Asleep at the wheel

Wow, 2 weeks since I last logged in. A lot has happened since then:

• Had the nasal exam. I have what looks like a jelly fish in the forward cavity of my nasal passages. "Surgery" (if that's what passes for surgery) will be the second week of November to allow for the October Urbanathlon and November Half Marathon
• Running a minimum of twice a week, but had to take a week off do to a mysterious rib injury. It felt like a knife being stabbed into my ribs right over my heart. It was obviously a muscle tear of some sort, but I have no idea how I did it.
• I felt healed well enough to try mountain biking this past Saturday with a group of friends and Vanessa (who also is a friend, but I sleep naked with her, so she gets her place on the pedestal). A lap of Sac River is three miles, and I felt good enough to hit the first lap pretty hard, then did a second lap a little more leisurely, but that's all I wanted.
• 8 MILES!!! Last night on the trail, 8 miles. And it didn't hurt. The first four of a planned 6-mile were run pretty hot, and as I was headed back to the start I ran into (figuratively, not literally) a couple of old friends who were training for the Bass Pro Marathon, so I turned around and ran an extra couple of miles with them. I was running about an 8:30 - 8:45 prior to meeting them. They run at about a 9:45 - 10:00, so it was a nice cool down and chance to catch up. I left them with about a mile and a half or so to go, and kicked it into overdrive running about a 7:45. I felt great at the finish. I was using my almost-step-son's iPod with his mystery mix on it and discovered a great power song: AC/DC's "Thunderstruck". Talk about rocking your pace.
• Traveling to the home office on Thursday, moving into new digs Friday and Saturday morning, leaving Saturday to KC to drink lots of beer and watch the Chiefs on Sunday (they suck, by the way, but I'm still loyal)...I've got to squeeze another run in sometime this week. This work thing really gets in the way of my training.

Run, Dog, run.

Quick Update...

My scheduled MRI on my snot chutes has been delayed. I'm out of town on company business (if by business, you mean taking a boatload of contractors to play golf and gamble) Thursday and Friday, so the boss decided it would be convenient to have all of the sales and management personnel show up a day early on Wednesday for meetings, at which time my MRI was planned. Happy, happy, joy, joy.

It has since been pushed back to next Monday, dammit. I'd really like to get this addressed.

Still On Track

Why yes, yes I am, even though I haven't told you about it. Although seriously goofing off through the holiday put a small kink in my schedule, I'm still moving forward with my training for the Bass Pro Half in November, and the Chicago Urbanathlon in October.

Last night I ran four miles on the Greenways Trail, posting a legitimate 8 minute average in the process. No muss, no fuss...I started slow with about an 8:45 pace, and simply continued to speed it up until I finished the run in a dead sprint.

I had grabbed all my gear that morning in the dark, and when I went to change clothes (which I do in the parking lot of my local brew pub...yes, I get totally naked when changing. Calm yourself) I discovered that I had grabbed my long technical underwear (which I love, and they love me back) and my oh-so-snug tri-shorts, which leave nothing to the imagination. My running shorts were still in the drawer. So much for gearing up without a light.

I opted to ditch the underwear and just go with the tri's, which have a thin chamois pad. My jersey was hanging long enough to mimimize my exposure, and began to walk to the trail. As I did, I passed in front of the pub where a few of the waitstaff (all of them friends of mine) were on break. One of the guys (who blantantly leads an alternate lifestyle. And by alternate, I mean gay) stood up and said "Excuse me sir...the Short-Short People called...they want their clothes back." The others simply stood and applauded. As they should, given the view I provided them.

Besides being publicly ridiculed by my friends for my attire, then rest of the run was great. I had a random run-in with my junior-high math teacher, who I yelled a greeting to after not having seen her for oh, damn near 30 years. I doubt she recognized me. I'm much better looking now.

It's raining here today, so I think I'll make a pit stop at the brew pub in real clothes on the way home. It feels like that kind of day.

Holiday Musings, In Which My Nose Is Explored...

It's a holiday weekend with no kids, which means at some point over the next three days I intend to be drunk, naked, and on the lake. One of these usually precedes the other, but I'm not going to be picky. I also need to get a long run in; I'm planning on doing 10 miles in the morning. I'm hoping I can talk my mom into acting as the water mule, which I usually get the pups to do. We'll see...so far she's not been very agreeable to the idea.

