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I miss my fucking leg hair.
‘Member that whole “Spring has sprung” nonsense that I was spouting last post? Well, I have officially come to my senses.
After eighteen long years in Frostburgg, one would think that I wouldn’t get fooled EVERY year, but that’s me – a certifiable uh-tard. The 68F, sunny Saturday has morphed into a snowy 32F Monday. Meaning the whole shaving of the moose legs was just a wee bit premature. I ran today with only running tights and NO three inch long leg hair to keep me warm. Am seriously considering harvesting the hair remnants from the bathroom sink drain and decoupaging them onto my frostbitten calves.
Yearly mileage: 341
About this time of year, many are eagerly looking forward to putting away the shovels and mittens ’til next year. They interpret sightings of robins, crocuses, and northern flying geese as a sure sign that spring has sprung. Others are more scientific in their quest for spring, closely monitoring the approach of the vernal equinox. Really, both groups should be paying careful attention to ME, Teh Loose Moose, as I alone determine when winter has ended and spring has sprung. And I hereby decree that spring is ………….
…………………….
……………………
Now!!!
I know that spring is here because for the first time in months I have fur-free gams. That’s right, people, I am no longer sporting leg warmers comprised entirely of three inch long human hair. I even evicted those furry lil’ animals that had taken up residence in each of my arm pits. The long suffering Mr. Moose claims to not be terribly repulsed by the winter leg/pit hair, and after twenty years of marriage can one really hope for much more than “not terribly repulsed”? I think not. Since he can live with it, and since I am a lazy, unmotivated resident of a freezing cold ice town, I tend to let myself fur up…all winter long. About the time January rolls around I can usually fashion a braid or three from the pit hair. Am I not hawt?
It was definitely time to deforest myself, though, because yesterday Frostburgg saw temps of 68F. This is definitely running in shorts/jog bra weather, and all that extraneous body hair might create some unwanted drag. Also, I might trip on it.
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One might think that all this talk of nasty ass body hair would serve to repel potential stalkers, but I think not. Because SOMEBODY out there (and you know who you are) habitually finds me by Googling “Haired moose crotch”. And that is just plain wrong.
Yearly mileage: 337
J. and I traveled to the big city today for a seven mile training run. We’ll be running the most mountainous 10-miler known to man this May, and a local running specialty store hosts training runs the six Saturdays before the big day. I’m sure the store’s motivation is to broaden their customer base, but I remain committed to purchasing ancient, crapped out running shoes from the Salvation Army. The Sally might not offer fancy schmancy gimmicks like “gait analysis”, a proper fit and fungus-free soles, but really, I wouldn’t want to spoil myself.
There were hundreds of runners there today, and we were very informally seeded according to pace groups. J. and I separated. She had her iPod to keep her company, and the assurance that her friendly, outgoing personality would win her human companionship should the music grow tiresome. I had my nearly sentient boob chafe to keep me company. I prefer it to most people.
The course is almost comically mountainous. We ran on streets named “Summit” this and “Peaks” that, and I swear I passed the withered bones of Tenzig Norgay. My boob chafe and I were not amused. The view from one of the parks is seriously impressive, though, if you can handle the feelings of vertigo that accompany it. The mountainous terrain isn’t the only perilous part of this course. The neighborhoods through which we ran were also hazardous. Surreptitious eavesdropping on my fellow runners revealed that most of them were a tad anxious whilst running through the south side of the city. This area is known for its “urban blight”, which I’m fairly certain is Wasp for “Good heavens, Muffy! I think I saw a colored.”
The run was a definite success, in that none of my bodily wastes seeped out. Impressive, huh? I even tempted fate by drinking some Gatorade at a water stop. A few miles later my bowels were churning, but what do you know? No blight on my shorts!
Yearly mileage: 331
You ARE aware that I’ve qualified for Boston, yes? As in the “Boston MARATHON”, the most prestigious marathon in the world?? Yeah, I’m frankly pretty damned impressed with myself, but a quick weekend trip to Albany showed me that not everyone shares my glee. The Hudson Mohawk River Marathon took place in Albany this past October, giving those lazy Albanians plenty of time to sell their kidneys, their babies and/or their babies’ kidneys and erect a few simple statues or obelisks in my honor. During our trip, though, we saw NO such monuments. We also saw no babies with fresh kidney scars, which was really disappointing. I mean, show some initiative already, you lazy freakin’ Albanians. Instead of revering ME, those stoopid Albanians seem to be smitten with that loser Henry Hudson, who never did anything except to get himself abandoned on a freakin’ iceberg while NOT discovering the Northwest Passage. So ‘enry ‘udson’s got dozens of streets and buildings named for him, and statues everywhere, and did that navigationally challenged uh-tard EVER qualify for Boston? I think not.
