As Mike Doughty so eloquently sprechgesanged, we are all in some way or another going to Reseda, whether to die or make love to a model from Ohio whose real name we do not know, or some other reason altogether, I do not know.
Likewise, in some ways, we are all one of the 99%. For example, I do not have type AB- blood. Thus, I am like 99.4% of the US population. I have no evidence that I am a descendant of Genghis Khan; this puts me in the august company of 99.5% of the world's population.
The 99% moniker has lately been co-opted by the Occupy Wall Street/America/Iowa/Des Moines/That Tree Over There movement. And more power to 'em, I say. As a duly-designated representative of the 99%, let me say that catchy yet vague slogans, spontaneous, poorly-thought-out civil disobedience, and lack of a unifying message appeal to me on a very fundamental level. Hell, I've been a registered Republican for longer than I can remember...
And yet, part of me bridles at being identified with these angry-yet-befuddled folks. I do not want to be one of the 99%. Not because I want to be one of the few who control almost half the wealth in our country. Although, between you and me, that would not suck. Nor is it because I am put off by their collectivist, we-know-what's-best-and-we'll-tell-you, querulous attitude. Well, maybe a little...
But more so, it's because I don't want to be like 99% of the people out there. It isn't because the 99% aren't fine, salt-of-the-earth people; it's because I want to be me.
I'd like to take this opportunity to encourage you all to do the same. Be yourself. Do something to set you apart from the pack. Go back to school, run a marathon, look up an old friend you haven't talked with in a while. Take up mountain biking. Or dwarf tossing. Seek serenity inwardly, or imagine what you'd like to do differently; then make it happen. Pray fervently. Hope ardently. Love completely. Take a chance. Throw caution to the wind. Live. And know that you will make me exceedingly proud of you when you do.
Because life is short. And the mere fact that you're reading this blog pretty much labels you as atypical. So don't be one of the 99%. Be the 1%. Be you. You can be whatever you want to be. Your path is not set, not completely. Figure out what it is you want, you need, what makes you happy, what makes you feel alive. Then get it.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Just a Whole Bunch of What-Have-You
Some more random junk that spills from my admittedly skewed mind:
I was driving the other day and saw a semi trailer for Hy-Vee (a local grocery chain for those of you unfamiliar) that displayed pictures of three of their 140 registered dieticians. All three were slim, attractive women with names like "Ashley" and "Jill". What I'd like to see just once is a picture of a morbidly obese registered dietician named "Dwayne". Wouldn't that be awesome?
For those of us trying to drop a few pounds, the phrase "no pain, no gain" really makes it difficult to want to totally exert oneself while exercising.
I enjoy going to lectures and other intellectual pursuits. It seems that it is typical at events of this ilk for there to be a question-and-answer period at the end of the presentation. I think it would be tremendous if the lecturer took the opportunity to turn the tables and ask questions of the audience: "You. Yes, you there in the fourth row. Do you realize that you snorted up what I assume was the same gob of mucus every 40 seconds for my entire presentation? Thanks a lot, dickhead". Or "Hey. Old guy in the back. Did you enjoy my discourse on Kant's Categorical Imperative? You did? Because the fact that you slept through the entire fucking thing would seem to indicate otherwise".
Has there ever been a band that is better at titling their albums than Camper Van Beethoven? I mean, c'mon..."Telephone Free Landslide Victory"? "Vampire Can Mating Oven"? Honestly...
For those of you who have known me for a while, here's a classic:
Where I went to school, there were quite a few students from Iowa and Minnesota. Hence, we often engaged in the "Duck, Duck, Goose" vs. "Duck, Duck, Grey Duck" argument. Why? Well, we were probably high or something... Anyway, if you grew up in Iowa, it was the former; in Minnesota, the latter. My solution to the argument was to call the game "Duck, Duck, Fuck Off", and instead of a pat, a full-windup, open-handed slap would be administered to the cranium of the unfortunate victim. To any kids who may have become swept up by this phenomenon, my sincerest apologies.
I drove by a partially-constructed house the other day with a sign in front announcing that it was being built by Habitat for Humanity. Having seen several of these dwellings being built and having done some desultory work on one myself, I can say that it takes entirely too long to build one. They need to come up with some sort of modular design for these things, maybe made out of some sort of indestructible plastic. They could make it in different colors, ranging from clear to semi-opaque. Hallways would be built separately and be circular in shape. I can see it now...Habitrail for Humanity.
While at Toys R' Us the other day, I saw a display of a bunch of pink ATVs aimed at the age 4-9 female demographic. They featured a certain explorer who wears a shirt a size too small. The item was called the Dora Kid Quad. Naturally, the first thing I thought was how the Kid Quad could probably make your kid a quad fairly quickly.
Currently getting ready to re-paint the garage. Needless to say, this involves removal of the previously-applied layers of paint. Imagine my chagrin when I discovered that "Stripper in a Can" is nothing like what it sounds.
Was at the Des Moines Kennel Club dog show a few weeks ago. At one point, they were showing Soft-coated Wheaten Terriers in one ring and Briards in another. Which got me thinking...if you bred those two, would you get a Wheatard?
I was driving the other day and saw a semi trailer for Hy-Vee (a local grocery chain for those of you unfamiliar) that displayed pictures of three of their 140 registered dieticians. All three were slim, attractive women with names like "Ashley" and "Jill". What I'd like to see just once is a picture of a morbidly obese registered dietician named "Dwayne". Wouldn't that be awesome?
For those of us trying to drop a few pounds, the phrase "no pain, no gain" really makes it difficult to want to totally exert oneself while exercising.
I enjoy going to lectures and other intellectual pursuits. It seems that it is typical at events of this ilk for there to be a question-and-answer period at the end of the presentation. I think it would be tremendous if the lecturer took the opportunity to turn the tables and ask questions of the audience: "You. Yes, you there in the fourth row. Do you realize that you snorted up what I assume was the same gob of mucus every 40 seconds for my entire presentation? Thanks a lot, dickhead". Or "Hey. Old guy in the back. Did you enjoy my discourse on Kant's Categorical Imperative? You did? Because the fact that you slept through the entire fucking thing would seem to indicate otherwise".
Has there ever been a band that is better at titling their albums than Camper Van Beethoven? I mean, c'mon..."Telephone Free Landslide Victory"? "Vampire Can Mating Oven"? Honestly...
For those of you who have known me for a while, here's a classic:
Where I went to school, there were quite a few students from Iowa and Minnesota. Hence, we often engaged in the "Duck, Duck, Goose" vs. "Duck, Duck, Grey Duck" argument. Why? Well, we were probably high or something... Anyway, if you grew up in Iowa, it was the former; in Minnesota, the latter. My solution to the argument was to call the game "Duck, Duck, Fuck Off", and instead of a pat, a full-windup, open-handed slap would be administered to the cranium of the unfortunate victim. To any kids who may have become swept up by this phenomenon, my sincerest apologies.
I drove by a partially-constructed house the other day with a sign in front announcing that it was being built by Habitat for Humanity. Having seen several of these dwellings being built and having done some desultory work on one myself, I can say that it takes entirely too long to build one. They need to come up with some sort of modular design for these things, maybe made out of some sort of indestructible plastic. They could make it in different colors, ranging from clear to semi-opaque. Hallways would be built separately and be circular in shape. I can see it now...Habitrail for Humanity.
While at Toys R' Us the other day, I saw a display of a bunch of pink ATVs aimed at the age 4-9 female demographic. They featured a certain explorer who wears a shirt a size too small. The item was called the Dora Kid Quad. Naturally, the first thing I thought was how the Kid Quad could probably make your kid a quad fairly quickly.
Currently getting ready to re-paint the garage. Needless to say, this involves removal of the previously-applied layers of paint. Imagine my chagrin when I discovered that "Stripper in a Can" is nothing like what it sounds.
Was at the Des Moines Kennel Club dog show a few weeks ago. At one point, they were showing Soft-coated Wheaten Terriers in one ring and Briards in another. Which got me thinking...if you bred those two, would you get a Wheatard?
Friday, August 26, 2011
Feeling Good
If you are just getting started running, or just getting back into it, a word of warning. There will come a time in to the not-too-distant future when you will say to yourself, "This running shit isn't so bad. I could get used to this." This will occur right about the time your body starts to get used to the abuse to which you subject it on a daily basis. You may indeed feel this way only a couple days into it. Do not be fooled; you can trick your body for a couple days, but soon it will discover that what you are doing to it is not all that great and it will rebel. At this point, no matter how much it sucks, it is imperative that you persevere. Because it will get better. But know that you cannot trick your body for very long. It will soon discover that something strange is going on and it will punish you for it. My advice...get into it slowly.
All the same, the day will come when it will actually start to seem easy. You may actually feel great. Please note that here I am not referring to the mythical 'runner's high' to which many allude and even more aspire. This does not exist. Sure, there may be times when the endorphins start flowing and the pain in your legs and lungs diminishes ever-so-slightly, you may even be tempted to pick up your pace a bit. I have experienced this; however, as a mind-altering happening, it is somewhat lacking. For all those fitness nuts nattering on about this mythical occurrence, a couple words, if I may. Try weed.
Even still, it is possible to turn running into a pleasurable activity. As your body adjusts to the rigors and you begin to improve your times, you may return from a run feeling better than when you left. You may, indeed, feel like going back out for more. You will want to run farther tomorrow than you did today. This is an incredible sensation; enjoy it. It may even get to the point where, as you cross the finish line at a race, knowing you just set a PR, probably by quite a bit, you may feel a frisson of electricity, a small shudder, run through your body, not unlike when you reach that most intense of moments. A tiny little orspasm, if you will. That will make all the training, all the pain, all the sacrifice worth it. However, do not get used to this. Nothing is that good all the time.
All the same, the day will come when it will actually start to seem easy. You may actually feel great. Please note that here I am not referring to the mythical 'runner's high' to which many allude and even more aspire. This does not exist. Sure, there may be times when the endorphins start flowing and the pain in your legs and lungs diminishes ever-so-slightly, you may even be tempted to pick up your pace a bit. I have experienced this; however, as a mind-altering happening, it is somewhat lacking. For all those fitness nuts nattering on about this mythical occurrence, a couple words, if I may. Try weed.
Even still, it is possible to turn running into a pleasurable activity. As your body adjusts to the rigors and you begin to improve your times, you may return from a run feeling better than when you left. You may, indeed, feel like going back out for more. You will want to run farther tomorrow than you did today. This is an incredible sensation; enjoy it. It may even get to the point where, as you cross the finish line at a race, knowing you just set a PR, probably by quite a bit, you may feel a frisson of electricity, a small shudder, run through your body, not unlike when you reach that most intense of moments. A tiny little orspasm, if you will. That will make all the training, all the pain, all the sacrifice worth it. However, do not get used to this. Nothing is that good all the time.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Saying Goodbye to an Old Friend
As many of you are no doubt aware, we have dogs. They are a constant source of joy, humor, and indelible stains. We lost one early in the year. Maggie was a sweet, fussy, little princess of a dog. Though she was not all that doglike. She was more of a cat that panted. Cancer made her life agony so we helped her along.
