My first DNS

Did Not Start. The Breckenridge Independence Day 10k was held on July 4th as the name would imply. It was only because I was so excited to do this race again this year that I was able to roll myself out of bed at 5:30am on a holiday morning after a night that I’m sure included some drinking but I honestly can’t remember how much. I quickly dressed and arrived at race registration around 6:15am groggy but somehow still energized to race. As I neared the front of the short line of runners I heard the lady at the registration table tell the runner in front of me that registration was closed. I remember laughing at this and I’m not sure now if it was because I thought she was joking or because my sleepy mind couldn’t clearly comprehend this horrendous new development. Either way it wasn’t funny for very long. The temporary registration table was folded up, the line dispersed and the world seemed to go on around me as I stood there in bleary-eyed disbelief. I mingled aimlessly with the other runners all the while feeling like I stood out because I was the only loser without a bib. Finally one of the ladies from the now defunct registration table came over and told me that “the trail’s all marked out if you want to go run it right now.” But I didn’t want to run it right now, I wanted to run it in 45 minutes with all the other runners. I came here for a race, not a time trial.

Without all of the adrenaline and energy that goes along with waiting for a race I became very aware of how tired I felt. I decided that what I needed was some coffee. Coffee soon turned into coffee and donuts and when I decided that I shouldn’t eat any more donuts I bought two dozen donut holes, or as I prefer to call them ‘little balls of heaven’ to take back to the friends with whom we were spending the weekend. Unfortunately not all of the little balls of heaven survived the trip.

When I got back to the place we were staying I found our kind hostess in the kitchen making a hot breakfast and so I traded in 18 donut holes for some eggs, bacon and hashbrowns and there might have been a pancake or two in there as well. I really don’t remember at this point, I just know that it was a good trade.

That’s how my Independence Day started, and it ended with the lamest fireworks display that you’ve ever seen. You can suck me sideways, Breckenridge!

Back to the Track, Jack

(Note: I have no idea who Jack is, but I was feeling the whole rhyming post title and it sounded good in my head.)

On Tuesday night Candis and I took advantage of our extra hour of daylight and ventured out to the track for some intervals. You know what I love about the track? - Leaving. That’s right, I love it when the workout is over and I get to go home. Does running intervals at the track make me a better runner? Absolutely. Does it push me to my limits and leave me with a feeling of accomplishment? No question. Do I enjoy running intervals? No. No I do not. There is no better way to make yourself feel like a wheezing, lumbering fatty than to challenge yourself with some intervals.

I was a little slower than I would have liked and Candis was a little faster than I would have liked. I ran 5 x 800s (7:32 pace) and she had the nerve to stick with me for the first three 800s. Wha?!? Yup, she stayed about a step behind me for the first three intervals, probably so that she could admire my legs and butt. What am I a piece of meat? I managed to drop her on the last two intervals but I found little comfort in beating her because she cut them down to 400s so that I wouldn’t have the thrill of standing around at the finish line and waiting for her while repeatedly checking my watch.

There’s no motivation in the world like your wife starting to catch up to you. She’s getting faster and a cursory check of the last time I wrote about hating intervals reveals that I am not (see my pacing at the bottom of that post). I think she’s even starting to get ideas in her head about competing with me in races, which is just preposterous. How am I supposed to keep her in her proper place if she starts beating me in races? By the way, that’s just a rhetorical question because it’s NEVER GONNA’ HAPPEN. You hear me?

The Death Throes of a Treadmill

It was cold last night. Not so cold that I couldn’t wrap up and head out the door for a brisk evening run, but sometimes getting ready to run in the cold is just such a hassle isn’t it? Am I the only one that feels this way? I’ve got to assess exactly how cold it is outside and then determine if I just want to wear one of my UA cold gear shirts or if I’ll need something else over it? Will a vest suffice or do I need a hoodie or a light jacket with sleeves? I just don’t know. Do I want my thin running gloves or my slightly thicker ones? Which hat do I want to wear, the thinner Headsweats hat or the fun one with the tassel on the top that playfully bobs back and forth as I run? These are the important questions that a runner has to ask oneself before heading out in the elements.

It’s just so much easier, albeit more boring, to throw on a pair of shorts and a shirt and hit the treadmill, which is what I decided to do last night. I put a movie on the TV and began to slip into my treadmill coma to help me survive the boredom. But something wasn’t right. The treadmill wasn’t moving and I wasn’t running. I was just standing there watching TV.

