists with my "marionette controlled by a drunken puppetmaster" routine. All in all, not a bad way to spend a couple hours. Sure beats fishing.

Thanks for humoring me.

The Polleneater 4/10/10

My six-miler this morning was not run for selfish reasons. Oh, no, my fellow blogospherians. I pounded the prairie pavement this fine, fertile morning, in order to save you from all the pollen in the air.

You see, I have a unique ability, only manifest in Spring, to draw the poison pollen to me, and to hold it with my nasal tissue, tear ducts, and cake hole, until it can be washed harmlessly down the bathtub drain, into the Mississippi River watershed, and out into the Gulf of Mexico, where it will eventually contribute to the genetic mutation of brine shrimp and clams into fifty-foot, bipedal behemoths that will wreak their vengeance on coastal towns and cities. (I'll figure out later how to fix that little problem.)

I can see the spores floating through the atmosphere, much the way Neo could read the Matrix. I, like he, can move effortlessly through my environment, taking advantage of my superior understanding of it, to take its most toxic asset upon myself, all for the betterment of the human race.

I sneeze for you. I cough for you. My eyes burn so that yours won't. My phlegm is the phlegm of freedom. You may thank me only by enjoying an existence untouched by the dreaded yellow dust.

Thank you for reading.

Old Times Need Be Forgotten 4/9/10

I am not sure why Virginia Gov. Bob McDonnell and his ilk feel it is so important to commemorate the history of the Confederacy this month. I have never understood why the Confederacy, which stood for the rights of white people to own slaves, to murder them, rape them, separate them from their families, and deny them all human rights, is looked upon nostalgically by so many white people.

I see it as a tragic era in the history of The United States, which was only ended by an incredibly divisive and destructive war. I see the Confederate Army as the military arm of an ideology of inequality, hatred, and injustice. And I view anyone who glamorizes it, or even wishes to commemorate it, as a sympathizer with evil. The same way I regard neo-Nazis, Holocaust deniers, and Al-Qaeda supporters.

So, I can't relate to what Gov. McDonnell, who is considered a rising star in the Republican Party-the party of Abraham Lincoln-thinks when he glamorizes the Confederate soldier as one who was just fighting to defend his homeland, and leaves out any mention of slavery from his initial proclamation. But, I get it. I know why he did it. Because he represents that wing of the Republican Party that knows, deep down, and History has shown it to be accurate, that his party was resurrected in the South, the day the Democratic Party adopted a civil rights plank in its national platform in 1948. The Republicans ceded the moral highground on race, which they had held since Lincoln, so that they could gain the southern white vote. And sadly, it has largely worked.

McDonnell and his Klan just cannot help themselves. The man who gave the GOP rebuttal to President Obama's State of the Union speech, saw an opportunity to pander to whites who are suspicious of a black President with an ambitious social reform agenda. Suspicions which have largely been stoked by prominent Republican figures like Sarah Palin, Rush Limbaugh, and Governor McDonnell. It is cynical, and it is calculated, and it is terrible for the future of this country that we love.

By the way, today marks the 145th anniversary of Lee's surrender to Grant at Appomattox, VA. The Confederacy lost. I would say the right side one the Civil War. But Governor McDonnell would like us to believe that the good guys lost. That the cause they fought for-defense of liberty-was just, and that slavery was just a minor issue. When, actually, it was THE issue. Just as today, when the issue really is race.

Thanks for reading.

I Could Have Done That 4/8/10

Have you ever, after a few failed attempts at starting your vehicle, called a tow truck to haul it off to some garage, which you notified in advance of your non-starting vehicle's assisted arrival, only to have the driver of the aforementioned tow truck, upon dismounting the cab, walk right up to your decrepit driving-machine, reach in and turn the key, and in that moment, know that your car was absolutely, positively going to turn over? And it did? No? I never have either. Not today; not ever. It was just something I was wondering about, while, for some reason, I was feeling simultaneously sheepish and relieved that I was not going to have to lay out several hundred dollars on some hypothetical emergency expense.

I hope nothing like that ever not happens to you, too.

Thanks for reading.

Fox Trot 4/7/10

I saw a red fox sitting in the middle of the street, just as I turned a corner on one of my regular running routes. It saw me coming first, of course, and had already positioned itself to run, should I come its direction. So, I was not destined to study it for long, as I must have seemed like a fast-approaching threat, and foxes don't live long in the city when they don't take such threats seriously. Dogs, cars, and running men have already beat the fox populace to an airy thinness.

It accelerated across the suburban lawnscape with an ease this jogger has never even dreamed of, and was probably somewhere in the brush watching me as I went lumbering by.

Thanks for reading.