Recently, Beckett left us. We had had him for over eight years; he was, as all our dogs are, a rescue. He came to us from American Brittany Rescue, age indeterminate, full of eagerness, ehrlichiosis, and hip dysplasia. He had been found, along with a Golden Retriever buddy, living in an abandoned house, subsisting on charcoal they obtained from an overturned grill. He joined our pack and immediately won our hearts. It was apparent from the beginning that he was not the brightest of pups; indeed, he was incredibly, heartbreakingly simple. His response to nearly any stimulus was a tilt of the head and a raise of the ears. This, however, almost always failed to render a life-altering epiphany. As such, he existed in a constant muddle of confusion. This did not prevent him from being a wonderfully sweet, goofy boy. He got around well enough; his only concession to his dysplasia was "hobbying", a process by which he ascended stairs by a rocking motion not unlike that of a hobby horse. He loved chewing; indeed, he became well acquainted with our oldest daughter's stuffed animal collection very early on. He was also possessed of a great degree of cunning, particularly when it came to obtaining foodstuffs. Many was the evening when we would be called from the dinner table after securing our food in what we believed to be an impregnable position. Quite often, though, Beck would greet us upon our return, wiggling for all he was worth and holding, say, a pork chop or loaf of bread in his mouth. He was loving, and lovable, and had the most wonderful head for petting. Seriously...somehow he was imbued with an extra layer of awesome between his scalp and skull. I could pet that dog for days.
However, he had been going downhill for some time. His hips made it harder and harder for him to stand up; he now had to be carried up and down stairs. He seemed to lose track of his surroundings; he would stand in one spot and stare for long stretches of time. He drooled a lot and this normally fastidious dog (indeed, who once escaped a latched kennel so he wouldn't poop therein. Still have no idea how he did that...) began losing bladder control in the house. Finally, he started whining and showing signs of real discomfort. It was time for him to go.
The eldest had expressed a desire to be with him at the end, so the family packed up and headed to the vet. They had a room ready for us with a soft blanket laid out on the floor. We were allowed some time with him before the vet came in and gave him a sedative. He laid down and closed his eyes. His breathing became more regular, and he relaxed. We gathered around him, petting him and telling him what a good boy he was. After about ten minutes, the vet came in and administered he euthanizing injection, an overdose of phenobarbitol, I believe. Within seconds, he was gone. We said our final goodbyes and departed.
A few days later, I miss my friend. It's hard to verbalize the void left behind. Imagine, if you will, the best cookie you've ever tasted; say, a chocolate chip-M&M cookie full to the brim with chocolaty goodness. Now, imagine you get to have as many of those as you want every day for eight years without getting fat. That's the pleasure of having a dog like Beckett. Why the cookie analogy? Maybe because 'cookie' was one of the few words he understood; maybe because I really want a cookie; maybe for some other reason. Regardless, an apt characterization of the impact he had on my life.
So now he's gone. I am left with sweet memories of him and the firm knowledge that I will see him again someday. Meantime, instead of stroking his soft skull, I am left stroking the furry wall and grieving. I miss him so much...
Thank you for letting me get maudlin for a bit. I promise that, with my next entry I'll go back to being snide and poking fun at things.
Recently, Beckett left us. We had had him for over eight years; he was, as all our dogs are, a rescue. He came to us from American Brittany Rescue, age indeterminate, full of eagerness, ehrlichiosis, and hip dysplasia. He had been found, along with a Golden Retriever buddy, living in an abandoned house, subsisting on charcoal they obtained from an overturned grill. He joined our pack and immediately won our hearts. It was apparent from the beginning that he was not the brightest of pups; indeed, he was incredibly, heartbreakingly simple. His response to nearly any stimulus was a tilt of the head and a raise of the ears. This, however, almost always failed to render a life-altering epiphany. As such, he existed in a constant muddle of confusion. This did not prevent him from being a wonderfully sweet, goofy boy. He got around well enough; his only concession to his dysplasia was "hobbying", a process by which he ascended stairs by a rocking motion not unlike that of a hobby horse. He loved chewing; indeed, he became well acquainted with our oldest daughter's stuffed animal collection very early on. He was also possessed of a great degree of cunning, particularly when it came to obtaining foodstuffs. Many was the evening when we would be called from the dinner table after securing our food in what we believed to be an impregnable position. Quite often, though, Beck would greet us upon our return, wiggling for all he was worth and holding, say, a pork chop or loaf of bread in his mouth. He was loving, and lovable, and had the most wonderful head for petting. Seriously...somehow he was imbued with an extra layer of awesome between his scalp and skull. I could pet that dog for days.
However, he had been going downhill for some time. His hips made it harder and harder for him to stand up; he now had to be carried up and down stairs. He seemed to lose track of his surroundings; he would stand in one spot and stare for long stretches of time. He drooled a lot and this normally fastidious dog (indeed, who once escaped a latched kennel so he wouldn't poop therein. Still have no idea how he did that...) began losing bladder control in the house. Finally, he started whining and showing signs of real discomfort. It was time for him to go.
The eldest had expressed a desire to be with him at the end, so the family packed up and headed to the vet. They had a room ready for us with a soft blanket laid out on the floor. We were allowed some time with him before the vet came in and gave him a sedative. He laid down and closed his eyes. His breathing became more regular, and he relaxed. We gathered around him, petting him and telling him what a good boy he was. After about ten minutes, the vet came in and administered he euthanizing injection, an overdose of phenobarbitol, I believe. Within seconds, he was gone. We said our final goodbyes and departed.
A few days later, I miss my friend. It's hard to verbalize the void left behind. Imagine, if you will, the best cookie you've ever tasted; say, a chocolate chip-M&M cookie full to the brim with chocolaty goodness. Now, imagine you get to have as many of those as you want every day for eight years without getting fat. That's the pleasure of having a dog like Beckett. Why the cookie analogy? Maybe because 'cookie' was one of the few words he understood; maybe because I really want a cookie; maybe for some other reason. Regardless, an apt characterization of the impact he had on my life.
So now he's gone. I am left with sweet memories of him and the firm knowledge that I will see him again someday. Meantime, instead of stroking his soft skull, I am left stroking the furry wall and grieving. I miss him so much...
Thank you for letting me get maudlin for a bit. I promise that, with my next entry I'll go back to being snide and poking fun at things.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Where to Look
Okay, a couple things this entry is not about. First off, it is not about the want ads or where to find something you may have lost.
Secondly, it is definitely not a guide about where you may cast your gaze should you find yourself in a crowded public showering situation. So get that thought right out of your heads. Fucking perverts...
Rather, gentle readers, this post will seek to forestall, once and for all, the classic question of, "When I run, should I look up? Or down? Or what? Hey! Where are you going?" Because, you know, some people don't like to talk about running...
My advice is, don't do either. Look around. Especially if you wear headphones when you run. For God's sake, if you do, please take note of your surroundings, particularly if you are not running on some sort of recreational path. There will be vehicles around, and no matter how stalwart you are, they will squish you like an overripe melon dropped on a sidewalk. I do not wish for this to happen to you.
Please note, this advice only applies to those of you who prefer to run outside. There exists a certain subsection of the running community that prefers to run on a treadmill regardless of the weather. These shiftless poltroons are insurgents, Communists, and likely Episcopalians. You should have no truck with them whatsoever.
It's amazing what you can see if you just pay attention. Just today, as I was taking one of my frequent runs through Woodland Cemetery, I happened upon a fox. She was beautiful. Her coat was lush, her tail was luxuriant, her black stockings were in stark relief to the red of the rest of her. But enough about the hooker I saw on my way over there, let's talk about the fox...
In all seriousness, it was a wonderful moment. I would not be surprised if the fox had a den somewhere nearby. The purposeful aimlessness with which she ran away from me, looking over her shoulder to make sure I was following, led me to believe she was trying to steer me away from a certain locale. Finally, after being satisfied that I was not going to plunder her den and grievously injure her kits, she settled into some tall grass next to an old, decrepit tomb set into a hillside. Soon, I could see nothing but her ears and her bright eyes peering out at me. When I ran by again a few minutes later, she was still there. That's the sort of thing you miss if you don't pay attention.
So, to recap: There are myriad reasons to be aware of your surroundings when out for a run. First and foremost, it will most likely prevent you from wandering into the path of some motorized conveyance that is much larger and carrying a great deal more momentum than you. The mere possibility of reducing your chances of being turned into a random collection of disconnected organs and tissues should be more than enough. And if suicide is your goal, there are much cleaner ways of accomplishing this. I recommend guns. Drugs are too chancy; you might miscalculate the dosage and just have a good time.
Additionally, you can see and experience way more if you look around once in a while. Take Ferris Bueller's advice...don't miss it. Let the scenery be your guide. Allow the birds to be your soundtrack. Look at the clouds; see the forest for the trees. Watch that dog taking a dump on someone else's lawn. Watch closely; make the owner squirm a little bit. Maybe then they'll actually clean up after their animal. Memorize license plate numbers...never know when they might come in handy. Daydream. Make up stories about what you see around you. Why is that couple at the bus stop arguing? How did that raincoat end up in that bush? Reflect. Ask yourself questions to which you don't know the answers. Relive that freaky bondage dream you had last night. Try to figure out why it starred Billy Dee Williams. Ponder life's great mysteries. But most of all, for the love of Mike, look the hell around. There's an awesome world out there. Experience it.
Secondly, it is definitely not a guide about where you may cast your gaze should you find yourself in a crowded public showering situation. So get that thought right out of your heads. Fucking perverts...
Rather, gentle readers, this post will seek to forestall, once and for all, the classic question of, "When I run, should I look up? Or down? Or what? Hey! Where are you going?" Because, you know, some people don't like to talk about running...
My advice is, don't do either. Look around. Especially if you wear headphones when you run. For God's sake, if you do, please take note of your surroundings, particularly if you are not running on some sort of recreational path. There will be vehicles around, and no matter how stalwart you are, they will squish you like an overripe melon dropped on a sidewalk. I do not wish for this to happen to you.
Please note, this advice only applies to those of you who prefer to run outside. There exists a certain subsection of the running community that prefers to run on a treadmill regardless of the weather. These shiftless poltroons are insurgents, Communists, and likely Episcopalians. You should have no truck with them whatsoever.
It's amazing what you can see if you just pay attention. Just today, as I was taking one of my frequent runs through Woodland Cemetery, I happened upon a fox. She was beautiful. Her coat was lush, her tail was luxuriant, her black stockings were in stark relief to the red of the rest of her. But enough about the hooker I saw on my way over there, let's talk about the fox...