“Something’s not right,” I thought. I checked everything again. The dashboard was lit up, the safety key was securely in place, the speed was set just above 6 mph and yet the treadmill was motionless. Blissfully motionless. Standing on the side rails I looked down at the belt and blinked a couple of times before gingerly dipping my toe onto it, half expecting my foot to jerk backwards, but the belt was not moving. Had I finally run my treadmill into submission? Was the cursed piece of machinery finally dead? I hopped off with a little extra bounce in my step, quietly singing to myself “ding dong, the witch is dead.” I was positively giddy. It is flat out wrong how excited I was to go upstairs and inform Candis that the treadmill was dead. I was already thinking about the celebratory bottle of wine I was going to drink and how I’d toast the death of my antagonist. Perhaps I would even mockingly pour some out for my fallen homey.

Then the unthinkable happened; the treadmill beeped at me. It was taunting me, calling out to me for help. I walked back over to it and turned it off and back on again as though it was running on Vista. The dashboard lit up again, just as it had before. I stood on the rails holding my breath and pressed the start button. An eternity passed as I gazed down at the belt but then slowly, almost imperceptibly, the belt began moving monotonously backwards, picking up speed with all the haste of sap oozing down a tree trunk. I let loose a tempest of curse words and I might have even hit or kicked the treadmill a couple of times.

Alas, my treadmill is not dead, and I managed a few lackluster miles on it last night with a few lackluster intervals thrown in for good measure. I suppose that’s good news as it means I don’t have to go through the agony of deciding what cold weather clothes to put on and I can run indoors, but it sure didn’t feel like good news last night when I was on the verge of skipping my run. It’s just one more reason to hate my treadmill, as if I needed any more.

47¾ Laps

Well, I resisted the urge to try my hand at the steeplechase jump pictured in the post below. It was tempting but I didn’t want to run the majority of my long run with a wet foot, or worse a wet torso and a busted up chin. I considered trying it on my last lap and having Candis film it just in case I took a digger, but since I didn’t start running until almost 8 o’clock it was dark when I finished and you wouldn’t have been able to see much anyway. Plus, by the time I finished my legs were pretty shot and I wasn’t liking my chances of completing the jump without injury. Maybe next year.

The goal was to run 12 miles on the track which is roughly 48¼ laps, but only if you do all 48¼ laps in lane one. Throughout the night I found myself weaving back and forth across the track to get around large groups of walkers and in some cases groups of large walkers. At the start of my 48th lap my trusty Garmin (p.b.t.n) informed me that I had completed 11.82 miles and when I was ¾ of the way around the track it beeped out a distance alert for 12 miles. Actually, it didn’t so much sound like a beep but rather like a heavenly chorus of angelic beings serenading me with the most beautiful sonnet known to man that simply translated to ‘you can stop now.’ It was exquisite. So, after 47¾ laps I stopped running because you don’t question the infallibility of The Garmin (p.b.t.n.) you just do as it says and then hope that it is appeased and gives you good splits. It did not.

I can tell you unequivocally that this was the second most grueling run of my life, with the first being the marathon. I went into it knowing that it would be boring but figuring that I would just keep plodding along at my usual pace until it was all over. I underestimated the effects that boredom and monotony can have on your pace and your desire. You would think that running your entire run on a perfectly flat, rubberized surface would be ideal, but by the end of mile 4 I was begging for some downhill sections and some uneven concrete to run on. By mile 8 I was longing for an uphill section to break the tedium and force a change in my stride. I came really close on multiple occasions to running out through the gates into the parking lot and down the street for a few miles, but I managed to stick it out and I completed all 12 miles on the track at a dismal pace. I do not recommend it.

Adding insult to injury (by which I mean my slow pace) was the fact that the official event photographer did not manage to capture a single photograph of me running. I think he was probably intimidated by my regal stride and overbearing magnificence. He did however take several pictures of Candis and the boys which is why there’s a picture of them at the top of this post. That picture was taken during the Candy Lap, and yes, I participated in the candy lap while I was running although you’ll have to take my word for it as there are no pictures to prove it. Stupid photographer, I think he had the hots for Candis. If I see him again I’m gonna’ have to whoop his butt.

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU to all of you who donated. There’s something really special about seeing donations come in from people that you only know on the internet. You guys are the best!