We even stayed at the same hotel where we stayed back in October, but there was nary a plaque proclaiming “LooseMoose slept here.“ WTF? Clearly the management at Day’s Inn has dropped the ball, as even Henry Hudson - lost, frozen cadaver that he be- would recognize that this would be a BIG draw, even bigger, perhaps than the Swiss Miss cocoa packets served with the continental breakfast.
It is clear to me now that I will have to do something REALLY impressive to win the recognition that I so clearly deserve. And that is why I have decided to…wait for it….
…wait for it
…PART THE SEA AND WALK UPON THE OCEAN FLOOR. Yup. No joke.
I know, Eleven Readers, that you’re as motivated as the average Albanian, with the reading abilities of the average iceberg, so I’ll summarize: In the Bay of Fundy, (which only sounds like it is located in the thong of an overweight stripper) the tidal range is extreme. Once a year, during the spring tide, it’s especially extreme, and runners of the “Not Since Moses” 5K/10K start on shore and run on the ocean floor amidst now exposed islands (one of which is named “Moose Island”). Fifteen meters of water – which is almost 50 feet to you ignorant, non-Canadian types – recede, and where fish were just swimming and doing their fishy thang, runners now do their runnery thang. Cool, yes? YES! This is SO cool, in fact, that even Mr. Moose wants in. And he generally runs only if he believes that there is bacon or anal in the offing.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Loose Moose! Don’t do it! Canadia is a wild, dangerous land full of feral geese, meese and Mounties. They don’t speak our language, and I’m fairly certain that they hate freedom and fear democracy!!”
To which I would respond: “You are right to be concerned -Canadia, is indeed, a scary ass place. They taunt us with their complete and total embrace of the metric system, their well kept cities with unpronounceable names, and their never flagging politeness. But, I, courageous LooseMoose, will brave this frightening frontier, bringing glory and honor to the U.S. and A.”
My success is assured, you see, because I just may have a native guide lined up. Our good friend D. hails from Canadia (which SHOULD make me back off on the rampant Canadian stereotyping, but somehow just compels me to be even more obnoxious), and this race takes place mere meters from where his family summered. I’m thinking that with D. serving as our native guide/translator we shouldn’t be in too much danger.
So get selling some kidneys, folks. Because once I’ve both qualified for Boston AND parted the sea I’m going to expect some pretty substantial monuments, eh?
Yearly mileage: 304
Yesterday’s run started out under near perfect conditions. It was 40F, but with the sun shining brightly and not a cloud in the sky it seemed much, much warmer. It was so warm that I even dared to expose Veinessa, donning just shorts and a long sleeve tech shirt. (Veinessa behaved herself fairly well, staying mostly within the confines of my left upper thigh. At one point I do believe she tried to grab hold of a passing car and pull herself to freedom, but her plan was not successful. Ha! Take that, you very coarsevaricose vein!! You will forever remain my leg candy.) Most of Frostburgg’s snow has melted and I was able to run on the shoulders, which are now firm enough to support my moose weight, but not so hard that my knees suffer. It felt fantastic to run on something other than ice, pavement or ice-covered pavement. I was elated that the work week was finally over, and eagerly looking forward to Girl Moose’s weekend visit from the State University of Just-Far-Enough-Away-To-Dissuade-Regular-Parental-Visits. I checked my Vic at 5K and saw 23:47. I’m telling you, people, conditions were right for perhaps the best run of my life. But who would want to read about THAT, anyway? You know you’re just here for stories of humiliation, degradation, and soiled shorts…and I aim to please.
