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I’m overwrought with jealousy right now. That’s because my friend M. is running a marathon tomorrow and I am not. Just thinking about all the sweat, ass funk, nipple chafe, calf cramping and misery that is being denied me makes me just a little bit sick inside.
J. could sense my pain and so for half a second we concocted this lame ass plan whereby we would drive for HOURS to surprise M., meeting her on the course at Mile 20 or so. We’d run in with M., thereby assuring that she couldn’t hog ALL of that sweet anguish for herself. This plan fell through, however, when J. remembered that I am a pathetic loser, cursed with both an inability to share the driving of her standard transmission vehicle and a reluctance to use my own jalopy, as the only thing that holds it together is an ancient, peeling “26.2″ bumper sticker.
I’m not kidding about the jealousy factor. It seems somehow wrong that M. and I will not be together for this, especially as she maintains that this will definitely be her last marathon ever. (I know – famous last words, right?) M. is the one who dragged me into this whole running nonsense. I was a contented, sedentary Veinessa-free individual before she moved in next door five years ago. Next thing I knew, I was happily agreeing to run a marathon with her, although I had NO idea how far an actual marathon WAS. We trained jogged about a bit from time to time while whining incessantly and somehow managed to complete our first marathon in a blistering 6:15:something. That’s a 14:19 pace in case you were wondering. Niiice.
Don’t feel too sad for M., though. While J. and I will be with her only in spirit, she has coerced strong-armed encouraged two new running buddies to take the marathon plunge. If I wasn’t so jealous, I might even feel sorry for them. Because, really, who stops after just one marathon? If you’re whacked enough to attempt a marathon, you’re usually whacked enough to keep at it until you BQ or shatter your knees, psyche and self-esteem in the attempt. Life as they know it is pretty much over.
Good luck tomorrow, M. and buddies ‘o M.!!!
Yearly mileage: 614
Today I ran my eighth 5K, and so I have now run an equal number of marathons and 5Ks. Dirty Little Secret: I am kind of an incompetent runner of shorter distances. I’d run one marathon, one 15K and two 10Ks before ever attempting the daunting challenge of a 5K.
It generally takes me a while to get into a groove, but with a 5K the run is over so quickly. Unlike with a marathon, I have no pace bracelet to guide me during a 5K - and I REALLY like pace bracelets. It’s not just that they make my wrist seem so slender and delicate, it’s that pace bracelets are just so much more stylish than my other jewelry, most of which is made of beglittered dried ziti and scratchy twine.
Also, marathon routes have porta-potties whereas at 5Ks one can generally just count on one’s own pants to serve as a fecal receptacle. Ergo, 5Ks suck.
Today, though, I was loving the 5K. It was one I’d never run before – the Macillus Memorial Day 5K. There were literally thousands of spectators, as the village of Macillus has a fairly huge parade immediately following the race. We started on this Norman Rockwell-esque road, with old people rocking on deep front porches, kids on piggy back waving American flags, and the high school band pounding out the patriotic tunes. I was feeling like a Great American Hero, let me tell you.
I ran hard while still in the village, determined to not get stuck behind the 14-minute miler fucktards, all of whom seem to travel in packs that are at least three abreast. Also, there was no chip for this run, so I needed to make good time the second the gun went off. When I spied some spectators with Silly String and pop rocks my speed increased dramatically. I am terrified of Pop ‘N Fresh canisters, electric outlets, light bulbs, fireworks and schnauzers so clearly Silly String scares me, too, and pop rocks really throw me over the edge. And I barely know what I’m talking about right now – Pop Rocks are those exploding candies which, while absolutely terrifying, are not at all what I mean. I want to call them “poppers” or “cappers” but the innerwebs says that poppers are illicit drugs, while “Cappers” is a magazine devoted to Great American Heroes. But even though I don’t know what the fuck they’re called, I DO know that they are small objects that future clock tower snipers like to throw on the ground right in front of good decent runner folk. When they hit the ground they make a loud and percussive noise, but not nearly as loud as the noise I make, which sounds something like this: “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OOOHHHHHH MYYYYYY GODDD!!!! WHAT THE FUCK??????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HEEEEEEEEEEELLPPPPPPPPP!!!!”
The terror which I was experiencing allowed my moosey hooves to carry me to the first mile marker in 6:45. This is WAY faster than I have ever run. WAY.
I saw Mr. Moose between Miles 1 and 2, and we exchanged antlers. I continued running for all I was worth, knowing that a PR was likely in the bag, and that an age group award was a distinct possibility.
