The bike guys are back.  How exciting.  This just makes me want to stay indoors longer.  Some of them are in terrific shape.  Cool.  However, most of them seem not to be.  It’s a conveyance.  Most of the time I see them coasting, not even pedaling. There they are riding their little bikes with their pointy little helmets acting as if they are doing something, they do not impress me.  I know, get your fat ass of the little bike and run a few miles.  Or ride your bike 50 miles when I run 10 and we will call it even.  I’m really not sure what the ratio is or should be, but don’t bike the same as I run and call us square.  Another thing, when I’m running on the trails, which I hope to do more of this year…get the fuck out of my way.  I have the right of way.  Even if I don’t, I actually do as I will knock you down a ravine and not even look back.  You probably have a cell phone, cable TV, and another bike in your little bike rucksack anyway.  Call someone so they can mount an expedition to save your silly spandex ass, and then you can go on a talk show and talk about how you had to eat one of the 32 cliff bars in your bag while you waited for rescue to take you home as your little bike was dinged.  Okay, I’m glad I got that off my chest.

Tomorrow is a scheduled off day.  Been a couple of weeks since I had one of those.  Not because I’m a tough guy, but because I am base building on a treadmill.  Could it be any easier?  No injuries and a lot of slow miles. Soon I will be venturing outdoors a bit, and then the normal aches and pains will return I think.  I hope to be a bit smarter about training this time around, but I say that about everything…that I hope to be smarter the next time around…and I really never am.  I just repeat the same stuff in different ways.  I still need to lean out, or the world needs to get fatter.  Not just one person, but everyone.  If the entire world gains weight, except for me…than I will be okay.  It’s probably not gonna happen, but I am holding out hope anyway.

I would like to be bionic someday. Well, parts of me.  I wonder what they could do for six million dollars nowadays?  Maybe an earlobe and one nostril?  That sure as hell is not gonna help me out. Besides I don’t have six million dollars. Hmmm.  Six dollar man?  So, that is what…half a haircut?  I would be half of a new man then.  I wonder if I would get one side cut?  Just the top?  All of it cut, but only half as short as I usually get it?  Ha. Time to hit the treadmill again, as I know that damned motor is laughing at me.  It’s like the tell tale heart…the tell tale Treadmill motor….I believe Poe originally wrote the story that way but changed it to a heart so as not to confuse folks.  Good call Edgar, good call.  He was way ahead of his time.  He was the first to use a zero drop pen…ha…

 

Do you ever look at another runner, an elite or just a better than you runner, and say, “I’m gonna beat that person someday?”  And then plan on how you are going to kill them?  Either do I, and that would be just plain wrong.

I wish I could be one of those willowy, wispy runners that look like they are going to blow away in the wind.  Then I would be really fast.  The problem is going to come when I go to Prison for the 12 state killing spree I’ve been putting off. (It’s on my to do list. Right after fix the banister, and before buy a new pair of really cool socks.)  Now I’m in prison and I am a willowy, wispy runner guy that cannot run very far…and is blowing someone in the wind.  I will stick to being fat and unappealing, even the prison dudes might have to think twice.

Why is it that most runners either pretend to be, or are, save the earth kind of folks?  Go green, or whatever color they think is hip.  Yes, I like saying the word hip.  Stop looking at me that way.  It was cool once.  Wait, is cool out too?  Damn.  I am gonna have to up my lingo.  Lingo is fun because it’s close to bingo.  And who in their right mind doesn’t like to sing B I N G O, B I N G O, and bingo was his nameo.  A modern classic I tell ya.  Not to be confused with oingo boingo. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iypUpv9xelg  Anyway, if you wanna save the earth…fine.  Just don’t save my part. Thanks.  Now go run.  Slowly I hope.

Unfettered.  I have no reason to write that, it just happens to be one of my favorite words. Like most things, I’m not even sure what it means.  I like to work it into a conversation…ya know…just to be hip and cool, tough to be both by the way.

Are you back from running already?  That was way too fast as this is a really short blog. Hmm…either too fast, or you lied about running.

As I’ve stated before, I’m on the darned treadmill until the weather is up to my personal satisfaction.  I run on the treadmill in front of a mirror.  I do it for form.  And because dudes spend more time in front of mirrors when they are alone then they want you to know. Anyhortonhearsawhowho, I was watching my form and trying to get a little bit lower arm carriage.  Maybe a little more like Ryan Hall, ya know without being as feminine.  But then I got to thinking that I always let my left hand go a little limp as the arm goes down instead of keeping it the same as the right hand, acting as if I were holding a roll of quarters…ya know the drill. Here I am in front of a mirror, my right hand in a cupped position and checking out my form.  Deja freaking vu.  Ha.  Maybe I should move the mirror, or dare I say…venture out of doors.  Ahhhhhh.  That was me screaming in horror.  Screaming in a hip and cool manner though, as always. Double Ha.

 

Group Stuff, Cemeteries, Whitney, and Bill was Hung

I had a chance to go on a group run today, and when you are anti-social as I am…those are rare opportunities.  The problem is, I think a group run is a lot like group sex I would assume.  A whole lot of posturing, a few folks that can go the pace you can, and the rest really just watching the show.   I’m not saying which person I would be, but suffice to say…I can run just as well on my own.