In all seriousness, it was a wonderful moment. I would not be surprised if the fox had a den somewhere nearby. The purposeful aimlessness with which she ran away from me, looking over her shoulder to make sure I was following, led me to believe she was trying to steer me away from a certain locale. Finally, after being satisfied that I was not going to plunder her den and grievously injure her kits, she settled into some tall grass next to an old, decrepit tomb set into a hillside. Soon, I could see nothing but her ears and her bright eyes peering out at me. When I ran by again a few minutes later, she was still there. That's the sort of thing you miss if you don't pay attention.
So, to recap: There are myriad reasons to be aware of your surroundings when out for a run. First and foremost, it will most likely prevent you from wandering into the path of some motorized conveyance that is much larger and carrying a great deal more momentum than you. The mere possibility of reducing your chances of being turned into a random collection of disconnected organs and tissues should be more than enough. And if suicide is your goal, there are much cleaner ways of accomplishing this. I recommend guns. Drugs are too chancy; you might miscalculate the dosage and just have a good time.
Additionally, you can see and experience way more if you look around once in a while. Take Ferris Bueller's advice...don't miss it. Let the scenery be your guide. Allow the birds to be your soundtrack. Look at the clouds; see the forest for the trees. Watch that dog taking a dump on someone else's lawn. Watch closely; make the owner squirm a little bit. Maybe then they'll actually clean up after their animal. Memorize license plate numbers...never know when they might come in handy. Daydream. Make up stories about what you see around you. Why is that couple at the bus stop arguing? How did that raincoat end up in that bush? Reflect. Ask yourself questions to which you don't know the answers. Relive that freaky bondage dream you had last night. Try to figure out why it starred Billy Dee Williams. Ponder life's great mysteries. But most of all, for the love of Mike, look the hell around. There's an awesome world out there. Experience it.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Random Expulsions
Here's a bunch of the kinds of things that occur to me as I'm running:
Guys, I hate to tell you this, but there are certain among us that simply should not run shirtless. I am well aware that I am one of them. Please understand, however, that you may be one, too. If so, please adjust your wardrobe accordingly. For instance, if you take off your shirt and someone says, "Hey man, nice sweater vest", this is an indication that you should keep your shirt on. Likewise, if your skin is pale to the point that your naked torso resembles nothing quite so much as a strangely-shaped marshmallow, please run fully clothed. Or at least get a tan, first...
I was running the other day when the leg elastic on the mesh inner liner of my shorts broke. After a few steps, I found myself thinking, "Huh. So this is what a thong feels like".
I run a lot in cemeteries and along greenbelts, so I see a fair amount of wildlife. One thing I have never seen, though, is a baby squirrel. This leads me to the inescapable conclusion that all squirrels are born full-size. This gives me a new respect for all the lady squirrels out there.
I will occasionally be asked by a new runner for any advice I can give them. Having not shared heretofore, I do so now:
1) If you feel like you need to go to the bathroom before a run, for the love of all that's holy, go to the damn bathroom. Don't dither around, just do it. Nothing makes a run go slower than the unique agony of having to go and being able to do nothing about it. Except listening to a running companion complain about how they have to.
2) Do not set out trying to run with people who are a whole lot faster than you. It is demoralizing, and it will make you feel inadequate. Instead, try to find someone else who's just starting out. It's always nice to have someone to improve with.
3) Don't get ahead of yourself. Nothing will make you want to quit running faster than trying to go farther or faster than you have any business going. You will, however, try this. You will feel awful. You will want to quit. Please don't. The effort is worth the reward. Eventually.
4) You will get endless tips and advice (kinda like this). Here's the thing. Only you can make you enjoy running. Get yourself a decent pair of shoes, some good socks (this is *very* important), and some clothes that seem at least marginally acceptable for athletic activity. After that, it's all you. Decide you want to go, and go. Pretty simple, really. Have fun.
Here's a piece of advice applicable to any runner, regardless of skill level or experience. If, for whatever reason you decide you need to incorporate bike workouts into your fitness regimen, I recommend not biking along the same routes you run. This will inevitably be entirely demoralizing; I cannot imagine a worse feeling than reaching a point, say 4 miles into your route where you would normally turn around if you were running, looking down at your watch and noting that you covered the same distance on your bike in less than 10 minutes.
I want to know just who decided that lima beans should be a part of mixed vegetables. I have no quarrel with any of the other selections: Corn, fine; peas, absolutely; carrots, you betcha; even green beans are okay. But then we have the fucking lima bean, that most insipid member of the legume family. There are very few things on earth quite so unappealing, so disappointing as a lima bean. It is the round steak of the vegetable world; you'll eat it if you have to, but you're not gonna like it and you'll spend your time wishing it was something else.
Lately, there seems to be some debate about whether shoes are good for running. A more and more vocal minority has appeared, clamoring for us to leave behind the binding limitations of our Asics, our Nikes, indeed, even our goofy Vibram foot-glove things, and let out piggies truly run free. As part of their argument, they point to studies showing that, as running shoes have developed, more and more injuries are occurring. I will not dispute these findings, but I believe further inquiry is warranted. Are many of these injuries suffered by people who would have not even tried running were the shoes not so advanced? People who, after a couple days' running foolishly decide to really stretch themselves out distance-wise and suffer an injury. People who, when coming back from another injury push themselves too far, too fast, believing that their super-cushioned shoes will prevent any further damage? I have often said that anyone can run, and I firmly believe this. However, given the amount of hopeless dolts out there, perhaps not everyone should run...
Guys, I hate to tell you this, but there are certain among us that simply should not run shirtless. I am well aware that I am one of them. Please understand, however, that you may be one, too. If so, please adjust your wardrobe accordingly. For instance, if you take off your shirt and someone says, "Hey man, nice sweater vest", this is an indication that you should keep your shirt on. Likewise, if your skin is pale to the point that your naked torso resembles nothing quite so much as a strangely-shaped marshmallow, please run fully clothed. Or at least get a tan, first...
I was running the other day when the leg elastic on the mesh inner liner of my shorts broke. After a few steps, I found myself thinking, "Huh. So this is what a thong feels like".
I run a lot in cemeteries and along greenbelts, so I see a fair amount of wildlife. One thing I have never seen, though, is a baby squirrel. This leads me to the inescapable conclusion that all squirrels are born full-size. This gives me a new respect for all the lady squirrels out there.
I will occasionally be asked by a new runner for any advice I can give them. Having not shared heretofore, I do so now:
1) If you feel like you need to go to the bathroom before a run, for the love of all that's holy, go to the damn bathroom. Don't dither around, just do it. Nothing makes a run go slower than the unique agony of having to go and being able to do nothing about it. Except listening to a running companion complain about how they have to.
2) Do not set out trying to run with people who are a whole lot faster than you. It is demoralizing, and it will make you feel inadequate. Instead, try to find someone else who's just starting out. It's always nice to have someone to improve with.
3) Don't get ahead of yourself. Nothing will make you want to quit running faster than trying to go farther or faster than you have any business going. You will, however, try this. You will feel awful. You will want to quit. Please don't. The effort is worth the reward. Eventually.
4) You will get endless tips and advice (kinda like this). Here's the thing. Only you can make you enjoy running. Get yourself a decent pair of shoes, some good socks (this is *very* important), and some clothes that seem at least marginally acceptable for athletic activity. After that, it's all you. Decide you want to go, and go. Pretty simple, really. Have fun.
Here's a piece of advice applicable to any runner, regardless of skill level or experience. If, for whatever reason you decide you need to incorporate bike workouts into your fitness regimen, I recommend not biking along the same routes you run. This will inevitably be entirely demoralizing; I cannot imagine a worse feeling than reaching a point, say 4 miles into your route where you would normally turn around if you were running, looking down at your watch and noting that you covered the same distance on your bike in less than 10 minutes.
I want to know just who decided that lima beans should be a part of mixed vegetables. I have no quarrel with any of the other selections: Corn, fine; peas, absolutely; carrots, you betcha; even green beans are okay. But then we have the fucking lima bean, that most insipid member of the legume family. There are very few things on earth quite so unappealing, so disappointing as a lima bean. It is the round steak of the vegetable world; you'll eat it if you have to, but you're not gonna like it and you'll spend your time wishing it was something else.
Lately, there seems to be some debate about whether shoes are good for running. A more and more vocal minority has appeared, clamoring for us to leave behind the binding limitations of our Asics, our Nikes, indeed, even our goofy Vibram foot-glove things, and let out piggies truly run free. As part of their argument, they point to studies showing that, as running shoes have developed, more and more injuries are occurring. I will not dispute these findings, but I believe further inquiry is warranted. Are many of these injuries suffered by people who would have not even tried running were the shoes not so advanced? People who, after a couple days' running foolishly decide to really stretch themselves out distance-wise and suffer an injury. People who, when coming back from another injury push themselves too far, too fast, believing that their super-cushioned shoes will prevent any further damage? I have often said that anyone can run, and I firmly believe this. However, given the amount of hopeless dolts out there, perhaps not everyone should run...
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
The Vehicle Scourge. Plus, Kicking the Habit
Be warned...this post may well encourage behavior that is questionable as best; illegal at worst. Additionally, it dispenses potentially criminally irresponsible medical advice that I am in no wise qualified to give.
With that said, it's time to embark on another entry in this here blog.
I was out for a run the other day and was approaching a crosswalk. I was cooking right along at a 9:45 pace and definitely had a green light. Ahead, I could see some cretin in a vehicle way larger than he had any right to be driving creeping out into the crosswalk, ostensibly with the intention of turning right on red. He was looking hawkishly to his left, which naturally meant that no one was coming from his right. In defense of the dolt, it was a one-way street; however, such rules do not apply to pedestrians. Needless to say, the minute I stepped foot into the crosswalk, the cretin went to complete his turn. His bumper nearly impacted my right knee, which caused me to put my hands on his vehicle in an attempt to keep myself from falling. Of course, he was incredibly solicitous, exiting his vehicle, inquiring after my well-being and asking if there was anything he could do.
Right. The dipshit turned in his seat and made several rude gestures at me while shouting imprecations. He then peeled out into the intersection and took off. Well played, sir.
This is not the first time this has happened to me. So I started thinking, "I need an insult that will express my dissatisfaction of these peoples' grasp of traffic laws while simultaneously conveying my utter contempt for them as human beings". So here's what I recommend doing.
Wave your dick at 'em.*
That's right...give 'em a groin greeting, a sausage salutation, a hairy how's-your-father. Let them know exactly how you feel about their worth as humans. Don't be shy. Make up a little dick-waving dance and incorporate that into your routine. Sing a song, make it your own. I just plant the seed, so to speak, you make this penile plant grow and flourish.
Ladies, I realize that this reaction largely leaves you at a loss, and for that I apologize. I can only suggest that, if you are unable to obtain some sort of prosthetic male apparatus (which, when you combine the shock value and sheer chutzpah required to make it work can only make me say, "Fuck, yes"), you devise a similar response using any materials at hand. You can figure it out, I'm sure.