I zoned out while crossing the finish line, so I missed the finish time on the clock. I didn’t, however, miss the douchebag behind me. Once past the finish line and in the chute, said douchebag poked me in the back and said “Keep walking”. Asshole!! Only Mr. Moose gets to poke me in the chute, and only then on anniversaries that occur during leap years. While I missed the clock time, I was wearing Vic, and He says I finished in
Wait – did you seriously think I’d tell you my finish time? After you neglected to post an estimated finish time in response to my last post? Ha! AS IF! Only Xenia played my reindeer games, estimating that I’d finish in 22:59. Apparently in this cruel, cruel world of running/blogging one can only count on the kind and municifent Xenia for feedback and encouragement. The rest of you vile bastards were probably off celebrating Memorial Day by watching parades or going on picnics or visiting the graves of loved ones who have passed. And clearly, NONE of those aformentioned lame-ass pastimes should even be considered until you have read, responded to and reread the blog of Loose Moose, Great American Hero. Duh.
So this is for Xenia only, and the rest of you reprobates better avert your gaze: I finished in 22:21!!! My previous PR, earned two years ago, was 23:15! I came in second in my age group and received a coupon for a large pizza. My number was also randomly picked in a raffle and I won a $10 McDonalds gift card. Am I not a Great American Hero?
Yearly mileage: 592
I’m running a 5K tomorrow, and I’ll be wearing these. They’re Asics GT – 2130, but you can not has because I got the very last pair from the clearance rack at Sports Authority. So boo-yah, suckah.
The GT-213o are replacing these here shoes: 
These are Asics Gel Kayano XI, and I beat the FUCK outta them. They were good, good shoes, but they now have about as much cushioning and give as my skeletal, meatless butt cheeks. The tread is nonexistent – it’s kinda like tissue paper with some odd chunks of road salt and dried dog crap thrown in.
See? Do you see? 
Both pairs are men’s shoes, of course, and size nines. Have I mentioned that I have GINORMOUS hooves? Well, I do. I’ve only had one pair of womens’ running shoes and they were Nike Air ‘N Sights. I lurved them because they were pink. But I hated them because, even at a size 11W they made me run like I had bound feet and bunions.
I’m hoping that the new Asics will propel me to 5K victory tomorrow, or at least to a PR. But all I’ve done is hope, because training is just so fucking tiresome. My 5K PR is 23:15, but that was nearly two years ago. My most recent 5K is 24:13.
Make a prediction, people. Just how fast do you think my meatless butt cheeks can carry me?
The daughter of my BFF got married yesterday. My amazing sister Weenie and I helped out the BFF the day before the blessed event by tying about a bajillion big white bows onto about a gajillion chair backs. We were measuring, cutting, tying FOOLS. I can totally see how the BFF would allow my sister to lend a hand, as Weenie – despite the cepuliar peculiar moniker - demonstrates hygienic and tidy characteristics. She is one attractive, well groomed, pleasant smelling Weenie. And then there is me.
Take one guess as to what I’d been doing immediately before meeting Weenie and the BFF. Yup – I was running…for MILES…in 86F heat. Mr. Moose had gone to Pollutadaga Lake Park to terrorrize some irradiated “fish”, and so I took the opportunity to run on the trails there. I managed ten miles at an 8:20 pace before leaving to go help the BFF. Now, I’m not COMPLETELY disgusting, and so I’d brought along a change of clothes. But I’m FAIRLY disgusting, and so I never even bothered with said clothes. Instead, I just showed up, sopping wet, heaving and stanking yelling, “Where am all that clean white tulle at?”
And somehow, in their wedding induced anxiety, neither the BFF nor the bridezmaidzillas even attempted to impose some basic rules of cleanliness upon me. You know, simple things like:
- You might want to wash up just a bit first, ‘kay Loose Moose?
- Ummm…a combination of BodyGlide, sunblock and sweat might not leave the most attractive residue on this here pristine tulle.
- Perhaps you didn’t hear me. Find some soap and water, already.
- For Christ’s sake, step away from the fucking tulle!!
- We repeat, STEP AWAY FROM THE TULLE.
- Tulle is NOT a sweat rag.
- Tulle is NOT a wash cloth.
- Tulle is definitely NOT toilet paper.
