I’m a Freakin’ Bagel

My friend J. can do anything – bake mouth watering pies, put up sheet rock, install electrical outlets, grow and arrange flowers, and do minor plumbing and carpentry repairs.  She’s kind of like Martha Stewart only with a bigger penis.  I’m convinced that J. can do anything she puts her mind to, including splitting the atom.  Today, though, she used her powers for something even more sinister – she dressed me as a bagel.  That’s right – a freakin’ bagel. (While it’s true that I have run races dressed as an M & M, a leprechaun and a zombie, somehow I feel as if I’ve reached an all time low…’cause bagels have always seemed somewhat capricious and nefarious to me.  I mean, make up your mind, already, you evil gluten-based product. Are you a donut or are you bread?!)    

One attracts a fair amount of attention whilst dressed as a bagel, especially at an event named for the bagel. Almost immediately after picking up our race packets for the Tasty Bagel 5K,  J., niece o’ J. and I were compelled to fight off the paparazzi. (BoyMoose was sensible, and dressed in normal running garb.) We answered a few questions for some Brenda Starr type, and after the race the photographer snapped dozens of pictures of me.  (I tried to hold them off ’til my fellow bagels came in, but you know how demanding and intrusive the paparazzi can be.  I’m just glad I was wearing underwear beneath that bagel costume.)

I’m sure they’ll sell a record number of papers tomorrow, because there’s just something about a sweaty, blotchy bagel with flailing limbs to really draw in the readers. I mean, frankly, whatever happens in the world tomorrow will be insignificant and of little consequence compared to my debut as a running bagel.  “Sarah Palin Announces She’s Carrying Barack Obama’s Love Child!”  “McCain Finally Admits He’s an Alien From the Planet Oldandshaky! “ ”New Government Bailout Plan Includes Two Live Chickens and The Communist Manifesto for Every Taxpayer!”  Who gives a shit?!  Didn’t you hear?!?!  Loose Moose ran dressed as a bagel!!  An actual BAGEL!  

I’m less than thrilled with my performance this year.  Last year I placed first in my age group and won a great trophy and six months worth of free bagels.  This year, however, although I was just two measly seconds slower, I came in SEVENTH place in my age group. WTF, people? It’s all okay, though, ’cause my BFF, V, cheered me on at the finish line and reminded my petulant, whiny self that I am a Boston qualifier.  And also that bagels are both capricious and nefarious, so who wants to win them anyhow?

Dude!  You should consider losing that grin because not only are you getting chicked, but you are getting bageled.  And there is nothing more demoralizing than being beaten by a breakfast food.  Also, get the fuck out of the way, John McCain, because Loose Moose is coming in for a strong finish!!

Loose Moose Visits the Old ‘hood

Today BoyMoose, J., niece o’ J. and L. all humored me by agreeing to run a 5-miler in my old neighborhood.  This run is awesome, because it starts directly in front of my old high school and ends with a loop around the high school track. In between are five miles filled with Loose Moose landmarks and memories, ALL of which must be related in great detail.  (It wouldn’t have to be like this if the town board would just get off their dead asses and erect some fancy moose-shaped National Landmark signs. In fact, they could have used the proceeds from this very run to fund such a project.  Instead, those wasteful shortsighted bastards are choosing to fund the local food pantry.  Feeding hungry people?  Seriously?  I mean, where are their priorities? Daaaamn – no wonder why I felt compelled to move away.)

 Only the BoyMoose chose to stick with me throughout the run, so he bore the brunt of my egocentric ramblings: “Oh – look!   This is the hill that I used to sled down back in third grade!”  and “Check it out! I once wiped out on my bike right here and left half my chin on the pavement.”  and “My BFF lived here.”  As a conscientious and responsible moose mother, I refrained from pointing out to The Boy the really good stuff: “Look!  Site of my very first hangover!” and “Wow!  Your dad and I used to really go at it behind that building.”   

