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This damned global warming is completely fucking up my running. Here in Frostburgg, we set records for high temperatures both Saturday and today. It is currently 90 degrees out. NINETY!! This sucks for many reason, which, fortunately for you, I am more than happy to list:
1. There is no freaking way I can rewear ANY of my running clothes. They are completely saturated with Eau de Moose Funk.
2. Heat makes me slower than usual. Today I ran 3 whole miles at a pace of 8:13. Even before global warming, glaciers moved faster than this.
3. Hot weather seems to drive Frostburggians out of their trailer homes and on to their rickety porches. Whilst there, they enjoy staring slack jawed between bouts of tobaccy spittin’ and runner hecklin’. “Run, Forrest!” seems to be their favorite taunt.
4. There’s bajillions of punkies or no-see-ums or whatever you happen to call them in your neck of the woods. And they do not taste nearly as delicious as, say, Roctane GU. (Did you catch that, GU producers? See how you haven’t sent me free product in ages, but I’m still hawkin’ your stuff for you? And by “GU producers”, I do NOT mean you, Glaven. So for god’s sake do NOT send me your “product”.)
5. If this heat does not break by Sunday, I will most assuredly fail to PR at the Mount Misery 10-Miler. And I will also die.
Yearly Mileage: 477
‘Member Crary Gaig, the smarmy bastard responsible for this little gem: “I wonder how many carbon offsets I’m supposed to buy to cover the environmental impact of all this?”
Seems that living one’s life as a gas-wasting, endangered animal-eating, strip mining bastard really does pay off. This guy finished the Boston marathon in 3:06: 53. Jerk.
Which begs the question, “Just where the fuck is the Lorax when you need him?” ‘Cause a few strategically placed truffula trees might’ve slowed Crary down…especially if they were jammed up his planet-raping ass…sideways.
Even worse than Crary’s stellar finish time is the fact that the MarathonGuide age equivalent calculator says that Crary is way, way ,way faster than me. He’s a 49-year-old male and I’m a noneofyourfuckingbusiness-year-old moose, so my equivalent time would be 3:20. Yeah…As. If.
Maybe I don’t hate Mr. Gaig. Maybe I’m just extra cranky today because I had to skip the very last Mount Misery 10-Miler training run. I had to work. On a SATURDAY! On a SUNNY, 86F SATURDAY! Working on the weekends is as unusual in my job as a noneofyourfuckingbusiness as decent weather is here in Frostburgg. Hence my crankiness.
My original plan was to hit the track immediately after work, and so I arrived today dressed to run. My colleagues, however, did NOT. My outfit/Veinessa garnered many looks from my well dressed, internally-veined cohorts. Veinessa noticed their interest before I did, and began throbbing rhythmically.
Which is just great, ’cause I’ve always maintained that there’s nothing like obviously pulsating blood vessels to win you both the respect of your peers and career advancement.
Yearly mileage: 465
Something recently shat the bed in the ol’ Moose Cave and I’m pleased to say that it was NOT me…or Mr. Moose. (I only shit my running shorts, of course, and Mr. Moose has fairly decent rectal control – he rarely shits anything.) No, it’s my stoopid, stoopid iPod Shuffle.
While my iPod still plays muzak, one can hardly apply the word “shuffle” any longer. For the longest time, said iPod would play U2…ONLY U2…again and again and again. I found myself screaming “Bloody wanker!” each time I heard Bono’s voice. I began actively longing for continued oppression in Ireland, a surge in global warming, and a dramatic escalation in world poverty. “Screw you, Bono, and all your “causes”! If I hear “Sunday, Bloody Sunday” one more time I’m gonna meat punch the nearest mick, even if I have to drive all the way to Joisey to do it.” (Be afraid, Glaven. Be very afraid.)
The U2 is gone now, though, having been replaced by artists beginning with “B”. We have Billy Idol, followed by the Bobs – Dylan, Marley and Seger. We then have some Boston, followed by Bruce. This is an improvement, in that there is at least a bit more variety. But the vast majority of my songs are still inaccessible to me. I suppose it’s my own fault – if I ran long enough I imagine that I’d eventually cover the letters C- Z. But that means that I’d have to listen to U2 again, and I’m just not ready to go there quite yet.
