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!

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.

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.

Fast forward a few hours from the completion of the pizza to when I slipped into bed and tried to go to sleep. Tried and gfailed for a very long time. The bed was horrible. Too firm here. Not firm enough over there. It was as if two midgets, one under and the other over weight, had a wrestling match on the bed an hour before I got there. Eventually I was able to get to sleep.

The morning of the marathon technically began for me at 2:30 a.m. when I arose with the desire to pee (two bottles of PowerAde before bed will do that to a brother). While standing in front of the bowl waiting for the flow I became lightheaded and started to see stars. "Great," I thought, "All this effing training to passout and die in a crappy hotel bathroom." I was able to finish peeing and make it back to bed (with only a few dribbles on the carpet) and lie down. The lightheaded feeling passed. I thought that I simply got up to fast and had a head rush, but who knows? Either way, I got back to sleep until my alarm went off at 5:30.

I left work on Friday afternoon around 3:30 and drove to Medford from Appleton (about three hours). The whole way I had cows and grass to inspire me. Wisconsin might not have a lot...actually, there is no continuation to that thought. Wisconsin just doesn't have a lot. While on highway 10 between Appleton and Steven's Point there was one (1) exit for a gas station in over 90 minutes of driving (bearing in mind that highway 10 is a four-lane road!) Upon reaching Medford I quickly learned that there was no need to print out directions to my hotel as there was just one main road in and out of "town."

I have stayed in some grand hotels in my time. The New York Palace. The Burlingame (CA) Sheraton. The Sydney (Australia) Harbor View. I can now add to my list the Medford, WI AmericInn. After I checked in I was directed to room 150 in which a smoking convention must have taken place the previous evening. As an ex-smoker you would think this wouldn't bother me so much, but sitting there was like being in Hell's waiting room. I suppose I could have asked to be placed somewhere else, but I didn't because I don't like to cause trouble. I have no one to blame but myself...and God.

After I ran my first marathon, a friend of mine said that I looked like a brick with legs while running. My lacrosse coach in high school told me that he needed a calendar to time me. Okay. I get it. I'm slow and look funny. So when peolpe at work exclaim, "Hey, I saw you running!" my reaction is either one of two things:

• Self Loathing (see "brick with legs" description above): Not so long ago I was doing a short training run on a treadmill next to a big mirror. As I looked over I was struck by the fact that I really do look like a brick with legs provided the brick was physically awkward and rather fat. This is what I think other people are thinking when they see me run.
• Inability to Find an Appropriate Response: What am I supposed to say to that? "Congratulations! I really am something to behold!" It's akin to someone saying they once drove through the state in which you now live or come from. "You're from Minnesota, huh? I drove through there once." They found it so apalling that they didn't stop and yet they are using this experience to make a connection. Eff them is what I say.

The moral here is I have enough hang-ups about my non-athletism...I don't need pseudo-friends pointing out to me that they had a good chuckle over them too. In my mind, telling me you saw me running is as arbitrary as me coming to you at the office and saying, "Hey, I saw you typing in your cube the other day!"

More on my continuing Taper Madness as it develops. Suffice to say I have checked the weather for the marathon location three times today.

This past weekend into this week I had a cold. Nothing major. Sore throat. A little sneezing. I think I caught this from my children. When feeding them, I tend to sneak a few spoonfuls of fruit (Gerber bananas are the best) after giving them a bite. Not the best way to stay healthy.

Injury came in the form of twisting my ankle last night while leaving my brother's house. It hurt like a mother-effer for the rest of the evening (but was fine this morning). Although the rational part of me knew that this was in no way a major injury, I still had visions of lying in traction on marathon day rather than crossing the finish line.

Taper Madness...it should be in the next version of DSM. Every little twinge or tickle gets amplified in your mind to a catastrophic affliction. I have only 10 days until Pine Line. All I have to do is keep from losing a limb.