Rumors About Art and Team in Training

Every time I do Team in Training, rumors seem to swirl around.  Here is my response to the latest batch of 'em.

1. Did you hear that Art has retired from Team in Training and won't even be doing the Crawlin' Crab Half Marathon?  Response - clearly, people are once again confusing Brett Favre and me.  It's an easy and natural mistake to make.  Anyhow, I refute this rumor here.

2. It's pretty clear that, given his incredible athletic performances, Art is taking performance enhancing drugs just like Lance Armstrong did.  Response - I come clean in this candid and tell-all interview with famous TV personality Opera "Bats" Belfry.  Read all about it.

3.  Art is doing the Crawlin' Crab Half Marathon with a walker.  Response - No, I am doing it as a walker, not with a walker.  I may even run a bit if my sore left knee allows it.

4.  Art beat Lindsay Lohan in a drinking contest.  Response - Yeah, like that could happen.

5.  Art beat Usain Bolt in a 100 meter sprint.  Response - Actually, that could happen, and it did.  It is amazing what kind of competitive race this can become when someone distracts Mr. Bolt while I tie his shoe laces together.  I would have beaten him by even more if he hadn't run the last 30 meters barefoot!

6.  Did you know that Art is so old that he ran his first marathon trying to get away from Confederate troops at the Battle of Bull Run in 1861?  Ridiculous!  I'm not that old!  It was at the Battle of Chancellorsville in 1863!  Where do people get these wild rumors from?

7. Did you hear that Art is shaving his head for the race, except for a purple Mohawk?  Response - My, wouldn't that enhance my appearances?  Whoever started this rumor gets a "Pants on Fire" rating.  But true enough, if I hit my fund-raising goal, I will dye my hair purple for the race.

8.  Did you hear that Art has totally given up on hitting his fund-raising goal?  Response - While it looks like a long shot, it ain't over until it is over.  I'll keep plugging away until October 6 and make the call the morning of the race.

I'm Going for the Marathon World Record!

Yep, you read it here first. Someday, most likely in 2024, I’ll be setting the world record in the men’s marathon. How do I know this? Simple mathematics! Let me explain.

I’ve done three marathons, the Midnight Sun in Anchorage in 2005, the Rock ‘N’ Roll in San Diego in 2006, and the P. F. Changs in Phoenix, Scottsdale, and Tempe in 2008. I walked the first two, and walked over 90% of the third one. Here are my times in those races:

Anchorage – 6:41:39 (walking in heavy rain)
San Diego – 6:14:15 (walking in sunshine - Woah, oh!)
Phoenix – 5:56:44 (mostly walking, with some running,  in sunshine)

If you will do the math, you will see that, on average, I knocked 22 minutes and 46 seconds off each successive marathon. So projecting this forward, as any intelligent person might, leads to some fantastic future times. Of course, I am dealing with knee pain right now, and am not scheduled to run a marathon, so let’s assume that I don't start up again until 2014.  I'll get past the knee pain this year and use the 2013 Crawlin' Crab Half Marathon as a springboard to run a full marathon next year, and my projected time - based on the above - will be about 5 hours and 35 minutes. Strong runners blow by me, laughing as they pass, saying, "Hey!  Who is slow, old guy?"  Laugh now, while you can.  But some day soon, I'll be the one doing the laughing!  You'll see!  Yes, you will see!

So, I will shrug off their derision, and keep on going.  Because I want that world record as soon as possible, I will start cranking out a marathon a year. This leads to milestones in my racing career, and they start to become remarkable just a few years from now:

2016 – my first sub-five hour marathon
2018 – I qualify for Boston
2019 – my first sub-four hour marathon (in Boston)
2021 – I break three hours, by a hair, for the first time
2023 – I run a marathon in 2 hours 11 minutes, just missing the world record. Ethiopian and Kenyan runners are looking over their shoulder in fear, their lungs on fire as they just manage to finish ahead of me. “Who is this old geezer?” they ask in wonder.

2024 – I shatter the word record and win Olympic gold all at the same time, doing a back flip to cross the finish line!  "Sports Illustrated" cancels its swimsuit issue to put me on its cover (but not in a swimsuit). Sales of Wheaties, with my photo on the box (but not in a swimsuit) go berserk!

But wait, I'm just getting started! Now things start getting really incredible. In 2027 I win the Olympic trials in a new world record: less than 43 minutes. In 2028 I defy all reason by setting a new world marathon record in a shade under 20 minutes, and win my second Olympic Gold. Just for grins, I also win the Kentucky Derby, Belmont, and Preakness, leaving the world’s best thoroughbreds far behind and gasping in agony and shame. An enraged and humiliated jockey tries to shoot me after the Preakness, but I dodge the bullet. I’m not fast enough to beat a cheetah over 200 yards, but can easily beat one in a half mile race.

By 2029, I enter a marathon and win it before it even starts. At that point, I decide to slow down a bit and jog the Boston Marathon, one last time, in about an hour and 5 minutes. It is time to hang up the running shoes and take it easy.

All it will take is me getting this knee healed, running a marathon a year, and the application of simple mathematics. After all, it was none other than Mark Twain himself that wrote the following: “In the space of one hundred and seventy-six years the Lower Mississippi has shortened itself two hundred and forty-two miles. That is an average of a trifle over one mile and a third per year. Therefore, any calm person, who is not blind or idiotic, can see that in the Old Oolitic Silurian Period, just a million years ago next November, the Lower Mississippi River was upwards of one million three hundred thousand miles long, and stuck out over the Gulf of Mexico like a fishing-rod. And by the same token any person can see that seven hundred and forty-two years from now the Lower Mississippi will be only a mile and three-quarters long, and Cairo and New Orleans will have joined their streets together, and be plodding comfortably along under a single mayor and a mutual board of aldermen. There is something fascinating about science. One gets such wholesale returns of conjecture out of such a trifling investment of fact.”

Does Anyone Have a 350 Pound Gorilla?

It had been something like 10 months since I saw a doctor for this pain in my left knee.  But clearly, the things I was doing were not working - including not running for essentially the last 13 months - and it was time for a new direction.  So last week, I saw a new doctor for the problem.

They took X-rays of both knees.  He poked and prodded.  He asked me questions.  Finally, he said, essentially, that he felt the problem originated in leg muscles that are much too tight.  The tight muscles pull on the knee and put pressure on it.  He said, after watching me stretch, "You should be able to touch your heel to your butt."  But instead, between my heel and my butt, there was enough space to put New Jersey.

I thought about this, and came up with two possible ways to make my heel reach my butt:

Scenario A: Start eating a 12,000 calorie a day diet.  In  about a month, my butt should be so big that I won't have any problem touching my heel to it.

Scenario B: Lie on the floor on my stomach, and bend my lower leg backward.  Have a 350 pound gorilla sit on my shin, resulting in my heel reaching my butt (and beyond, possibly).

I discussed these ideas with the doctor.  He suggested something even worse - stretching.  Lots and lots of stretching.  I don't like stretching (obviously).  If I have an hour to work out, I want to work out for 58 minutes and stretch for two minutes.  Or maybe one.  I just don't enjoy it.

But I can't afford the groceries to consume 12,000 calories a day, and I couldn't find a gorilla, so I am trying it his way.  If that doesn't resolve the problem in about four weeks, the doctor said come on back and we will do an MRI, and see if there are micro tears in the tendon, or something of similar ilk.

I started with the physical therapist on Friday.  She did a lot of evaluation.  "Boy, are you tight!" she said.  Several times.  "I'm going stretch those quads.  It may hurt a little bit."  Seconds later, I was screaming in agony, crying and sobbing like a little boy.  "Whoa!" she said.  "I haven't even touched your leg yet.  Maybe we'd better skip that one!"  Now, that was embarrassing!

So she asked me to touch my toes.  Piece of cake.  I squatted down, and touched my toes with ease.  "Without bending your knees," she added.  Oh.  So much for that.  "Boy, are you tight!" she added, just to make sure I got the message.

So we worked on all kinds of stretches, and using three pound ankle weights to do five different leg strengthening exercises.  I am supposed to do these every day, and I have for the most part.  I even went out and bought ankle weights.  Do I enjoy it?  Not at all, although I know it is not that bad.  It is just one more thing to try to have to find time to do.  Having to keep working for a living sure takes away time for everything else.

But I'll try to keep stretching.  I want to run again, and at the least, I want to walk and hike without my knee hurting a ton.  In the meantime, if you have a large gorilla....

What 61 Year Old Men Should Not Do, Part 2

In part 1, I said that 61 year old men should not lift heavy objects. In part 2, I proclaim that they should not attempt to hang with younger runners during a long run.  (That being said, I have a 66 year old neighbor that recently ran a 3:15 marathon).

Picture this - you arrive, in pre-dawn light, at the park to run with some friends.  At 61, you are the oldest by 15-20 years - and in some cases by nearly 30 years.  You'll all be doing an ten miler together, and this time, by God, you're going to hang in there right with them.  You've been training hard by yourself so you can hope to keep up.  You set your Garmin to beep every mile, do some dynamic stretching together, and step out for the run.  It is cool but not cold - perfect weather for a run.