My birthday’s fast approaching, people. If all of my faithful readers each kicked in a buck, we’d have…
shit…eleven measly dollars. Never mind.
Yearly mileage: 456
Girl Moose has been on thin ice ever since she abandoned us back in August to attend the State University of Just Far Enough Away To Dissuade Regular Parental Visits. I had been fully prepared to home school that moose calf through her college and post-graduate years, but NOOOOO, that wasn’t quite good enough. Seems SOME people like to leave the Moose Cave and earn a REAL degree, rather then a construction paper one embellished with glitter stickers and signed by their mom. Traitorous moose calf.
The healing began in earnest today, though. Girl Moose sent me the following e-mail:
“The Americans sucked at Boston today. You better run it next year and show ‘em how it’s done.”
Don’t I have the smartest Girl Moose EVAH? One who recognizes that my skills are, indeed, far superior to those of Kara Goucher and Ryan Hall? 2:32:25, Kara? Really? Hang your head in shame. And 2:09:40, Ryan? Daaamn. Why, you barely averaged a five-minute mile!!
These dismal finish times lead me to believe that Kara and Ryan’s mothers must’ve home schooled them for gym class.
J. and I are LOVING our weekly Mount Misery 10-Miler training runs. They take place in the big city, which is kind of a drag, but J. can parallel park like nobody’s business so it all works out. Yesterday she easily maneuvered her vehicle into a space that was much, much smaller than my mailbox. And like all good passengers, I admirably did MY part as well – by wincing, grabbing the dashboard, and whimpering “Not gonna make it! REALLY, really not gonna make it!” J. is an excellent driver.
So yesterday I ran my fastest 10 miler EVAH! And I know I said that last week, too, but it’s true. I finished the course in 1:21 something, and I have not stopped patting myself on the back since. (And also on the front, too, but only in moments of extreme sexual urgency.) I realize that’s only an 8:10 pace but cut me some slack, people – this course is MOUNTAINOUS!! If I wasn’t such a technotard I would add the course elevation profile to this here blog post, and you would immediately send to Frostburgg all the oxygen tanks, sherpas and mountain climbing gear you could assemble. Or else you’d just cackle at the thought of me slowly and painfully succumbing to hypobaropathy. Whichever.
The actual race is in two more weeks. If all goes well, I should be even better than the 1:21 that I did yesterday. That’s because yesterday I had two unwanted guests tagging along – Aunt Flo and Cousin Paddy. You just KNOW that those two bloody tagalongs take a lot out of me – I feel tired, drained and strangely anemic whenever they visit. Without their presence, I’m hoping to come in under 1:20, thereby earning myself a completely imaginary bronze “man” medal. (This bears some explanation, I guess. Last year marked the 25th anniversary of the Mount Misery10-miler, and race directors presented special medals to finishers: gold for finish times under 60 minutes, silver for under 70 and bronze for under 80. The beeyatches, this one included, got all uppity at this, and so female finishers were also awarded medals for finish times under 90 minutes. Said medals will NOT be presented this year, but I’m still wild with excitement over the thought that I am sooooo close to winning a highly coveted bronze medal. Iwant that nonexistent bronze man medal, people, in the worst way.)
Yearly mileage: 445
Wanna have a great big ol’ belly laugh? The kind that leaves you doubled over and gasping for air? The kind of laugh that just goes ON and ON and ON and ON, leaving you with painful cheeks and splitting sides? Than you DEFINITELY need to watch the craptastic, dogcentric film ”Marley and Me”. My sister Weenie lent me this movie, and her new hubby R. solemnly cautioned, “You will cry. You’d have to be totally heartless to not cry at the end of this film.”
R. is a bit befuckulated, and should step away from the bong. This movie will make you cry only if you are a known pussy AND you are being flayed alive by a cereal serial killer whilst watching it. If both of these aforementioned conditions do not apply then you will likely respond just like we moose did – not with pussy tears but with gales of appreciative laughter.