Around Mile 4, my ridonculously overactive bowels began churning. It wasn’t too bad, though, so I slowed down my pace a bit and hoped desperately that I’d make it home with my rectal purity intact. (Yeah, I really did just write “rectal purity”. Sometimes I just make it too easy for that Glaven, don’t I?) The slower pace seemed to help, and eventually the feeling passed. I began to focus again on my run, and I noticed that I was repeatedly brushing my right calf with the side of my left shoe. WTF? M. used to flatter me by telling me I was “biomechanically efficient.” Clearly she was just saying this to get in my pants (shit- soaked though they be), because my dirt covered right calf is clear evidence that I am anything BUT efficient. I’m guessing I’ve been doing this for awhile, but it wasn’t until I could feel my shoe on my bare leg that I noticed. And maybe it’s even the weight of that heinous Veinessa that has fucked up my once efficient gait. I decide that I could shake off both the near-shits AND biomechanical inefficiency and still salvage the perfect run. And then I saw The Dog.
On the Hierarchy of Canine Induced Terror, this particular dog would score quite high. While he did have floppy ears, he was most decidedly NOT a Golden Retriever. He was black and white and of medium size, and so I immediately braced myself for attack. (Obviously, his irresponsible owner had neglected to read my previous post and put down this slathering beast. WTF, people? Read my blog or face my wrath, already.) Some people – idiots, the lot of them – might see the black and white fur of this dog and be reminded of placid, docile cows. And I was kinda reminded of cows, too, but I’ve never been foolish enough to buy that whole “placid, docile” myth. Cows are dangerous, people. Sure, they chew on cud but any thinking person knows they’d rather be chewing on YOU. CowDog and I faced off, because I am completely unable to run past an unchained dog, and J. was not there to pull me. He wasn’t barking or acting aggressively, though, so I had almost mustered up the courage to pass. His owner appeared, however, and then stupid CowDog decided to put on quite the show, barking and running at me. I braced myself while his toothless Billy Bob owner yelled, “Shane! Get back here!” Shane did not bite me, but he did something almost as bad. He sniffed me. Groinally.
Shane must have liked my particular stank, because he did it again. And again. And again. Truth be told, this is not the first time a dog has found me intoxicating. After getting a good whiff, Shane decided it was time to dance. I guess because he couldn’t afford to take me to dinner, this was his idea of courting/foreplay. That stupid CowDog stood up on his back legs and threw his muddy front paws on my shoulders. WTF, Shane?! You can not has dance! I HATE to dance, almost as much as I hate being dog-sniffed. And keep in mind, please, the fact that I am absolutely terrified of dogs, so the whole time that Shane is dirty dancing on me, I’m shaking like a leaf and whimpering audibly. Eventually Billy Bob was successful in calling Shane back to him, but not before that stupid dog took one good last groinal sniff. Damn this aromatic vajango of mine – it’s a curse to be this freakin’ desirable.
After the dog rape incident, I knew my dreams of a “perfect run” were shattered. So when my ass exploded I was not even surprised. In fact, back at home, I was thrilled to discover that instead of a family size asserole, I had merely cooked up a single serving. Vic was reading 6.19 miles, and as my OCD now prevents me from stopping at anything other than whole miles, I tidied myself up and went back out. I ran the remaining .81 mile without any further incident, and called it a day. Back at home, Mr. Moose had LOTS of fun heckling me about my muddy shorts. For some reason, he was oddly disgusted by my decision to complete the run in my befouled shorts. Obviously HE does not do the laundry. Again and again, Mr. Moose shook his head in revulsion, but it’s okay – Shane still loves me.
Yearly (muddy) mileage: 266
So Super Hero J. has saved this cowardly, pathetic Moose Thang once again. Seconds after she cheerfully said, “This road is the dog-free portion of my route” a crazed, probably-rabid Collie tried to eat our asses. I responded in typical fashion – whimpering and cowering behind J. while grabbing frantically for her hand. (This was made easier due to the fact that I am no longer running with heavy, fuzzy socks on my hands. Yay, almost-spring!!) J. calmly pulled me to safety, all the while uttering calm assurances to me in the voice one usually reserves for the mentally ill. She’s mad brave, people. And while you might think that a Collie is not exactly a ferocious breed, you’d be dead wrong. This was definitely NOT the Lassie who saved Timmy from the well. This evil bastard dog would likely lure Timmy to the well, nip painfully at his Timmy-parts, push him in the well, then taunt him over the course of an agonizing week. We were definitely lucky to make it out of there alive.
At the risk of alienating dog-loving readers of my blog, I just have to ask, “Why the HELL would one want to live with a barely domesticated wolf, anyway?” Hey! Screw that! It’s MY blog, so I can alienate at will. Euthanize your pet, people, so that cowardly runners like me will feel more at ease when running past your house. Do it now, or face my considerable wrath.