Your Garmin beeps - one mile down at an easy warm up pace.  It beeps again.  Two miles already?  This doesn't seem bad.  But the warm up is over, and the leader picks up the pace a bit.  When the Garmin beeps a third time, you are starting to struggle - just a bit.  Everyone else seems fine.  Ah, the joys of youth!

Just after the fourth beep, you start to climb a steep hill.  You labor, but everyone else also slows a step.  Your legs hurt even so.  Man, whoever talked about a runner's high?  What, was he some moron, or just a really sadistic SOB?  The only thing high is this hill you're climbing.  As you reach the top, your Garmin beeps for a fifth time, and the terrain levels off.  Despite gasping like a chain smoker who is trying to breathe through a straw, you feel proud.  You just climbed a one mile hill, and you kept up with the younger crowd.  And this ten miler is now just a five miler.

As your Garmin beeps for the sixth time, any feeling of pride or euphoria is long gone.  You are staggering a bit.  You are shuffling your feet.  Everything below the waist is hurting. Your lungs feel like a pod of great blue whales sucked most of the oxygen out of the air in this particular part of town.  Everyone else seems fine - running at a smooth pace, chatting happily, talking about what they did last night or what their plans are for Saturday night.  None of them are staggering.  None of them are shuffling.  None of them are gasping for air like a fish flopping around on shore.

At mile seven, you are dying.  You see a branch in the path ahead about the diameter of a large pencil, and attempt to jump over it.  Instead, you trip and nearly fall.  What the hell?  You can't jump over something that is an inch thick?  "I - can't - do - this!" you gasp to yourself through labored breaths.  Your heart sounds like a motorcycle with no muffler.  Your legs feel like you have just run a mile through thigh deep water.  Self doubt invades your brain.  Why, oh why, did you ever take up running?  Other 61 year old men are still in bed, and if they are not, they are moving 20 feet into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee.  What were you thinking?  You glance with envy at your younger friends, all moving as easily as deer along the path.

The Garmin beeps an eighth time.  Eight miles down, two miles to go.  Well, at least the miles are going by fast.  You glance at the timer for the first time.  20 minutes and 12 seconds have gone by.  Your oxygen starved and addled brain attempts some math.  "Let's see, 20 roughly divided by 8, let's see, that is like 2, carry the 4 (or is is a 5), so let's see, that is like a 2.5 or so minute mile pace.  That's pretty fast, isn't it?  Wait a minute!  Even Pre or Marty Liquori never could run a 2 or 3 minute mile.  No wonder I'm exhausted."    You slow to a near-stop and study the Garmin for a few seconds.  With the same sense of horror you would have had you just discovered a worm crawling out of your nose, you realize that you inexplicably set the Garmin to beep every quarter mile, not every mile.  "So let's see, 8 times 1/4 is 2, carry the zero - no, wait, it's just two.  Two?  Two miles?  Just two stinking miles?  Oh, crap!" 

You deliberately step on your shoe lace, unraveling it.  You call out, "Hey guys! I have to tie my shoe and stretch a cramp.  Keep going - I'll catch up to your group, but not real soon."  At least that's what you try to say, but through your labored breaths, what they hear is: "Hey - tie - my - cramp - I'll catch up - your - but - soon."  Your friends turn, all with puzzled expressions.  You're doubled over, pretending to check something with your foot, but actually trying not to hurl.  You give them a thumbs up, and gasp "Keep going.  I'll catch up."  They shrug and resume the run, at a little slower pace.  Now, you know and they know that you could not catch them if they were going to give you a million dollars should that happen. There is a better chance that you will spot an abominable snow man while climbing Mount Everest in your underwear than the chances of you catching them. Maybe if you turn and start walking back now, you might get back to the starting point before they go the remaining eight miles.

And that's when you admit, if only to yourself, that 61 year old men should not attempt to run with younger runners!

The "True" Confessions of Racn4acure!

I decided to bare my soul and come clean with what has really happened these past eight years with my marathon, half marathon, and 10K racing career.  For years, I've vehemently denied the use of performance enhancing drugs (PED's).  I've viciously attacked and threatened anyone who suggested I might be using PED's.  I felt invincible.  But it took a tough investigative journalist, the famous Opera "Bats" Belfry, to dig into the facts and expose my little charade.  She locked in on things like a dog after a bone, and backed me into a corner quicker than Lindsay Lohan reaching for another drink.  There was no way out other than to face the truth.  So after all this, I decided Opera had earned the right for an exclusive interview.  Here is is:

Opera: "Thank you for agreeing to do this, Racn4acure.  I know it is not easy to admit to the world that you are a lying, cheating weasel."
Racn: "Hey, I resemble that remark, Opera!  Don't you think it casts unfair aspersions on members of the Mustelid family?"
Opera: "Let's 'Lance' that boil and get right to it: have you used performance enhancing drugs?"
Racn: "Yes."
Opera: "For every race?"
Racn: "No, not for my first 10K, or the marathon in Anchorage in 2005.  And not for last year's races - I don't think the statute of limitations is over for them, yet, is it?  But for all of the rest, to some degree or another, yes, I did."
Opera: "What made you sink so low, Racn?"
Racn: "You know, it happened a little bit at a time, Opera.  In the Anchorage Marathon, I walked my buns off for 26 miles in the rain, and still finished in the bottom 15% of males, and pretty far down for females as well.  And when I analyzed the results, I realized that there was only one possible explanation why so many people beat me: they, every single one of them, were on PED's!  It was an epiphany for me."
Opera: "Every single one of them?"
Racn: "Yes, there is no other explanation."
Opera: "Some of them were not just naturally faster, or had more endurance, or had trained harder?"
Racn: "Okay, maybe a few.  I can see that.  A handful, perhaps.  But hundreds? Come on, Opera!  You didn't just fall off the turnip truck!"
Opera: "But some of them, most of them, actually, ran while you walked."
Racn: "You see?  If that isn't cheating, what is?  Running while someone else walks?  Talk about gaining an unfair advantage!  Why aren't you exposing some of them?"
Opera: "So, what happened next?"
Racn: "Well, after reaching that epiphany that I spoke of, I realized my only way to do better was to try some PED's.  I didn't know where to start, but I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a gal who knew a guy, and leading up to the San Diego Marathon, I started using all kinds of things - but not a lot of any one thing.  Just to experiment.  And I knocked something like 20 or 25 minutes off my marathon time.  And I thought, how much better can I do if I ramp things up a bit more?"
Opera: "Then came your training for the Arizona Marathon in 2008, right?"
Racn: "Yep, and I went all out, Opera.  I started with caffeine.  Then I tried some goo's, lots of goo's.  I added PB and J - well, actually, first just the PB alone and then PB with the J - and LOL.  Then, I used stuff like ROFLOL.  I even did Cliff Shots during the race - giving myself Cliff Shots three times in porta-potties!"
Opera: "Cliff Shots in a porta potty?  Do you know how disgusting that sounds, Racn4acure?"
Racn: "Let's not get judgemental here, Opera.  But yes, oh, the stories I could tell you about what goes on in those porta potties on race day.  Why, in this one porta potty...."
Opera: "Let's not go there.  What else did you use?"
Racn: "I am so ashamed of this still that I can barely admit it, but I even used EVOO - lots of it, and often."
Opera: "EVOO? No, Racn, not that!  Really?  Extra-virgin olive oil?  That is just terrible."
Racn: "I became obsessed.  What can I say?"
Opera: "I can understand OO.  I can even understand how you might be tempted to try VOO. But extra-virgin?  That's about as low as it gets.  There may be a special place in Hell for you."
Racn (sobbing): "I know, Opera.  I know.  And it continued as I started to run the half marathons and 10K's.  Oh, the shame of it all!"
Opera: "Why did you do it?  Did you hope to win?"
Racn: "No, I knew I could never win a race, Opera.  There were too many people really cheating for me to accomplish that.  I just wanted to be sure I was never the last man over the finish line.  I was actually OK finishing in the bottom 20%.  But I already knew that everyone who finished ahead of me - all but a handful of them, anyway - were on this stuff.  What if the people behind me started doing PED's, too?  I could, without warning, finish last.  That could not happen, Opera.  I could not let that happen.  Then, I broke the six hour barrier in the Arizona Marathon, and I thought, 'Whoa, this stuff really works!'  And I just kept going with it, even the EVOO."
Opera: "You left plenty of clues for me along the way, but it was the Arizona Marathon that really put me on to you.  It was such an improvement in your best times that I knew something was going on under the covers (or in the porta potties).  I talked to some of the world class marathons, the two hours and change guys, about your time.  You know what they told me?  'Six hours!  I didn't know that it was humanly possible to complete a marathon in six hours!'  So I started digging.  And I found a lot of dirt."
Racn: "Clues?  What kind of clues did I leave?  I thought I was being very careful, plus I threatened - uh, that is - I suggested to anyone who was going to expose me that it might not be the best of ideas."
Opera: "Well, for starters, the miles 19-22 in San Diego when you felt so sick and said that it was because you tried some 'new energy candy.'  Energy candy?  Pul-ease!  Pathetic, Racn4acure!  Pa - thet - tic!"
Racn: "I made a mistake."
Opera: "Then, there was that 'vertigo' the day before the Arizona Marathon.  You'd never had vertigo before, and breaking the six hour barrier the next day confirmed what really happened.  Too much caffeine and EVOO - although at the time I was thinking maybe VOO, never believing that even you would stoop to EVOO - had made you dizzy."
Racn: "You're good!"
Opera: "I have to be.  It's my job.  Then, there was the 'purple hair dye' in Seattle in 2010.  That was diabolically clever, Racn.  You almost got away with it.  And you would have, had it been a nice deep shade of purple.  But there were even more early clues that made me suspicious."
Racn: "Like what?"
Opera: "That training run in 2006 when you caught that snail down the stretch and left him gasping in his own slime trail.  The octogenarian with the walker that you lapped on the track.  The weight room workouts where your ability to pump iron increased three fold - why, you even bench pressed 30 or 35 pounds that one time with those arms strong of yours.  And you thought no one would notice?"
Racn: "But everyone else was doing it, Opera.  I just didn't want to finish last some day.  Hey, I have flaw, just like every other human being."
Opera: "Flaw?  Don't you mean 'flaws'?"
Racn: "Nope, flaw."
Opera: "Wow, not only are you as honest as the day is long at the North Pole on the day of the winter solstice, but you're humble, too!"
Racn: "Why, thank you, Opera!"
Opera: "Are you familiar with sarcasm?"
Racn: "Sarcasm? Sure, that's like the place where the baby eels are born, right?"
Opera: "American eels, a catadromous species of fish, return from fresh water to breed and lay eggs in the Sargasso Sea, not the Sarcasm Sea.  The word 'sarcasm' means.... Oh, never mind!"