Because – HELLO?! – a bad, bad dog gets put down by his agonized, miserable owners and what could be more heartwarming than that, I ask you? I don’t know which is more amusing – the thought of the three grief stricken children at home who are mourning the loss of their beloved pet, or the fact that this is all based on a true story. A true story, people! Meaning that the runners who live in Marley’s neighborhood can finally stop running with antifreeze saturated Pupperoni treats in their fuel belts.
True story:Mr. Moose and I were at the grocery store today purchasing moose-y essentials like broccoli, swai (our new favorite fish – simply delish), Kellogg’s Corn Pops and mint chocolate chips (Warning: Do NOT attempt to combine the aforementioned ingredients to create a casserole. Such attempts are immoral if not illegal, and will result in flatulence, greasy discharge and/or death) when we overheard the cashier pose the following question to a bewildered customer:
“Would you care to donate a dollar today to help prevent the spread of child support?”
Yeah…somehow that befuckulated cashier has confused the concept of child support with child abuse. Or maybe my local Price Chopper really does take umbrage at the thought of noncustodial parents having to spend their hard earned bucks on their actual offspring when they could be spending it instead on broccoli, swai, Corn Pops and mint chocolate chips.
Yet another true story:We visited my sister, Weenie, today, and marveled at her new workout room. Said room contains hand weights, Turbo Jam DVDs (M. and I have lusted for Turbo Jam for many years now. Will we NEVER be invited to the freakin’ “Ab Party?” GAWD!!), and a giant inflatable penis. Yup – a penis. I actually saw one just like it at the last bachelorette party I attended. Weenie insists that HER penis works just like one of the large stability balls, but I’m not so sure. She demonstrated by halfheartedly placing it at the small of her back while simulating sit ups, but this resembled the intro to a nasty buttsex porno, rather than a legitimate exercise routine. Poor confused Weenie.
Still a third true story, every bit as dull as the first two: Mr. Moose bought cork today, cut it into strips and hung it in my office. Said office previously had just one six foot long strip of cork which held ALL of my old race bibs. Said strip was rather crowded. Now I have LOTS of room to display all of my bibs. I might just need to borrow Weenie’s “exercise” penis to show Mr. Moose just how appreciative I truly am.
Yearly Mileage: 428
So I’m checking out the ol’ message board over at Runner’s World, with a particular emphasis on the Boston board, as this has been on my mind as of late. And, NO, I am not regretting my decision to not run Boston…I’m just doing some, uh, reconnaissance, yeah, that’s it.
One topic immediately piques my interest: “How much will you be spending to run the Boston Marathon?” And the typical response just floors me, people. Because it was my understanding that the country was in the midst of an economic crisis – a crisis of such epic proportions that even the freakin’ Easter Rabbit has been forced to cut back on his distribution of higher end treats like Cadbury Cream Eggs. So how the fuck can soooo many people just casually admit to dropping $2,000 to run this race? TWO THOUSAND SMACKERS??!! Consider me indignant, people. I have little tolerance for people gifted with both speed AND money. Rotton bastards probably got gold plated baskets full of Cadbury Cream Eggs, too.
One dude really pisses me off. Referring to his plane ride and car rental, CraryGaig jokingly asks, “I wonder how many carbon offsets I’m supposed to buy to cover the environmental impact of all this? 
“ Smarmy bastard. Smary planet raping bastard. Smarmy endangered animal-killing, oil-drilling, strip-mining, clear-cutting, Bush-voting BASTARD!!
Crary’s blatant disregard for the environment enrages me, as does his ability to make a raspberry-blowing emoticon. This man is faster, richer and more technologically savvy than I am. And so here’s hoping that he has the burning, raging shits from Hopkinton to Boston. I mean the REALLY messy kind, people, where recognizable food chunks fall out the leg holes of his shorts, and a greasy residue stains his upper thighs. Let’s hope, too, that there is absolutely NO toilet paper or water to aid in his clean up, as Crary and his ilk seem hell bent on utterly obliterating all resources. Oh, he’ll make the girls of Wellesley shriek, alright.