Rock Out

Do you ever get a rock stuck in your shoe when you’re running? This happened to me last night and it sucked. Now I don’t want to make it seem like I’ve never had a rock in my shoe whilst running, it has just never been quite as painful as it was last night and honestly it has never occurred to me that I could squeeze a blog post out of it. Plus this wasn’t just any old rock that I got stuck in my shoe. It was an angry devil-rock, intent on destroying my sole *rimshot!* and I suspect it was made out of kryptonite because what kind of pansy complains about a regular rock in his shoe? Not this pansy guy, that’s for sure.

It happened early in the run, within the first mile, but I was already starting to get into my groove like Madonna, and I didn’t want to stop, untie my shoes and go through that whole rigmarole just for a teeny, tiny, little rock. I was in the zone and everyone knows that you don’t ever stop when you’re in the zone so I kept on running. Usually when a rock gets into my shoe if I keep running it moves around and nestles in to one of the nooks or crannies in my shoes and I don’t feel it anymore. Despite me routinely shaking my foot mid-stride to move the rock, it never moved. Instead the devil-rock planted itself squarely beneath the ball of my left foot and it stayed there for the remainder of my run. Again, I could have stopped and removed the rock, but I really, really didn’t want to because I didn’t want to mess up my splits and it really didn’t hurt that bad.

When I got home I took off my shoe and held it up vertically so the rock dropped into the heel section. My eyes narrowed to a glare and I found myself mouthing ‘well hello there you little sonofa...’ and then I realized that my neighbors were watching me and probably wondering why I was so mad at my shoe. I dumped the rock onto the driveway and noticed that it wasn’t nearly as big as it felt inside my shoe. Not so tough now are you?

This morning I have a nice big blister from that stupid little rock. My advice to you, fair reader, is that next time you get a rock in your shoe you should stop running, remove your shoe and evacuate the superfluous rocks. You heard it here first; don’t continue to run with rocks in your shoe. Additional advice columns that you can expect to see in the near future at Half-Fast include:

• How Hydrating Could Benefit You
• Don’t Eat Mexican Food Before a Run (Note: I did this last night too, but that’s a story for another post.)
• Peeing Into the Wind, Why It’s a Bad Idea
• Running Up Hills, It’s Harder!
• Off Topic: Buy Low, Sell High - A Revolutionary New Way to Invest.
• The Sky, It’s Blue!

If you missed it yesterday (what, you don’t come here every day?), please see the post below in which I do penance for all the mean-spiritedness that pollutes this blog on a daily basis and donate to a good cause if you feel inclined. Don’t make me break out the ol’ Jedi Mind Trick.

Suckage Report

First of all, huge props to Candis for crushing her previous PR by over 6 minutes with a time of 58:52 and easily achieving her goal of a sub 60 minute 10K. She rocked it. When I realized that I wasn’t going to make my goal I started rejoicing vicariously for Candis’ PR because I knew that she was going to get it. I was more confident going into this race that Candis would PR than I was that I would PR. This is why I decided that the winner of our bet should have to sleep with the loser, because then I win even if I lose, which I did. The agreed upon time deduction that Candis received was 10 minutes, which means that Candis beat me by nearly 5 full minutes. I’m so proud of her, but that’s really quite enough happiness for this post.

We awoke on race morning to cloudy, overcast skies, temperatures in the low 50s and a 92% chance of suckage. It was perfect racing weather which is unfortunate because there’s one more excuse that I can’t use for my suckitude. Candis and I got split up when I went to the pre-race bag check and she had to go drop a pre-race deucer. (I mention this because I imagine that telling you about her bowel movements takes some of the bloom off the rose of her awesome race and when I’m down I like to drag as many others down with me as possible.) We never found each other before the start of the race and Candis ended up going out in the wave ahead of me.

My pacing strategy was to attempt 8 minute miles the entire way allowing myself to lose some time on the uphill miles and hoping to gain some time back on the downhill sections of the course. When I turned in an 8:10 first mile and felt winded I knew that I might be in trouble. My mile 2 split came in at 8:28 but it was one of the tougher miles on the course and I was still hoping to make up time on the downhill sections of miles 4 and 5. With that in mind I tried to save some energy on mile 3 and posted an 8:48 mile.