(at this point, Opera Belfry mutters something under breath.  It is barely audible, but the powerful mics on her sound stage make it clear that she is saying "So, not only is he doping, but he is a dope as well."

Opera: "So, okay, let's get back on track, then.  This so-called 'fact' that everyone else was doing it - that justified your cheating?"
Racn: "You know, I had to look up the word 'cheat' in Dictionary.com."
Opera: "Yeah, I saw where they got two hits for that word last month.  I wondered if one of them was you.  You could have saved yourself the trouble and just asked a five year old kid.  They could tell you what cheating is."
Racn: "Yeah, that was me, Opera!  Anyhow, it said something like 'to break the rules and regulations in an attempt to gain an unfair advantage.' And I didn't do that.  No, siree!  I was just trying to level the playing field.  So I am not a cheater.  I am a playing field leveler.  And, actually, I think that is good thing."
Opera: "A good thing?  How?"
Racn: "Well, there is nothing America likes more than a level playing field.  And I did that.  I made that happen. I saw what had to be done, a problem that had to be solved, and I solved it.  I leveled the playing field.  So, you're welcome, America.  You've welcome!"
Opera: "Wow, you're quite the hero, then.  You know, with a perspective like that, you could have a great career in Congress, say in the House.  Or maybe even as a Senator."
Racn: "Thanks, Opera!  That's a great compliment."
Opera: "It wasn't - really."
Racn: "Ah-ha!"
Opera: "Well, Racn4acure, our time is about up.  Anything you would like to add to our conversation?"
Racn: "Put yourself in my running shoes, Opera.  Everyone else in the whole world is cheating.  They have to be.  Hell, even that octogenarian with the walker that I lapped was chain smoking to try to give himself some nicotine stimulation.  What would you do?"
Opera: "What would I do?  I would remember what I was taught in elementary school: that he or she who cheats, cheats only themselves.  This is Opera Belfry, wishing you a good day.  Thank you for watching!"

Things 61 Year Old Men Should Not Do - Part 1.

What things should 61 year old men not do?  Well, for starters, they should not carry or lift heavy, bulky objects.

A week ago, we decided that it was time to replace our 15 year old TV.  It still works just fine, but it seems so out of date, what with "plasma" and "high definition" and "3-D."  So we went to Best Buy, looked around a bit, and made a purchase.  It will be delivered in another week, at which time they will also collect our old 31 inch Sony.  In the meantime, we bought a nice piece of furniture for the new television to go on, and that was delivered last Friday.  So we had to move the old TV and the entertainment center that it was on out of the way.  We decided to move the old piece of furniture upstairs for our backup TV.

My wife got the brilliant idea to move our love seat in front of the TV and lower the television on to it, then push the love seat back where it belongs.  When I say "brilliant idea," I am not being sarcastic.  This TV is huge.  Picture any two people you run with, and it probably outweighs them.  We had some interest from the Washington Redskins about picking up the TV and using it in their weight room, but they decided to pass, figuring it would just injure their players.  So my wife's idea was a lot better than mine, which was for us to pick up the TV, walk across the living room, and place it on the couch.  Had we attempted that, the TV undoubtedly would have dropped onto the floor, or onto our feet, and would have crashed through the floor, through the concrete slap, into the earth's crust, and popped out somewhere in China!

We positioned the love seat, each got on one side to the TV, and hoisted it off the entertainment center.  A millisecond later, despite our best efforts, we dropped it - screen side down - on the love seat.  That is when I told my wife "Your idea was brilliant!"  I mentally pictured what our living room would have looked like if we had used my idea.  Before I got the partial rotator cuff tear about five or six years ago, I had really decent upper body strength and worked out a lot (which was apparently what caused the tear).  Now, while I may not look like the proverbial 99 pound weakling, I am apparently no longer up to hoisting televisions the size of small automobiles.

We slid the love seat easily - well, somewhat easily - across the floor and positioned a coffee table under the edge of the television set so that the cat would not jump on the TV and tip it on to the floor.  Then, we turned our attention to the entertainment center.  It is not huge, and weighs perhaps 80 or 90 pounds.  But it is big enough that there are no two points where one can grab it with a good grip.  Plus it has this base that swivels, and two glass doors, one of which popped out and crashed to the floor just as we began to wrestle the piece of furniture upstairs.  I will never understand how the glass didn't break.  We somehow put the thing down, and I picked up the glass door and put it and its companion aside.  Then we resumed the climb up the staircase.

People have had an easier time climbing Mount Rainier than we had getting this thing up a flight of stairs!  The base kept swiveling around, throwing us off balance and blocking progress.  There was no good way to grab the thing with a solid grip.  I had the lead, going up backwards.  My wife's job was to hang on to the other end, and go with me as I twisted and tugged the cumbersome beast up one stair at a time.  I was bending awkwardly and kept having to twist my lower body, and then kind of move back semi-explosively (there is nothing really explosive about using one's muscles at my age, but this was close).  We finally got the bulky piece of furniture up to the top, and I was breathing like I just lost to Mr. Bolt by 10 seconds in the 200 meter dash.  But within 10-15 minutes, we had moved the thing into the spare TV room, moved the old entertainment center out, and had everything hooked up properly.  "Not so bad," thought I.

Then, within 30 minutes, I realized I could barely walk.  My left hip was so painful with each step.  Instead of walking like a 61 year old man, I was hobbling like I was 101.  "Man," I thought, "I've moved myself half a dozen times.  I've helped friends move another dozen times - heavy, nasty stuff, working hard all day.  But move one piece of furniture now, and I can barely move.  I guess my moving myself (and friends) days are over."  I took three Ibuprofen, relaxed a bit, and it the morning I could move almost normally.  Two more "Vitamin I" later at work, and I was fine.

But I did learn than men my age best leave the heavy lifting to someone else.  Either that, or I seriously need to hit the gym a lot more than I do if I want to be able to do this type of thing.

What if a Race Were Like Work?

"We're going to need Molly off your project for a few days," they told me at work the other day. I tried to mentally calculate the effect of losing Molly on my already-behind project, but my mind started to wonder. What if a race were like work...........

I know I can set a PR. The course is flat, I've trained hard, and the weather is perfect for a run of 13.1 miles - cloudy and cool. I look at the thousands of other runners and walkers as I find my gate. "Lets do this," I say to myself. "The PR is there, waiting for you!" The gun sounds, and soon enough – just minutes after 7AM - my corral crosses the start. After dodging other runners for a mile, the field opens up, and I fall into a nice, steady pace. For once, the effort of running feels nearly effortless. Three more miles fade behind me.

Suddenly, a race official steps onto the course in front of me, extending his hand. "Stop!" he shouts. "We need you to do something. There's this old lady, and she ordered this book from the library, and they are closed today. We need you to hop on this bike, and deliver it to her. She only lives four miles from here. Then, come on back and resume the race. You still have plenty of time."

I stare at the man as if a gecko just crawled out of his left nostril. "Are you kidding? I'm kind of in a race here!" I state.

"Look, I hate to do this, but this lady really needs this book. Today! Come on, you can do this. It’s not like you were going win. Hop on the bike!"

"Bike? I haven't ridden on a bike in years," I say.

"No big deal. You'll do fine. It’s kinda like.... well, it's like.... yes, that's it! It's like riding a bicycle!"

Grumbling, I take the directions, the book, and jump on the bike. I see my PR flying away, wings beating steadily but slowly. But I find the lady, and she is so thrilled to have the book that it makes this all worthwhile. Less than an hour after leaving the race course, I'm back and running again. It takes a while to get back in a rhythm, but eventually I do, until the seven mile mark.

"Stop!" another official shouts. "We need you to move this Civil War cannon a few feet. A runner nearly crashed into it. Of course, if they hadn't been texting, maybe they would have seen it. But no matter, it will take you just a few seconds."

