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Glaven’s been busy lately, and not just scratching/grooming/conversing with his scrotal sac – although I’m sure that these activities still do constitute a large portion of his time. When he can tear himself away from his own n*ts@ck, he’s been creating all sorts of kick ass creatures like the “Bearsharktopus” and the “Mooselobsterguana.” He’s taking the strongest, most defining characteristic of three creatures and melding them into one SuperCreature. And I would like me some of that. Because if Glaven used his powers for good, and also remembered that it is a RUNNING blog that he is writing, then he could create a SuperRunner.
Said runner would have:
- Oscar Pistorious’ “bouncy question mark legs” (direct quote from teh Boy Moose, who feared that our ridonculously unsafe lawn mower would sever his legs, which would then have to be placed by steel legs resembling punctuation marks. As if I would EVER spring for such expensive prosthetics. Hello!? Boy Moose?!? Roll yourself about on a used skateboard, why don’t ya? That way you’ll be much closer to the grass which you will STILL be required to mow. HA! )
- Semenya Caster’s ambiguous genitalia. (I include ”ambiguous genitalia” only because this phrase brings huge numbers of perverts to this blog. You know who you are.)
- My sweaty, giddy, shit eating “OhMyGodI JustThisSecondQualifiedForBoston!!!” grin.
Yeah…That would be the grin in question. And it’s still there, even though I BQ’d nearly a year ago. I’m also still wearing that medal. It’s turned my chest green and rancid but I frankly don’t care.
I’m running a 4-miler this afternoon and I’m thinking I could use me some bouncy question mark legs. Also some man junk and a big stoopid, BQ grin. That’s because the weather today is completely harksucktic. It’s chilly and it’s POURING. I’m already registered, though, and as the cheapest person in North America this means that I MUST run. My best 4-miler finish time is 31:06 at the Mount Claddagh Run. But I mighta been dressed as a leprechaun for that one. And I mighta had some green beer at a water stop or two. So I’m hoping to do better than that today. I’d LOVE to do 30:00, what with my love of whole numbers, but I guess I could live with a 29:59 as well.
Jeesh, Glaven. The sign clearly reads “Women Only”. And is that Needledick in the blue? Despite your ”impeccably groomed” nutsack and Needle’s freakishly undersized penis, I’m thinking you both are very nearly men, and so this might not be the race for you.
And don’t get all vengeful over this attack on your “manhood”, lest I arrange for my Mooselobsterguana to defile your Bearsharktopus in a violent but sexually interesting manner. You do NOT want that to happen.
Wanna know the secret to a sweet new PR? It’s simple: Stop running so damned much. I’ve PR’d the past two weekends in a row, and I did it all by being a lazy ass, two-days-in-a-row-taking-off, nearly comatose slob. In the days leading up to a race, I’ve now decided to conduct myself in a sloth-like fashion, moving only when it is absolutely imperative. I no longer cover my mouth when I sneeze nor do I wipe my own ass. And I certainly don’t run. All I do is hoard glycogen - I REEEEALLY like glycogen.
My days of sloth-like indolence have allowed me to store up quite a bit of my good friend, Glycogen. Yesterday Glycogen and I lined up at the start line of the Firefighter’s 5K, and I felt SO excited to have not already blown my precious, limited wad on any trivial, energy-sucking activities like showering, grooming or attaching my own race chip. (Thanks, Mr. Moose and Weenie, both for attaching my chip and for quelling your gag reflex when assaulted by my obnoxious, unwashed stank. Generally, we runners stink AFTER the race, but I like to get a jump on things.)
This race raises money for the burn unit of a local hospital, and large numbers of local fire fighters are among the participants. Said firefighters were mostly male, young and fit looking, but I knew I’d chick the majority of them, because – Guess what? – those dumbass firefighters NEVER hoard their glycogen. Instead, they’re always squandering it as they rescue terrified toddlers from burning buildings. Those fools.