I started the 4th mile with a bang, charging down 19th street with steely resolve. I was going to make up the minute and 26 seconds that I was behind, or at the very least get back onto pace to set a new PR. I could not be stopped, I floated down the downhill sections like a gazelle and I attacked the uphill sections like a crazy man. Like Forrest Gump, I. Was. Running. As I dashed up Casey Hill (the highest point of the course) I crossed the 4 mile mark and checked my Garmin for my split: 8:44. 8:44? Are you freaking kidding me? That was at least a 7:25 mile! It certainly felt like a 7:25 mile. I cursed my Garmin and had I not been so exhausted I would have probably chucked it into the side of a building but that sounded like too much effort.

I kept an even effort for the 5th mile and posted another 8:44 mile. A few quick calculations brought the realization that not only was I not going to make my goal, but I wasn’t even going to PR. OK, so there was nothing quick about my calculations, the math probably took me 2 minutes. I began to think about Candis, who I had passed somewhere in the 2nd mile. I thought about waiting for her and pacing her to the finish, but really that would have just been an excuse to stop and rest. I hoped and hoped that she would get her sub 60 minute time so that she wouldn’t have to run the final mile the way I was running it. I decided not to kill myself on the final mile and I’m OK with that decision. I rounded out my race with a half-fast 9:03 mile and a final time of 53:50. Disappointing to say the least. I drowned my sorrows in free Michelob Ultra before heading to a Memorial Day BBQ where I continued drowning them in... well to be honest I don’t remember all the specifics of how I drowned them, I just know that I did. It turned out to be a good day anyway.

You and Intervals

I’ve decided that intervals are the bane of my training. I hate them. They’re like an abusive relationship. You do the first interval and it feels great, you feel fast and you know that you’re making yourself a better runner. You love intervals, you doodle ‘intervals’ as your last name on a scratch pad and dot the i with a heart. You’d do anything to get in Intervals’ pants. But then pretty soon Intervals gets angry with you and yells at you for something insignificant. This should be a warning flag but Intervals is always so apologetic and sweet during that recovery lap. You can’t help yourself, you find yourself begging for more. By the time you get around to your final few laps you’re gasping for breath as Intervals chokes all the air out of you and punches you repeatedly in the legs. It’s over! You’re not going to take this anymore, you’re a self-respecting runner and you don’t need this. When you were dating Long Slow Distance he never treated you this way.

You finish your final lap and you don’t want to be a better runner anymore, you just want to call the cops and have a restraining order issued against Intervals, but you can’t. You can’t because you’ll be right back there at the track again next week thinking ‘weeee look how fast I am’ during that first interval. You’re like an idiot bounding around the track and you don’t even see the oxygen debt coming, but every week it comes and is quickly followed by the physical abuse. Every week you swear off Intervals. You curse Intervals under your breath and sometimes if you’re feeling bold you curse Intervals out loud, hoping to hurt Intervals’ feelings. “I hate you Intervals, and Long Slow Distance is way more endowed than you’ll ever be!” (You should probably spend some time working on your insults.)

You walk away from the track, shunning Intervals but then you can’t keep yourself from glancing over your shoulder and mouthing “call me” with your hand imitating a phone. ‘Oh yeah,’ intervals is arrogantly thinking ‘you’ll be back for more. You know you want me,’ and Intervals is right. I hate it when Intervals is right.

Hey, I bet you can’t guess what kind of workout I did last night.
5 x 800s (7:35 average pace)
Blech. I hate you Intervals!

How to Annoy Other Runners

Towards the end of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Arizona Marathon, I sure noticed a lot of annoying runners. Now I’m willing to concede that perhaps I was a little cranky from being so tired, sore and chafed and you probably don’t make the best assessments of others at mile 23 of a 26.2 mile race. Nevertheless there are some things that other runners do that just flat out annoy me. Since I assume that no one wants to intentionally annoy me, I’ve taken the liberty of putting together a list of the things that you all probably do that just annoy the crap out of me. Please try to work on improving yourself for my benefit.