Nope, instead that silly BFF acted like it’s perfectly normal to accept assistance from the putrescently dripping. In no time at all, my funk had permeated the entire grand ballroom. Weenie was smart enough to stay downwind of me, while the bridezmaidzillaz busied themselves with arranging centerpieces. I surreptitiously used oddly cut pieces of tulle to scratch dried salt from my extremities. It felt nice – like sandpaper.
At the wedding the next day I tried to determine just how much I’d sullied the ballroom. The bows, however, looked great and all I could smell was calla lilies and wedding cake.
I should TOTALLY be a wedding planner.
Yearly mileage: 589
Be prepared for the attack of the Green Eyed Monster, people. Now ordinarily I realize that my charmed and magical life fills all those around me with envy, because - face it – don’t YOU wish you had a large , throbbing sentient vein/friend to keep you company?
And don’t YOU wish that your advanced and decrepit age was causing Aunt Flo to completely misbehave herself in your pants? So much so that it’s like the crotch panel of your underwear could easily be mistaken for a slaughterhouse floor? Only bloodier? And clottier?
And don’t YOU wish that when your husband lecherously said, “Nice rack, baby” he was talking about your imaginary antlers and not your chafed and battered bing cherry-sized ta-tas?
Well, be prepared for the jealousy level to quadruple, people, because May is MY month. As if my Mother’s Day haul wasn’t impressive enough, I now have the birthday haul. Behold in wonder:
- A Camelback insulated water bottle, courtesy of the ever-wonderful J. No more ancient, recycled Gatorade bottles!! I’ll probably miss the delicious taste of BPA from my water, but my internal organs will be thankful.
- Bolga running socks, also from J. Think she might be getting tired of smelling my putrescent Dollar Store sock funk?
- An Under Armour women’s tech shirt proclaiming “Athletes Run” from the now returned Girl Moose. (By Under Armour’s logic, can one then assume that refrigerators are athletes? And watches and noses and stockings? And the sphincters of the lactose intolerant? And politicians? And the French during WWII? Maybe they ARE all athletes – probably a Frigidaire or a semi-motivated sphincter could’ve qualified for Boston in fewer attempts than it took me.)
- A delicious Girl Moose created birthday cake frosted with the loveliest shade of bilirubin.
- A new iPod Shuffle from Mr. Moose and BoyMoose. Finally!! Welcome back, Gloria Gaynor and Spruce Bringsteen and Chixie Dicks!!
- Brownies, half moon cookies, a paper birthday crown and a funereal decorated work space from assorted fantastic colleagues.
- A Mr. Moose created card listing the top 40 reasons why I am the best moose ever. Number 29 literally made me swoon: “When you eat, you EAT – none of that girly nibbling and picking.” And Number 17 was quite romantic, as well: “You ma thex mooth….Uunngh!!!” He’s a sweet talker, that Mr. Moose.
Admit it – you’re bilirubin green with envy.
Yearly mileage: 574
I just returned from a surprise birthday party for my BFF. I was concerned that the surprise would be ruined when she noticed the myriad cars that were parked on both sides of the street near her house. Fortunately, though, she lives directly across the street from a funeral home, so she said later that she just assumed that someone had died. Mr. Moose kindly informed her that the only thing that had died was her youth. Bastard.
My BFF is now officially old - and I join her in decrepitude in just three short days. I’m moving up an age division, people, into that ultra competitive F40 – 45. And those bitches are faaast. It’s like they’re trying to outrun menopause or something.
My age is already showing, I guess. We stopped at Sports Authority on the way to the party so that I could acquire my new Mother’s Day running shoes. A very aggressive salesperson offered assistance, but looked completely bewildered when I told him I was looking for a decent running shoe. “Were you planning on using them for running?” he asked. Honest to God – he actually said that. As if I was SO old and feeble that he could not even imagine such a possibility. As if he could somehow smell my crumbling bones and weakening spine. And keep in mind that, as always, I was dressed in a way that all but screamed “I’m a crazy runner! Check me out!” - brightly colored shirt from a well known local 5K layered over a long sleeve marathon tech shirt. Apparently he thought I mugged an actual runner, perhaps abusing them with my walker or my hat pins until they relinquished their clothes.
I immediately wanted to Kick. His. Ass. But, alas, I could not. Had to make it back to The Home, of course, for my appointment with the iron lung.
Yearly mileage: 564
So guess what?
No, you’re wrong. Guess again.
Stiiiiillll wrong. I’ll give you one more guess. Don’t fuck it up this time. Guess! Go ahead!! GUESS!!
