This is where the indoor marathon will be in January. I need to drop about twenty pounds between now and then.
]]>Also...please spread the word!
]]>In the distance I heard a dog bark. The wonders of the Doppler Effect told me that I was getting closer to the dog as I progressed. I started to look around for said canine but was not able to locate it. Then, I saw floating in the inky blackness of night, two floating purple eyes that were dancing about in time to the vicious barking of the unseen dog.
Now...a rational person not out in the middle of nowhere would logically put together that the light from the headlamp is reflecting off the dogs eyes. I, in my glycogen-depleted state, assumed that some manner of demon was sent to force me to atone for the sins of my youth, steal my very essence, and leave me to live out the remainder of my days an empty shell of a man subsisting on beef jerky and regret while praying for a death that will never come. Suffice to say it was pretty freaky.
On a lighter note you'd be amazed at how fast you can run when trying to outrun the physical manifestation of every fear you have ever had.
]]>The term "singlet" in non-physics-speak refers to a unitardesque piece of spandex that attempts to keep the wearer's nether regions from falling off by strapping them to their shoulders. I've called it a crotch-bra in the past as it seems to be serving the same purpose. However, the word has also been appropriated by the running community to describe the thin tank-top that some men wear while running. I have learned that the word "singlet" has come to be used for this article of clothing because in British and Australian parlance, "singlet" refers to any loose fitting tank-top.
Here's my big problem....much like women and low-rise jeans, singlets are something that not everyone can pull off. For those of us that hover between "portly" and "Rubenesque," the last thing the other people gathered at the starting line need to see are our moobs drifting out of the side of this flimsy excuse for a shirt. Even for people that DON'T have some form of weight-induced gynaecomastia, the material is so thin that you generally get a nice view of some dude's Vaseline-smeared nips on a cold morning. Not the best mind frame in which to start a race.
There is probably one half of one percent of the population that should be wearing singlets...those people are generally the ones winning races, not those of us choking down a Krispy Kreme at mile 13 while wishing for a leg break so we can have an excuse to stop the insanity. If you are running in LBCM (or any fall marathon (or, for that matter, a race of any distance (or leaving the house for any reason whatsoever))) remember that the singlet is not a viable clothing option and that no matter what you might think, by wearing a singlet you are part of the problem!
]]> I'm all for women wearing only sports bras, however.]]>Here's a fun fact...I have started smoking again. To be quite honest, I started smoking again back in June when I went to Virginia to visit a fried of mine. We all smoke. We love smoking. It's a wonderful thing. Because of the smoking I stink, WoFR won't touch me because I stink, CoFR can smell me coming a mile away and don't want to be around me...but I can run like a mother-effing stallion. Go figure. Life's all about trade-offs.
My average times for training runs have been steadily declining though I haven't been trying to decrease my times or increase my level of effort. My weight has gone down. My teeth have a healthy yellow-ish glow. All in all, smoking is the best thing I could have done for my running. Had I started back in January, I might have BQ'd at Pine Line. Who knows? Either way, I think I have proven that years of painstaking research on the part of the medical community in regards to the effects of smoking are complete horse shit. Suck it, New England Journal of Quackery!
Does this mean that I am not still painfully slow and ridiculously fat. No. The name of this blog is a description of it's author; forever shall it be as such. Should the author change in any appreciable way so too will the name of the blog. The way things are going the next name will be something along the lines of "The Odoriferous Celibate Runner Who Continually Pesters His Wife for Sex But Gets Turned Down Because He Thinks Cigarettes Are More Important Than His Twin Babies. You Do, Don't You, You Selfish Prick!?!" Ummm...did I just say that or think that?
At any rate, taper has begun in earnest for Chicago. All I can say is the following: to all of those who will be joining be in the "Open" corral on October 7th I'll be the guy with a Marlboro Ultra Light, a can of Red Bull, and a dream.
]]>Now, if we could just do something about their low arches. I'll be damed if I am paying for baby-sized motion control shoes.
]]>I have taken to telling people that I will be competing in one of the World Marathon Majors in October. This sounds a lot better than "I will be dragging my fat ass across the finish line in 5 + hours while the winner is already on his flight back to Kenya."
]]>Until then, I literally have nothing to say.
]]>The sissies running the half marathon and those stallions running the full were on the same course for the first 12 miles. At that point those half-marathon nancies ran home to momma while those of us with true desire and determination soldiered on. From miles 12-17 things were great. I even took off my headphones and enjoyed the sights and sounds of this area that I am growing increasingly fond of. It wasn't until mile 17 that I really felt the need for mental distraction.
At mile 17 the race moves onto the Fox River Trail for five miles. I have run this stretch of trail so many times that I know every crack and tree and house and river view. So I put my headphones back in and told myPod to shuffle it's little heart out. After a few musical duds I was treated to "Midnight Train to Georgia" by Gladys Knight and The Pips. This is one of my all time favorite songs. It carried me through almost five miles of late marathon running this past Sunday.
]]> First, a little history. Every time I hear this song I sing along with the background parts (the Pip parts) while Gladys does her thing. I even have a little dance routine...actually it's two routines as I have one for the car and one for when I more room to move around. Anyhoo...after going through the song once, I was in such a good mood that I listened to it again...and again. That's when the visions started.My head filled with images of me wearing a tan-and-taupe tuxedo with Don Cornelius staring incredulously at what was transpiring on the venerable Soul Train performance stage. I was the first and last, the one and only white Pip...ever. Racial barriers were collapsing all over the world as humanity stood up and bore witness to me, the mostly-Irish-but-some-Danish-and-some-German-and-some-Russian-but-either-way-
really-really-really-White guy held his own with one of the all time greatest soul/R&B acts, and realizing that, hey, we aren't really all that different, are we?. It was glorious. I listened to the song at least 10 more times, each iteration bringing with it more and more elaborate day-dreams of performing as the one and only white Pip. Oddly enough, the opening act in these scenarios was almost always REO Speedwagon.
Then a bird crapped in front of me and I realized I still had 5 miles to go.
]]>Let me know what you think.
]]>Don't know why I felt the need to explain all that. Maybe in the interest of full disclosure? Maybe I just want people to think I'm totally bad-ass. Yeah, it's probably the second one.
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