"Move a cannon? You might as well ask me to convince Lindsay Lohan to stop drinking," I say.

"No problemo! I have help lined up. Fred, Manny, and Joe are going to help you with this. It will take you guys one minute," the official says.

"OK, let's go, then! Where are they?"

“Should be here any minute. Manny has a leg cramp so it might take him an extra second or two. Just sit down and cool your jets for five minutes.”

32 minutes later, Manny hobbles up. Fred and Joe got here before, and the four of us manage to move the cannon enough so that someone who is not paying attention doesn’t end up with the barrel shoved up in an anatomical place that could cause them great bodily harm. I start running again, but have stiffened up. It takes me a while to get going, and I start passing a few stragglers. I reach the 10 mile mark, when another plea to stop comes.

“We need you to take this box of cookies to that hermit living on the island on the James River. It’s only a mile to the river, and we left you a canoe. We know you used to canoe, so it shouldn’t be a problem – just be careful near the rapids. The hermit is hard of hearing, and his dog isn’t the most friendly thing in the world, so just proceed cautiously when you get near his house. The last guy we sent there, well, it didn’t … You know, you don’t want to be bored with all these details. You’ll be fine. Here are the cookies, and take this steak for the dog. It just might save your … err, it might help make him friendlier,” the race official said.

I won’t talk about all that happens during the execution of this task, but let’s just say that when I stumble back to the 10 mile point – soaking wet, clothes shredded, shoes muddy, fang marks in my right calf – it’s pitch black and I am the only one left on the race course. I stagger more than run the last 3.1 miles, finishing just after 10:30PM. The only one still there at the finish line is a drunk, who applauds and cheers wildly before tumbling against an overflowing porta-potty, tipping it over. I only have partial success avoiding the noxious river of foul-smelling and dark liquid heading my way like some kind of deadly wraith in the night. Chip time: 15 hours, 22 minutes, 17 seconds. Yep – a new PR!

And that is why if races were like work, there wouldn’t be anyone there to do the race!

The Body Politic

Left, right, left, right, left, right …. For six miles, the two legs had moved along cooperatively with only minor complaints, but that all changed in an instant. “Oww!” said Left Leg. “My knee hurts!”

“Oh, big deal,” Right Leg said. “Who cares? You lefties are always whining. Makes me sick. All I hear from you is complaints. ‘My neuroma hurts! My big toenail just fell off! My plantar fasciitis is killing me!’ Now, it’s ‘my knee hurts!’ Grow a pair!”

“Anatomically, that is not possible. But you know, you right-wingers have no compassion,” said Left Leg.

“How come it’s always you that has these problems? What are you, some kind of a left-leaning sissy?”

“Always me, huh? How about those two times you developed trochanteric bursitis and had to get those cortisone shots right in your hip?” Left Leg reminded him.

“Hey, at least I took the shots like a man! Ooh, ‘trochanteric!’ Big word, college boy. What a snob!” said Right Leg.

“As I recall, you attended every class I did in college. Man, my knee hurts! I think I need a doctor,” said Left Leg.

“A doctor? Why don’t you just use Obamacare? What a loser!”

“Both you and I happen to have great medical insurance through employment, so I don’t need the so called Obamacare,” said Left Leg. “But think of all those who are unemployed, have pre-existing conditions, and don’t have jobs that provide insurance. What should they do?”

Right Leg snorted. “Who cares? That’s their problem. They should have thought about it before they got sick. Damned liberals! Who do you think should pay for their care? You? Me? Ha! Just you wait until Rick Santorum gets elected!”

“We just need to tax the rich a lot more. You know, redistribute all the wealth. No one needs a million bucks to live on,” Left Leg said.

“You make me sick! All of you lefties do!”

“Lighten up, right winger! You are so harsh and judgmental!”

“Look here, left winger, or should I say left whiner? I’ve had enough of your complaining! You are the epitome of everything that is wrong with this country. I wish you’d never been born!” Right Leg spat. “But not because of an abortion, of course,” he hastily added.

“What are you, some kind of a Hitler Youth alum? Oww! My knee hurts! I need some Ibuprofen!”

“Typical of you substance-abusing, liberal jerks! When something hurts or you need to get in a better mood, just turn to drugs!” Right Leg smirked.

Left Leg retorted quickly. “Yeah? Like your hero, Rush Limbaugh?”

Right Leg quivered in fury. “Never, ever mock that great man again,” he screamed as he launched a vicious kick at Left Leg.

Brain jumped in and stopped the kick before it landed. “You’re always taking his side, Brain.” said Right Leg. “You’re as far left as he is.”

Brain said, “I’m exactly in the center. I swivel to the left and to the right as needed, but I always stay in the center. If Left Leg tried to kick you, I would stop him as well.” At this precise instant, Left Leg, thinking that Brain and Right Leg were preoccupied, tried a quick, sneaky kick of his own. But Brain, reacting with lightning speed, short-circuited that kick as well.

“See? I rest my case,” said Brain. “I’m your Commander in Chief, and don’t either of you forget it. When I say jump, you ask 'How high?' Now, both of you, shut the hell up, and keep moving.”

For another mile, there was relative peace. Then the sniping began anew.

“Stop limping! You are making me work harder. Typical of you liberals, let everyone else do the hard work so you can just be a lazy bum. Left leaning jerk,” said Right Leg.

“You are a little stronger and more capable than I am. Plus I’m hurting. So why shouldn’t you work a little harder than me? That seems fair, you reactionary Neanderthal,” replied Left Leg.

“Fair? What’s fair about it? What are you, some kind of Pinko?” asked Right Leg.

“Conservative Nut Case” shouted Left Leg.

“European Socialist!” retorted Right Leg.

“Fascist!”

“Communist!”

“Neo-Nazi!”

“Traitor!”

As fast as Brain is, before he could even react, Left Leg and Right Leg launched kicks at each other simultaneously, and the entire body crumpled to the ground.

“I’ve had quite enough of both of you!” Brain shouted. “Pick us up and get moving! Now! I can play hard-ball too if need be! Remember Alaska in 2005? Maybe I’ll give you a good dose of that to make you get along and work together again. We’ll take a one minute break so you can think that one over.”

“Alaska? Midnight Sun Marathon? 2005? Oh my God!” said Left Leg.

“Pouring rain! 26.2 miles! Cold winds for the last four miles! I shudder just thinking about it,” said Right Leg.

“Mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds!” said Left Leg.

“Those were hummingbirds, you left leaning mor … er, those were hummingbirds, weren’t they?”

“Do hummingbirds drill a hole in you the size of the Lincoln Tunnel? Do they suck out enough blood that, were it alcohol, even Lindsay Lohan would beg to stop drinking?” asked Left Leg.

“Nope, you’re right! Ha, ha, get it? You’re right!” said Right Leg.

“Oh, God, remember afterwards? Brain submerged us in a tub of ice water for 15 minutes? My lips were turning blue!”

“Lips? You have lips?”

“It’s a figure of speech,” said Left Leg.

“Man, I had blisters the size of Cleveland on my feet for the last 10 miles of that marathon,” said Right Leg.

“Yeah, me too, but even bigger. More like Chicago.” Noticing that Right Leg was about to say something, Left Leg added, “Actually, you know, I think you did have the bigger blisters.”

“Well, maybe. We both endured plenty. Then at night, remember while Brain slept peacefully all night long, we suffered together in agony until morning? The heartless sunnuvabitch!” said Right Leg.

“Yeah, you’re right. He didn’t care. He drove us like slaves all day and then he just slept. Completely oblivious to the pain of others. Reminds me of, well never mind that. Remember, he even forced us to wear running shorts on that cold, wet day? Shorts!” said Left Leg.

“What’s he even doing to us, making us do all this running at our age? Who’s he think he is, Steve Prefontaine?” asked Right Leg.

“Uh, Righty, I hate to break the news, but ‘Pre’ has been dead since 1975,” said Brain.

“Well, who does he think he is, then, Bill Freakin’ Rodgers?” said Right Leg.

“More like Joan Benoit Samuelson,” snickered Left Leg.

Brain jumped on that one. “Lefty, was that a not-so-subtle put-down of women? I must say, I’m surprised at you, taking that position. Aren’t you being a little hypocritical?”

Left Leg retreated in alarm. “No, no! That’s not what I meant. Really! I believe in full equal rights, a woman’s right to choose, and all that feminist stuff. I’m proud when I can run like a girl!”

Right Leg grimaced and shook his foot slowly, but said nothing to make the situation worse. Instead, he reflected on what really matters. “We’ve been through a lot together, you and me. I’d be doing a lot of hopping if you weren’t here, Left Leg,” he said.

“I couldn’t do it without you, Bud! You always got my right flank, and help me stay balanced,” said Left Leg.

“Okay,” said Brain. “I’m glad we got that settled. I depend equally on both of you. You are both very important parts of the body that I command. If you two aren't working together, if one of you isn't doing your job, then the whole body is out of balance. Together, we can do great things! Hell, we did a marathon in Alaska seven years ago, ignoring rain and pain, and two since then. Aren’t you proud of that? We all need to work together, or we go nowhere. We become ineffective and incompetent!”