There was no start mat, so I jockeyed for position as near to the front as I dared. One runner, all decked out in racing duds from a snobby local track club, looked me up and down and asked, “What time are you gonna do?” I responded, fingers crossed optimistically, “Twenty-two: thirty?” He replied, “Okay. Looks like you and I will be together.” I smiled politely, but made plans to chick his snooty ass as quickly as possible.
As the gun went off, Mr. Moose and my awesome sister Weenie screamed, “Go, Moose!” Generally, I would flash them some antlers at this point, but my upper body was still in glycogen-hoarding mode, so I ignored them completely. Besides, they’d already attached my race chip and been immersed in my stench, so I’d no need for them any longer.
I ran HARD the whole entire race, reaching the first mile marker at 6:53. I swear I didn’t even know I had that in me. The first water stop came between Mile 1 and Mile 2, and I managed to take in a few drops of water, but mostly I just spilled it all over myself. There were five women ahead of me, and I recognized four of them as well known speed demons in the local running community. The other woman was unfamiliar to me, but she was handily kicking my ass. I’m certain she has a peen. I decided to concentrate on Snooty Track Club Man, who was never more than twenty feet in front of me.
The course was completely and totally flat, and given my split at the first mile marker I began to consider the possibility that I could PR. I picked up the pace, and caught up to Snooty Man. Vic beeped to mark the third mile, and I passed Snooty Man. Ha! Should’ve been hoarding glycogen instead of stocks and T-bills, Mister!
As we turned the last corner I ran for all I was worth, searching the crowd for Weenie and Mr. Moose. I looked at the clock and saw 21:something. I ran even harder, determined to get in before it hit 22:00.
I crossed the finish line in 21:52, chanting to myself “Yes!” Yes! Yes!!” and promptly collapsed on the ground. A new PR by 23 seconds!! Weenie and Mr. Moose came over and congratulated me, and then Weenie started spouting some nonsense about blowing out birthday candles. But there wasn’t a cake to be seen. And my birthday is MONTHS away. Apparently she wanted me breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth.
Yeah…as if. I continued to huff and puff and wheeze and strain, but Weenie soon let me be, concentrating, instead, on the vomiting man. Sir Pukes-a-Lot was dry heaving all over the place. Mostly, people left him alone as this is a common enough occurrence at many races. Eventually a paramedic came to his aid. By now, I was breathing somewhat normally, but Weenie was completely distraught and agitated. “What is WRONG with you people?” she demanded. “Look what you’re DOING to yourselves!!
“Oh, but it’s fun”, I told her, “especially when you stop.” Weenie seemed skeptical, making me think that our October 5-miler neighborhood run is not a certainty. In the time it took me to limp over to the banana/bagel table Mr. Moose and Weenie came to the conclusion that we runners are all fucktarded. They might just be right.
We cheered on some runners, and Weenie mostly followed my example of “Looking good!” “Way to hustle!” and “You got it!” She did add one of her own, though, in response to seeing a young, shirtless firefighter with chiseled abs: “Nice body!!!!!!!!!!” Freakin’ sexual predators – they’re everywhere. And sometimes they’re your sister.
After the race we visited my brother and sister-in-law and their scary ass pit bull/lab mix. This dog TERRIFIES me. When she bolted out of the house to greet us, I used my last bit of glycogen to dart back in the car and slam the door. Eventually I warmed up to the dog, though, and we became great, good friends. She even french kissed me before we left. I think it was her way of saying, “Congratulations, Loose Moose!! Sweet PR.”
21:52
7:03 pace
28/180 overall
6/66 females
1/10 age group
If my giant toothy smile doesn't let you know I'm happy, then that impertinent left nipple should. Also, please pretend that you do not see my muffin top. I do crunches everyday, I swear. I just eat a lot of chocolate. And string cheese. Also Doritos. Stop judging me!!!
I ran Teh Apple Cider 5K this morning, people, and I PR’d!!! And I know a good writer wouldn’t just blurt it out quite like that. She’d actually try to tell a story first, with – call me crazy here – a bit of substance and maybe a detail or two. She’d work up to things, and make an effort to build some suspense. But I’m too excited to employ any of those dastardly, writerly tricks because guess what? I PR’D!!!!!!