*-Please note: Dick-waving may be a direct violation of applicable federal, state, county, or municipal statutes. Please consult your attorney before embarking on any regimen that involves such activities. The author of this blog post makes no warranty with regard to the legality of these activities, nor can he be held responsible for any outcomes related thereto. He assumes that the publisher of this blog feels likewise. Dear readers, I don't want anything bad to happen because you followed my advice, so be careful. I care about you. Both of you.
So I've talked to many people who have tried to quit something addictive: smoking, heroin, etc. I have tried unsuccessfully several times to kick my caffeine habit. No matter how hard I try, though, the withdrawal symptoms always get me in the end. The headaches are bad enough, but combine that with the irritability and I become a truly world-class dickhead. For the sake of my sanity and that of those around me, I always cave. While reading a story about a guy recovering from life-threatening injuries sustained in an accident, the perfect quitting regimen occurred to me*:
Medically-induced comas. They do it for trauma victims, why not for those trying to better their health by kicking a potentially dangerous habit. I mean, what's the worst part of quitting? The physical withdrawal symptoms, of course. Keep yourself asleep for a week, let all the bad stuff leave your body and bam!, you awaken a new person. Please keep in mind that most insurance companies will probably not cover this sort of therapy, so it's gonna cost. Otherwise, find yourself an ethically ambiguous physician, and coma your way to success!
*-Please note, the author is in no way, shape, or form, qualified to give medical advice. The strategy outlined above is irresponsible, ethically questionable, and most likely extremely dangerous. Do us all a favor and use willpower instead, 'kay? Thanks!
With that said, it's time to embark on another entry in this here blog.
I was out for a run the other day and was approaching a crosswalk. I was cooking right along at a 9:45 pace and definitely had a green light. Ahead, I could see some cretin in a vehicle way larger than he had any right to be driving creeping out into the crosswalk, ostensibly with the intention of turning right on red. He was looking hawkishly to his left, which naturally meant that no one was coming from his right. In defense of the dolt, it was a one-way street; however, such rules do not apply to pedestrians. Needless to say, the minute I stepped foot into the crosswalk, the cretin went to complete his turn. His bumper nearly impacted my right knee, which caused me to put my hands on his vehicle in an attempt to keep myself from falling. Of course, he was incredibly solicitous, exiting his vehicle, inquiring after my well-being and asking if there was anything he could do.
Right. The dipshit turned in his seat and made several rude gestures at me while shouting imprecations. He then peeled out into the intersection and took off. Well played, sir.
This is not the first time this has happened to me. So I started thinking, "I need an insult that will express my dissatisfaction of these peoples' grasp of traffic laws while simultaneously conveying my utter contempt for them as human beings". So here's what I recommend doing.
Wave your dick at 'em.*
That's right...give 'em a groin greeting, a sausage salutation, a hairy how's-your-father. Let them know exactly how you feel about their worth as humans. Don't be shy. Make up a little dick-waving dance and incorporate that into your routine. Sing a song, make it your own. I just plant the seed, so to speak, you make this penile plant grow and flourish.
Ladies, I realize that this reaction largely leaves you at a loss, and for that I apologize. I can only suggest that, if you are unable to obtain some sort of prosthetic male apparatus (which, when you combine the shock value and sheer chutzpah required to make it work can only make me say, "Fuck, yes"), you devise a similar response using any materials at hand. You can figure it out, I'm sure.
*-Please note: Dick-waving may be a direct violation of applicable federal, state, county, or municipal statutes. Please consult your attorney before embarking on any regimen that involves such activities. The author of this blog post makes no warranty with regard to the legality of these activities, nor can he be held responsible for any outcomes related thereto. He assumes that the publisher of this blog feels likewise. Dear readers, I don't want anything bad to happen because you followed my advice, so be careful. I care about you. Both of you.
So I've talked to many people who have tried to quit something addictive: smoking, heroin, etc. I have tried unsuccessfully several times to kick my caffeine habit. No matter how hard I try, though, the withdrawal symptoms always get me in the end. The headaches are bad enough, but combine that with the irritability and I become a truly world-class dickhead. For the sake of my sanity and that of those around me, I always cave. While reading a story about a guy recovering from life-threatening injuries sustained in an accident, the perfect quitting regimen occurred to me*:
Medically-induced comas. They do it for trauma victims, why not for those trying to better their health by kicking a potentially dangerous habit. I mean, what's the worst part of quitting? The physical withdrawal symptoms, of course. Keep yourself asleep for a week, let all the bad stuff leave your body and bam!, you awaken a new person. Please keep in mind that most insurance companies will probably not cover this sort of therapy, so it's gonna cost. Otherwise, find yourself an ethically ambiguous physician, and coma your way to success!
*-Please note, the author is in no way, shape, or form, qualified to give medical advice. The strategy outlined above is irresponsible, ethically questionable, and most likely extremely dangerous. Do us all a favor and use willpower instead, 'kay? Thanks!
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Companions
We have three dogs, as mentioned previously. We had four, but had to put one, a sweet little spaniel mutt, down over the winter due to cancer. All four have accompanied me at some point on my runs, and I cannot recommend it highly enough. Running with a dog, that is. I cannot, in good conscience, encourage anyone to run with MY dogs.
In theory, both the Border Collie and the Aussie would make excellent running partners. And, with additional work, they may still. In theory. The Border Collie is a bit of a homebody; she greatly enjoys patrolling the yard, chasing frisbees, and hanging out on the deck. Once she gets outside the back gate, however, she becomes cripplingly fretful. She's always been noise-averse, but takes it to ridiculous extremes when running with me. Children laughing, passing cars, airplanes flying overhead are all harbingers of her doom. In addition to these noises, she has, at one time or another, responded negatively to:
Pigeons
Trees
A fire hydrant
A retaining wall
A plastic Nativity scene outside a church
Her coping mechanism, regardless of the stimulus, is to quicken her pace, crouch down to ground level, and get as close to me as possible, which often results in her leash becoming wrapped around one or both of my legs. Much as I'd like to protect her, that is difficult to do when I'm windmilling my arms in a desperate attempt to avoid falling. Eventually, though, we are able to negotiate the various signs of the End of Days, find a quiet side street, settle down and enjoy our run. This invariably happens when we are within two blocks of home.
The Aussie, on the other hand, is all bluster and bluff. He views nearly everything...dogs in yards, dogs in living rooms, motor scooters, fire hydrants, as potential threats to be neutralized. His standard M.O. in these situations, is to charge headlong at the offending object, barking like mad, snarling, and doing his best imitation of a dog that is actually somewhat imposing. As opposed to him...50 pounds of heterochromic fluff. His lunges are generally timed so that I am in mid-stride and thus thrown totally off balance. This gives him valuable extra milliseconds for his attack.
Once my equilibrium is re-established, I haul him away from his quarry and continue on. This run-lunge-pause sequence, while entertaining, makes it very hard to establish any sort of rhythm, not to mention the fact that it saps his stamina very quickly. If I make it a mile with him, it's a great victory.
The Brittany is probably the best of the lot when it comes to being easy to run with. He maintains a nice steady pace, does not get startled by anything, nor does he feel it's his lot in life to challenge any living being within a 100-yard radius. Problem is, he's old. Real old. Plus, he has a ridiculous case of hip dysplasia, which renders him unable to travel more than a couple blocks before it's time to rest. He is a very willing participant, he just no longer has the ability to do much. He's more of a cool-down dog than anything.
A lot of people enjoy running with their dogs. I'm sure I would enjoy running with their dogs, too. However, when stuck with mine, I get a short, exasperating run completely without pace. I spend more time apologizing to other dog owners than I do actually running. God forbid the BC gets startled and slips her collar; then, and only then, does she exhibit the athletic prowess for which her breed is so deservedly known. In short, I'm leaving the dogs at home and playing frisbee once I'm done with my run...
In theory, both the Border Collie and the Aussie would make excellent running partners. And, with additional work, they may still. In theory. The Border Collie is a bit of a homebody; she greatly enjoys patrolling the yard, chasing frisbees, and hanging out on the deck. Once she gets outside the back gate, however, she becomes cripplingly fretful. She's always been noise-averse, but takes it to ridiculous extremes when running with me. Children laughing, passing cars, airplanes flying overhead are all harbingers of her doom. In addition to these noises, she has, at one time or another, responded negatively to:
Pigeons
Trees
A fire hydrant
A retaining wall
A plastic Nativity scene outside a church
Her coping mechanism, regardless of the stimulus, is to quicken her pace, crouch down to ground level, and get as close to me as possible, which often results in her leash becoming wrapped around one or both of my legs. Much as I'd like to protect her, that is difficult to do when I'm windmilling my arms in a desperate attempt to avoid falling. Eventually, though, we are able to negotiate the various signs of the End of Days, find a quiet side street, settle down and enjoy our run. This invariably happens when we are within two blocks of home.
The Aussie, on the other hand, is all bluster and bluff. He views nearly everything...dogs in yards, dogs in living rooms, motor scooters, fire hydrants, as potential threats to be neutralized. His standard M.O. in these situations, is to charge headlong at the offending object, barking like mad, snarling, and doing his best imitation of a dog that is actually somewhat imposing. As opposed to him...50 pounds of heterochromic fluff. His lunges are generally timed so that I am in mid-stride and thus thrown totally off balance. This gives him valuable extra milliseconds for his attack.
Once my equilibrium is re-established, I haul him away from his quarry and continue on. This run-lunge-pause sequence, while entertaining, makes it very hard to establish any sort of rhythm, not to mention the fact that it saps his stamina very quickly. If I make it a mile with him, it's a great victory.
The Brittany is probably the best of the lot when it comes to being easy to run with. He maintains a nice steady pace, does not get startled by anything, nor does he feel it's his lot in life to challenge any living being within a 100-yard radius. Problem is, he's old. Real old. Plus, he has a ridiculous case of hip dysplasia, which renders him unable to travel more than a couple blocks before it's time to rest. He is a very willing participant, he just no longer has the ability to do much. He's more of a cool-down dog than anything.
A lot of people enjoy running with their dogs. I'm sure I would enjoy running with their dogs, too. However, when stuck with mine, I get a short, exasperating run completely without pace. I spend more time apologizing to other dog owners than I do actually running. God forbid the BC gets startled and slips her collar; then, and only then, does she exhibit the athletic prowess for which her breed is so deservedly known. In short, I'm leaving the dogs at home and playing frisbee once I'm done with my run...
Friday, April 22, 2011
XC, Part II - A Quick Descent From First to...Well, Nowhere Near First
So, after assuring myself that I would go the extra mile, do what it took, leave it all out on the course, and other inspirational-poster-type platitudes, you can imagine what happened next. Yes, I injured myself. Playing pickup football, no less. A friend's unimaginably bony knee made contact with my quad, inflicting upon me what has become enshrined in the pantheon of sports injuries as the Deep Thigh Bruise. It's a very painful, yet typically non-fatal injury that is maddening in that it will allow you to start to feel as though you can begin running again, only to flare up and cause excruciating pain the moment you attempt to do so. It is a bitter, petty whore of an injury. I discovered this when I was pulled off the course during a race the following week in which I was limping so badly that I had developed about a fifteen degree list to starboard. Despite this handicap, I was still ahead of about thirty or so other competitors. This episode is not precisely a glowing affirmation of their success as runners.
