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It is a sad, sad day to be a runner. We’ve been hit with a triple whammy from which we likely may never recover:
1- Nitmos is pulling a DNF. Not in a race, mind you, because he always runs as if a pack of syphilitic llamas is breathing down his neck, eager to take his rectal virginity. No, he’s DNF-ing as a blogger, claiming that work responsibilities need to take priority over blogging at the present time. What’s up with THAT?! I need my fix, Nitmos!! And there is no stopping point in the blogosphere. It’s not like a nice, simple marathon where one can cross the finish line, shake the turds from one’s shorts and call it a day. No, in the blogging world one must always blog, never stopping, no matter what…even if the llamas catch you and make you their bitch.
2 – The 2009 Boston Marathon is filled up. And while I know I said I wasn’t interested, that was before those bastards went and sold my registration to someone else.
3- You’re probably tying your shoes wrong. Moron.
Yearly mileage: 132
Every blog I read lately is about the wonder of magical laundry detergent specifically designed to get the stank out of runners’ clothes. As I am KNOWN for the quality of my stank, I’m confused as to why I was not selected to post a review - must be my ridiculously low readership coupled with substandard writing skills. Oh, and my rampant bitterness and whininess played a part, too, I’m guessing. Well, screw you, Win and Pro Wash!! I’ll just continue to reek, thank you very much. It’s sad, too, because I have the distink distinct feeling that my clothes are about to get even stinkier…
That’s because I may have just convinced J. that we simply MUST do a triathlon. A triathlon, people!!! Not quite sure what a triathlon actually IS, truth be told, but I’m thinking it’s got to be pretty much like a biathlon, only with one more “thlon” thrown in. So we ski and shoot firearms and then do some other bizarre completely random thlon-like task, I guess. Whatever – count me in. Just think of the stank I’ll be able to muster up ! My eyes are already watering in eager anticipation.
I sent J. the link to the Iron Girl triathlon as a bit of a joke, actually. M. and I are currently badgering poor J. into running her first marathon this May, but J. has yet to commit. I guess I thought that, faced with the thought of a freakin’ triathlon, any sane person would choose the marathon…because while some pretty messed up shit has happened to me whilst running marathons, at least I’ve never suffered from a debilitating, disfiguring firearm mishap. Or gotten my skis crossed. But crazy ass J., instead of being horrified at the thought of a triathlon, actually seemed intrigued. Damned nutball.
What’s that? There’s that Mr. Moose bellowing in the background that a triathlon is actually a sporting event involving swimming, biking and running. Alrighty then. This changes everything, people. Because now we’re dealing with potential drowning. Or, even worse, being forced to wear one of those cosmically geeky bicycle helmets and padded spandex shorts.
Even still, we might be doing this crazy shit. I’ll keep you posted.
I’ve got a bit of the OCD, people, and when it manifests itself in my running, the results are often not pretty. Case in point:
This morning, J. and I were scheduled to meet for a 5-miler. However, exceedingly cold temps (-10 F) prompted us to reconsider. And even as I’m on the phone agreeing wholeheartedly with J. that it is best to abandon all thoughts of a run, I’m already becoming a wee bit panicked. Because I ALWAYS run on Saturday mornings. Always. Even in cold temps. Even during torrential downpours. Even through plagues of locusts – always, always, always. So I’m able to stand the thought of an idle Saturday morning for approximately four minutes before I’m suiting up to once again do battle with Mother Nature (that miserable bitch.)
But I can’t find my running gloves anywhere. And of course, they’re not really “running gloves”, but just a random pair of dollar store gloves that I have christened “my running gloves” because I always wear them. (But NOT while driving or shoveling because - HELLO? – they’re running gloves.) Boy Moose, still in a drug induced stupid stupor from his oral surgery I’m guessing, has the audacity to suggest that I wear an alternate pair. WTF, insolent, maniacal Boy Moose? Clearly no other glove can be substituted, for there lies the path to utter madness and chaos. Jeesh. (I’m only able to overlook this egregious error in judgment because the Boy is all fucked up on happy pills. Which I still plan on stealing.)