“Yeah,” said Right Leg with a guffaw. “We don’t want anyone to mistake us for the US Congress! Talk about ineffective and incompetent! Even I have to admit that Boehner and Cantor are an exercise in futility and are obstructionists.”

“We agree 100% there, pal! But I also realize that Pelosi didn’t get much done either, before Boehner took over for her,” said Left Leg.

“OK, boys! The meeting of the Mutual Admiration Society is now adjourned. Let’s get moving. We still have five more miles to go,” said Brain.

“Five more miles!” cried Left Leg and Right Leg in perfect harmony. “We’re exhausted. We need to stop! We can’t do it!”

“You can and you will, guys,” said Brain, as he sent a tiny jolt of electricity down Spinal Cord first to Left Leg and then to Right Leg a split second later. “You can and you will.”

Team in Training, A Cult? Really????

My friend Joe came over the other night, and cut right to the chase. "Holy crap, Art! You didn't tell me that you are involved in a cult!"

"A cult? Maybe I've taken stupid pills lately, but I have no earthly idea what you are talking about, Joe."

"Team in Training!"

I was incredulous. "Team in Training is a cult? Really?"

"Yeah, at least that is what I read on some of the running boards. Someone was asking about Team in Training. One guy wrote 'It's kind of cultish.' Another wrote 'It's a cult.' And a bunch of people wrote about what a scam it it."

"A cult? A scam? Really????"

"Well, yeah, that's what these guys say. Like on the race course, you guys chant strange things, like 'Go Team' over and over."

"Wow, Joe. Sounds like our cover is blown. Did anyone mention about our monthly ritual? The one where we dance naked at midnight in the woods on the night of a full moon, wearing only a purple headband? While we pay homage in Elvish runes to the Wicked Witch of the West while one of us slowly beats a drum made with the taut, tanned skin of a kinkajou? When we slaughter a young goat and smear its blood all over our bodies? And then - men and women together - we run naked and bloody all through the streets of Richmond while chanting unintelligible things?"

"No one mentioned any of that," Joe said, backing slowly away.

"That's because we are not a cult, Joe. We are just a bunch of people, like any one else, who like running and walking and cycling and swimming together while trying to raise money that will fight cancer. That's it. We are no more a cult than any other group of runners out together on a Saturday morning. Hey, Joe - want some coolaide? My friend, Jim Jones, mixed it up."

"Uh, no thanks, Art. Well speaking of fundraising, are you guys scamming people? One guy wrote this: 'The majority don't even do 26.2, just collect the pledge money and allow corporate suits to drive Lexus's.'

"Nope - we are not scamming people, Joe. Whoever made that comment has no idea what he is talking about. None whatsoever."

"Well, some people said you guys lie during fundraising, and put a lot of pressure on people."

"Yeah, Joe, that's right. I usually tell people to donate to LLS through me, or a puppy will die!"

"You're kidding, right? Well, it sounds like you guys don't really take what you are doing seriously. How about this comment that I saw: 'They do the absolute minimum to get by and then take an all expense paid trip paid for by charitable contributions?' Is that true?"

I was astonished. "That doesn't sound like Team in Training either, Joe. Everyone I know works their butt off, finishes their event, and is proud to do it. As to the expenses, yes, we get some of the trip expenses paid - a significant portion, actually - but it is not all expenses paid fancy resort vacation. I can see I am going to have to discuss this in a lot more detail on my blog."

"Well," said Joe, "I'll look forward to seeing more explanations refuting some of this stuff. Some runners out there hate you guys, and seem to think you ruin the race for everyone else, and are scams and cheats. Why, one guy even said 'Truck TNT!' Except, it wasn't 'truck' but a similar sounding word with one less letter and a first letter between E and G, exclusive, as I recall."

"Joe, all I can say is that there must a be a lot of misguided people out there. And there are always naysayers that want to crap all over everyone else. I'll read up on some of these comments, and then blog about it," I said.

"Good deal," said Joe. "Now, I don't want any of that coolaide, but I'd love an ice-cold beer if you have one."

"You know I do! Say, do you know if the moon is full tonight, Joe? And do you happen to have a goat?"

What’s the Worst That Could Happen?

I kept thinking that the worst thing that could happen with the Komen 3-Day is if my foot wouldn’t heal enough to allow me to complete the walk. But I think that, actually, there is a worse scenario…

I wake with a start, listening to the rain drumming on the roof of the little pink tent like a heavy metal percussionist on amphetamines. What woke me? It is not my tent mate, Kermit “Frog” Greenback, for he has finally stopped talking in his sleep and is breathing heavily. It isn’t the sound of the rain pounding on the tent, louder than 100 drunken Aussies playing didgeridoos at a frat party. No, it’s the 10 gallon aquarium – complete with enraged piranhas – sloshing around in my belly. All that water I drank to stay hydrated on that hot 20 mile day has now been efficiently removed from my blood stream and urgently wishes to return to the world’s hydrologic cycle!

I listen to the rain in dread. One way or another, I am going to get really wet. But there’s no sense getting my sleeping bag and “Frog” wet too, so I hunch over in the confined space of the tent, put on my crocs to keep my walking shoes dry, unzip the tent, and crawl out into the rain. I am soaked within seconds. I look wistfully back at the dry, pink cocoon and continue forward. “Row 17, tent 13. Row 17, tent 13,” I repeat over and over. Suddenly, I trip over a tent stake and land face first in a mud puddle, sliding about 10 feet through the mud. “He’s safe!” a lady heading for the latrine calls out in jest. I stand up and spit about a gallon of water the consistency of pancake batter out of my mouth, and say a word that I am really glad that my granddaughter didn’t hear me say.

I walk on, passing two women waiting for a porta-potty. They stare at me in disgust. “Oh my God, it’s a pig-man!” one of them whispers. Her friend replies “If that guy and a three legged Shih Tzu with bucked teeth and a bad skin disease were the only contestants in a beauty contest, he wouldn’t stand a chance.” I trudge on, mud oozing from every pore and crevice of my body, and enter the porta-potty. I try to be neat and considerate, but when I leave less than a minute later, mud drips from everything. It looks like a disgruntled Keebler elf went berserk with the fudge machine.

As the driving rain washes some of the mud from my glasses, I gaze through the dark at a sea of pink tents the size of Rhode Island. I pick up my mantra as I walk. “Row 13, tent 17. Row 13, tent 17.” They all look the same in the rainy darkness, but I find my tent. I don’t want to get my sleeping bag muddy. So I strip to my skivvies in the rain, wring out tomorrow’s walking clothes the best I can, and crawl into the tent and sleeping bag. Despite being wet, muddy, and nasty, I quickly drift off to sleep.

I wake abruptly when something heavy lands on me, followed by piercing screams in the ink-like night. I quickly realize three things: (1) it is a woman screaming, (2) she is lying on top of me, and (3) she is screaming “There’s a half-naked, muddy man in my sleeping bag!” Just as rapidly, Kermit springs from his sleeping bag and starts screaming his head off. Except (1) it is not Kermit and (2) it is not a he! The two women race around the little pink tent like a couple of deranged kinkajous until it collapses like a herd of water buffalo ran over it. Trampled, muddy, soaked, and horrified, I follow them into the rainy night, and stand shivering in my underwear. “Oh crap, wrong tent!” I think in misery.

Women, and a few men, are streaming from their tents like army ants converging on a cockroach - me! They are not happy. They are not smiling. They are not laughing. In fact, they are seriously angry. Within minutes, the police arrive, and start asking me for my ID, which is back in my actual tent. I spy Kermit in the gathering crowd – at six foot-four and sporting a goat-vomit green Mohawk, he is hard to miss. “Hey, that guy’s my tent mate! Frog, tell them!”

Kermit affirms my plight. “Yeah, it’s true, he’s my tent mate: Art. Our tent is over here, and his ID must be in that.“ Then, he adds, “But Art, sneaking into those women’s tent, that’s just wrong! It’s wrong, man!”

The police warily lead me over to my tent, and I retrieve my ID. I spend an hour or so explaining to the police and race staff why I ended up in the wrong tent, trade sleeping bags with the woman whose bag is now caked with mud, help them erect their tent – it looks like a rhinoceros used it for a mud wallow - and collect my soaked, muddy walking clothes. Around 4AM, everyone settles in to not sleep the remaining hour or so we have left before getting up to walk 20 more miles.

“What a mess!” says Kermit. “Man, it isn’t easy being pink!”

“Sorry about that, Frog,” I say as I dig a clump of mud out of my left ear and toss it outside the tent like it was a dead mouse. “I didn’t mean to cause such a big mess. I just had to go to the bathroom for a second.”

“No problem, man – honest mistake. But you do this walk again, you might just want to stay in a hotel! At least you’ll be able to get to the bathroom and back to bed without starting an international incident.”

....Oh yeah, that would be worse!

A Soothing Massage

Ah, there is nothing like a soothing, deep-tissue massage. The relaxing new age music that makes you want to drift off. The aromatic, warm oil lightly massaged into your sore muscles. The agonizing feeling of having your muscles, tendons, and ligaments slowly ripped from your femur!

