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So it’s Saturday, and since those previously discussed Jamaican runners were not smart enough to change the location of their training run, I barged in yet again. These steroid addicted androids super runners had to complete 20 today, while I am in the schweet, schweet taper, so I had just 13 to do. This meant that I could actually keep up with the faster of the two groups, though it was still not easy. Prior to taking off, one woman introduced me to her husband, who was not there last week, saying, “This is Loose Moose. She works at ******. She’s really afraid of dogs.” So there you have it – my defining characteristic is not my my sparkling personality, my uncanny ability to store cases of Power Bars in my bra, or my love of the regal moose, but my aversion to dogs. The rest of the group nodded solemnly and looked a bit embarrassed for me. This dude, though, just patted his fuel belt and said in a calm, soothing tone (like the one you use with small children, mental patients, and those who maintain that Sarah Palin was selected for her credentials rather than her ute) “Don’t worry. I carry dog repellent. And a knife.” I immediately make plans to steal him from his undeserving, dog-loving wife.
The weather was decent – coolish and raining ever so softly. The terrain was decidedly NOT decent – hills, hills and more hills. This is just what I need, I tell myself, to become a stronger, faster runner. As we run, I pump the Jamaicans for speed tips and random running advice, and they are more than happy to oblige. I decide that I lurve them all, and that we should start a running commune. We’ll live in a yurt, and wear the skins of dogs that Brave Runner Man has slayed. The skins won’t have quite the moisture wicking benefits of Under Armor, but we will not let this deter us. We’ll subsist entirely on Gu, Propel, and our common disgust at the nonrunners of the world.
At around mile 8 the group decides that hills are not challenging enough and we, instead, begin ascending what can only be described as mountains. My lungs burn, my heart hammers and my capricious nature takes command – I decide that I will NEVER live in a yurt with these mean fucking bastards.
At mile 13, I leave the Jamaicans, certain that they will spend the remaining seven miles of their run dissecting my bizarre behavior – my surreptitious ponytail sucking (Mmmm….salty goodness), my near punching of a fellow runner’s bicep when we were passed by a PT Cruiser (If you’re just doing “punch bug” in response to VW Beetles, you are, like, really really old and non hip, ‘kay?), and my anxious humming of “Five Little Ducks” each and every time a dog, however securely chained, so much as glances at us disinterestedly.
I needed to purchase gas on the way home (So sorry, Moose Family, but no little luxuries like toilet paper and electricity for you this week) and was most humiliated when I handed the bills to the cashier. I had carried them in my little interior pocket in my running shorts, you see, and they were drenched. I apologized as I handed them over, and the cashier, assuming, I think, that they were merely wet with rain, replied, “Oh, no problem!” And then the horrible stank wafted up, her eyes watered and she pulled back in revulsion. But this IS why she makes the big bucks, am I right?
Back home I showered, ate a banana and a bowl of yogurt (which Mr.Moose referred to as “horse jism”. Oh, gross – totally uncalled for. Let me clean that up a bit – “Equine jism.” There- that’s better), and retreated to my office to do a bit of work. And then vomited. Repeatedly. And with great vigor. I have no idea what that was all about, as I have always prided myself on being a vomit-free runner. It seems ridiculously unfair that I have become a runner who both shits and vomits on herself. What’s next – rectal bleeding? Rivers of uncontrollable ear wax? Urine seeping from my pores? Running is, indeed, a harsh mistress.
Loose Moose’s action packed day: I planned to spend the morning at work, followed by a dental visit, then a trip to the high school track for my speed work. I’m rather bitter about actually having to work for a living (It wouldn’t have to be like this if you damned readers would just send a bit of love my way…and by love I mean, of course, dry goods, mortgage payments, and/or race entry fees), and I hate 800s ALOT, so the dental visit was actually the most appealing by far of the three events.
That is, until my dentist informed me that in the six short months since I’ve seen him last, my mouth has apparently become a cesspool of bacteria and plaque. There are cavities orgying in there, people. My antlers are drooping in shame. He said, “What’s new? You’ve obviously changed your eating or drinking habits in some way.” He listed the usual culprits – tea with honey, soda, gum, breath mints, even cough drops – while I stubbornly denied being a user. You’d never catch me abusing any of those illicit narcotics. Then, he narrowed his eyes, suspiciously eyeing my running shirt, my sneakers and my nervously twitching Veinessa, and he uttered two words that chilled me to the core: “Sports drinks?” Damn! I sputtered gibberish, attempting to convince him that I’m not addicted. “Like, I can quit at anytime. And I got it all under control. And it helps me loosen up. Besides, I only use on the weekends.“ He shook his head in quiet disgust and scheduled me for my fillings.