This is a rather small 5K, and because it’s in the community where I work I know about a gajillion people who either run it or volunteer. This can be good (“Hey! Good to see ya, colleague o’ mine! Let’s do lunch sometime this week and catch up“) or bad (“Hey! That’s not MY feces leaking down the back of my thigh! I’ve no idea how THAT got there. Let’s never speak of this again. Particularly at the company Christmas party.”) One of my coworkers, Smebbie, is really, really speedy and when I see her pull into the parking lot, my antlers droop in despair. I’ve only beat her twice, and both times it felt like a fluke. She’s definitely going to pone me today. “You should really get outta here,” I tell her. “I think I smell your house burning. Yeah…and isn’t that your child screaming? Go on now – get.” Smebbie’s husband laughs and says, “Show some confidence.” I calmly tell him that I am confident his wife will beat me.
We take off and it’s not too long before it’s Smebbie, me and about six or eight guys out in front. I stay neck and neck with Smebbie for awhile, determined not to run too fast, only to then burn out later. Smebbie’s running fast, but not REALLY fast, though, and so I tentatively take the lead a bit before the first mile. I hit the first mile marker at 7:03, and am absolutely STUNNED to be running with just guys. “I’m the first female!” I think to myself, and I immediately begin fantasizing about coming in in the top three overall. I’ve somehow scored several age group awards, but NEVER have I been in the top three. “Today’s my day!” I think to myself, as if there aren’t still 2.1 miles to run.
Today is, indeed, my day, though, because those 2.1 miles were hard but manageable. (That’s what she said.) I see Husband o’ Smebbie at a water stop half way through and manage to grunt out “Where’s your wife?” “You’re ahead of her”, he yells back. Once I turn the corner and look back I see that I am actually quite a bit ahead of her. I’m not even sure how this is possible. Smebbie must be sickly. Or worried about her burning children. I continue on, occasionally chicking a guy or two.
The run ends with one lap around the high school track. Just before the track, a group of high school volunteers yells, “Yay! You’re the very first girl!” Girl? GIRL??!! Hello?!! I briefly consider stopping, and subjecting them to an angry feminist rant . I continue on, though, consumed with trophy lust. (I now feel as if I’ve doomed them to an unenlightened fate of shirt-ironing, potato-peeling, young-bearing misery. But fuck it - did I mention that I REALLY wanted a trophy?)
I see Husband o’ Smebbie again, and he playfully sticks out his leg as if to trip me. I forgive him, though, because on a long run a year ago when I shamefully divulged my dog phobia, he calmly showed me his dog repellent. And his knife. And I somehow managed to blog about that while including the phrase “horse jism”. Yup – It’s a rare and perverse talent that I possess.
I finish around 22:15 and then promptly collapse on the football field. My previous 5K PR is 22:23, so I’m pretty freaking excited. And did I mention that I WAS THE FIRST FEMALE??!!! As in, not one single person with a ute crossed the line before me. YES!!
Afterwards J., V., L. and I all stand around in the rain like small fucktarded children whilst waiting for the award ceremony. We cheer wildly for the first place male, who finished in 18:something and the second and third place males who both finished in 20:something. They collect their ENORMOUS, super tacky trophies. The trophies have marble bases, and they are red and gold with a large plastic apple on top – seriously trashtastic, and yet I can not WAIT to get my hands on one.
However, when they call the first place overall female, it is NOT my name that they call. WTF? I’m really confused and disappointed but too embarrassed to say a word. Before L. and J. can go up there and kick some serious ass on my behalf someone yells out, “That’s not a female. That’s a guy.” Semenya Castor, anyone? What a mess. Because now the guy who had just collected the third place trophy was stripped of it and it was presented, instead, to the person who they had originally thought was the first place female. Both parties looked a bit horrified. I eventually got my trophy, but not without witnessing LOTS of errors: Someone other than Smebbie was called as the second place overall female – I still don’t know how THAT happened – and there was just rampant gender confusion all around. Which is why one should never name one’s child Jamie, Shannon, Jordan, Hunter, Alex or Riley. Or Semenya, for that matter.