Yesterday, I had my active release therapy treatment for my heel. It was barely painful, but all of my walking this past weekend – 18 miles – had given me some soreness in my left hamstring tendon. Every three visits my health insurance allows a 30 minute massage, and the masseuse that they use is really good. Yesterday being my third appointment since a massage, I went in to the little massage room. “I’ll leave, and you can take your trousers off. The doc said I need to work a bit on that hamstring,” she said.

It started off well – the oils, the music, a light probing touch, focusing on my left foot and tight calf. Then she moved up to the hamstring – a little more painful – and started digging in. “If it hurts, take a deep breath and then…” she started to say, before going silent as I breathed in so deeply so as to remove all of the oxygen in that zip code. When I looked back to see her turning blue, I breathed out. “.... breathe out slowly,” she gasped.

Her strong fingers started digging deep into my hamstring, finding a knot of muscle that must have looked like a python that had swallowed a large feral hog, along with its parents and grandparents. Wow, that hurt! “You know, try some visualizations,” she said, somehow picking up on my discomfort. “That might help.”

“Like what?” I stammered through gritted teeth. “Well, like a peaceful field, with flowers,” she suggested.

Yes, a nice field! I can see it now! It is golden in the sun, with beautiful flowers. A gentle breeze is blowing. Birds are singing. I felt myself relaxing. Ahhhh! Oh, look, there’s a zebra in the field. No, it is a herd of zebra – they are so beautiful! Owww! Holy crap, a group of lions just attacked a zebra and are ripping it shreds as it neighs in agony! Wait a second, that is me neighing in agony! “The visualization isn’t working so great,” I wail. “Try a stream,” she says. “I think if I start visualizing a stream, I am going to see a huge crocodile tearing the leg off a wildebeest, or something like that,” I moan.

She starts tearing into the knot of muscle again with fingers of titanium. “How did I get a big knot like that in my hamstring?” I ask. “Probably scar tissue from an old injury,” she explains. “Try to relax, it makes it easier if the muscles are not all tense.”

Easier for what, I wonder? Easier to tear my strong muscles into a quivering, jelly-like mass of glop?

“Well, I think I’m done with this area,” she states. “Thank God, because I don’t think I could take much more of it,” I wanted to say, but I just give some kind of strangled monosyllabic reply. I’d been seconds away from offering her $100 to stop.

“Now, this area is going to be pretty sore tomorrow, so ice it a lot and take some Ibuprophin if you need to. You may have noticed that I dug in pretty deep at times,” she says. “Yes, I did notice. What gave that away? Was it the way I squirmed a bit? Was it the way I had a hard time relaxing? Or was it when I screamed so loudly that all the glass in the building shattered, and I dug my fingernails through the drywall there?” I asked. “The latter,” she said. “Make sure you drink plenty of water.” “What about wine – like a couple of liters of wine?” I asked, receiving no reply.

I got dressed, tipped her, and limped out to the car. And she was right, it was not only sore today, but all of yesterday, although I was able to walk about 3.5 miles last night. And ice has been a frequent companion to my left hamstring last night and today.

I’ve poked a little fun at my treatment (and at myself), but rest assured, she does an excellent job, and I’ll be back. But the next time I go in there with a sore area, I might just keep that knowledge to myself!

A Note From Mother Nature

Dear Art,

How are you? Actually, as your Mother Nature, I already know that. I was just being polite. I am fine. Thanks for thinking of me on Mothers Day.

Now, what I want to know is: are you a moron? I created pain for a reason. When something hurts that is not supposed to, it is my warning to you to stop doing whatever is causing you the pain. What part of that don’t you understand?

So, you had this bad pain in your foot. Did you stop walking for a while? No! First, you did a six mile hike at the beach. I increased your pain to make sure you understood. But being stubborn, you still didn’t listen. You then took a seven mile walk in Washington, DC. By the end of that walk, I think you were beginning to understand, but it should not have taken you that long to figure that out. I gave you common sense for a reason. Use it!

I know you are worried whether you will be in shape for your 60 mile Komen walk if you don’t do a lot of walking now. But you still have 138 days until the walk, which is plenty of time, given your leg strength – unless you do something stupid to wreck your foot in the meantime. So, cool it! Get some rest. Use your brain to figure out when it is okay to start taking long walks again.

I know that I seem cruel, but I am just indifferent. After all, how can I pick sides? A lion in Africa either starves to death, or a zebra dies a terrible death so that the lion can feed. I can’t interfere in all of that. But nature has given your body the capacity to heal itself if given time and proper conditions. I just stay out of it. If you make bad decisions, there is nothing I can or will do to make the outcome easier, even as your Mother Nature.

So, hopefully you will learn from this. But if you don’t, I will send you another little lesson that perhaps you won’t ignore.

Love,
Mother Nature

PS: I was just being polite with that “love” stuff. I really am an indifferent mother. Sorry.

PSS: I was just being polite when I said “sorry,” because I am indifferent. Indifferent means never having to say you’re sorry.

Sexy Biker Babes Are Waiting to Meet Me!

I stared in amazement at the subject line in my in-box: “Sexy Biker Babes Are Waiting to Meet You!” My goodness: sexy biker babes want to meet me? ME??? How can this be? Why would a sexy biker babe want to meet me? There has to be a logical explanation for this, and within seconds, I was sure I had figured it out. It must be a Team in Training thing, with the bikers referring to the century bike riders I rarely see. But why? Sure, I’ve seen plenty of cute women with Team in Training over the years, but the email still didn’t make sense. If they wanted me to join the cycle team, why not just ask?

So I called my friend Joe and told him about the email, and my theory. “No, I don’t think so,” said Joe. “I think they are taking about motorcycle babes. Better go carefully – I’ve known some bikers in a past life and they can be a pretty rough crowd. Tattoos, wild drunken parties, free-for-all no-holds-barred fist fights – and the men are even worse! Better send me the email, and I’ll take a look.” So I forwarded Joe the note.

Joe called me back a few minutes later, and said “Let’s talk about this. How about 6:30 at Legend Brewing Company?” Well, if there is a Legend brown ale involved, I’m there, and so I was.

“Look,” Joe started out as we took our first gulp of the cold, delicious beer, “this is a scam. Remember that email you got a few years back, claiming they could add three inches to a certain body part with this miracle medication?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I remember thinking that they meant they could make my legs three inches longer, and I almost sent them $500. I mean, I thought maybe I could run faster with longer legs.”

Joe shook his head, an expression of disbelief on his face. “Yeah, I remember having to explain that to you. Brother! And then last year, that email from that Nigerian guy? He asked for a bank account number where he could put $10,000,000 in for you to smuggle it out of the country, and in return, you’d get to keep 25%?”

I grimaced. “Don’t remind me. My wife is still pretty annoyed about that $2,000 the guy took from our account. But this latest email, the sexy biker babes, that sounds kind of genuine, don’t you think? I don’t want to meet them because I’m a married guy, but do you think I should reply and say ‘no thanks,’ just to be nice? Sexy biker babes wouldn't scam anyone, would they? I don’t want to hurt their feelings.”

“You know, Art, you’ve been saying you kind of want a new job. If we can find a village without an idiot, I think you can have that job,” Joe said.

“Wow, do you really think so, Joe?”

“Oh, definitely,” Joe said. “Now, about this email. It is not an invitation to join a cycle team, or even a real email at all. It is a scam. They want money. Think of it as coming from a fake drug company or from a fictitious Nigerian baron. Trust me, delete it!”

We finished our ales and went our separate ways, and when I got home, I took Joe’s advice and deleted the email. But somewhere tonight, I am sure that there must be a sexy biker babe sobbing herself to sleep!

The Running of the Snails

Well, we all know about the thrilling and dangerous event in Pamplona, Spain: “The Running of the Bulls.” But what if there was another event for slower runners, like yours truly? Here is what just might happen....

Cohonnahonna, Hawaii. October 14, 2010. FSEN (Funky Sports Entertainment Network). Several near-tragedies were barely averted as dozens of runners ran the streets of Cohonnahonna today, along with several hundred fierce African giant land snails in the first annual “Running of the Snails.” Most of the runners seemed ill-prepared for the speed and power of these massive mollusks, to say nothing of their impressive slime trails.

“It was pretty horrible,” said Kristin Snodgrass of Kentucky. “I thought I had trained hard for this event, but nothing can compare you for the real running of the snails. This guy at the beginning started too slow, and got bowled over and slimed. I can’t get the images out of my mind! I keep replaying them mentaly like a really bad slasher movie.” FSEN interviewed the victim in this near-catastrophe, Art Rittenhausen of Virginia, at his hospital room. “I’d trained hard with the biggest local snails I could find,” said Rittenhausen. “But these things here are really fast, and enormous. I just wasn’t ready, and then I tripped over this really big one, slid through a gooey slime trail, and had several of them slime me as they went by. It was kinda gross, but I’ll be okay. I plan on being at the escargot dinner tonight. I’ll do better next year, now that I know what to expect. If I can increase my speed by even a few millimeters a second, I’ll be able to keep up!”

Karl Mucosa, a spokesperson for event organizer “Out-Pace the Snail,” said the weather was perfect for snail racing: high 70’s and a light mist. This probably led to them being faster and more aggressive than normal. Plus it created ideal sliming conditions as the beasts moved rapidly along. Many runners struggled to keep up, and several fell as they were jostled by snails or slipped in slime trails.