The day didn’t improve from there. My cavities and I attempted to visit the high school track, but we discovered that the gate was chained. A more serious runner would not have let that deter them, but having just endured an intervention from my dentist, I was less than motivated. I came home, ate some more plaque building foods and drinks and then finally decided to do the speed work on the road.
3:17, 3:14, 3:17, 3:15, 3:18, 3:27, 3:24, 3:26
I did the 800s using only water, and NO sports drinks. ‘Cause four out of five dentists prefer that their runner patients just DIE from electrolyte loss.
Moose are generally an introverted and reserved beast, and I am no exception. Sometimes, though, circumstances force us to seek out the company of others. Yesterday was one of those days. My FIRST schedule called for my last 20 miler before the Mochester Rarathon, and rather than do it solo, I barged my way into a training run. The group was comprised of two acquaintances and ten or twelve complete and utter strangers. Before we even took off, I knew I was out of my element. They were ALL wearing fuel belts (matching ones, no less) and moisture-wicking running shirts which proudly proclaimed their participation in marathons which routinely deny me entrance. I belligerently gripped my Bullwinkle sippy cup, wiped my hands on my moisture-trapping cotton shirt and hoped for a quick death.
Very shortly into the run, the group broke into two factions – fast and faster. I hung with the faster group for about eight miles before they left me in the dust. I mean it sincerely when I say that these people were just not human. They may have looked like middle aged white runners, but clearly they were the Jamaican Olympic track team in clever disguise. As we ran up ridiculously steep hills, they carried on conversation effortlessly, barely perspiring. When I offered to share my PowerBar at around mile six, I knew immediately that I’d committed an enormous, unforgivable social gaffe. They looked as if I’d offered them a bite of placenta. Mostly I guess they just felt pity and disgust that, as a mere human, I required sustenance. Freakin’ Jamaicans. Hey, mon, I get huuungry.
Even though I was clearly not in their league, the group was polite and welcoming. It just wasn’t the same as a Team Yonker run, however. Team Yonker breaks frequently, and for a variety of reasons – thirst, an approaching hill that we’d rather not run, laces that may or may not come untied within the next ten miles, fatigue, laziness…The list is endless, really. These Jamaicans, on the other hand, break rarely and for such short durations that it’s like it never even happened. In the time it took me to transfer my sippy cup to my drinking hand, these bastards had already begun running again. And their canine protection services left much to be desired. Despite my repeated assertions that I fear and loathe all dogs, they did little to keep me secure – no LooseMoose sandwiched between two braver runners, no soothing words of encouragement and absolutely no hand holding. It’s as if they mistook me for a mature and capable grownup. WTF, people?! I’m needy, so just step up to the plate already.
It turns out that the Jamaicans were only scheduled to do 14 miles. (Or perhaps they just said that, so that they could complete their remaining miles in a moose-free environment. I really wouldn’t blame them.) That left me to do six more miles on my own. I truly considered calling it a day at 14, as I was beyond tired, but Mochester is in just three weeks so I persevered. I completed 20.01miles in 2:57:40. That’s a pace of 8:53/mile, which is exactly what my schedule called for. Today I am one hurting unit. My legs are unbelievably sore and tired. I’m going to take the words of Bob Marley to heart, though: No woman, no cry.
BoyMoose Battles Weed-Plants
I have the best garden ever. Hang your heads in shame and shake your fists in fury at the gardening gods, people, ’cause after they blessed me so magnanimously, there was surely nothing left for you scurvy bastards. My garden is pest-free, lush, green and productive. It looks like a freakin’ tropical rain forest planted in MiracleGro. One tiny drawback, however - it’s one of those unintentional gardens…full of unidentifiable scary weed-plants. And it’s in the rain gutter. But, whatever…at least it’s lush. (My actual garden, of course, is a weedy overgrown mess. That’s because when I should be weeding and tending, I’m running and reading about running. And for some inexplicable reason, I grow a bunch of shit that I don’t even like…shit that WILL end up half digested in my mud shorts on my very next run. So usually if/when it ripens, I’m too lazy and disgusted to even bother to pick it. If only pizza and cheesecake grew from seeds, I could really get into this whole gardening thing.)