Official stats aren’t up yet, which is no surprise given the general cluster-fuckedness of the whole timing fiasco. But a 22:15 finish is about a 7:10 pace, so I’m ridiculously happy. This also makes me happy : My trashtastic trophy is SO enormous (20″ of tackiness to be precise!) that I had to disassemble it to fit it on the office shelves with my other treasures!! It totally kicks the ass of my one other trophy, which is a mere 8″ high and has a loser pumpkin atop, rather than a glorious plastic apple. I generally don’t discriminate against fall produce, nor am I a size queen, but…
Yearly mileage: 1,011
Happy Labor Day. I’m not off toiling for The Teh Man today, so after I thanked the Wobblies and sang a rousing rendition of “Pie in the Sky” , I laced up my shoes and hit the road.
Yesterday my yearly mileage was at 993, so of course, I HAD to do seven today. My OCD would not have it any other way. I did seven uneventful miles in 56:55, and I’ve been inordinately pleased with myself ever since. I’ve run one thousand miles this year! And since today is the 250th day of the year, that means I’ve run an average of …um…yeah….er….I don’t exactly know. That’s real hard math, right there. Check back later.
Okay, some fancy schmany online calculator just informed me that 1,000 divided by 250 equals four. So I’ve run an average of four miles each and every day. Well, now I’m less than impressed. And I’m also embarrassed by my lack of proficiency in the field of mathematics. I’d like to think that school children of today will demonstrate stronger math skills than my own. But, that seems impossible, what with President Obama robbing them of their math class tomorrow to spread his socialist agenda. I’m thinking that guy just might be a Wobbly.
In other news, MY HAT IS BACK!!!! I’m referring, of course, to my best good running hat, the one I got when I ran the one and only 50K I’ve ever run. This is a magical hat, people, and I mourned and grieved when it turned up missing a few months back. Because not only does it fit perfectly, but it also contains some serious mojo. Everytime I put that hat on I feel like a bad ass. Very few runners ran that event, and many of those who did were from Canadia or from out of state. So when I wear it out and about it usually generates a comment or two. And because it says ” 50K/ 100K ” , some people make the assumption that it was the 100K that I ran. I do not disabuse them of this notion.
Yearly Mileage: 1,000!!!!
Oh. My. GAWD!!! I can just see all the MallWart shoppers trampling one another in their frenzy to grab this doll if when it becomes the “must-have” Christmas gift this year. Is it just me, or is this probably not the most wholesome toy choice out there? Although it’s STILL better than any Barbie or Bratz doll on the market, because at least she doesn’t have collagen inflated lips and camel toe.
True Story: Teh Girl Moose had a deprived girlhood, in that Barbie was banned from our home. Except for WNBA Barbie, because even though she still looked like a filthy $20 blow job whoo-wer at least she displayed some athleticism.
This has GOT to be a joke. Someone please tell me that this a hoax. Someone? Anyone?
Bart Yasso is a madman, and I’ll tell you why. He’s out there all, “Hey, people! How’s about you run ten 800s? It’s a really great workout, and a fairly accurate predictor of your marathon finish time. Wanna run a 3:45 marathon? Run 800s at 3:45! Simple as that.” And then he says, in his oh-soYasso-esque way, “And while you’re at it, eat my running shorts!”
Oh, wait. I might be thinking of Bart Simpson here and not Bart Yasso. Which is quite the relief, because I’d WAY rather ingest the cute, blue shorts of an animated ten-year-old, then the befouled ball-stank shorts of a bald, sweaty runner. Any day.
Yasso’s advice seems sound, but is not nearly that simple, of course. Because if one regularly did Yasso 800s they’d just up and DIE before ever making it to the start line. Also, I’m pretty certain that the Geneva Convention prohibits torture, so I’m not even sure how ol’ Bart is getting away with dispensing this advice. And, for the REAL icing on the cake, the man has really atrocious handwriting.