Let’s start with the worst offenders:
Runners who run 4 wide across the street and then all hold hands to finish together. Forget the fact that they’re blocking my way, the blatant lack of competitive spirit in these folks (“Hey, let’s all hold hands and tie!”) is just un-American and borders on being downright French in nature. If you do this, you disgust me. Man, quit being such a sissy!
Runners who are in dire need of medical assistance. These people make me feel guilty, like I’m a bad person for not stopping to help, and I don’t think people should make me feel that way. It’s not very considerate of them. At least I took the extra effort to hurdle you instead of just stepping on you. Man, quit being so needy!
Runners who are faster than me. Annoying! Especially those runners who wait until we’re 20+ miles into the race and then go breezing by at a 7 minute pace. That’s just baffling. If you can run that fast at mile 20 then how is it that you’re only now just passing me 3 hours into this race? Man, quit being so fast!
Runners that swerve a lot. Have you ever run behind someone who does this? It wears me out just watching them meander back and forth across the street, not to mention how difficult it is to pass them. If you ever see anyone doing this, you have my permission to punch them in the back of the head, tell them karma sent you.
Runners that throw their empty Gatorade cups into my path. I swear if you get any of that pink juice on my nice new running shoes I will lose it. Man, quit tossing that crap at my feet!
Runners who are slower than me that take the inside turn on a corner directly in front of me. This is annoying to say the least, and infuriating to say a little bit more. It’s the kind of thing that makes a grown man want to kick a llama in the head. (Come on, someone had to pick up the llama hating torch and run with it, no?) Man, quit getting in my way!
Runners that seem like they want to run with me but insist on being a half step ahead of me. I totally called dibs on this annoying practice. Man, quit stealing my bit!

Though I’m sure there are heaps more annoying things that you all do, I don’t want to overburden you, so just work on these things for now. For my part I will try to be a little more tolerant and I’ll work on some of the things that I do that you might consider annoying: Wearing a disturbingly bright shirt, spitting straight up in the air, running with my arms straight out, making it look easy, and no-look snot rockets.

FAIL

I was out running my long run this weekend when I started thinking, something that I should not be allowed to do and especially not whilst running. The thoughts that started rattling around inside my head were how much I hate my long runs lately. HATE. I blame Amy Lawson for this (because it couldn’t be my fault), she mentioned on our first podcast that she always thought about how much she hated running while she was running. Anyway, I was thinking about how slow my long runs have been lately (something you’ll all be able to see when I post my December running log in a couple of days, I know you’re all eager to see it), and how much I loathe my long runs. They’ve felt like such a chore these past few weeks. Somewhere running ceased to be fun and enjoyable, and when I realized this at mile 15 of my scheduled 20 miler, I stopped. I considered what this meant for my marathon training and I didn’t care at all because there was a 90 percent chance that if I pushed on through to 20 miles I’d have quit running altogether. Forever.

So I’m heading into the taper with one 18 miler, one 16 miler and no 20 milers under my belt. It’s the perfect recipe for my first ever DNF! Or maybe, for a downgrade to the half, which is awesome because the half marathon in Phoenix is 13.1 miles less than the marathon and that sounds really appealing at this point in time. On the one hand I’m tempted to still go out and try to run the marathon because if I don’t do it now then I probably never will and no one likes a quitter. On the other hand I’m not so sure I actually want to run a marathon, which is probably not a good mindset to be taking into it.

I’ll probably end up running the full marathon anyway, but I’m guessing that you’re going to want to shield your children’s eyes from that race report.

On a lighter note, I’m off work all week which means it’s harder to keep up with all of your blogs but that will remedy itself in January when I get back to the office. When I’m at the office I have much more peace and quiet to read blogs, plus they block my access to Facebook’s Texas Hold’em game so I have nothing better to do. I hope that you are all doing well and that your runs have been more productive than mine. I’ll catch up with you all in the new year.

18 Miles of Misery

I woke up on Saturday morning and I was eager to get started on my long run. (Note: Only one of those things is true.) The sun was shining and I thought that it looked like the perfect weather for my first attempt at 18 miles and I was right it did look like the perfect weather for 18 miles. I flipped on the active menu on our TV to see what the temperature was and almost crawled back into bed. It gave an actual reading of 22 degrees but also proudly proclaimed that it “Feels Like 8 degrees.” As if that wasn’t enough there was also a cute little wind icon on the screen, right next to the phrase “27 mph,” and yes, I’m being facetious about the wind icon being cute. I’m still trying to figure out how to punch the wind in the face without looking like a total idiot.

Undaunted (lying again) I bundled up in my warmest running gear, donned my sunglasses and headed out the door for the first of what would be three 6 mile loops. The wind was brutal, there’s just no other way to put it. Many of the paths were still covered in ice and snow and the headwind that I was running into was brutal, did I mention that already? (I hope that you’re not sick of hearing about how much I hated the wind because that’s going to be a continuing theme in this post.)