Wolves hunt in packs to kill moose, which could partially explain my aversion to dogs. I also hate loud noises, and the bark of a dog is one of my least favorite sounds ever. (Also, fireworks, smoke detectors and Pop ‘n Fresh canisters. Obviously, this is just a partial list. I’ve got issues, people.) I am SUCH a coward that when I run past homes where I suspect a dog may live, I cover my ears in fearful anticipation. I try to avoid appearing like TOO much of a Rain Man, so I always pretend that I’m doing something other than covering my ears – adjusting my earrings, pushing my hair behind my ears, scratching my head…I’m sure I’m not fooling anyone, though. There’s probably several twisted families out there who don’t even own dogs, but who bark just to fuck with me. Deviants.
After profusely thanking J. for saving my life, I explained to her the Hierarchy of Canine Induced Terror. MUCH thought has gone into this, people, so pay attention:
COLOR
- Blonde dogs are rarely to be feared. Golden Retrievers and yellow labs are generally sweet, kind dogs who will not eat your face off.
- Brown dogs can go either way. Be ready to either pet these dogs, or to run for your life.
- White dogs and black dogs are always malevolent, and must be put down.
EAR SHAPE
- Floppy eared dogs might not kill you, but pointy eared ones definitely will…definitely
SIZE
- Tiny dogs yap a lot, which is bad, but they can only nip you and not actually kill you, which is good. Ergo, tiny dogs are better.
Before she abandoned me for greener pastures (Damned career! Stupid, needy family! Ridiculous temperate weather!), M. left me with two ziploc bags of Pupperoni. We occassionally ran with this, with the intent of buying mean dog’s affections. By “we”, of course, I mean M. only and NOT me, because I’m just a tiny bit afraid of dog food, as well. It seemed like everytime we had the Pupperoni, though, we never saw crazed dogs, so I’m still not certain this trick will work. I’m half convinced that the dogs will smell the Pupperoni on me and maul me to pieces before I can even get it out of the bag, especially if they are big, white/black and pointy eared. (See above “Hierarchy of Canine Induced Terror”. HELLO? Did I not TELL you to pay attention?) I do believe I will start running with it, though, especially when J. is not there to provide protection. If nothing else, it will remove it from the pantry shelf before Mr. Moose and Boy Moose mistake it for beef jerky and go nom nom nom all over it.
Yearly (cowardly) mileage: 246
Once upon a time, two hundred years ago, there was a close knit community of Irish immigrants who settled in …in…someplace close to Frostburgg – that’s all you potential stalkers need to know. They named their town Mount Claddagh, in honor of County Claddagh back in Ireland. Like all Irish communities, Mount Claddagh was comprised of drunkards, hooligans and miscreants. These British-loathing miscreants took great umbrage at the stop sign outside their favorite pub, deciding that the red color signified British authority. One St. Patrick’s Day eve, liquored up on green beer and fermented potato juice, a handful of unnamed residents decided to paint the stop sign bright green. Town authorities replaced the sign, only to have the same prank played again…and again…and again. As the local police force was predominantly Irish, the vandals remained free. The sign painters became local heroes, and to this day the sign remains green, the only one of its kind in the nation.
The Mount Claddagh 4-Miler is a tough run, people, as it’s outrageously hilly. It’s also ridiculously fun. Where else can one run past a world famous green stop sign? And be offered beer at the water stops? And act on one’s deepest desire to dress as a leprechaun? This run offers several live bands, all of them playing Irish music. (While it’s a widely known fact that traditional Irish music will make you go gay, I do LOVE U2 and The Proclaimers. If “Cap in Hand” had been around two hundred years ago, those hooligan sign painters would have been painting Brits, not stop signs…and they would have used pickled cat feces, not green paint.)
The Mount Claddagh neighborhood is still predominantly Irish, and to the residents it’s like the Irish Potato Famine happened just last month. Shannon O’Race Director and Paddy McOrganizer are all about preventing another Great Famine (Jeesh – lighten up already, people. It was only 1.5 million deaths…and with such big families, who’s gonna miss a few here or there?), so runners were encouraged to bring a nonperishable food donation. You just KNOW that residents were hoping for some Guinness, instead. After picking up my race packet, I found tables overflowing with peanut butter, pasta and canned tuna. I proudly added my bushel of blighted potatoes.