Eventually, though, I healed, and was at full strength and champing at the bit for our next meet, which also happened to be against our arch-rivals. I downed two CarboCoolers (a wretched 'performance' drink that enjoyed a brief vogue during the early 90s. It was chock full of carbs, in the sense that it contained enough sugar in it to euthanize a decent-sized rat. Lord knows what it did to my pancreas, but I firmly believe that the nationwide rise in late-onset diabetes can be traced, at least in part, to the introduction of that vile beverage. On the plus side, it tasted exactly, exactly, like a melted Flavor Ice) on the ride over. By the time we reached the course, I was ready to pummel my PR into submission, not to mention pick a fight with the other team, vomit out the bus window, and tie my shoelaces with my teeth.
The JV race was run prior to the varsity, so we were the first to line up. As I approached the starting line, I was locked in and ready to go. The starter's gun sounded and I took of as though I were being chased by lava filled with zombies. Within the first fifty meters, I was leading the race. Whether because of that heady feeling, or perhaps because of the dozens of grams of pure unadulterated sugar coursing through my veins, I continued to push my pace. Approaching the first half-mile in, I was still at the front of the pack and making good time. Visions of winning the race began to consume me. Not unlike Homer Simpson when he attempted to jump Springfield Gorge on a skateboard, I started thinking, "I'm gonna make it!" I was going to run the shit out of this course. The course was mine, as were all the runners thereupon.
It was at about this point that my plan began to unravel. My pace flagged and I heard footsteps. First one, then two, then several more runners, all wearing the hated orange and black of the other team, went by. All told, I was passed by seven of their team before the first of my teammates appeared. All I could do was gesture weakly ahead of me to indicate that we definitely were not winning. The rest of the race was a pathetic blur of ignominy. I continued to drop toward my familiar place near the back of the pack. Each quarter-mile became more fraught than the last. Finally, interminably, the finish line hove into view. What the fuck...I began to sprint. I did manage to pick off a couple runners over the last hundred meters, but the damage was done. Cold realization had hit me. I would never, ever win a cross-country race. I have no idea in what place I actually finished that race, but it was not anywhere near the top thirty. Worst part was, I had thought I might actually be one of the scoring runners for that race. Maybe I'd get another chance...
Up next...my opportunity for redemption slips away, but I push a kid down a hill.
Eventually, though, I healed, and was at full strength and champing at the bit for our next meet, which also happened to be against our arch-rivals. I downed two CarboCoolers (a wretched 'performance' drink that enjoyed a brief vogue during the early 90s. It was chock full of carbs, in the sense that it contained enough sugar in it to euthanize a decent-sized rat. Lord knows what it did to my pancreas, but I firmly believe that the nationwide rise in late-onset diabetes can be traced, at least in part, to the introduction of that vile beverage. On the plus side, it tasted exactly, exactly, like a melted Flavor Ice) on the ride over. By the time we reached the course, I was ready to pummel my PR into submission, not to mention pick a fight with the other team, vomit out the bus window, and tie my shoelaces with my teeth.
The JV race was run prior to the varsity, so we were the first to line up. As I approached the starting line, I was locked in and ready to go. The starter's gun sounded and I took of as though I were being chased by lava filled with zombies. Within the first fifty meters, I was leading the race. Whether because of that heady feeling, or perhaps because of the dozens of grams of pure unadulterated sugar coursing through my veins, I continued to push my pace. Approaching the first half-mile in, I was still at the front of the pack and making good time. Visions of winning the race began to consume me. Not unlike Homer Simpson when he attempted to jump Springfield Gorge on a skateboard, I started thinking, "I'm gonna make it!" I was going to run the shit out of this course. The course was mine, as were all the runners thereupon.
It was at about this point that my plan began to unravel. My pace flagged and I heard footsteps. First one, then two, then several more runners, all wearing the hated orange and black of the other team, went by. All told, I was passed by seven of their team before the first of my teammates appeared. All I could do was gesture weakly ahead of me to indicate that we definitely were not winning. The rest of the race was a pathetic blur of ignominy. I continued to drop toward my familiar place near the back of the pack. Each quarter-mile became more fraught than the last. Finally, interminably, the finish line hove into view. What the fuck...I began to sprint. I did manage to pick off a couple runners over the last hundred meters, but the damage was done. Cold realization had hit me. I would never, ever win a cross-country race. I have no idea in what place I actually finished that race, but it was not anywhere near the top thirty. Worst part was, I had thought I might actually be one of the scoring runners for that race. Maybe I'd get another chance...
Up next...my opportunity for redemption slips away, but I push a kid down a hill.
Monday, April 18, 2011
A Runner's Prayer
Dear Lord/Allah/Buddha/Vishnu/L. Ron,
Give me the strength to complete this next mile. Create in me a clean heart, powerful lungs, and light feet. Make me a vessel for your forgiveness, especially when a pack of bikers force me off the trail and into the damned poison ivy. Lead me not into swamplands, and deliver me from blisters. Grant me the grace to set a PR at my next race, and the wisdom to stay the hell inside on the treadmill when it's 10 degrees out and snowing sideways. Bestow upon me the fortitude to stay with my faster friends and the patience to wait for those slower. Give me the guts to keep running when I want to stop, and the brains to stop when I know I should. Line my routes with interesting sights and fascinating people. Bless me with friends and family who will run with me in sunshine and rain, heat and snow.
And most of all, Lord, don't make me have to poop when I reach the halfway point of a 12-mile out-and-back.
Amen
Give me the strength to complete this next mile. Create in me a clean heart, powerful lungs, and light feet. Make me a vessel for your forgiveness, especially when a pack of bikers force me off the trail and into the damned poison ivy. Lead me not into swamplands, and deliver me from blisters. Grant me the grace to set a PR at my next race, and the wisdom to stay the hell inside on the treadmill when it's 10 degrees out and snowing sideways. Bestow upon me the fortitude to stay with my faster friends and the patience to wait for those slower. Give me the guts to keep running when I want to stop, and the brains to stop when I know I should. Line my routes with interesting sights and fascinating people. Bless me with friends and family who will run with me in sunshine and rain, heat and snow.
And most of all, Lord, don't make me have to poop when I reach the halfway point of a 12-mile out-and-back.
Amen
Friday, April 15, 2011
My Running Buddy
So I got an e-mail on Monday morning...Alan Webb was going to be in town and wanted to go for a run with me. Okay, that's not entirely how it went down, but he was going to be here and we was going running, and folks from the local running community were invited to join him and keep up for as long as they could.
The run was set to begin at 11:45, so my friend and I arrived at about 11:35. At that point, there were only a handful of people milling around, none of whom appeared to be a world-class runner. Unless I was the basis for comparison. In that case, everyone looked like a world-class runner. After standing around for a few minutes making small talk with the other runners and secretly feeling inadequate, we spied a couple chugging up the sidewalk. The broad, boyish grin identified one of them immediately as the reason we were all here. The other turned out to be his wife, Julia. They were just returning from a quick 5-mile run; a warm-up for the pending group run. The poor man is obviously malnourished; despite digging into a paper bag immediately upon his return and consuming a banana, half a Gatorade, then another half banana, he appeared desperately hungry. Additionally, he looked to have some weird subcutaneous parasite working on his calves. Then someone gently pointed out to me that these were most likely veins. Wow.
Someone asked him about his current training schedule. He reported that he was up to about 70 miles. Sweet! Here was my chance to really connect with him. The following conversation ensued:
"That's cool. I'm up to about 60-70 miles myself"
"Really? You're running 60 miles a week?"
"Oh. A week? Oh. Um...you win"
He then went on to describe a typical tempo run as being 8-9 miles at around a 5:00 mile pace. Jesus. That's not normal. And be able to mention that in such an off-handed manner is a sensation I'm reasonably sure I'll never experience.
Thus chastened, I prepared for the run. Just prior to departure, someone asked whether we would be maintaining a 9-minute mile pace. His wife answered, with a slightly bewildered look on her face, "I don't think he has ever run a 9-minute mile in his life." So we set off at a brisk 6:45 pace. I ran up front for the first mile-plus, listening to the banter while attempting to ensure that I would survive the run. Somewhere during the second mile, I backed off a bit to let some other people have their turn at the front. No sense in hogging the spotlight. As time was running short, and we did have jobs to which we needed to return, my co-worker and I decided to cut short our run at 5K and head back. I did stick around for the Q&A with Alan for a little while. He posed for a lot of pictures, shook a lot of hands, talked about tattoos, and basically acted like a decent bloke, which he truly seems to be. Even if he is maddeningly fit and blessed with an extraordinary amount of natural ability. That bastard.
If you're interested in seeing him run, Alan Webb will be back in Des Moines for the Grand Blue Mile on April 26th, along with 2010 champion Boaz Lalang and a host of other elite runners. The race is open to anyone, so if you want to run with them, you can. Well...probably not with them, per se, but in the same race, anyway. Or, you can come watch them run at a ridiculous rate of speed down Grand Ave. For more information, go to www.grandbluemile.com. I understand he may also be at the Drake Relays.
The run was set to begin at 11:45, so my friend and I arrived at about 11:35. At that point, there were only a handful of people milling around, none of whom appeared to be a world-class runner. Unless I was the basis for comparison. In that case, everyone looked like a world-class runner. After standing around for a few minutes making small talk with the other runners and secretly feeling inadequate, we spied a couple chugging up the sidewalk. The broad, boyish grin identified one of them immediately as the reason we were all here. The other turned out to be his wife, Julia. They were just returning from a quick 5-mile run; a warm-up for the pending group run. The poor man is obviously malnourished; despite digging into a paper bag immediately upon his return and consuming a banana, half a Gatorade, then another half banana, he appeared desperately hungry. Additionally, he looked to have some weird subcutaneous parasite working on his calves. Then someone gently pointed out to me that these were most likely veins. Wow.
Someone asked him about his current training schedule. He reported that he was up to about 70 miles. Sweet! Here was my chance to really connect with him. The following conversation ensued:
"That's cool. I'm up to about 60-70 miles myself"
"Really? You're running 60 miles a week?"
"Oh. A week? Oh. Um...you win"
He then went on to describe a typical tempo run as being 8-9 miles at around a 5:00 mile pace. Jesus. That's not normal. And be able to mention that in such an off-handed manner is a sensation I'm reasonably sure I'll never experience.