Damn. You really suck at this game. Okay – I’ll just tell you: I may have coerced two out of four moose siblings into running a five-miler with me this October!!! Two out of four, people!! And I might not know much about higher level mathematics like second grade fractions, but that’s sounding suspiciously close to half of all possible moose siblings! And, who knows – maybe the other two siblings will cave and then we’ll be up to participation levels of, like, one-third! Schweet. Seriously schweet.
Now it should be noted that none of the four sibs has ever expressed any interest whatsoever in running. None. One or more of them might not even run if being chased by herds of flaming syphilitic rhinos. The closest they come to the world of running is to occasionally attempt to locate my name in the sports section of the local paper in the days following large races – for the purpose of heckling me when my name does not appear. And then, in turn, to BE heckled by ME when I point out that they were looking me up according to my maiden name. But Mr. Moose and I have only been married for TWO DECADES now, so I guess it hasn’t yet sunk in that I no longer share their last name.
But the sedentary nature (and piss poor recognition of my married name) of the sibs is irrelevant. We just HAVE to do this, because it takes place in the neighborhood where we all grew up. And it starts and finishes at the high school that we ALL attended. And from which one or two of us even managed to eke out a diploma.
And I know that a five-miler is a bit long for a first run, but they can do it!!!
Well…SOME of them can do it…possibly. At any rate, it likely won’t kill ALL of the sibs. And it will bring the survivors closer together, yes? Yes.
We’re going all out, people. We’re talking matching shirts with the family name and crest. If nothing else, those matching shirts should make it easier for us to locate one another in the medical tent.
Yearly mileage: 546
Behold in wonder my glorious Mother’s Day haul:
- One (winning!) lottery ticket. I am now $10 richer, bitches, so it’s just a matter of time now before I quit my day job and take up full time training for the 2012 Olympics. Watch your back, Kara Goucher.
- One sweet Girl Moose created poem. She’s got rhythm, that lil’ moose of mine.
- One sweet Girl Moose created picture of yours truly. She used her mad ‘puter skills to somehow bedazzle a photograph of me. I now am sporting a crown and a sash which proclaims “#1 Mom!”. I’ve got a kick ass scepter, as well. I guess she used Photo Shop or some Paint program or something, but what the fuck do I know? At any rate, it’s amazingly cool. I wanted to put it on this here post, but Mr. Moose thinks you’ll saw my head off if I do. Which is stupid because – HELLO? – I have a scepter. And nobody’s dumb enough to mess with a besceptered moose – nobody.
- One Boy Moose created coupon reading “Happy Marmoset Day!! For the best of marms, a coupon redeemable for no less than TEN runs with her loving son.” Score! That silly ass Boy Moose never even included an expiration date! Or specified just how absurdly looooong the ten runs could be! So I’m thinking I could make him run an ultra a year with me for the next freakin’ DECADE. Mwa ha ha. And no – I have no earthly idea why he calls me “Marmoset” but it appears that we marms have our own theme song, so I’m good with it.
- One far too generous gift card from the Mr. Moose to…um…well…Gander Mountain. Yeah – that ginormous log cabin monstrosity where they sell guns and fishing rods. I was confused, given that the gift card was covered with pictures of things like rifles, fly rods, and animal carcasses. Seems that Mr. Moose mistook Mander Gountain for Dick’s. Dick’s is a great store – they sell all that macho shit, but they’ve got a great running section, too. It’s Dick’s I love, of course. (I know – sometimes I just make it faaar too easy for Glaven, huh?) Don’t worry, though. Mr. Moose is making the gift card situation right, so that I can procure new running bras and NOT taxidermy supplies.
Pretty sweet haul, huh? I totally deserve it, though. Did I ever tell you that collectively my moose calves weighed in at a whopping 17 pounds 9 ounces? My vajango was sore for, like, months.
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!!
Yearly mileage: 531
Dear Greedy, Selfish Library Patron,
You suck. And I hate you very much. Because each and every time I make it to the “good library” – the one NOT in Frostburrg – I get itty bitty butterflies in my stomach, so eager am I to acquire Runner’s World magazine. But somebody, namely YOU, Greedy Selfish Library Patron, always beats me to it. And so I walk away sad, dejected and bereft of sound running advice week after week after week. You are a bad, bad magazine hogging bastard.
And those “librarians” are no better because they allow this travesty to continue like it’s all okay!!! Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t librarians supposed to be supporters of learning, literacy and social justice? (Even this guy, I bet.) HA! These jokers deny ALL of us access to the most recent issue of Runner’s World, rudely splaying fluorescent “Not To be Checked Out” stickers all over the cover. And they are clearly in cahoots with Greedy Selfish Library Patron, because it seems just a leetle bit sketchy that he ALWAYS gets the most recent checkoutable issue before me. (And kindly fuck off because “checkoutable” is a word. A perfectly cromulent one, in fact.)