Despite the dearth of “Loose Moose once slept here” signs, I had a great time. I think the BoyMoose has finally realized the importance of pacing. (Generally he takes off like a rocket with the starting gun, and I then find him wheezing and gasping like a four-pack-a-day asthmatic smoker at the 1-mile marker. My typical response is to smile smugly as I run past, then heckle him mercilessly for about a month or three:  “Poned!!  Who’s slower than his middle aged momma?  In your face, BoyMoose!  IN. YOUR. FACE.” ) Today I set out running at just over a nine minute mile, and the BoyMoose kept with it for the entire run. He never walked at all, even though the longest race he’s ever done is a 5K.  BoyMoose was so focused that even when we encountered our cheering section just past Mile 4, we barely gave them the time of day.  (My awesome sister, brother and brother-in-law cheered raucously, and waved neon signs. I loved this attention SO much that I’m willing to completely overlook the fact that after the race, aforementioned sister glanced at Veinessa, did a double take and screamed, “Holy God!!  Look at the size of that thing!!”)

BoyMoose and I finished in 46 minutes, and then feasted on bagels, fruit and cider while waiting to cheer on J., niece ‘o J. and L.  We had quite a cheering section going for L. as she crossed the finish line because, like Boymoose, she completed her longest race ever and didn’t walk at all. Veinessa and I are seriously proud.

Hudson Mohawk River Marathon

You may have detected a tone of sarcasm in my Post- Marathon Recovery Guide for Dummies,but after yesterday’s run, I stand by my original recommendations.  The ONLY way to qualify for Boston is to run on crippled knees and hips, whilst wearing battered treadless shoes.  You should do this four weeks after a debilitating, demoralizing marathon, and for god’s sake, you should follow NO training schedule. Rather, just make up your own half assed one. (Although, not so half assed that it involves running naked whilst wearing a pumpkin on your head - cause that’s just plain odd.) You should definitely go in there with a bad attitude, as well, frequently mumbling “Well, THIS was a bad idea” and conspicuously massaging your battered bits even as the bus brings you to the start line.  To really be sure you’ll BQ, you should also have seriously compromised toe nails - at least nine of them.  I’m telling you, this works, people!  I should know, because yesterday, on my EIGHTH attempt and after four and a half years of running, I have finally BQ’d. (And this time BQ actually means “Boston qualified” rather than “bonked quickly”, “behaved queerly” or “big quitter”.)

Last year M. and I ran this marathon and were less than impressed.  There was no chip, and no goody bag. The route was flat and scenic but it mostly ran along a bike path on the VERY foul smelling river.  We passed more than one sewage treatment plant.  One would imagine that one would eventually become accustomed to the vile smells emanating from the rivers, but somehow that was not the case. It’s as if the sewage from each township had its own unique stank, and so one’s nose was continually assaulted from Colonie to Cohoes to Watervliet and beyond. And I don’t know what those people had been eating, but they should really just stop already.  Despite the stank, I managed my marathon PR of 3:5X:XX on this course last year – and vowed to never return. Famous last words. 

This year, the only stank I detected was my own.  And while it was significant, one’s own stank is almost always preferrable to the mingled, treated turds of strangers.  That’s what I always say. Although there was still no goodie bag this year, there was a chip. There was also a greater spectator presence than last year, and best of all – a moose family awaiting me at the finish line!!!  I decided to give it my best effort and when the gun went off I was feeling almost optimistic. I met several nice runners along the way and did lots of talking.  At Mile 16 when a water stop volunteer yelled out “Looking good!” , I responded “FEELING good!” and then was shocked and amazed to realize that I actually did feel decent. I was wearing a 3:50 pace bracelet as 3:50 will qualify me for Boston 2010  (I’d given up on ever producing a 3:45, which will qualify me for Boston 2009) and was seven whole minutes ahead of schedule.  At Mile 20 we passed a race clock and when I was still seven minutes ahead and feeling fine I nearly lost it.  “This is going to happen.  I’m BQ-ing today!” I thought to myself and then instantly started tearing up and hyperventilating.  Cool under pressure, I am not.  I somehow regained composure, and continued on, realizing that a LOT can go wrong in the last six miles.  Many maintain that the marathon doesn’t even really beginuntil Mile 20.  I repeated my sweet new Mr.Moose mantra: “I have EARNED this.  I will HAVE this”  about a zillion times, eager to make it to Mile 23 where the BoyMoose would meet me.  I had dressed him in a fluorescent shirt that is eye searingly bright, thinking that I’d be able to see him from far away.  This proved to be a poor idea, as many spectators had signs of the exact same color.  Everytime I’d think I’d seen my boy, it turned out to be a crudely lettered sign with some drivel saying “Run, Daddy, Run!”  I spat on each sign as I went on by, shaking my sweaty fists at the toddlers who had fooled me. 