The most serious injury occurred when Bill Bartalo of New York was “sandwiched” between two particularly large snails, lost his balance, and fell on another snail. The impact crushed the snail and broke several of Bartalo’s ribs, temporarily immobilizing him. But it could have been much worse, said Bartalo. “Lucky for me, most of the lumbering snails behind me reacted to their crushed buddy by swinging to the left or right and avoiding me. Otherwise I could have been trampled and slimed to death. The one close call was when a snail came along that seemed to hold me accountable for his pal’s death, and he became enraged and started attacking me. Fortunately, several runners intervened and fought him off while I could be rescued. People really care!”

“This was the first time we have held this event, and we’ve learned some lessons for next time,” said Mucosa, between bites of escargot and sips of his lager. “One thing we might do differently next time is to scatter a little sand at points along the race course to slow the snails down a bit. But overall, I call the “Running of the Snails” a big success.”

No snails or other animals were harmed in creating this account.

How Slow Can You Go?

So after about 4 weeks of no running or even fast walking for distance, I did some miles today since my cold was finally feeling better. I walked 4 miles this morning in great, cool weather at a 14 minute pace. And this afternoon, after the frustration of having the Philadelphia Songbirds almost blow a big lead against the Detroit Housecats, I decided it was too nice a day to not go out again. So I did four laps of a trail I like for a total of 2.8 miles, mixing running and walking. But I was slow. How slow was I? Consider…

The first to pass me was a young guy about half my age. “Well,” I thought, “I could be his dad.” So that was OK. Then a young woman, about the man’s age, zipped right by. She ran like a girl, so that was OK. By run like a girl, I mean running smart, running strong, and running proud. Most women I know can beat me in a race hands down. So that was OK, too.

Then a lady pushing a baby carriage with two kids in it sped by. Not so OK. A guy about my age roared past. Ouch! My testosterone level plummeted like a stone. His dad passed me a few seconds later. I felt the burn of shame across my face.

I heard a clickedy-clack behind me and turned just as a really old lady, maybe about 90, came up on me. She was using a walker, and was dressed in a sort of nightgown, of all things. As she went by, she turned and looked behind her, shaking her head grimly. “Damned Viagra!” she muttered half to herself. I heard more clicking and clacking behind me and looked back.

An old man, a little older than the lady, was wearing pajamas and was also using a walker. He was totally bald with a big paunch, and he sported a big grin. He was gaining quickly on me but gaining almost imperceptibly on the old lady. But he was gaining on her – that much was clear - and he put his head down and redoubled his efforts.

“Dude!” I exclaimed. “Give it a rest, why don’t you?” “No way, young fella,” he replied with a big grin. “There may be snow on the roof but there’s still fire in the furnace." I was tempted to tell him there was no snow or anything else on the roof, and that the furnace looked more like a pot-bellied stove, but then I decided that would not be nice. He passed me by, looking quite determined, the old lady just a few yards ahead of him now. Deciding I wanted no more of how this might turn out, I reversed course.

Within minutes, I was passed by a three-legged goat pursued by an old farmer on crutches. Then a box turtle lumbered by. I have always loved turtles and been fascinated by them, but I did get a vision of turtle soup. Finally, a snail crept by me. At that point, my 2.8 miles ended and I felt thoroughly defeated. But then I thought, “Hey, a lot of guys your age never even left the couch today. I was out there for 6.8 miles, slow or not!” So it was all cool.

Now, of course, I made some of this up. I was never passed by that snail. No way. Once he got close, I made a snap command decision. I won’t tell you what happened, but I will share that I had escargot for an appetizer tonight!

The Cold That Roared!

My last few colds were not too bad, and only lasted a few days. This one, however, is different. It is now in its seventh day, with no signs of ending anytime soon. It has now been nine days since I last ran, covering nine miles with seemingly little effort on that cool morning. The Zicam, usually so effective, did not do the trick this time.

A few days ago, my cold entered a new stage, punctuated by a runny nose and by sneezing. You may have noticed the short upward climb in the stock market the other day. Yep, that was caused by me. I single-handedly caused the stocks of the manufacturers of tissues to soar. Unfortunately, investors decided at some point that an economy based to the astronomical sale of boxes of tissues was not sustainable, and the market on the whole went down. Tragic, surely, but there is only so much I can do on my own.

By the time all this happened, my nose was so sore, it looked and felt like I had had some kind of strange accident with sandpaper, or more likely, a sanding disk on a rotary drill. Every day, I got up thinking that the runny nose stage had to be over, and every day, I’ve been proved wrong as I ripped open another box of tissues.

Then there is the sneezing. Some people sneeze so quietly, you can barely detect it, like a tiny, much suppressed “ah-choo.” Not me. When I sneeze, there is no mistaking it. Well, actually there is. The other day, one of my sneezes fooled the geologists. Their seismic devices registered an earthquake of force 6.2 on the Richter scale, with an epicenter in Southeast Virginia. CNN was going nuts for a while. They never did figure out that I was (inadvertently) responsible, thank goodness, but they finally did realize there was no earthquake.

I’ve been down at the beach. The other day, I sneezed so forcefully that it upended beach umbrellas all over the place. They went cart-wheeling down the beach in large numbers. It was actually a pretty comical sight, with all the dozens of people chasing their errant umbrellas. One poor guy was nearly skewered by the point of the umbrella as is tumbled towards him. Fortunately, he dove into a large sand castle just in the nick of time. Of course, all the kids who had spent hours building the castle got really upset, and many of them started crying and screaming. Then their moms got into it with the guy as I quietly slunk away. A pacific day at the beach was turned discordant and ugly, all because of my sneezing.

A little while later, I was responsible for a near-disaster at sea. A large sailboat was cruising along a few miles out when an uncontrollable sneeze erupted from my lungs. The effects of the blast were startling, with the wind not only creating huge whitecaps, but its force causing a knock-down. For you non-sailors, this is when a gust of wind is so strong that it knocks a sailboat over on its side, a position from which it often cannot recover. Fortunately, our wonderful Coast Guard lived up to their motto of “Semper Paratus” and arrived in minutes, saving not only everyone of board but managing to right the boat as well. A maritime disaster was averted by these brave men and women, no thanks to me.

You may ask why I didn’t just remain inside. Well, I tried that, but after a sneeze blew out all the windows not just of my place but the one next door, it just seemed less damaging to be outdoors as much as possible where the effects of the blast could dissipate to a large extent. As you can see from my tales of near tragedy, this has had mixed success.

I hope to be over this cold, and its damaging effects, soon and back to running. But that is not going to happen today.

Lottery Dreaming

There is a group of us at work, about 15 of us, who go on a fool's errand twice a week. We each throw a buck into a pool and buy 15 lottery tickets, the winnings (usually 0) to be shared equally. I usually buy the tickets, and I will often write a little something in the note I send with the tickets. Here is what I wrote last Friday, a little verse just for fun. The PWA I refer to is the system we have to dilligently log our time in each day. You can imagine it is not much liked - very difficult to use. The verse is to the tune of “When I Was a Lad” from “HMS Pinafore” by Gilbert and Sullivan. That song is one of the funniest I have ever heard, by the way.

When I was young, just out of school
I attempted to be guided by this golden rule:
Get up each day and go to work
And your official duties you shall not shirk

(Chorus): And his official duties he did not shirk

But I now yearn for more time free
And so I am a player in the lottery

(Chorus): But he now yearns for more time free
And so he is a player in the lottery

I rise each day, go for a run
Then come to work although it’s not much fun
Get home at night with no free time
And I dream of soon retiring, hey, that’s no crime!

(Chorus): And he dreams of soon retiring, hey, that’s no crime!

But retirement’s far away for me
And so I am a player in the lottery

(Chorus): But retirement’s far away for he
And so he is a player in the lottery

If I had cash, I’d do what I like
Read a great book, go for a hike
Sit with a drink on a beach of sand
Or give free time to others, oh that would be so grand

(Chorus): He would give free time to others, oh that would be so grand

For it’s those things I would like, you see
And so I am a player in the lottery

(Chorus): For it’s those things he would like, you see
And so he is a player in the lottery

So along with you, I work each day
And account for all my hours in Pee-Dubyah-Ay
But twice each week, I risk a buck
And hope with all my hoping that we have good luck

(Chorus): Oh he hopes with all his hoping that he has good luck

For with great luck, oh how rich we’ll be
If we all keep on a-playing in the lottery!

(Chorus): If his ship comes in, how rich he’ll be
And so he keeps on playing in the lottery!

(And if I do hit the lottery tonight, a whole bunch of folks doing Team in Training are going to get some great contributions!)

My Future World Record Marathon

Yep, you read it here first. Someday, most likely in 2021, I’ll be setting the world record in the men’s marathon. How do I know this? Simple mathematics! Let me explain.