I’m not quite sure WHAT that sign says, but it looks like “Navel Lint something-something Can Take You.” Which is just GREAT, because now I must add navel lint to my already ridiculously long list of phobias. Navel lint can take me??!! Where??? And what will it do with me once it has me? Does it bite? AAAHHH!!!! Thanks a LOT, Bart.
I did ten 800s today, and I ran for all I was worth. I ran as if the biggest, funkiest, deadliest ball of navel lint was right on my tail, ready to envelope me in its revolting embrace. And this was all I had:
3:20, 3:22, 3:24, 3:26, 3:28, 3:32, 3:23, 3:26, 3:28, 3:23
Can you tell right when I got seriously pissed off? Yup, it was right after that sixth 800. Because prior to that I’d been slowing down exactly 2 seconds each 800, and while that wasn’t ideal, I could live with it. So I’d expected to finish the sixth 800 in 3:30. 3:32, indeed! WTF? I’m thinking that my “recovery” 400s were doing NOTHING in the way of recovery. I started each new 800 still heaving and exhausted from the one before. After the sixth one, though, I started walking/very, very slow jogging the 400 recovery lap, and it made a huge difference. It’s probably cheating, according to the Yasso 800 formula, but should I REALLY be strictly adhering to the advice of a man who allies himself with terroristic navel lint? Yeah, I didn’t think so, either.
Yearly Mileage: 987
So I learned today that an inaugural IronMan 70.3 triathlon event will be occurring in the not-so-far-from-Frostburgg vicinity this time next year. Apparently this is a very big deal, as the event is a qualifier for the Iron Man World Championship in Clearwater, Florida. Well, la di da.
Now I know I told Mr. Moose that my marathoning days were over, but I don’t recall making any such promises regarding triathlons. So for half a second I seriously considered it. Even though I have no bike or helmet. Or wetsuit or natural buoyancy. Or knowledge of the very, very strange world of triathlons.
And then I happened to notice the Iron Man registration fee and I haven’t stopped sputtering since. $250, people!!! TWO HUNDRED FIFTY DOLLARS!!!!!WTF? Now I realize that running is not exactly an affordable pursuit, but I could register for four marathons for that price. Or sixteen 5Ks. I could buy enough Body Glide to cover my entire body, and enough Gu to keep me going for years. Two hundred fifty dollars? Gawd.
I’m a notorious cheap ass, and I generally can find a frugal way to accomplish most tasks. My first marathon?
- Ran it on $12 shoes from PayLess. (Um? Ouch.)
- Had no tech shirt so I wore the race shirt. (Yes, I know – I’m a real douche.)
- Mooched accommodations from M.’s amazingly kind in-laws. (Love that southern hospitality.)
These cheap ass moves resulted in me spending far, far less on the marathon than did the typical participant. So I’m sure that there are ways to make a triathlon somewhat more affordable, as well. Like I could eschew a wetsuit and just wear Barbie inflatable arm floaties. And who needs one of those fancy racing bikes when there’s a perfectly good 3-speed for sale at my neighbor’s yard sale? It’s even got a great big metal basket to hold all my GU. Wait a second! Did I say “GU”? That shit’s expensive. I guess I’ll just fill my basket with scratch and dent canned goods, instead.
So, yeah, I could cut some corners here and there but the fact remains – $250!! How the hell do you triathletes do it? Keith posted today about his registration for an Iron Man event in Canadia: “I have to admit the IM corporation is very efficient at extracting money from your credit card. $603.50 later, and I AM SIGNED UP FOR IMC 2010!”
Keith must be loaded. Or he could be if he didn’t waste all his money on tris. ’Cause even though he’s only paying in rainbow colored funny money, that is still not chump change. (I’m thinking that Keith has no idea how many sex toys could be procured for $603.50 or he might be making different spending choices. Hint- A LOT, Keith, a LOT.)
So that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I’m not too weak, slow, pathetic and undisciplined to be an IronMan. I’m just too fucking cheap.
Yearly mileage: 970
P.S.: Am I the only one who’s crazed with worry about Teh Glaven, Teh ‘Bride and Teh Ian Boy? I knew Teh Great Concavity didn’t sound like a safe place.