On the upside, I was able to entertain myself by firing snot-rockets and loogies for record distances during most of the first loop. By the time I started running the second loop it was less entertaining and more of an annoyance that my nose wouldn’t stop running. I cursed my nose. I cursed the runner who had obviously run this path before me wearing YakTrax. I cursed YakTrax for not giving me a free pair to review on my blog. I cursed each and every one of you who have ever encouraged me to run a marathon. I cursed the headwind that I was running into and then chuckled when I thought ‘headwind? They should call it giving-head wind because it sucks!’ Then I cursed the wind again because my lips were so dry the chuckling cracked my lips.

I finished the second loop feeling completely sapped of strength and decided that I was done battling the wind. I headed inside and finished my final 6 miles on the treadmill and I think it’s safe to say that I’ve never loved my treadmill as much as I did on Saturday. Don’t get me wrong, I cursed the treadmill too but not nearly as much as I had been cursing the wind.

Chicked on my Long Run

It’s been a while since anyone overtook me on one of my training runs, it’s been even longer since a chick did it. However, on Saturday morning after my long run I found myself resetting my consecutive-days-without-getting-chicked counter back to zero. It happened early on in my twelve miler, which gave me over an hour to reflect on what a failure I was, and also to think up some good excuses for why it happened.

I was right around the 3 mile mark when I heard footsteps behind me and I knew instantly that I was beaten. The chick’s heels never touched the ground as she pranced past me displaying the air of superiority that I usually like to exude. She looked kind of manish, and should have expected that I’d describe her in such a manner regardless of whether or not it was true. She bounced along ahead of me in a singlet and short running shorts, obviously a seasoned runner from the lack of anything resembling body fat. Seriously ladies, you’d have hated her, but it doesn’t matter because I hated her enough for all of us.

My first excuse thought was that she was running at a faster pace because she was only running a mile or two. However, she was wearing a fuel belt that indicated otherwise. Next it occurred to me that she was doing quarter mile intervals and that I’d witness her stop or slow down shortly, but that never happened. Finally I concluded that there were only three possible explanations for her overtaking me:

1. Steroids, and lots of them.
2. She was some type of running cyborg sent here from the future by my future self to motivate me to run faster. I’m clever like that, at least I will be in the future.
3. Some combination of 1 and 2.

It’s that simple. So if you’re a woman and think that you’re faster than me you might want to get a blood test or an x-ray to make sure that you’re not unwittingly on the juice or actually a robot. If both of those come up negative then I hate to tell you this, but you’re a man.

Other than that little snafu, my long run went really well. I was able to push the pace down under 8:50 miles for the last part of the run which was very encouraging, and I felt pretty good. I’m feeling good about my chances for a PR in the Georgetown to Idaho Springs Half Marathon in 2 weeks, but I’ll have more on that at a later date.

Tapering Suuuuucks!

[by Candis, because Ian was just going to leave that disgusting post at the top of the page.]

Last week my training schedule called for a decrease in mileage, this week a decrease in mileage again and a decrease in intensity. I have heard other runners complain that they hate tapering because they miss running or because they have this running itch that they just need to scratch. Screw that.

You want to know why tapering sucks? Let me enlighten you...

• Long John Silvers
• Cappuccino Heath Blizzard
• Multiple Cosmopolitan Nights

Now you should know, I don’t normally eat like this (ok other than the cosmos) but now that I’m tapering my eating as well as my running for the upcoming Bolder Boulder 10k, it’s ALL I can think about!

I average 25 miles a week, at an estimated 120 calories per mile this means I get 3,000 calories. I don’t consume them all, but I don’t obsessively watch what I eat- especially after a 10 mile run. I’ve been a runner for 2 years. For those of you who don’t know, I’m also an asthmatic, which is part of the lure to be a kick ass running machine. Needless to say crispy, greasy Long John Silvers is not a normal part of my diet- but I love it (don’t gag, you probably have your own ‘this-will-cost-me-10-seconds’ fat food). Guess what, if I want it, I EAT IT! But this week I will run 8 miles total and that devil scale called me slow this morning!

Non runners often ask why I would want to run so much. My brother’s skinny girlfriend even had the nerve to tell me she’d never even walked 10 miles (bite me). I have come up with lots of reasons, much like the Miss America answers...