As I absolutely CANNOT wear a different pair of gloves, I eventually settle on a pair of socks. That’s right, people. I took off this morning wearing bright red fuzzy socks on my hands. They kind of resembled childrens’ puppets which had been stripped of all facial features in a fiery fairy tale accident – like maybe some benign but careless dragon had belched on my sock puppets, causing fourth- degree burns and a general miasma of stank air. Silly, silly dragon.
My hands stayed toasty warm within the socks, but the rest of me? Not. So. Much. It was nostril-sticking, lung-cracking cold out there today, and the falling snow and high winds resulted in ridiculously poor visibility. Any sane person would have called it a day, but once again my OCD reared its ugly head. Because just lately I’ve developed a new compulsion which makes me disinclined to stop at anything other than even miles – no decimals allowed. So CLEARLY I could not just stop at 3.72 miles when I nearly got clipped by the plow. Seventy-two hundredths of a mile? I think not.
And so I kept running. And freezing. And wearing socks on my hands. I figured to stop at an even four miles, but after running some numbers in my head (NOT so easy to do, by the way, but waaay easier than giving directions.) I realized that if I did five today I would be at an even 100 for the year. And one hundred miles really, really appealed to the orderly, methodical part of my brain – the part that wears socks on its feet and not its hands.
Yearly mileage: 100*
*EXACTLY 100, people, with none of those unattractive decimals mucking up the place.
The Boy Moose’s recent dental woes have convinced that while I may be only a mediocre runner, I am one awesome mother. In fact, I am beyond awesome. I’m like June Cleaver, Mrs. Cunningham and Mrs. Brady all rolled into one gingham-covered, PTA-attending, cookie-baking maternal messiah. All other mothers (losers, the lot of you) should behold me in awe, wonder and reverence.
What have I done that is so magnificent, you ask? Did I take the day off from work to be with my anxious child as he had three wisdom teeth surgically removed? Did I eagerly fill the refrigerator and pantry shelves with drinks and soft foods for his consumption? Did I lovingly offer support and encouragement?
HELL. NO. But I did marry a guy who did all that sappy shit, and that’s gotta count for something. More importantly, and what will surely win me the coveted “Mother of The Year” award, is the fact that I did NOT steal my Boy Moose’s kick ass prescriptions. That bears repeating, I think: I did NOT steal his prescriptions!!! Talk about making the ultimate sacrifice for your child.
That boy has good shit, people – shit that runners CRAVE. That quack of an oral surgeon gave my boy steroids and painkillers, and plenty of ‘em. Silly surgeon seems to think that steroids will help my boy’s gums knit back together while reducing his chance of inflammation and infection. Screw that Boy Moose, I say. He’s young and hardy and surely he can handle having a tooth or two ripped from its sockets. But what about ME?!?! Those steroids could make me faster and stronger than I’ve ever been. Maybe if I’d had steroids, it wouldn’t have taken me eight freakin’ attempts before I finally BQ’d. And that percocet and oxycodone? Why, that’s the very shit I need to help me recover from uncomfortable long runs…’cause nipple chafe is no laughing matter.
The Boy has been a bit loopy since his surgery, and it would truly be easy to pull off this major drug heist. But I will refrain. Because I am one awesome mother.
I did eight more freezing cold miles this morning. It was less than pleasant. I keep reading that in extremely cold temperatures it is best to breathe through the nose, so that the air is warmed up a bit before hitting the lungs. This seems a sound theory, and so I’ve been making a conscious effort to do so. Unfortunately, I happen to SUCK at this. While running, my nose completely abandons its efforts at respiration, and instead serves only as a freckled flesh blob on which to rest my glasses. I am completely serious when I say that I can NOT breathe through my nose while running. It’s as if my nostrils shrivel right up, allowing no air to enter or exit. The result is that I am a heaving, mouth-breathing mess of a thing with icy, frostbitten lungs. I’m thinking that if my nostrils were bigger, they’d allow at least some air to enter. And so I’m thinking of developing a serious cocaine habit….’Cause I betcha any amount of money that Marion Barry can breathe through his freakin’ nose.