Let The Nuns Have Them 4/6/10

The Five Bad Habits of a Mostly Ineffective Person

1. Nose Picking. I picked a bad one, or rather, it was picked badly for me by my parents. It veers left almost instantly, eliminating me from The Symmetry Sweepstakes. Once you lose that, you'll always look like a gangster, or a Martian. My mom had a theory that my nose was straight until I got my braces at the age of twelve, but the orthodontist reached up into my sinus cavity, i.e.: my brainpan, and toggled my nose until my teeth lined up in the holes they were supposed to push through. It's not a theory that has gained much traction in orthodontia trade journals, and she's never had any luck with it in the courts, but it helps assuage the guilt she feels over the faulty nose-direction gene she gave me.

2. Not Asking Enough Questions. You know how most kids will bug you to death with a million back-to-back queries? Not me. I was very credulous. You say the fire's hot, I believe you, Dad. I don't need to ask "Why," and touch the exhaust pipe on your Harley. Unfortunately, I've carried this into adulthood. I wish I'd asked the salesman at the Chrysler dealership which way the assets were supposed to flow when I went in to participate in the Cash For Clunkers program. You tell me I give you $3500, and my '97 Jeep Cherokee, in exchange for stimulating the economy? I'm all in. I got a good deal on the payments, too.

3. Rooting For/Betting On The Underdog In Any Contest. There's a reason they're the underdogs, which is that they are not supposed to win. They are too slow, too old, too underpaid, too underfunded, or just flat-out too lousy at what they do. I took the Utah Jazz, twice, against the Michael Jordans in the NBA Finals. Have you ever heard any kid say he wanted to be like Bryan (Russell)? I also voted for Ralph Nader, twice. Looking back, I don't think that even HE took Ralph Nader seriously as a candidate. If he was so smart, why couldn't he figure out how to shave?

4. Correcting Mispronunciations. I should just let it slide, but there really is only one way to pronounce the name of the "big burrito place" chain restaurants that crank the toonz up to infinity, have wickedly uncomfortable chairs, and are impossible to get into at lunch and dinner. And that is chi-POTE-leh. Not chi-POLE-tee, or chi-PO-teez. I've told forty million people so far, and they have all threatened to kill me. And none would let me cut in front of them in line. I told them that the intelligent should be allowed first pick of the fruits of the land, in order to fuel our ability to educate the violently stupid. Then, I was beat up.



5. Procrastinating. This is the worst for me. That's why I saved it for last. I always feel that I can make a better decision, if I just have more time to think about it. Sometimes, as it turns out, that ends up being no decision. Once, while walking in a yellow wood, I came to a place where two roads diverged. I mulled over which was the better path to take. I thought I would take the one less traveled by, believing that if I could make the opposite choice from my predecessors, it might make all the difference. But I couldn't even decide which was the less-beaten path, so I pondered some more. So long I stood in that spot that the two paths were beaten down by dirt-bikers and trail-runners, getting their recreation on outside the crowded city. Then the paths were paved to allow developers to put up acres and acres of subdivisions promising "Country living, just minutes from downtown." Then the paved paths were widened to four lanes, then six, then eight, and they all seemed pretty well traveled by speeding three-trailer semis, and Prius minivans.

Thanks for reading.

The 163rd Game of 2009. 4/5/10

I ran two miles today. It was my first time on the roads since last Thursday, and even though it was not the smoothest run of my life, it left me feeling optimistic that I was getting back to regular.

On top of that good vibe, the Royals' Season Opener was this afternoon, and we had it on at the store. Their Cy Young Award-winning pitcher, Zack Greinke, was taking the mound, the day was warm and sunny...More optimism!

(Spoiler alert: If you haven't heard the result already, don't worry, it won't really be a surprise.)

The store was too busy this afternoon to just sit and watch the game for more than a few seconds at a time, so let me sum it up for you as best I can. The Royals gave up a run in the first inning, but then they came back a little while later and went ahead 2-1. Later, they were ahead 4-2 when Greinke was replaced by a relief pitcher. To put it another way, it was a relief for the Tigers when Greinke was replaced by another "pitcher." Just like last year, the bullpen snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, with the Royals losing 8-4.

It was just like watching many of their games from last year. The only comparable feeling I can relate to you, would be of stepping in a pile of dog shit just before the ground is covered by snow in the Winter, then, after the snow has melted in the Spring, you walk out your door and step in the same pile of dog shit. Have you gotten the sense, yet, that my optimism is waning just a bit?

I am going to have to run a lot tomorrow to make up for this.

Thanks for reading.

Easter Eggs 4/4/10

Here's the main reason why I wanted to never have children. I did not want to have to participate in The Big Easter Lie. How could I teach a child to value the truth, when every Easter, I would have to tell her that a large, upright walking rabbit, had dropped eggs all over our front yard while we had been sleeping?