Thus chastened, I prepared for the run. Just prior to departure, someone asked whether we would be maintaining a 9-minute mile pace. His wife answered, with a slightly bewildered look on her face, "I don't think he has ever run a 9-minute mile in his life." So we set off at a brisk 6:45 pace. I ran up front for the first mile-plus, listening to the banter while attempting to ensure that I would survive the run. Somewhere during the second mile, I backed off a bit to let some other people have their turn at the front. No sense in hogging the spotlight. As time was running short, and we did have jobs to which we needed to return, my co-worker and I decided to cut short our run at 5K and head back. I did stick around for the Q&A with Alan for a little while. He posed for a lot of pictures, shook a lot of hands, talked about tattoos, and basically acted like a decent bloke, which he truly seems to be. Even if he is maddeningly fit and blessed with an extraordinary amount of natural ability. That bastard.
If you're interested in seeing him run, Alan Webb will be back in Des Moines for the Grand Blue Mile on April 26th, along with 2010 champion Boaz Lalang and a host of other elite runners. The race is open to anyone, so if you want to run with them, you can. Well...probably not with them, per se, but in the same race, anyway. Or, you can come watch them run at a ridiculous rate of speed down Grand Ave. For more information, go to www.grandbluemile.com. I understand he may also be at the Drake Relays.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Runaway
I ran away from home when I was three. This was no "they won't let me watch seven hours of Sesame Street a day, will they? I'll show them" attempt at acting out. Rather, circumstances dangled an irresistible opportunity in front of me, and I grabbed it in both of my grubby little mitts.
I'd been left in the back yard of our house, which featured a high board fence with a single latched gate. My sister, who was supposed to be watching me, had gone to the park to play softball with her friends. She left me sitting on my blanket in the middle of the yard surrounded by toys, evidently secure in the knowledge that the fence would serve its purpose vis-a-vis my ability to escape, and, more importantly, she would return from the park before my parents got home. However, she made two crucial mistakes. She underestimated my ingenuity and powers of observation, and she disregarded the pull of the Smiley Garage. There was a house in our neighborhood upon whose garage door the owners had painted a large smiling face. This was no round, yellow, Wal-Mart greeter sticker, Have a Nice Day smiley face. Rather, it resembled a slightly imbalanced clown wearing a bit too much lip and eye makeup. This was at once terrifying and intensely interesting to my tiny little mind and I had to see it. Right fucking now.
Within five minutes of my sister's departure, I had the gate open. I'd often watched my dad open it as he was mowing or doing yard work, and I filed this information away, confident that it would one day serve me well. Today was that day. Upon emerging into the front yard, I immediately headed off down the street, moving with all the conviction my stubby legs could manage. You will occasionally hear of a dog, given up for lost during the family vacation to Yellowstone, that will show up at their home in Hartford months later, emaciated and bearing new and exciting parasites, but largely none the worse for the wear. This was as close to that experience as I've ever come. I didn't know the exact route, but I knew how to get there. The remainder of the trip was a blur. I had traveled several blocks, and crossed at least three streets, but I recall none of that. I was having an adventure, and I was going to see the goddamned Smiley Garage! All by myself! It was a moment of triumph that was as yet unrivaled in my short life. I recall coming to the block where I knew the house to be; that's when the uneasiness set in. I tramped up and down the block five or six times, and I couldn't find it. There had obviously been a miscalculation. I had been so fixated on my goal that I now had no idea where I was. I didn't know anyone on that street, and my directional instincts, so finely honed only moments before, had given me a miss. I was well and truly fucked. I sat down on the curb in my red windbreaker and began to cry.
Apparently, my skills at creating pathos outstripped my navigational abilities, because a car pulled up a few moments later. It was driven by a burly dark-haired man, and his daughter was sitting in the passenger seat. He told me to get in and they'd take me home. I jumped at the opportunity. The back seat was covered with flats of empty glass Coke bottles, but I managed to squeeze in. Five minutes later, I was home. My parents, who had in the interim arrived home to discover my bewildered sister taking care of an empty back yard, were happy to see me. My sister was not. I believe she set some sort of record for length of time grounded. It seems a friend of my oldest sister and her dad had driven by and seen me sobbing at the side of the road and brought me home. Luckily, this sort of thing happened regularly back then.
There is a postscript to my adventure. That evening, my dad decided to take us to Dutchland Dairy for dinner, no doubt to celebrate my safe return. I asked if we could drive by the source of all the trouble, and he agreed. As we drove, I tried to recollect the route I had taken; everything looked familiar, this must have been it. We reached the block where the garage was located, and my dad swiftly pointed out to me the single flaw in my otherwise infallible plan.
The fucking garage door was up.
I'd been left in the back yard of our house, which featured a high board fence with a single latched gate. My sister, who was supposed to be watching me, had gone to the park to play softball with her friends. She left me sitting on my blanket in the middle of the yard surrounded by toys, evidently secure in the knowledge that the fence would serve its purpose vis-a-vis my ability to escape, and, more importantly, she would return from the park before my parents got home. However, she made two crucial mistakes. She underestimated my ingenuity and powers of observation, and she disregarded the pull of the Smiley Garage. There was a house in our neighborhood upon whose garage door the owners had painted a large smiling face. This was no round, yellow, Wal-Mart greeter sticker, Have a Nice Day smiley face. Rather, it resembled a slightly imbalanced clown wearing a bit too much lip and eye makeup. This was at once terrifying and intensely interesting to my tiny little mind and I had to see it. Right fucking now.
Within five minutes of my sister's departure, I had the gate open. I'd often watched my dad open it as he was mowing or doing yard work, and I filed this information away, confident that it would one day serve me well. Today was that day. Upon emerging into the front yard, I immediately headed off down the street, moving with all the conviction my stubby legs could manage. You will occasionally hear of a dog, given up for lost during the family vacation to Yellowstone, that will show up at their home in Hartford months later, emaciated and bearing new and exciting parasites, but largely none the worse for the wear. This was as close to that experience as I've ever come. I didn't know the exact route, but I knew how to get there. The remainder of the trip was a blur. I had traveled several blocks, and crossed at least three streets, but I recall none of that. I was having an adventure, and I was going to see the goddamned Smiley Garage! All by myself! It was a moment of triumph that was as yet unrivaled in my short life. I recall coming to the block where I knew the house to be; that's when the uneasiness set in. I tramped up and down the block five or six times, and I couldn't find it. There had obviously been a miscalculation. I had been so fixated on my goal that I now had no idea where I was. I didn't know anyone on that street, and my directional instincts, so finely honed only moments before, had given me a miss. I was well and truly fucked. I sat down on the curb in my red windbreaker and began to cry.
Apparently, my skills at creating pathos outstripped my navigational abilities, because a car pulled up a few moments later. It was driven by a burly dark-haired man, and his daughter was sitting in the passenger seat. He told me to get in and they'd take me home. I jumped at the opportunity. The back seat was covered with flats of empty glass Coke bottles, but I managed to squeeze in. Five minutes later, I was home. My parents, who had in the interim arrived home to discover my bewildered sister taking care of an empty back yard, were happy to see me. My sister was not. I believe she set some sort of record for length of time grounded. It seems a friend of my oldest sister and her dad had driven by and seen me sobbing at the side of the road and brought me home. Luckily, this sort of thing happened regularly back then.
There is a postscript to my adventure. That evening, my dad decided to take us to Dutchland Dairy for dinner, no doubt to celebrate my safe return. I asked if we could drive by the source of all the trouble, and he agreed. As we drove, I tried to recollect the route I had taken; everything looked familiar, this must have been it. We reached the block where the garage was located, and my dad swiftly pointed out to me the single flaw in my otherwise infallible plan.
The fucking garage door was up.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
A Bad Runner
It's always a bit awkward when someone tells you they're a bad runner. For one thing, running is incredibly easy to do. Basically, all you have to do is have your arms and legs working in some semblance of unison to propel you along in a forward direction. And, at some point during your stride, both feet need to be off the ground. Really. This is how no less an authority on athletic prowess than the Olympics defines the difference between running and walking. When I was young, the fact that there were actual walking events in the Olympic Games fascinated me to no end. I always pictured a bunch of ordinary folks out there just ambling along. I looked up the results religiously, thinking about how glad I was that the preeminent amateur sporting contest in the world had a place for those with no discernible athletic ability. Then, during the Atlanta Games, I actually saw a bit of one of the walking events. I'd had no idea that, for one, the events were so closely monitored. Additionally, I had never grasped how these events so completely combined a test of supreme physical skill with the opportunity to look so incredibly foolish. Have you ever seen this? To me, it looks like nothing so much as someone with a desperate need to go to the bathroom who realizes that breaking into an actual run would bring disastrous consequences. Seriously. YouTube it. You won't regret it.
My point, though, is that virtually anyone can run. Other than a decent pair of shoes and socks that won't cause your feet to blister like an albino in the Sahara, you don't need much. So I think that, when people say they're bad runners, what they really mean is that they are not as successful at running than they would like to be. I can accept this, but it all depends upon your definition of success. By any generally accepted definition, I am not a successful runner. I will never be mistaken for Usain Bolt (he's much taller, you see). Nike will never want to make a commercial featuring me running away from various speedy creatures. Asics is quite happy to have me wearing their most recent stability training shoe, but this is because I pay a good deal of money for them. If there are more than three or four members of my age group entered, I do not stand a good chance of placing therein. I have run races where I would not have placed in the 50-59 age group. This is not necessarily a huge boost to my confidence.
And yet, I know that if I enter a race, I can complete it. I can go out and run a decent number of consecutive miles if called upon to do so. I am in reasonably good shape, something I probably could not have said about myself ten years ago. I typically feel pretty okay when I wake up in the morning, and bit better than that when I go to bed at night. I do not worry about my daughters being able to outrun me at this stage in their lives. I'm pretty certain that I'm going to inhabit this planet for a good while yet, and be able to enjoy doing so.
To me, that's what success is about. Unless you're an elite-class athlete, you may be better served by paying more attention that what makes running special for you. It might be seeing the pounds you've accumulated over the years melt away. It may be that it brings you closer to your spouse, your friends, your children, your co-workers. It could be in seeing your PR at a certain distance improve, even as you get older. Whatever it is, you run for a reason. Don't let yourself lose sight of that. Because you have that reason. And that's why you run. And that is success, no matter how you look at it.
And if you are an elite-class athlete, don't expect to learn anything from me.
My point, though, is that virtually anyone can run. Other than a decent pair of shoes and socks that won't cause your feet to blister like an albino in the Sahara, you don't need much. So I think that, when people say they're bad runners, what they really mean is that they are not as successful at running than they would like to be. I can accept this, but it all depends upon your definition of success. By any generally accepted definition, I am not a successful runner. I will never be mistaken for Usain Bolt (he's much taller, you see). Nike will never want to make a commercial featuring me running away from various speedy creatures. Asics is quite happy to have me wearing their most recent stability training shoe, but this is because I pay a good deal of money for them. If there are more than three or four members of my age group entered, I do not stand a good chance of placing therein. I have run races where I would not have placed in the 50-59 age group. This is not necessarily a huge boost to my confidence.