Since Frostburgg is nothing if not ridiculously snowy, it was necessary to wear my homemade Yak Trax during today’s run. I made a slight modification to them, however. You’ll remember (because I know that you read, reread, take notes and quiz yourselves endlessly on the material presented here – there WILL be a test) that Mr. Moose used a LOT of screws in the making of my Yak Trax. And so far they’ve worked out beautifully. Several times, though, I’ve been aware of the presence of the screws. (I’m sure this is because they are my very oldest shoes, and they have virtually NO rubber left. The soles are thinner than your average piece of paper, and they probably have close to 1,800 miles on them. I’m ashamed to say that I’ve never gotten rid of a single pair of running shoes. I always intend to, but then when I look at the appalling condition of my shoes, it seems cruel to foist them off on some poor unsuspecting Haitian or African. Because even people who had never before SEEN actual shoes would be gravely insulted at the thought of wearing my castoffs.)
The screws – all 87,638 of them – haven’t bit me or even caused discomfort, but I figured that an added layer of protection was in order. So this morning, I placed insoles in my shoes. The insoles were “ultra thin” and “odor absorbent” but they could never double as sanitary pads, because too few women want to stuff a potpourri-scented rubber foot on their crotch. Don’t ask me why. I had to trim the insoles to size first, as they were a man’s size 13, and I am such a delicate, petite wisp of a woman. (Oh , wait…you people have seen my scary ass avator, haven’t you? The one with the ginormous, gnarled feet with hairy toes and blackened nails. Never mind, then. In truth, I had to do very little trimming. If anything, those size 13s could have been just a leetle bit bigger.) The insoles made a difference, I think. I had far fewer mental images of a slow exsanguination brought upon by 87, 638 individual puncture wounds in my soles.
Yearly mileage: 71
Nitmos recently bemoaned his “winter induced pace” of 8:00/mile. Seems that eight-minute miles feel SLOW to some people. Personally, most of my eight-minute miles are not “winter induced”, but “Oh, no, I will NOT be beat by that skank in the running skirt” - induced. Or, more often, ”Imminent assplotion alert!!! Run like the wind to the nearest toilet!” -induced.
In truth, I kind of take umbrage at the idea that eight-minute miles are anything less than blisteringly fast . And because we moose are petty, small-minded creatures, I decided that during today’s run I would trounce Nitmos. Yeah, that’s right – I would pound out a few miles at 7:59/mile, thereby stripping him of his pride and his manhood. (Sorry, Mrs. Nitmos) And before you ask, YES it’s completely fair to have a race against a competitor who has no knowledge of said competition. And YES, it’s also perfectly acceptable to run just a fraction of the miles that your foe has run, in conditions that are likely less unpleasant than that of your foe. DUH!! Don’t you people know the first thing about racing? How else can starkly inferior contenders ever taste victory? (Were you sleeping through the ENTIRE 2000 presidential election?)
So I ran, people, as fast as my hooves would carry me. I ran for all I was worth, not even caring about dogs, snow plows and black ice. My heart was pounding and my lungs were burning, and still I ran. My legs felt like jelly and my eyebrows were frozen, and I ran even harder.
Vic, my lying, duplicitous douche bag of a Garmin, says I ran 3.22 miles at a pace of 8:34/mile.
Which clearly means that Nitmos cheated.
All day long I’ve been thinking, “Damn, but my ornithine alphaketoglutarate levels seem shockingly low.” Imagine my delight, then, when upon arriving home from work I discovered a big ol’ box of Roctane! (Seems that petulant whining and bitching really does pay off. Devon from www.outsidepr.com was among the eleven readers of that particular post and he sent me twelve- count ‘em – TWELVE Roctane energy gels. He even sent them in this fancy schmancy canvas bowl yarmulke ashtray I-don’t- know- WHAT- the- fuck, but it’s pretty flippin’ cool. Check out Marathon Mama’s photograph and review, as I am FAR too lazy to actually photograph my Roctane myself.)