J., L., Boy Moose and I all kicked some serious ass in this race, as we did not let the hills defeat us. Okay- perhaps I lie. I walked two times today, despite a mental pep talk wherein I THOUGHT I had convinced myself that I would run the whole thing, no matter how slow my pace might become. In my defense, those hills are BRUTAL…and I am a known pussy…a large, gaping one.
Here’s my stats:
31:06 (Interestingly enough, this is EXACTLY my finish time from last year…Okay – you’re right. That was frankly not that interesting.)
7:47 minute/mile
342/1,997 overall
51/971 females
6/120 age group
(Sigh…This, as promised, will be the last of the Rome posts. I guess this means that the vacation is over and that I should once again embrace my life as an asserole-brewing, Not-A-Botanist, freakishly tall MooseThang. Imagine my reluctance, because, frankly, it’s just not that glamorous.)
Mr. Moose and I had walked by both the Colosseum and the Roman Forum numerous times on our trip, but it was not until the last day that we paid both sites a formal visit. We went to the Colosseum first and were completely blown away. It is definitely colossal. And not even in terrible shape. I’m sure that the crew from Extreme Amphitheater Makeover could step right in and spruce it up in no time at all. But Ty Pennington would likely muck it all up by making some super tacky theme room with tridents and harpoons littering up the place. And that man-of-indeterminate-sexuality – Micheal? – would be all gaga thinking of loin-clothed burly gladiators, so they’d NEVER finish the project in just one week.
And speaking of gladiators, there are lots of faux ones loitering outside the Colosseum, ready to be photographed with stupid tourists. Mr. Moose and I declined because:
1) We are cheap bastards.
2) Most of them had seriously substandard costumes.
3) Gladiators scare me, almost more than clowns do.
The Colosseum itself was seriously impressive, and the artwork inside was nothing to sneeze at, either. They currently have a large exhibit of reclaimed artwork which had been stolen and smuggled out of the country. They seem to be a bit irked at the misappropriation of their art, which is rather ironic given the sheer number of Egyptian obelisks that we saw, oh, pretty much EVERYWHERE. I felt so ambivalent about the loss of their beloved cultural pieces that when I saw a burglary happen right under my nose, I said nothing. In fact, I cleared the way for the industrious thieves by shouting “Scusi! Prego! Prego!” and waving people aside. (NOTE: “Prego” is the all purpose Italian word meaning, among other things, “You’re welcome, “Let’s go”, “You’ve inadvertently impregnated me” and “Kindly let these art theives pass.” )
After leaving the Colosseum, we headed to the Roman Forum. Like most things in Rome, this way WAY, WAY, WAY bigger than I had ever imagined. I LOVED it here, as evidenced by my overuse of the “Caps Lock” function. The sheer amount of stuff absolutely blew my mind – there are columns everywhere, and carved marble and stone pieces just lie on the ground like beautiful, ancient debris.It blew my mind that it was not all meticulously catalogued and safely housed in a museum somewhere. It’s just lying on the ground, people, susceptible to the elements and to random lickings from crazed tourists.
After leaving the Roman Forum we visited the Musei Capitolini, the first public museum in the world. There’s lots and lots of fairly cool shit there, but you have to be willing to deal with the surly attitudes of the curators. Due to our lack of black fashionable clothes we were sneered at and required to produce our tickets time and time again. WTF? It was worth it, though, because we got to see the Lupa Capitolina, that poor mangy She Wolf who suckled Romulus and Remus. Mr. Moose was eager to suckle her, as well, but those curators never left us alone for an instant. Selfish bastards, saving all that wolf teat for themselves. At the Musei Capitolini, we also had the opportunity to see feet even bigger than mine . The feet are the remains of a statue of Constantine the Great, who clearly was a marathoner, because only 26.2 miles could make feet so ridiculously swollen. With feet that big, I sure wish they had his penis, too, but, alas, we only saw his head and a hand.
Okay, people, that pretty much sums up our trip to Rome, so THE END, already. Thanks for reading, especially to those of you who ordinarily just come here to read about my running disasters and mishaps. Next post will be about running, I promise. Some of you are non-running newcomers, though, who recently stumbled across my blog by searching “manwhore blood nipple” and “haired moose crotch”. Which begs the question – “What is WRONG with you people?”