Today Mr.Moose decided to do battle with the unintentional rain gutter garden. Since this involved getting on the roof, and we moose are a land dwelling animal, he sent The Boy in his stead. (Yeah, the boy’s a moose, too, but his antlers aren’t fully developed yet so it’s okay.) We’re not completely irresponsible, though. Before BoyMoose went up of the roof, Mr.Moose attached a rope to him, and then tied the other end of the rope to a large tree. Sensible, huh? That way, in the unlikely event that gravity was working today, BoyMoose could not just fall gently to the earth but smash into a tree on his way down. And don’t even start looking up the number for Child Protective Services, ’cause you’ll just get owned. BoyMoose is eighteen, so we can mistreat him and place him in dangerous situations all we like. Booyah! In your face, do-gooders!
FYI – I recently learned that there is some insane blogger out there who is advocating crippling one’s children so that said children do not eventually move far, far away to college. Shocking, isn’t it?
While no BoyMeese were hurt in the clearing of the rain gutter, it’s only because he chose to attend Good Enough State University.
GirlMoose Goes To College
Were you aware that one can cry while running and no one is the wiser? I’m not talking about the occasional tear or two, but full blown snot-pouring, chest-heaving, my-life-is-over sobbing. That’s because, for me anyway, crying and running look alot alike: My shoulders heave, my breathing is labored, I make funny noises, and my face is comically wet, red and blotchy. No, I’m not still bitching about my dead iPod, nor I am dejected over the fact that I’ve not seen a new Grey’s Anatomy in ages. This time I’m bemoaning the fact that the GirlMoose has left home. She could have shown mercy on the Moose Family, and attended Good Enough State University, the college from which Mr.Moose and I earned our degrees in Theater Dance Philosophy Women’s Studies some dumb major which guarantees us permanent employment wearing hairnets and plastic name tags. Good Enough is not too far away, and they offered the GirlMoose a free ride, so of course she said, “As if.” Instead, she packed her bags and headed off yesterday to the University of Far Enough Away to Dissuade Regular Parental Visits. The school’s colors are pink and green, and their mascot appears to be the weeping mother. It is my completely unbiased opinion that this place SUCKS.
If you have calves (That’s “children” to you shifty non-moose types) heed my advice: Send them to local colleges, even if that means limiting their options, disregarding their wants and needs and crippling their budding independence. Hell, cripple them literally if it means they stay close to home. Believe me, you’ll be glad you did.
Yesterday we suffered a death in the family. It was sudden and tragic, and I don’t know how we’ll ever cope with this unimaginable loss. He was young and full of life and not a day went by that he didn’t put a smile on my face. Oh, cruel bastard God! Why did you have to take iPod?!?! WHY?!?!?
I blame myself, really, and not the shoddy workmanship of the Chinese toddler slaves laborers who assembled him. I guess iPods are designed to be filled with circuits and wires and gizmos, rather than with sweat and salt and stank. Who knew? But perhaps iPod’s early demise was not due to immersion in my foul funk. Maybe, instead, he committed suicide. Perhaps he bore, as long as he could, musical combinations that would have fried a lesser iPod ages ago. (I still maintain, however, that The Proclaimers would have made an excellent warm up act for AC/DC, and that Springsteen and Gloria Gaynor would make quite the dynamic duo.)
The cause of death may forever remain one of those unsolvable mysteries, like why the American public pretends that Michael Phelps is attractive, when clearly he bears more than a passing resemblance to a retarded chimp with extraordinarily sharp canines. It must be the package. Good Christ! Look at that package! I think it’s sign language for “Boy, but I sure do love swimming!” Either that or one of those “I’m with Stupid” arrows.
Like any family member, iPod is completely irreplaceable. I cannot simply procure a new one, and hit the road running. The main reason for this, of course, is that I am a bumbling Luddite, incapable of performing the simplest technological task. DVD players confound me, and I am often found cussing wildly at a noncompliant remote control, only to discover that what I’m actually holding is a telephone. I have no freaking idea how to relocate my tiny, tiny favorite bands, along with all their tiny, tiny instruments and put them in a new iPod acquire new music. M. was my resident techie guru, but as she has moved on, selfishly taking her skiz with her, it’s just a matter of time before I’m dwelling in a cave, wearing pelts and cooking mammoth in a skull pot. Mmmmm….mammoth.