I drove around scoping out new areas to run today.  Of course I’m still on the treadmill as I have yet to see my aforementioned requirements for venturing out of doors. One are that was really nice was the VA cemetery.  I assume that unless I move, I will end up being buried there.  My family is not one to have plots, or plans for death.  Hell, my mother died and I didn’t even know it for 6 months and only then by accident.  It looked like a nice place to run, but I’m guessing some of the old timers would complain.  There are plenty of other places to run, but running amongst the dead has got to make me feel better about living…or at the very least guarantee that I come in first on any imaginary race that I run out there.  I got to thinking about my own death.  Well, not that I’m dead yet…as far as I know.  But my eventual death…outside of my kids, (and then maybe…) I don’t see a lot of tears, or that was a great guy speeches.  I’m thinking there’s going to be a lot of, can we leave yet going on.  It doesn’t matter.  We can’t all be Whitney Freaking Houston.  And yes Houston, we had a problem.  Crack is whack, when you smoke it for the better part of your adult life.  At least she didn’t die like David Carradine.  Oh Bill, what were you thinking? 

I wonder what new and exciting things I will see on my treadmill tomorrow?  Maybe more of the same?  Yeah, I’m guessing…

 

Finisher Medal

Here’s an idea, how about not having to be validated every time you compete.  Noooo.  We can’t do that.  How will we measure our self-worth?  How will we know we have done something?  How can we show other’s we have value?  It’s fucking stupid.  Stop already.  We get it.  You ran x amount of miles.  You did not place in the top three or five and you got nothing.  This is as it should be.  Wait until you get old and hope the competition dies, or just get better.  Not everyone will take a place.  I may never, but I refuse to believe that due to my massive…ego. So sad.  Ha.  

I wonder if you get a finisher medal for life. God is at the finish line, hands you a medal that says life completed…and then you go into nothingness for all of eternity.  Better than getting a DNF.  I think that means you died too early, or you really did nothing in life to even merit the finisher medal.  Hell is for the Rosie Ruiz’s of life.  Cheated her way through.  I do like her though.  That chick is still sticking by her story that she didn’t cheat.  Have to love someone that will live the lie.  I’m guessing she still signs autographs for no one.  Awwww.  Actually, most folks probably know her name better than most Boston winners.  Rosie Ruiz.  The alliteration just rolls off your tongue, doesn’t it?  

I’ve been more of a douchebag than normal.  I’ve been putting 70-80 miles a week on the treadmill.  Not because it’s unbearable outside.  I just want to see a few days strung together.  I don’t need birds chirping, or dogs humping, or even crack whores whoring….but I want to see the sunshine and none of this Mother Nature Tease stuff either.  I want the real stuff baby.  I know you have it.  Over the last few days I signed up for a 33.5 mile trail run.  What the hell was I thinking?  What do I look like Dean whateverhismarathonrunningevery8hourslastfreakingnameis?  I had a moment of motivation, which should have died quicker than it did. Damn it Jim, I’m a doctor…not a long distance runner.  But sadly, I’m not a doctor either.  Soooo, I guess I will run it.  I’m gonna run dragging the cardio cart behind me.  Then every couple of miles I can yell clear, give myself a motivational heart starting kick in the ass, and keep on trucking.  I wonder if that is approved by whatever sanctioning body approves of the idea of running farther than a freaking marathon?  Whatever.  At least I’ll have a valid reason to run slow.  I will just call it a training run.  Ha.  Or I will say I was not racing.  Or whatever other bullshit reason I can think of for not finishing in the top three.  I’m guessing I will get a sweet finisher medal. Ha.  

First time Poster, Long Time Douchebag

I’m fairly new at this whole running thing.  I’ve run two 5k’s, and a marathon.  I’ve put in a little over a thousand miles in 7 months of running.  Why do I mention these things?  Did you miss the part about the douchebag?  Ask most runners and they will tell you what time they ran, or that they only run for the zen of it…some metaphysical bullshit that I really don’t even understand but nod my head as if I did, or that they are slow runners….even when their times are better than yours….d o u c h e b a g s.  We love it though, because deep down we are all douchebags to some degree or another.  I might talk about running here.  I might talk about midget porn.  I might talk about midget porn while running.  Who knows?  It’s all in fun.  I don’t take myself seriously, and surely…no reason for you take yourself seriously either.  And yes, I will stop calling you Shirley.

I don’t like seeing runners when I’m not running.  I feel some guilt, even if I just got done running.  I want to take my car and run them over until their legs can no longer work.  Teach them to run faster/better/or when I’m not.  I don’t really like to see runners when I’m running either.  I give them the obligatory runners wave, and want to grind their faces into the concrete when they don’t return the favor. Or I have to check my form, pretend I’m running faster, or that I’m not tired.  My form always sucks, I’m slow, and I’m always tired.  So you can see how too many runners will just mess up my whole run.  Ha.    Runners that are not running anger me as well.  Put some dumb ass sticker on your car, and I might have to intentionally run you into the median at a very high rate of speed and leave you a burning hulk of a mess with only your little 13.1/26.2/50/100/or whatever number you put on your car…even though it’s probably just your IQ and you figured folks would think you were a runner.  That would be funny though, having to put your IQ on your car. “Oh, he has an IQ of 90…he didn’t mean to cut me off.  Oh, she is a member of mensa…I wonder what her breasts look like.”  Ha, and Ha.

I mostly got into running because they have much cooler clothes than powerlifting, which was my last veiled attempt at trying to disprove the chronological fact that I’m freaking old.  I love the variety of shoes, which is starting to make me question my sexuality.  I am almost obsessed with running shoes.  I probably have 8 pair in the closet right now, and another on the way.   Does this mean that I’m gonna start singing show tunes and enjoy the lyrical stylings of Adele?  Say it ain’t so Joe.  Wait, what does Joe have to do with it?  Damn, I have to do something manly.  Hmmm.  I think I’m gonna do my laundry and not fold it.  Yeah, I am a man.  Ha.

 

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