And yet, I know that if I enter a race, I can complete it. I can go out and run a decent number of consecutive miles if called upon to do so. I am in reasonably good shape, something I probably could not have said about myself ten years ago. I typically feel pretty okay when I wake up in the morning, and bit better than that when I go to bed at night. I do not worry about my daughters being able to outrun me at this stage in their lives. I'm pretty certain that I'm going to inhabit this planet for a good while yet, and be able to enjoy doing so.
To me, that's what success is about. Unless you're an elite-class athlete, you may be better served by paying more attention that what makes running special for you. It might be seeing the pounds you've accumulated over the years melt away. It may be that it brings you closer to your spouse, your friends, your children, your co-workers. It could be in seeing your PR at a certain distance improve, even as you get older. Whatever it is, you run for a reason. Don't let yourself lose sight of that. Because you have that reason. And that's why you run. And that is success, no matter how you look at it.
And if you are an elite-class athlete, don't expect to learn anything from me.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
XC, Part 1
Prior to the last few years, my experience with running was limited to a couple years on the track team in junior high (during which I steadfastly refused to run anything longer than a single-turn race, thus finding myself consistently entered into the 200 hurdles. This was not an event to which most teams committed their strongest runners; typically, the entrants more closely resembled those who you might expect to be competing in, say, the shot put. Or the chess club. This made success easy to come by; I never finished worse than second in any race.) and one season of cross-country.
I ran cross-country my senior year of high school. I did not do so out of a conviction that I would be an invaluable member of the team. Unless the coach esteemed sarcasm and the ability to crack wise more highly than speed or endurance, I was destined to be more of a hindrance than an asset. Thankfully, I did not let my complete lack of ability keep me from joining the team; my friends ran and talked about how much fun it was, and I wanted to be a part of that. I thought I was prepared. A teammate and I had been running sporadically for almost two weeks, sometimes as far as 3ish miles. This was gonna be easy.
On the first day of practice, we all showed up at the high school gym. The first day of school was a couple weeks off, so the school was largely empty. The coach called out a few names from a clipboard. This was Group 1, consisting of the runners who would most likely comprise the varsity squad. Eventually, a friend and I were called to the front to lead Group 4. This was a decidedly non-varsity group, made up of freshmen, other newbies, and anyone else considered not necessarily the top of the heap, or even residing anywhere on the heap. We led them on a merry four-mile trot through town. This was further than I had ever run at one time, but I was still feeling reasonably okay when we returned to the school. We did some push-ups and crunches. Then, Coach uttered the words that rendered me never quite the same again: "See you guys this afternoon". Apparently, I was expected to return that very same day and run again. Thus began the two-a-days phase. In the morning, distance runs around town. Afternoons brought speed work on the track. Everything done with an eye toward peaking for our first meet in a couple weeks.
Finally, the day of the meet arrived. We boarded a bus and traveled for an hour to another school. The meet was broken into three races, freshmen-sophomores, junior varsity and varsity. Because I was neither a freshman nor a sophomore, certainly not varsity, and because there was no "an embarrassment to himself and others" race, I was slotted into the JV contest. As this was the first race of the year, and we were definitely not the cream of the running crop, the freshman/soph and JV races were contested at a distance of 2 miles, rather than the 5K that would later become the norm.
This was a tremendous boon to me. All the work we had done in practice left me a vastly improved runner, but one without the slightest clue about pacing. I decided that, in order to have some energy left for my finishing kick (during which I envisioned myself running with such skill and vigor that I overtook the entire field right before the finish line), I should run a cautious first mile. Apparently I was a bit too cautious, as I reached mile 1 in approximately 243rd place. I quickened my step for mile two, running it about ninety seconds faster than my first; indeed, I believe I was still accelerating when I reached the finish line. I did manage to pick up quite a lot of places over the second mile, but more importantly, I had learned a valuable lesson. Never again would I feel so energetic when I finished. I would go out quickly and finish strong. I would leave it all out on the course, so to speak.
I had no idea at the time how foolish this would turn out to be.
I ran cross-country my senior year of high school. I did not do so out of a conviction that I would be an invaluable member of the team. Unless the coach esteemed sarcasm and the ability to crack wise more highly than speed or endurance, I was destined to be more of a hindrance than an asset. Thankfully, I did not let my complete lack of ability keep me from joining the team; my friends ran and talked about how much fun it was, and I wanted to be a part of that. I thought I was prepared. A teammate and I had been running sporadically for almost two weeks, sometimes as far as 3ish miles. This was gonna be easy.
On the first day of practice, we all showed up at the high school gym. The first day of school was a couple weeks off, so the school was largely empty. The coach called out a few names from a clipboard. This was Group 1, consisting of the runners who would most likely comprise the varsity squad. Eventually, a friend and I were called to the front to lead Group 4. This was a decidedly non-varsity group, made up of freshmen, other newbies, and anyone else considered not necessarily the top of the heap, or even residing anywhere on the heap. We led them on a merry four-mile trot through town. This was further than I had ever run at one time, but I was still feeling reasonably okay when we returned to the school. We did some push-ups and crunches. Then, Coach uttered the words that rendered me never quite the same again: "See you guys this afternoon". Apparently, I was expected to return that very same day and run again. Thus began the two-a-days phase. In the morning, distance runs around town. Afternoons brought speed work on the track. Everything done with an eye toward peaking for our first meet in a couple weeks.
Finally, the day of the meet arrived. We boarded a bus and traveled for an hour to another school. The meet was broken into three races, freshmen-sophomores, junior varsity and varsity. Because I was neither a freshman nor a sophomore, certainly not varsity, and because there was no "an embarrassment to himself and others" race, I was slotted into the JV contest. As this was the first race of the year, and we were definitely not the cream of the running crop, the freshman/soph and JV races were contested at a distance of 2 miles, rather than the 5K that would later become the norm.
This was a tremendous boon to me. All the work we had done in practice left me a vastly improved runner, but one without the slightest clue about pacing. I decided that, in order to have some energy left for my finishing kick (during which I envisioned myself running with such skill and vigor that I overtook the entire field right before the finish line), I should run a cautious first mile. Apparently I was a bit too cautious, as I reached mile 1 in approximately 243rd place. I quickened my step for mile two, running it about ninety seconds faster than my first; indeed, I believe I was still accelerating when I reached the finish line. I did manage to pick up quite a lot of places over the second mile, but more importantly, I had learned a valuable lesson. Never again would I feel so energetic when I finished. I would go out quickly and finish strong. I would leave it all out on the course, so to speak.
I had no idea at the time how foolish this would turn out to be.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The Rabbit in the Moose Pajamas
I think pretty much everyone had some sort of inanimate friend in their formative years. Mine was a blanket called Colt. I was an imaginative child, but not one blessed with a surfeit of sense; somehow, this plain white receiving blanket with sateen edging resembled nothing to me so much as a frolicsome young equine.
The 5-year-old, however, has taken this to a level heretofore unheard of. Her constant companion is a small grey rabbit called Dozy. He is a character from one of her favorite picture books, Mama Says Goodnight, which is about three young bunnies going through their evening routine under the watchful eye of their caring yet punctual mother. Dozy has two sisters, called Rosie and Posy, and together they are the subject of several books. Dozy is portrayed as being a bit on the simple side, as evidenced by his utterances related to mealtime ("Dinner, dinner! What's for dinner?"), a shooting star ("Wish, wish! Make a wish!"), and bath time ("Bubbles, bubbles! I want bubbles!"). Presumably, this vernacular continues into the other volumes, which include Bunny's Noisy Book ("Noises, noises! Loud, loud noises!") and Goodnight and God Bless ("Jesus, Jesus! I love Jesus!"). His is a carefree and happy existence.
When purchased, it was not intended that Dozy would happen into the clutches of a young blue-eyed girl. He was a gift with the purchase of the aforementioned book, which at the time was slated for a boy we would be adopting from some far away and exotic land. Life, though, rarely follows the script, and the Eldest was born within a year or so afterward. Dozy quickly became her favorite. He was the first animal into the crib at night, and the one constantly being dragged along by one ear or shoved along the floor in the manner of a small fuzzy snowplow. As her imagination and vocabulary expanded, he became less of a stuffed animal and more of a adventuring partner. He accompanied us to Rocky Mountain National Park and served as a lookout for bears and wolves. As time has gone by, he has been subject to more frequent and harrowing episodes, which has contributed greatly to a rather haggard appearance. His once-pristine blue footie jammies became threadbare, his fur bedraggled, his stuffing compressed to the point where his limbs are nothing more than air beneath an unraveling layer of polyester. Finally, a new outfit was deemed necessary. Wife fashioned a new pair of pajamas for him out of a scrap of leftover fabric. It's forest green and has moose on it. Thus far, it has been rated a successful replacement.
With age, Dozy has been imbued with more and greater powers. He can now drive a car and fly a plane. He has numerous 'kids' who are forever causing mischief around our house; mischief that might otherwise be placed at the feet of a certain child. He celebrates birthdays approximately fortnightly. He has traveled to many out-of-the-way locales and seen many interesting things. He has swum with dolphins. He has climbed mountains and piloted helicopters. He has a freaking dragon, for chrissakes.
This is one seriously awesome bunny.
And yet, his exploits pale in comparison to those of his grandma and grandpa. Theirs is an epic tale truly worthy of being celebrated. And a tale for another post.
The 5-year-old, however, has taken this to a level heretofore unheard of. Her constant companion is a small grey rabbit called Dozy. He is a character from one of her favorite picture books, Mama Says Goodnight, which is about three young bunnies going through their evening routine under the watchful eye of their caring yet punctual mother. Dozy has two sisters, called Rosie and Posy, and together they are the subject of several books. Dozy is portrayed as being a bit on the simple side, as evidenced by his utterances related to mealtime ("Dinner, dinner! What's for dinner?"), a shooting star ("Wish, wish! Make a wish!"), and bath time ("Bubbles, bubbles! I want bubbles!"). Presumably, this vernacular continues into the other volumes, which include Bunny's Noisy Book ("Noises, noises! Loud, loud noises!") and Goodnight and God Bless ("Jesus, Jesus! I love Jesus!"). His is a carefree and happy existence.
When purchased, it was not intended that Dozy would happen into the clutches of a young blue-eyed girl. He was a gift with the purchase of the aforementioned book, which at the time was slated for a boy we would be adopting from some far away and exotic land. Life, though, rarely follows the script, and the Eldest was born within a year or so afterward. Dozy quickly became her favorite. He was the first animal into the crib at night, and the one constantly being dragged along by one ear or shoved along the floor in the manner of a small fuzzy snowplow. As her imagination and vocabulary expanded, he became less of a stuffed animal and more of a adventuring partner. He accompanied us to Rocky Mountain National Park and served as a lookout for bears and wolves. As time has gone by, he has been subject to more frequent and harrowing episodes, which has contributed greatly to a rather haggard appearance. His once-pristine blue footie jammies became threadbare, his fur bedraggled, his stuffing compressed to the point where his limbs are nothing more than air beneath an unraveling layer of polyester. Finally, a new outfit was deemed necessary. Wife fashioned a new pair of pajamas for him out of a scrap of leftover fabric. It's forest green and has moose on it. Thus far, it has been rated a successful replacement.