• To kick Asthma’s butt
• To fight heart disease
• Because I have 2 boys (running is hours of an abandoned husband)

But my #1 reason that took me 2 years to realize (I’m not a fast learner- don’t mock): refined sugar, white flour, high fat, sodium overload splurges. Our family is on an increasingly healthy wheat, whole grain, high fruit and vegetable diet and this is going to open the gates for widespread temptation. Running for food is as good a reason as any. I think it was Amy Lawson who once said that she ran 40 miles a week because that was easier than saying no to baked goods and I’m totally with her. 40 miles a week huh? Just imagine all the food I could eat at that mileage.

The Scourge of the Running Community

There comes a time in your life when you have to take a stand, a time when you get pushed past your breaking point, a time when it’s no longer possible to just sit quietly and take it. This is my time. My time to go to the mattresses, my time to demand my rights, to scream at the top of my lungs “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore,” and then get up and slam the door on my way out.

It’s time for me to bring down the thunder on that scourge that has plagued the running community for too long now: Chip-timed races that only chip time the finish. I don’t see anyone else stepping up to denounce this practice so it might as well be me. I’m probably the person best suited for a little misplaced rage and overreaction anyway.

It has happened to Viper, it has happened to Dan, it has happened to me, and it has happened to my wife at the alcohol free St. Paddy’s Day 5K which was almost the same as if it happened to me because she just went on and on about it until I finally promised to make an issue of it at Half-Fast. Can we let it go now honey? I’m telling you guys, Hell hath no fury like a runner mistimed.

When you tie that timing chip onto your shoe, you think that you don’t have to be near the front of the pack or weave through traffic like Richie Sambora in order to get out of the gates quickly. You take your time getting to the start, even allowing the woman with the double jogging stroller to cut in front of you and 48 seconds after the gun goes off you’re crossing the starting line. That’s when you notice that there’s no freakin’ timing mat at the starting line, your race is already off to a crappy start because you’re 48 seconds behind your goal pace and while that might be easy to make up over a long distance race, this is a 5K.

What is the point of using timing chips if you’re not going to provide a chip time? You can give everyone a gun time by taking pictures at the finish or by having someone tear off the bar codes as people cross the line. When it comes to chip timing races I subscribe to the Baconator theory: do it right or don’t do it at all. I’m not going to cheat on my diet by having a low fat turkey burger, I’m going to eat a Baconator and then wash it down with a Brownie Earthquake and another Baconator.

The practice of only providing a gun time at races that are “chip-timed” seriously chaps my hide. If you are a race director who is engaged in this practice, then you are cordially invited to kiss my sweaty buttocks at the finish line.
*slams door*

Hiccups Suck

I hate hiccups. I loathe them more than anything that you can name. When I get the hiccups I get them bad. My wife can attest to it, I sound like I’m dying. I hiccup, I burp, I make gagging noises, I gasp for air, and somewhere in between all that sexiness I shout and yell because I HATE hiccups. Fortunately, I’ve never had to deal with the hiccups during a run, at least until this past weekend and let me tell you that it was more annoying than a “he went to Jared” commercial.

They probably only lasted for a quarter mile, but it was the worst quarter mile of my running career. It definitely made my long run a Volkswagen Jetta Run. It’s been a while since I had a VW Jetta run so I guess I was due for one.

Shortly after my bout with the hiccups I came to a crosswalk where I paused for a few seconds while waiting on the walk signal. As I waited I noticed an attractive brunette was following me down the trail towards the crosswalk, I wondered if she had witnessed the idiotic convulsions and gyrations caused by my refusal to stop and deal with the hiccups. While she was still 20 meters away I got the walk signal and crossed the street.

I found myself faced with a dilemma because the attractive brunette would certainly make it across the street after me and she appeared to be running a little faster than I was. No doubt she had been gaining on me for quite some time. My ego was prompting me to speed up so that I wouldn’t get “chicked,” but my increase in pace would have been obvious to her and she might have thought that I was being rude. It also occurred to me that my ego might not ever recover if I increased my pace and still got “chicked.” After weighing all my options I actually slowed my pace to allow her to pass me. Using the phrase “allow her to pass me” significantly boosts my ego.

She never did pass me though. I ran at a slower pace for a half a mile and she seemed to remain 20 meters behind me. Figuring that I had misread her pace, I ramped back up to the 9:15 pace that I had been running at and assumed I was leaving her behind. A couple more miles passed and I came to part of the trail that almost doubles back on itself which allowed me to see that she was still 20 meters behind me, she was matching my pace. My ego and I agreed that I needed to throw in a half mile interval, which I ran at a pace somewhere around 7:45 before slowing back to my original pace. Slightly winded, I glanced over my shoulder to find the brunette 40-50 meters back and gaining quickly. Somewhere before I got home she must have taken a different path, because this was the last I saw her.