P.S. Mr.Moose and D. – Do you know why you are gay? You keep checking out other mens’ packages. Oh, burn.
Last year M. and I ran a very small 15K sponsored by a local YMCA. For many, many reasons, we both hated this run and vowed to never do it again. In fact, I believe the existence/proximity of this race may have been a major contributing factor in M.’s recent move to a whole new state. Having little sense, however, not only did I NOT move far, far away, but I eagerly signed up to run this race again this year. Oh, and ’cause I’m a substandard mother and friend, I dragged the BoyMoose and J. along with me. (That L., who had originally planned to run the 5K, bailed on us a few days ago, in a remarkable display of self-preservation and clairvoyance.)
The morning events did not bode well for a good run today. Though Flo has not visited me this month, I feel that her arrival is imminent and so I invited Paddy along. (Remember, please, that Flo and Paddy are NOT sprightly leprechaun sprinters from Ireland, but rather horrible, nasty interlopers who plague me every 28 days or so.) This particular Paddy was obscenely noisy there in my pants, rustling with each step I took. When I asked Mr.Moose, “Does it sound like I’m wearing a diaper?”, he responded, quite decisively, “Yup…Filled with cornflakes.” So I’ve got cornflakes in my Depends, there’s a torrential downpour, and I’ve forgotten to charge my music maker – all the elements one needs for a cosmically fucked up run.
Somehow though, I lurved the race this year. True, it was completely lacking in spectator support. But who needs spectators when there are sullen volunteers, dozens of dessicated roadkill carcasses, a Paddy who has sucked up sweat and rain water to quadruple in size, and the Hovel of Domestic Disturbance? Oh, wait – those things are supposed to be unappealing? Well, there was plenty of scenic shit, too, including a beautiful lake named for long ago annihilated Native Americans, farm stands packed with fresh vegetables and a brilliantly colored double rainbow. (I, myself, prefer the sight of dessicated carcasses, but whatever gets you off.)
Probably the best thing about this race was my new PR. I finished between 1:12:00 and 1:13:00, I think, which means that this FIRST schedule might actually be working. According to the MacMillan race calculator, I can expect to run a 3:41 marathon given that 15K performance. And that’s a BQ, baby!! I’m a leetle bit giddy, ’cause my last 10K time of 47:00 also indicated a BQ was in my future. And did I mention that this course is ridiculously hilly, whilst the Mochester Rarathon is NOT? Keep your fingers crossed for this here moose.
(Click here if you care to read M.’s awesome version of last year’s misadventures.)
So the good folks over at Runners Lounge have decreed that this week we runner/bloggers pay homage to our hooves. (That’s “feet” to you shifty, non-moose types.) I’m not quite sure why they didn’t pick a more attractive body part – say the small colon or the sphincter, but whatever.
My hooves are freakishly big – so big that I am frequently compelled to purchase men’s sneakers, as I can rarely find women’s sneakers in the appropriate size. I suppose I could go to a specialty running store like Fleet Feet, but wearing dude duds secretly appeals to both the martyr and the flaming transsexual who uneasily reside within me. Heaving dejected sigh,“That’s right, I failed to qualify for Boston yet again…if only I had proper fitting girly sneakers for my hooves. Poor, poor Loose Moose AKA “Danny the Tranny”. “
Not only are my hooves freakishly big, but they are awesomely flexible. Mr.Moose calls them “prehensile” (’cause he’s a word snob and a show off), as I am easily able to pick up small objects using only my toes. I think they may have an extra knuckle or three. In fact, I am currently typing with my hooves right this minute. But that’s not freaky or anything – my mom says it’s a sign of intelligence, like my harelip and my third nipple.
I’ve received (from people who clearly do not know me at all) gift certificates for pedicures. I honestly can’t imagine anything I’d enjoy less. My hooves are ticklish, foul smelling, and hairy. I keep the nails cut very, very short and it seems a cruel abomination to buff and polish these nails with some girly gay color called “Pretty Posy” or “Ravishing Rose”.