It wasn’t until Mile 25 that I finally met up with BoyMoose. (I’d disinherit him, but the Wall Street debacle has already effectively done so.) At that point, my BQ was fairly locked up and I allowed myself to walk for a bit on two separate occasions.  We met the GirlMoose near Mile 26, and I headed to the finish line sandwiched between my moose calves.  I yelled to random cheering strangers, “I’m BQ-ing!  Right this second!” I know you’re a bunch of psychotic cyberstalkers, so I’ll not tell you my exact finish time.  All you need to know is that I finished in under 3:45, qualifying me for Boston this April. To celebrate we ate at Boston Market.  I’ve never eaten there before, because like literate citizens, decent weather and a sense of decorum, we do not have these in Frostburgg.  (It was ridiculously tasty, especially the mashed potatoes.  I maintain that their secret ingredient is crack.) 

I don’t know who that bib-less blue bastard is, but I think I beat him. He’s pretending that the sun is in his eyes, and that’s why he got chicked…whatever.  Notice, please that BOTH of my hooves are decidedly OFF of the pavement!!  And that my elbows appear to have separated from my frame.  THIS is the gait of a Boston qualifier!!

Running in the Rain

Frostburgg in the fall is amazingly colorful, vibrant, brilliant…and wet – really, really wet.  I’m talking wetter than Sarah Palin’s underpants as she waxes poetic about the great state of Alaska. (“You betcha we’re a fine state!  And friendly, too. Why just last week we hosted a potluck for our neighbors from Russia.  Fed ‘em moose meatloaf and jello salad, we did. That Putin’s a right nice fella. But if he gets uppity, I’ll blast ‘im with my Sarah-Cuda – you betcha!”)  As a rule, I’m not a big fan of wetness (especially the governor groinal sort), but I had to get out there and run my last “long” run before the marathon. (At least I think I did.  I’m kind of just making it up as I go along, because believe it or not, I can’t seem to find a training schedule for people who want to run two marathons four weeks apart.  Not even on the Great and Powerful Interwebs.)

I ran 8.08 rainy miles today at a pace of 8:18/mile while training for my eighth marathon which occurs in just eight days.  Vic says I burned exactly 1000 calories, but he’s about as reliable as, well, McCain’s ability to pick a suitable running mate, so who the fuck knows.  I do know that that’s a LOT of eights.  And eights are lucky, right?  I’m thinking I can’t fail even if I tried, people.  There’s just too much in my favor this time.   For one thing, I’ll have my family waiting for me at the finish line, and this has never happened.  (GirlMoose thought she had escaped when she enrolled at the State University of Just Far Enough Away To Dissuade Regular Parental Visits, but I showed her.  I just hunted ’til I found a marathon happening in her backyard.  HA! Good luck explaining a sweaty, crazed mother with shit streaked thighs to the sorority sisters.  I repeat – HA!!)  So Mr.Moose and (a painfully embarrassed) GirlMoose will meet me at the finish line, and BoyMoose has agreed to meet me near Mile 24.  This is clearly a blatant attempt on his part to be named “Favorite Moose Child”, and thereby lay claim to his sister’s inheritance.  But I’m cool with that and I DO play favorites.  And anyone willing to be in my company after Mile 24 deserves all of my worldly wealth…which given the current economy consists of a poorly insulated home with a badly outdated kitchen, a 1998 Noneofyourbusiness which I can’t afford to fill up, a homemade “No Bush. No Dick” sign from the last presidential campaign, and a six pack of PowerBars.  Shhh….Don’t tell the BoyMoose. 

Here’s another thing in my favor:  The day after the marathon is Columbus DayNative American Annihilator Day, and I can lay on the couch recovering as I’ve the day off.  (OK…so now you’re feeling sickish inside over the fact that I am some kind of federal worker.  I’d be nervous, too.  But it’s not like I have any real power or anything.  Seriously. You can NOT pin this whole Wall Street bailout shit on me.  Or the war.  Or the sorry state of education.  Nope…not me.  I’m just a cog in the machine, people, so don’t be hatin’ on me for my sweet, sweet ability to eke out some extra recovery time at the expense of the indigenous Americans.)

  Eight more days, people.  I’m weirdly excited.