With age, Dozy has been imbued with more and greater powers. He can now drive a car and fly a plane. He has numerous 'kids' who are forever causing mischief around our house; mischief that might otherwise be placed at the feet of a certain child. He celebrates birthdays approximately fortnightly. He has traveled to many out-of-the-way locales and seen many interesting things. He has swum with dolphins. He has climbed mountains and piloted helicopters. He has a freaking dragon, for chrissakes.
This is one seriously awesome bunny.
And yet, his exploits pale in comparison to those of his grandma and grandpa. Theirs is an epic tale truly worthy of being celebrated. And a tale for another post.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Why Run?
This is a question I get asked on occasion. People want to know what some folks in general, and myself in particular, find so appealing about...well, going out and running from nowhere to nothing. What's so much fun about going outside and sweating and getting red-faced and breathing like a surfacing hippopotamus? And my rejoinder would be, "Why, any number of reasons." I am not what you (or anyone else, for that matter) would call 'svelte'. For many years, this was not an issue for me; all through college, despite spending a couple years competing halfheartedly on the tennis team, my fitness regimen consisted primarily of playing football on the lawn outside the dorm, eating a bunch, drinking heavily, and the occasional game of Indoor Ricochet Death Baseball played with my roommate. And this served me well; I was reasonably happy and didn't feel as though death were imminent. It was enough.
Then I started getting older.
And I got married, and had children. I wasn't just living for myself anymore. My health insurance premiums depended upon a yearly Health Assessment and completing a certain number of activities each year. Don't get me wrong, I haven't turned into Steve Prefontaine or anything. For one thing, I am overweight. They tell me this every year at my Health Assessment. My BMI falls into the overweight range, never mind the fact that my 'ideal weight' is so low as to be laughable and, in fact, is a weight I haven't seen since ninth grade. The nurses who administer the tests are normally very solicitous. They say things like, "Well, you look healthy to me. Besides, the BMI test doesn't take build into account." Apparently, if your bodily shape resembles nothing quite so much as a garden shed, your results may be a bit misleading. Even so, this is cold comfort. This is akin to telling one of the girls on those shows about the high school kids that get pregnant, "Well, Emillee, you're no doubt an inveterate whore, and have for all intents and purposes ruined your life, but I'll bet you have a cute baby."
Aside from keeping fat at bay, which is a much more realistic workout goal than most of the DVDs one sees today, such as Banish Your Fat, Slim Down in Thirty-nine Seconds a Day, and my personal favorite, Tell Your Fat to Go Fuck Itself, one of the most enjoyable things about running outside is the variety. Routes are, truly, almost without end. You can run for six months and never do the same route twice, unless you want to.
And how can one write about running without mentioning the races themselves? What's not to love? I mean, I pay the organizers $25 and in return I get a t-shirt, most likely a tech tee, maybe a pair of socks, and a goody bag with Clif bars, Gu, and all sorts of cool stuff. And I get all this stuff even if I don't win. In some cases, even if I don't finish! Big races even have expos, where I can go hang with other runners, learn about nutrition, try on the latest gear, etc. And the spectators! Nowhere on earth, outside of perhaps some youth soccer leagues and the Special Olympics, are you more likely to encounter strangers who are willing to give you the fullness of their approbation. You run by, and they applaud as though you've just completed an especially tricky piece of Shostakovich, or performed open-heart surgery in a crowded restaurant, when all you've done is managed to slog along for six miles. It's awesome, and you're statistically much less likely to be hugged by an exuberant seven-year-old, or a childlike adult with serious boundary issues.
Then I started getting older.
And I got married, and had children. I wasn't just living for myself anymore. My health insurance premiums depended upon a yearly Health Assessment and completing a certain number of activities each year. Don't get me wrong, I haven't turned into Steve Prefontaine or anything. For one thing, I am overweight. They tell me this every year at my Health Assessment. My BMI falls into the overweight range, never mind the fact that my 'ideal weight' is so low as to be laughable and, in fact, is a weight I haven't seen since ninth grade. The nurses who administer the tests are normally very solicitous. They say things like, "Well, you look healthy to me. Besides, the BMI test doesn't take build into account." Apparently, if your bodily shape resembles nothing quite so much as a garden shed, your results may be a bit misleading. Even so, this is cold comfort. This is akin to telling one of the girls on those shows about the high school kids that get pregnant, "Well, Emillee, you're no doubt an inveterate whore, and have for all intents and purposes ruined your life, but I'll bet you have a cute baby."
Aside from keeping fat at bay, which is a much more realistic workout goal than most of the DVDs one sees today, such as Banish Your Fat, Slim Down in Thirty-nine Seconds a Day, and my personal favorite, Tell Your Fat to Go Fuck Itself, one of the most enjoyable things about running outside is the variety. Routes are, truly, almost without end. You can run for six months and never do the same route twice, unless you want to.
And how can one write about running without mentioning the races themselves? What's not to love? I mean, I pay the organizers $25 and in return I get a t-shirt, most likely a tech tee, maybe a pair of socks, and a goody bag with Clif bars, Gu, and all sorts of cool stuff. And I get all this stuff even if I don't win. In some cases, even if I don't finish! Big races even have expos, where I can go hang with other runners, learn about nutrition, try on the latest gear, etc. And the spectators! Nowhere on earth, outside of perhaps some youth soccer leagues and the Special Olympics, are you more likely to encounter strangers who are willing to give you the fullness of their approbation. You run by, and they applaud as though you've just completed an especially tricky piece of Shostakovich, or performed open-heart surgery in a crowded restaurant, when all you've done is managed to slog along for six miles. It's awesome, and you're statistically much less likely to be hugged by an exuberant seven-year-old, or a childlike adult with serious boundary issues.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Mutts
In addition to two wonderful daughters, we also share our home with three dogs: a relentlessly sweet, achingly simple Brittany, an impetuous yet cowardly Border Collie, and a hopeless joiner of an Australian Shepherd/BC mix. Together, they form a merry, if somewhat dysfunctional band.
The Border Collie, through a combination of ambition on her part and apathy from the other dogs, became the alpha very early on in her life. Perhaps she was not well-prepared for her sudden ascension to power, or perhaps she fell victim to the neuroses to which her breed are subject, but the mantle seems to weigh heavily upon her. The most minor of squabbles between the dogs pushes her into a lather of indecision; on one hand, she knows she needs to assert her dominance. On the other, she's aware that if she metes out her justice too enthusiastically, she will herself be disciplined. The Aussie, in contrast, would love to ascend to the position of alpha, but he has absolutely no idea how. He seems to have some dim grasp of the fact that it involves being dominant over the other dogs, but as far as how to accomplish this...well, it beats his pair of jacks. For whatever reason, he has decided that the Brit, who is quite elderly and blissfully unaware of his surroundings for the most part, is a mortal threat to his plans. As such, any meeting between the two is punctuated by the Aussie's attempts at growling. Unfortunately for him, he was not blessed with innate growling ability; in fact, he sounds more like a vacuum cleaner with a clogged hose being raped by a rabid Tasmanian Devil. An interesting sound to be sure, but not one that inspires fear in all who hear it. The fact that the Brittany is deaf as a tenpenny nail only adds to the whole experience. Inevitably, it is the Aussie who yields ground to the Brittany who continues on his way, oblivious to his victory.
It is a befuddled pack that patrols their territory within the confines of our house and yard...
The Border Collie, through a combination of ambition on her part and apathy from the other dogs, became the alpha very early on in her life. Perhaps she was not well-prepared for her sudden ascension to power, or perhaps she fell victim to the neuroses to which her breed are subject, but the mantle seems to weigh heavily upon her. The most minor of squabbles between the dogs pushes her into a lather of indecision; on one hand, she knows she needs to assert her dominance. On the other, she's aware that if she metes out her justice too enthusiastically, she will herself be disciplined. The Aussie, in contrast, would love to ascend to the position of alpha, but he has absolutely no idea how. He seems to have some dim grasp of the fact that it involves being dominant over the other dogs, but as far as how to accomplish this...well, it beats his pair of jacks. For whatever reason, he has decided that the Brit, who is quite elderly and blissfully unaware of his surroundings for the most part, is a mortal threat to his plans. As such, any meeting between the two is punctuated by the Aussie's attempts at growling. Unfortunately for him, he was not blessed with innate growling ability; in fact, he sounds more like a vacuum cleaner with a clogged hose being raped by a rabid Tasmanian Devil. An interesting sound to be sure, but not one that inspires fear in all who hear it. The fact that the Brittany is deaf as a tenpenny nail only adds to the whole experience. Inevitably, it is the Aussie who yields ground to the Brittany who continues on his way, oblivious to his victory.
It is a befuddled pack that patrols their territory within the confines of our house and yard...
Monday, March 28, 2011
There are two little girls in our house...
...both of whom could be considered odd. The eldest, who is 5, has an animist worldview. This is incredibly convenient when it comes to explaining to her why we should care what recently happened in Japan, or why we should treat our companion animals with respect. It's not so handy, though, when attempting to convince her that that old Cheerios box needs to be recycled. As far as she's concerned, the soul-destroying rejection that the box would experience by being discarded would render it incapable of ever trusting again. And boxes that can't trust are boxes that make bad choices.
The younger of the two is a cyclone of activity and inquisitiveness. Nothing escapes her notice, and few things escape her grasp. She is possessed of motor control that would be the envy of somebody twenty times her eighteen months. Her latest tactic is to push a chair away from the table over to the kitchen counters. The entire culinary world at her fingertips, she proceeds to investigate anything that catches her fancy. Falls are momentary setbacks; a few tears, a bit of a snuggle, and she's off to devise new and even more perilous ways to shorten both her life and those of her parents.
The younger of the two is a cyclone of activity and inquisitiveness. Nothing escapes her notice, and few things escape her grasp. She is possessed of motor control that would be the envy of somebody twenty times her eighteen months. Her latest tactic is to push a chair away from the table over to the kitchen counters. The entire culinary world at her fingertips, she proceeds to investigate anything that catches her fancy. Falls are momentary setbacks; a few tears, a bit of a snuggle, and she's off to devise new and even more perilous ways to shorten both her life and those of her parents.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
I've never been a fast runner
In fact, if pressed to provide a one word description of my running, it would be "dogged". My running style resembles nothing so much as a desperately tired man who has for some reason been tasked with running through a field of post holes while gently flapping his arms like a recently injured bird. As such, I don't pay a ton of attention to pace; I'm more interested in ensuring that my run gets completed. I can't be bothered with worrying about whether I ran my last mile in 8:47 or 9:13 or 6:35 (yeah, right). Whether this is due to a truly carefree attitude about time or a reflection of my cognizance of my lack of ability is up in the air.
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