Although my hooves are ridiculously unattractive, they are remarkably functional. I’ve never lost a toe nail, nor have I suffered from the dreaded plantar fasciitis. (Knock on Paris Hilton’s head or closest wooden object.) My hooves have carried me through one 50K, six marathons, and several 15K, 10K and 5Ks, with very little grief. These are quality hooves, people. Maybe when Revlon invents a nail color called “Malodorous Marathon” or “Rancid Runner”, I’ll pamper these nails of mine. Maybe…
So those FIRST bastards haven’t killed me yet, but it appears that they’re well on their way. You may remember that back in June when I first began this torture debacle scientifically based running program,I was a bit anxious. Five twenty milers, weekly speed work and an “easy pace” of 8:48 will do that to any sane person. I’ve stuck with it, however, as my previous Hal Higdon program had never yielded me a BQ…boob chafe, varicose veins and a foul disposition, but no BQ. I’m now 12 weeks into the FIRST program, with just over 4 weeks ’til the Mochester Rarathon, and I have never been more exhausted. Pathetic, I know, as the program really only calls for three intense runs per week, with the other days devoted to a combination of cross training, slower running and/or rest. Their motto is “Run less, run faster” or some such happy bullshit. Counter intuitive, I know…kinda like saying “Vote Republican, stop global warming” or “Get a clitorectomy, improve your sex life”.
Today the FIRST schedule called for a 10 miler at my predicted marathon pace. I did manage to do it, and at a 8:18 pace rather than the 8:37 pace that I need to BQ. (I’m foolish like that – even when Vic is staring me in the face, telling me that my pace is too fast, I completely disregard him/it. I’m a hoarder, you see. It’s a real condition, but without an intervention from Dr. Phil, I’ll likely never recover. I hoard everything from on sale canned goods to seconds of running time. No good can come of this – only botulism and running dreams denied.) So while I’ve been (just barely) able to follow the FIRST training schedule, it has been VERY difficult to do so. I’m beyond exhausted, and I’m wondering what will happen when summer ends, and I have to return to work. My schweet, schweet job as a snowplow driver… sled dog racer … igloo builder …Santa’s elf…ice fishing guide…none of your goddamned business allows me the entire summer off, which means that I can run and sleep and do very little else. I certainly can’t be expected to run, sleep and WORK, but come September, that’s my fate.
I stand by my original assessment: FIRST = Fucked up Incapacitated Runners, Seriously Tired.
Many, many years ago today, Mr.Moose and I were joined together in holy matrimoosey. I’ll not tell you exactly how many years, but I will offer some helpful gift suggestions: fine china (or even a package of some cheap ass Chinet paper plates), Chinese food (but NOT egg rolls, ’cause it’s just plain wrong to create something that looks so good, but that is stuffed with vile, vile, vomit-inducing cabbage), consumer electronics (’cause they’re all made in…China), or an all expenses paid trip to Beijing. Ok, OK…If you’re dense, deliberately obtuse or just hung over, I’ll spell it out for you: It’s our 20th. The traditional gift is china. We’ll be expecting, post haste, delivery of the aforementioned gifts. Monetary tokens of your esteem will also be deemed acceptable.
Poor, poor Mr.Moose, ’cause he never signed up for any of this. Twenty years ago, I was NOT a runner. Twenty years ago, I believed runners were just a leetle bit wacky. I engaged in NO sport or exercise, and as a result I was a much better smelling individual. Twenty years ago, all of my veins were safely contained on the inside of my body. Now, poor Mr.Moose must deal not only with me, but also with Veinessa, my sentient and often belligerent varicose vein. She’s frequently cranky, and a known bed hog so it’s best not to incur her wrath. Twenty years ago, I ate a rich and varied diet. Now, I eschew anything that could possibly end up half digested in my pants the next day. As a result, Mr.Moose and the calves might be a wee bit vitamin deficient, ’cause if I’m not eating salad, then no one is eating salad. Twenty years ago, I owned some underwear, lacy and black, that highlighted my naughty bits. Now my goal is not to lift and separate, but to smoosh and bind. Poor, poor Mr.Moose.
They say that there are circumstances that can really test a marriage – a sick child, job loss, relocation, financial difficulties. I maintain that a mediocre runner who insanely believes she can somehow BQ is the biggest test of all. Thank you, Mr.Moose, for supporting and encouraging my dreams, for tolerating my stanks, and for always climbing back into bed after Veinessa pitches you out. I love you, love you, love you from my hooves up to my antlers.