I’ve done three marathons, the Midnight Sun in Anchorage in 2005, the Rock ‘N’ Roll in San Diego in 2006, and the P. F. Changs in Phoenix, Scottsdale, and Tempe in 2008. I walked the first two, and walked over 90% of the third one. Now I am starting to run more, and consider myself a runalker, so my time per mile is decreasing. Here are my times in those races:

Anchorage – 6:41:39 (walking in heavy rain)
San Diego – 6:14:15 (walking in sunshine)
Phoenix – 5:56:44 (mostly walking in sunshine)

If you will do the math, you will see that, on average, I knocked 22 minutes and 46 seconds off each successive marathon. So projecting this forward, as any intelligent person might, leads some fantastic future times. Of course, I am not scheduled to run a marathon right now, so let’s assume I start up again in 2011, and my time will be about 5 hours and 35 minutes. Then going forward, because I want that world record as soon as possible, I will crank out a marathon a year. This leads to some remarkable milestones in my racing career:

2013 – my first sub-five hour marathon
2015 – I qualify for Boston
2016 – my first sub-four hour marathon (in Boston)
2018 – I break three hours, by a hair, for the first time
2020 – I run a marathon in 2 hours 12 minutes, just missing the world record. Ethiopian and Kenyan runners are looking over their shoulder in fear. “Who is this old geezer?” they ask in wonder. It is possible I even get a medal in the Olympics that year.
2021 – I shatter the word record at age 70. What a way to celebrate the big seven-OH! Sports Illustrated cancels its swimsuit issue to put me on its cover (but not in a swimsuit). Sales of Wheaties, with my photo on the box (but not in a swimsuit) go berserk!

But wait, there’s more! Now things start getting really incredible. In 2024 I win Olympic Gold in a new world, Olympic, and PR: less than 43 minutes. In 2025 I defy all reason by setting a new world marathon record in a shade under 20 minutes. Just for grins, I also win the Kentucky Derby, Belmont, and Preakness, leaving the world’s best thoroughbreds gasping in agony and shame. An enraged jockey tries to shoot me after the Preakness when I humiliate him and his horse. I’m not fast enough to beat a cheetah over 200 yards, but can easily beat one in a half mile race.

By 2026, I enter a marathon and win it before it even starts. At that point, age 75, I decide to slow down a bit and jog the Boston Marathon in about an hour and 5 minutes. It is time to hang up the running shoes and take it easy.

All it will take is me doing a marathon a year, and the application of simple mathematics. After all, it was Mark Twain himself that wrote the following: “In the space of one hundred and seventy-six years the Lower Mississippi has shortened itself two hundred and forty-two miles. That is an average of a trifle over one mile and a third per year. Therefore, any calm person, who is not blind or idiotic, can see that in the Old Oolitic Silurian Period, just a million years ago next November, the Lower Mississippi River was upwards of one million three hundred thousand miles long, and stuck out over the Gulf of Mexico like a fishing-rod. And by the same token any person can see that seven hundred and forty-two years from now the Lower Mississippi will be only a mile and three-quarters long, and Cairo and New Orleans will have joined their streets together, and be plodding comfortably along under a single mayor and a mutual board of aldermen. There is something fascinating about science. One gets such wholesale returns of conjecture out of such a trifling investment of fact.”

Have You Talked to Your Doctor About Goteamtra?

I’ve said a number of times that if I could bottle and sell the feeling one gets from participating in Team in Training, then I would be a very wealthy man. So it got me to wondering – what if there were such a medication? What would its TV commercial be like? Maybe something like this…

Are you longing to make a positive difference in the world? Do you feel restless when you see people out running or biking while you sit lethargically on your couch or sleep half the day away? Are negative people getting you down? Maybe it is time you had an open conversation with your doctor about Goteamtra.

Goteamtra is a medication that will boost your energy, increase your smile factor, and help you bond with new people. Instead of lethargically sleeping late on Saturdays, you will bound out of bed ready and eager to train with friends. You will have the strength and energy to run, walk, or bike long distances, or to compete in a long distance triathlon. You will experience the glow of helping others, and knowing that you are contributing to the ultimate victory over blood cancers. During races, strangers will cheer for you and call out your name, and you will smile from ear to ear. You will experience feelings of euphoria, and have amazing and sharp memories that will last a lifetime. You will generate positive vibes to the people around you. You will have the strength to gladly stand for hours cheering for friends and strangers as they race along. Your weight and fat content should decrease while your muscle mass, strength, and endurance increase.

Goteamtra does have certain side effects that you should discuss with your doctor. You may develop an unusual affinity for the color purple. You might ignore pain and exhaustion to continue running or competing. You could feel a compulsion to stick Team in Training tattoos on your face or on other body parts, and to shout “Go Team!” You might start talking to strangers about the difficulties of curing blood cancers, and how they can help. If you should experience a marathon lasting more than nine hours, seek immediate medical attention. In rare instances, Goteamtra has been known to become addictive.

Goteamtra is not for everyone. If you are an extremely negative person, someone who likes to rain on everyone else’s parade, or someone who is just plain mean, Goteamtra is not going to help you. However, you could have a frank discussion with your doctor about having an eyerectomy. This is a delicate operation to disconnect your eyes from your rectum, thus improving your shitty outlook on life.

Two More Announcements from my Cancer Kickin' Campaign

This was my fifth note updating my campaign to potential donors....

I had a couple more big new announcements from my Team in Training Cancer Kickin’ Campaign. Fortunately, host Hal Larius of FSEN (Fundraising Sports Entertainment Network) let me appear on his show again to let the world know these exciting new developments. Following is a transcript of my recent interview with Hal:

Hal: Hi folks, tonight on my show, “Athletes in Grace and Disgrace,” we have a very special guest, Art Ritter – er – Cinco-ocho. I’m glad we could get you back on my show so soon, Art.
Art: Thanks, Hal. Great to be back!.
(Audience: thunderous applause and rhythmic chanting “Cin-co-o-cho”, “Cin-co-o-cho”)
Hal: I know you have two really big announcements tonight, but first, tell everyone about where your campaign stands.
Art: Well, as you know, I’m training for my fifth Team in Training event, the Seattle Half Marathon, and raising money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I want to thank the many generous people who have contributed. People can go to my TNT web page at any time to donate, catch up on my latest updates, or see my list of honorees.
(The web site URL of my TNT page is shown on the TV screen):

http://pages.teamintraining.org/va/rnrseatl10/art_ritter

Hal: So, you’ve reached nearly half of your fundraising goal, right?
Art: Yes. People have generously donated $4,100 so far. This money will be used to provide services to blood cancer patients and to work towards the ultimate goal of curing blood cancers: lymphoma, leukemia, and multiple myeloma.
Hal: Well, what’s this about the color purple?
Art: Well, Hal, I am announcing here tonight that if I reach my fundraising goal by June 25, I am going to dye my hair purple for the race!
(Audience: a loud buzz fills the studio, and several young women in the audience scream)
Hal: Wow, that would be so cool! Hey, how about a purple Mohawk, Art?
Art: Let’s not go nuts with this, Hal.
Hal: Yeah, that would be pretty over the top and out of character for you, wouldn’t it?
Art: So that people can see how close I am to having purple hair for the race, on my TNT web page is a link to a cool new feature, my “Purpleometer.” I’ll update this as money continues to come in, and when “Mini-Me” has 100% purple hair, you know I’ll have purple hair too on race day! And after the race, I’ll post a photo of myself with purple hair on my blog, Racing for a Cure.
(Audience: breaks into cheering and stamping their feet; a few young women swoon)
Hal: Oh that is awesome! I can’t wait to check that out. So I just go to your web page and there is a link to your Purpleometer?
Art: Yep, it’s so easy, Hal. But I have another big announcement, too.
(Audience: collective sound of loud inhaling with excitement)
Hal: Well, don’t hold us in suspense, Art. What is it?
Art: Well, March Madness turned very quickly to March Sadness for me with Villanova losing in the second round, but I am going to turn it back to March Fadness by continuing my campaign’s wild and whacky hat fad!
Hal: Oh, exciting! How will March Fadness work, Art?
Art: Simple, Hal. For a $25 or larger donation for most teams, I will wear the college team hat of your choice for a day, and put a picture on my blog. Your team is still in March Madness? Rub it in, make me wear their hat. Your team is a ‘Nova arch rival in basketball, or even football – any Blue Hen, Spider, or Tribe fans out there? Go ahead, show LLS the money and I will wear your hat.
Hal: Wow, just 25 bucks? I think I see you wearing a Whittier Poets hat pretty soon, good buddy!
Art: Well, $25 for most teams. But for some teams, it is $50. All these teams either beat Villanova this year, or knocked us out of the tournament over the past few years. It is just so painful and humiliating to wear these teams’ hats, but for a good cause, I will: North Carolina, St. Mary’s, Florida, Kentucky, Kansas, West Virginia, Syracuse, Pitt, Temple, UConn, Marquette, or Georgetown.
(a fan in the back jumps up and screams “’Nova stinks, Tarheels rule! The audience boos him)
Hal: I’d love to see you in a Syracuse or Georgetown hat, Art. Oh, the humiliation.
Art: Yeah, feels kind of rash right now, but I am not backing down! Go ahead, humiliate me, it is for a good cause. Make the donation and loan me the hat, and I will wear it! Even if it is one of a hated rival!
(A guy in the audience shouts “Yeah!” Applause starts rippling through the studio)
Hal: Well folks, that’s all we have time for tonight. Art, thanks for coming on. I’m going to be checking out that Purpleometer and getting you that Poets hat! Goodnight, everyone.

That’s the latest from my 2010 Cancer Kickin’ Campaign, Survivor in Seattle. Stay tuned for future updates!
Art