A Slow Starter March 6, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading.

My First Reuben March 5, 2010

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

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

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

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

Thanks for humoring me.

Mastodons & Clooney March 4, 2010

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

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

Thanks for humoring me.

March 3, 2010

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

Thanks for humoring me.

Moony March 2, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading.

Kudos to The Ladies March 1, 2010

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

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

Thanks for humoring me.

Feb. 28, 2010

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

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

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

Thanks for reading.