An egg-laying rabbit? Rabbits are mammals; they have wabbity bweasts for nursing their young. They lovingly place them under cabbage leaves at birth. They don't drop them from an ovipositor. And they hippity flippin' hop, they don't walk around like the guy on the Johnny Walker Red Whiskey label. Only a kid taught biology from a Texas school book could believe such things. Surely a child who was half-mine, or adopted by me, would be smarter than the average Fort Worth fourth-grader.

I mean, wouldn't it make sense for a chocolate peep to fly around dropping eggs for the little candy grubbers? That at least makes some sense, from a reproductive consistency standpoint.

Thanks for reading.

Pinch, or Pull? 4/3/10

My nose was the only part of my body that ran yesterday. It ran all day long-thereby showing great endurance. It threw in a few intervals for variety-picking up the pace whenever I wasn't near a tissue box.

While I was in the throes of this Snotathon, a customer came up to me at work and said that she had noticed that I was somewhat congested. (It must have caught her attention that my sinuses had swollen to thrice their normal sizes, giving me the appearance of a hard-core Botox abuser.) She introduced herself as a massage and acupuncture therapist. She said that she'd had success treating her patients' allergies by inserting needles into their fingertips. Really? "Under the nails," I asked, thinking that she might be practicing a form of Pain Relocation Therapy. She answered "No" in a way that indicated she might be getting ready to skewer my eyeballs.

By placing them just so, toward the fingertips, the therapist could intercept the messages my brain was sending to my sinuses. "But, would I have to leave the needles in all month to keep the allergies at bay," I asked, this time covering both eyes with my hands. The needles were not absolutely necessary, she hissed, patiently, merely pinching the fingertips would produce the desired result. So, I don't need the ten tetanus injections to bring about a sniffle-free existence? (I only thought this sentence, not even projecting it toward her.)

I immediately set upon this course of therapy, right in front of the kindly, yet dangerously well-trained in the use of sharp rusty objects, savior of my schnoz. It was hard to believe that it could be so simple. I thought that I must have been dreaming. I needed someone to pinch me.

I pinched, sometimes squeezing, but never for very long, because I had to constantly switch fingers from pinched, to pinchee. Some pinches were so hard that I cried out for my mother to help me beat up the kid who was hurting me. Some, on the other hand, were so soft that they barely met the definition-they were more like nips. I pinched every finger seven times seven times, but still the snot kept coming. I became frustrated, then angry, until finally, I became downright snotty. I suggested a different methodology, "What if I just put my fingers up my nose? I bet that would stop it from running." She was not mellow in responding, and I have the bruised liver to prove it.

From now on, no more New Age remedies for me. I'll stick to the traditional, tried and true methods for combating allergies. Like, medicines that don't work. And lying in bed for eight hours a day. And hoping the trees stop blooming, and the wind stops blowing. Yeah, that's more realistic than pinching your fingers.

Thanks for humoring me.

My Superpowers 4/2/10

I am Mucus Man-Slimer of The Universe! I can cover evildoers in a thick coating of goo that will render them unable to wreak havoc on the innocent!

My sneezes are so powerful, they can send our enemies' nuclear missiles harmlessly into the outer reaches of the universe, where they might, or might not, make impact on another planet that might, or might not, have life forms similar to our own!

My dripping nose will provide enough moisture to end droughts in desert lands!

I will use up every Kleenex in the city, thereby revitalizing the moribund logging industry!

(There just has to be SOME upside to having a cold during allergy season.)

Thanks for reading.

No Foolin' -Another List 4/1/10

Five Things I Used to Believe:

1. That I could run twenty miles, even if I had a cold and allergies. I made it about 3.5, before turning around today. My chest hurt so badly, I thought an alien baby was going to burst forth from it.

2. That the meanings of "cheap" and "expensive" were reversed. Given my credit score and my retirement fund, I'd say this one hung on well into adulthood.

3. That if I just got close enough to the TV screen, I could see things that weren't really visible. I remember as a five year-old, crawling all the way up, so that I could see what was under Tina Turner's fringe dress as she and The Ikettes did "Proud Mary" on the Mike Douglas Show. As an older man, I can say I am grateful that, even with Hi-Def TV, we cannot see what's under Betty White's dress.

4. That I would one day be a wide receiver for the Chiefs. There may have been a time in NFL history-say, during the Great Depression-when people ate once a month, that 150-pounders ran amok on the gridiron, and were not flattened into something that would fit into a standard business envelope. But the end of the Great Depression, selective breeding, free agency, steroids, and discrimination against skinny people, have all made sure that it will never come again.

5. That the sidewalk was the only thing separating us from oblivion. I really thought there was nothing underneath it. Plus, I had seen some movie in which luckless cave explorers fell into a bottomless pit. Maybe I thought they just fell all the way through Earth, and wound up on Pluto. (Which I used to believe was a planet.) Now I know there are no bottomless pits. Except for Rush Limbaugh.

I also used to believe in the Easter Bunny, Kirby Puckett, a place called Hope, and the infallibility of R.E.M.

Thanks for reading.