And it’s not like this “good library” is even conveniently located – oh, noooo. It would be amazing if I could acquire Runner’s World at the Frostburrg Public Library, but it, of course, only stocks automotive repair manuels for 1977 Chevy pickups, The Official Biography of Jeff Foxworthy, and myriad dogeared copies of “Mobile Home Monthly”. So Mr. Moose and I have to make a special trip, nearly to the big city, just to have our hopes and dreams shat upon time and time again.
And then, Greedy Selfish Library Patron, when I DO finally get my hands on an issue, I am never able to fully enjoy the experience. Because I just KNOW that you read this very magazine immediately after a hard 12-miler. And so you probably read it on the toilet while absentmindedly scratching your sweat soaked sac. ’Cause you’re dirty like that.
Greedy Selfish Library Patron, you suck.
Sincerely,
The Loose Moose
Yearly mileage: 522
Revere me as a god, people. Forsake all those other lesser “gods” like Jesus and Buddha and Allah because there’s no way any of those losers could have accomplished what I did at today’s Mount Misery 10-Miler. I PR’d by five and a half minutes, and won a medal besides. I’d like to see Buddha and his holy folds do THAT!
When I arrived at J.’s house this morning, she was looking pretty glamorous – makeup, earrings, no discernible food stains. “What gives?’ I asked. “Why aren’t you all scummed out?” J. informed me that her knee was acting up again, and that she would not be running the race. She’s a fabulous friend, though, so she went along anyway, providing my lazy, traffic-fearing ass with transportation to the big city. Thanks, J! If it wasn’t for you enabling me I might actually have to develop some competence and self-sufficiency…and that will never do!
I knew it was going to be a great day when we easily found a free parking space. We picked up our packets and chatted with a few friends, one of whom is the size of a Pixie Stick. She is SKINNY, and she always runs in full makeup. FULL MAKEUP! Upon first meeting her I made the silly assumption that I could beat her because - HELLO?! – who the hell wears eyeliner, mascara and blush while racing? Well, Pixie Stick does, that’s who. And even though she’s got eight years on me she kicks my ass quite handily each and every time we meet. And looks great while doing it. Did I say that she was my friend? Well, I lied. She’s J.’s friend. Any friend of mine would have the decency to at least sweat away some of the makeup. And to gain fifty pounds.
I experienced the typical “Fuck outta my way” dodging and darting in the early minutes of the race, running up on the sidewalks when possible to get around large clusters of 14-minute miler fucktards. After a bit, though, the route cleared and the only obstacle was my own dread of the upcoming hills. I settled into a comfortable enough not-quite-eight-minute mile pace, and the miles went by. The crowd and the support this year were phenomenal, kinda like a mini Boilermaker. I passed several live bands, some bagpipers and a performance involving a large Chinese dragon puppet. There were oodles of water stops, GU at Mile Five, and popsicle stops at Miles Six and Eight. I discovered my old boss around Mile Five. He was manning a water table, and I gave him the biggest, happiest, sweatiest hug ever. He pretended to not be revolted. I pretended to not notice that I’d triggered his gag reflex.
The hills were a bitch, but I ran up them all. At one point between Miles 6 – 7 I was passed by BoyMoose’s friend. I tried not to be too demoralized, as he’s an 18-year-old track star who has set more than a few school records. But I still wanted to hamstring him.
The last hill nearly did me in. It’s not the steepest hill in the race, but it comes at a time when you’re already praying for death. Somehow I made it up and knew that the end was in sight.
I crossed that finish line in 1:19:18, making me an official superhero. You may remember that last year medals were awarded to finishers coming in in under 60, 70 and 80 minutes, with special female medals for finish times under 90. I, of course, must suffer from penis envy as I REALLY, REALLY, REALLY wanted a “man medal”. Well, the medals were back this year and I got one! It is heavy and silver and gorgeous but no picture for you, because then you’d learn the real name of the Mount Misery 10-Miler. And armed with the data that’s forthcoming, you could then determine my true identity. And no good can ever come of that people. ‘Cause you’d probably steal my identity or saw my head off or something.
1:19:18
7:56 pace
492/1,918 total finishers
80/783 females
16/128 age group
Yearly mileage: 500