Yearly mileage: 417
The Easter Rabbit made only the briefest and lamest of visits this year. I received NO Cadbury Cream Eggs, NO Peeps and NO Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs. WTF, Easter Rabbit? What did I do to incur your considerable bunny wrath? And fuck you anyway, as I happen to possess a pretty fabulous recipe for Rabbit Tarragon that you DO NOT want me trying out. I DID receive some jelly beans, but they held my attention just long enough to pick out and devour all the black ones. I also went “nom nom nom” all over two chocolate bunnies, but I just got the ears while Mr. Moose got the more desirable genital region. Selfish bunny-genital nomming bastard.
Before you start feeling TOO sorry for me, though, I should admit that I consumed nearly an entire ham. It was large, it was delicious and it was spiral sliced. For a brief time, I considered this ham to be the perfect post-run food. It provided me with muscle building protein after my hard hilly ten miler on Saturday. It was chock full of tasty salty goodness. I LOVED this ham.
And then it turned on me. I now have a crazy nauseous stomach. And bowels full of greasy ham residue. My burps are fairly delicious, however.
In other news, I have registered for the Boilermaker. I lurve this race, almost as much as I lurve black jelly beans. It’s the biggest 15K in the US, and if you’re not running it this year you’re likely a giant loser. I’ve run it three times now and it really is an amazing experience – hordes of cheering spectators throughout the entire course, huge prize money which draws world famous elite runners, dozens of live bands throughout the course, Popsicle and beer stops beside the typical water stops, and a kick ass party complete with fireworks at the end. Also, someone seems to drop dead during this race each year. And so far it’s never been me, so THAT’S good.
And in still other news, I just realized that my last post was my hundredth since the start of this here blog. And not ONE of you bastards mentioned this noteworthy event. So don’t be too surprised to find a pile of steaming ham vomit when you least expect it.
Yearly mileage: 411
Bright and early yesterday morning, J. and I made the drive into the big city for our weekly training run for the upcoming Mount Misery 10-Miler. By “made the drive in”, of course, I mean that I parked my vehicle in J.’s driveway, transferred my slovenly ass into her car and happily began my reign as the world’s most passive passenger. My contribution to J. for the fuel/wear and tear on her vehicle/responsibility for driving each and every week? Pretty much nil. Although I do occasionally compensate her with the gift of sweaty ass juice which I so generously leave in her front seat after our runs – but only if I’m feeling especially magnanimous.
J.’s kind nature earns her more than my sweaty ass juice. Each and every week she amazes me by collecting hordes of new friends. These are people whom she has NEVER met before, and yet by run’s end they’re all BFFs. She can tell you their childrens’ names, their race PRs, the girth of their husbands’ penises and the consistency of their last bowel movements. I, for my part, collect no friends but plenty of anecdotal tidbits which fill me with hostility. That’s because I speak to no one, but I eavesdrop shamelessly. I know, for instance, that the short brunette in front of me is on her fourth new pair of running shoes this year. And so I mentally name her “Princess”. J. would have eagerly befriended Princess and invited her for dinner that very night. I, however, just want to solidly beat Princess about the head and neck with all her excess shoes and give her a stern talking to about her ridiculous sense of entitlement …and maybe wipe some sweaty ass juice on her.
All this animosity resulted in a decent finish time yesterday. I ran the full ten miles, rather than the 7.4 course that the volunteers had set up for us. This was a sudden decision on my part. One mile in, I saw a few random runners head right while the rest of the masses went straight. I figured those turning right were the “exceptional” runners, by which I mean exceptionally stupid and NOT exceptionally fast. Still, though, I get absurdly jealous when others are suffering more than I am, and so I followed them. And spent the remaining time gasping for air and cursing myself wildly.
I finished in 1:24:54 which is not terribly craptastic for me, given the mountainous nature of the course. (I was not kidding last week when I wrote that only mountain goats and Tibetan monks live up there – and even they need supplemental oxygen.) My finish time on this course last year was 1:24:25, so I’m thinking I might just PR this year.
The bad news is that J. can’t make the training run next Saturday. I better find out where Princess lives, as I’m fully prepared to trade my ass funk for a ride.
Yearly mileage: 404