To be honest I was a little perturbed at her behavior and if the roles had been reversed I would have certainly expected a face full of pepper spray. I was trying desperately to figure out what she was up to when it suddenly hit me. It was a warm day and I was wearing shorts; she was simply admiring the view from back there. It made perfect sense to me and my ego. It is a really nice view, I only wish that I could see it more often and without the aid of a mirror.

Early Morning Angry Run

You can always run. That’s what I love about it. It doesn’t matter if you’re in a bad mood, if you’re stressed out from work, or if you’re feeling fantastic, you can always lace ‘em up and get out there. If you haven’t figured it out yet I’m a Patriots fan, which means that my weekend ended on a sour note last night.

This morning I woke up early (still not sure how I managed that) and pounded out 5 angry miles. I took out my frustrations on the sidewalks, on the hills and on my legs. It felt good. It’s been a while since I’ve had a good angry run, and the lingering memories of last night’s game combined with the fact that it was Monday morning and I had to go to work all helped me push myself a little harder.

It was a good run. It was good to be out there running in the dark, alone with my thoughts, and I felt much better when I returned home. Of course now I’m here at work and everyone’s a comedian. Everyone has a funny comment about the game that they’ve just been dying to tell me since the final second ticked off the clock, was put back on the clock and then ticked off the clock again. You can only have so many pretend conversations with the dial tone when people come by your office, and they’re usually undeterred anyway. By the time this day is over I might be in for another angry run tonight. Ahhhh, coworkers: You can’t live with ‘em, you can’t strangle ‘em with a phone cord. Right? I’m not allowed to do that am I? Because that might make me feel better than another angry run would.

Run In The Morning? No Thank You

I don't ever run in the mornings. Ever. I run after work when I get home. Sure it is usually hotter at that time, and sure, it takes time away from my family, and yes, it gives me more of the day to make excuses why I shouldn't run, but it does have the added benefit of not being the morning.

I'll admit that lately I've been considering how much more time I'd have in the day if I ran in the mornings, but I just don't think it's going to happen. I am not a morning person. I despise having to get up early and often hit the snooze button upwards of 10 times. I abhor getting up to run in the mornings. I don't think you understand just how much I hate running in the mornings, so allow me elaborate. Here is a list of things that I would rather do instead of running in the mornings.

• I'd rather sleep.
• I'd rather listen to nails on a chalkboard.
• I'd rather round up stray dogs wearing only Milk-Bone underwear.
• I'd rather go hunting with Dick Cheney.
• I'd rather run every day for two months.
• I'd rather slather my ear in BBQ sauce and play Chinese whispers with Mike Tyson.
• I'd rather wear a Vick jersey and leather pants to a PETA rally. (I could totally make that outfit look good.)
• I'd rather get into a pissing match with a used car salesman about the warranty.
• I'd rather get between Rosie O'Donnell and the buffet.
• I'd rather you give me the full length slide show presentation about your recent prostate exam.
• I'd rather eat yellow snow.
• I'd rather watch those annoying erectile dysfunction commercials on a continuous loop.
• I'd rather bet money on the Cubs winning the World Series this year. (Yes, I'm aware that they've come on strong lately and as of this writing are only a game out of the division lead, but they're still the Cubs.)
• I'd rather have an enema.
• I'd rather watch a Yankees game with a know-it-all Yankees fan. (Redundant?)
• I'd rather have my teeth cleaned by my barbaric dental hygienist.
• I'd rather this conference call that I'm on continue another hour because people are asking inane questions.
• I'd rather you include me in your chain mail forwards.
• I'd rather submit to a lie detector test where my boss asks me if I blog at work.
• I’d rather SLEEP.

So as you can see I'd rather not run in the mornings, thank you very much. Despite all that, I'm going to attempt to run in the morning tomorrow, so you can probably expect a mumbling, caffeine aided, complaint filled rant of a post. I'm scheduled for a 6 mile run which means I'll have to set the alarm about an hour earlier than usual, or just leave it set as is and not hit snooze. I can't even type that with a straight face. Not push snooze? Yeah. Sure. That'll happen.