I am completely beside myself, people. I have six delicious blueberry pomegranates and six scrumptious vanilla oranges. I was tempted to serve them to Mr. Moose and the calves for dinner, but at the last minute I mustered up a small reserve of self control…enough to bellow “Heat up yer leftovers, y’all!” I’ve decided it will be smarter to use my Roctane when I’m actually running some mileage, or when I’m racing. Then, while lesser runners (pathetic Roctane-less slobs, the lot of them) flail and flounder, I will suck down some delicious histidines and citrates and leave them in the dust. In. The. Dust.
I’ll keep you posted about my Roctane, but I’ve gotta tell you I’m feeling faster already.
I am sure that you’re all familiar with that cinematic masterpiece “Snakes on a Plane”. I somehow missed what I am sure is an extraordinary film, so I’ll just hazard a guess as to its premise: Bad guys let loose scary ass reptiles to menace the poor beleaguered passengers in the economy seats…as if venomous SNAKES could somehow instill fear in those tough enough to brave air travel. HA!
In five short weeks, Mr.Moose and I will be crammed into economy seats as we travel for TEN long hours, and I’m certain that by the end of this trip we’ll be praying for merciful snake-induced deaths. It will all be worth it, though, for our final destination is Rome!!! That’s right, Eleven Readers – we are taking an actual vacation! And unlike the majority of our previous vacations, this one will NOT necessitate setting up an antiquated, leaky tent or pointing the accusation finger at one another when confronted by a 72 cans of pork ‘n beans and 0 can openers.
Rome, Italy!!. Don’t be jealous of our good fortune, however, because in order to finance this trip we routinely do without goods and services that most Americans consider absolutely essential. We do not have the following:
A working dryer, heat in the upstairs of our home, cell phones, kidneys, vehicles with fewer than 95,000 miles, more than one bathroom, cable TV, new furniture, visits to Starbucks, etc. In addition, 90% of the food we eat comes from our garden, Aldi, and/or the dollar store. Oh! And did I mention that our bedroom is a closet? Not even kidding here, people. (OK – so we might have actual kidneys, but I’m fully prepared to let those suckers go if it will somehow convince you that we are pretty much a family of dirters. And so travel abroad, while likely wasted on us, is pretty much a dream come true.)
Mr.Moose is most excited to visit the Colosseum and Pompeii. I am most excited to run at the Circus Maximus. I’m already planning to pretend that I am an ancient chariot. No- not a charioteer, but an actual chariot. Should be a good time. Xenia’s provided her readers with some excellent information about running in Rome. I think it was also from her great blog that I learned that should Italians yell “Die!” at me while I’m running I should NOT immediately seek assistance from the US Embassy, as it merely means “Keep it up!” or “Nice job!” or some such happy shit. As long as they leave my kidneys alone, we should get along famously.
Yearly Mileage: 54
When J. and I met this morning, it was -1 degree. We were dressed in multiple layers, with no skin exposed to the frigid air. Our stretching/warm up routine consisted of patting ourselves on the backs for being so god damned intrepid and tough, and repeatedly plugging and unplugging our noses to break loose the forest of frozen nostril hairs. And then we started running.
It wasn’t pretty, people. The wisps of hair that escaped my baklava immediately turned white and stiff with frost. My eyelashes and eyebrows were also white and crusty. It soon became difficult to even keep my eyes open, as the mass of all those freaking eyelash icicles weighed down my eyelids. It was only with superhuman effort that I was able to blink, and my eyelid muscles protested each time. But I’m seriously thinking that if this run did nothing for my endurance and quad strength, if was highly beneficial for those often neglected eyelid muscles. Because right now, people, I am feeling ridiculously buff. I know for a fact that I can now beat Chuck Norris’s ass,using only my eyelids – that’s how freakishly strong they now are. As a matter of fact, I’m thinking that J. and I can take on not only Nuck Chorris but also an entire convoy of angry ice road truckers. ‘Cause they’re known pussies, those ice road truckers. They safely lounge there in their heated cabs with their air-ride suspensions, while the REAL heroes like J. and I are right there in the thick of things, being brutally stabbed in the nasal cavity by our own dagger-like nose hairs. Damn, we’re tough.
Yearly Mileage: 46