I went in for my first full-boat physical a few weeks ago, which included all of the regular good stuff a man my age gets to experience. There were a few questionable conditions (damn you, prostate) that have since been addressed and dismissed, but my GP referred me to an ENT specialists to examine, in her words, "...the largest nasal polyp I've ever seen...". Gack. Of course, I'm thinking something about the size of your pinky finger nail protruding from my nasal wall. Not so much. The ENT (that's Ear, Nose, and Throat for those of you not in the know. Although I don't know why they don't call him an ENAT. Curious...) took a look and scheduled me for a CT scan. And not just any CT scan, but the super-duper, hi-tech, hi-resolution CT scan so he can see exactly what's going on in there. Because my polyp is roughly, in his estimation, about the volume of a quarter cup. As in jelly fish-sized. In my nasal passage. Again, gack.

Bad news: It's removed under general anesthetic; recovery time is about a week (no running, cycling, or lifting); and it's surgery, no matter which way you cut it (get it? Cut it? I kill me....).

Good news: It's outpatient; everything (so far, prior to biopsy) looks very benign, and he tells me that everybody that has this procedure (nice doctor-speak for cutting on your insides) wakes up feeling immediately better. I've had sinus issues for years. This explains most, if not all of everything I've had to deal with. I'm excited.

Happy Labor Day...It's time to imbibe. Or get naked. Or both.

Dog

In Which I Play Chicken To A 4-Wheeler. And Am Deflated By Girls Holding Hands...

So the Urbanathlon is pending, roughly 6 weeks out. My half marathon is on November 1, exactly 2 weeks after the Urbanthlon. And notice that I feel compelled to capitalize the word "Urbanathlon", even though it's not really a word. It just makes it feel more official. So I felt it necessary to scrap my regularly scheduled training run to do a test run for Chicago. This means I cranked out 4 miles at a more-than-is-wise pace. This also means risking injury (unwise), approaching the puke threshold (messy, and slightly embarrassing), and at the time, pushing the poop barrier (infinitely more messy, and certainly more embarrassing). Something I had eaten during the day didn't agree with my 4 mile balls-to-the-wall run, and I turtled several times during the run. But I was able to poke the turtles head back into the shell, and all was well. I'm a poet and didn't know it.

Shortly after I began my run at an unwise pace, I met two strikingly attractive women on the trail, one following the other. The first, by all appearances, had never been properly fitted for a sports bra and the standard-issue undergarment she was wearing was grossly inadequate for the job of holding her ample attributes (this means "large breasts") in a suitable manner. At least not for running, because simply for display purposes it was perfect. I felt a little sorry for her, seriously, because my much better half spent a considerable amount of time and effort finding an suitable sports bra, and is a 100% better for it.

The second woman was similar in appearance to the first, sans the jouncing and bouncing like two puppies playing tag in a gunny sack. She smiled and gave me the nod, as did the first, and I smiled and thought, this ain't a bad way to spend an afternoon. Almost immediately after this my smile disappeared as I dialed up the effort meter in my attempt to measure my current level of speed, should I need to run the Urbanathlon tomorrow. Which I don't. I'm an idiot.

I made my way to the turn-around and hammered it back home. A mile from the end I saw the same women headed my way. And I did as any warm-blooded male would do when you're running red-line and have nothing left in the tank: I sped up. Until I got close enough to see that they were walking hand-in-hand. And talking, and smiling...and occasionally stopping for a kiss on the cheek (not that there's anything wrong with that...). I didn't slow down, but I did for a moment have a stray thought that I'm not proud of, at all, which I'm not going to share. I'm a doofus. But my chagrin over that situation was very shortly directed towards another.

I mostly run on a dedicated bike and pedestrian trail. No motor vehicles, period. And I spend a tremendous amount of personal time, effort, and sometimes even money to help maintain it. I'm very proud of it. So imagine my, yes, chagrin, to see off in the distance some redneck prick riding towards me on a four-wheeler, cap turned around backward. He was hard charging it down the asphalt, dust flying behind him, and I moved from my usual right-lane position to run right down the middle, head on towards his vehicle. Just before he came to me he veered off into the grass while I stopped and gave him the "don't fuck with me" evil eye (even though I was wearing sunglasses, he could tell). He gave me a couple of look over the shoulder double-takes, but I just stood there and dared him to turn around. I wasn't in the mood. Not the smartest, or most mature action to take (try NOT mature, at all), but it certainly felt good. He knew he wasn't welcome on my trail. There's a new sheriff in town, and his name is Dog.

I finished out my run with a 7:42 average pace, and nothing injured, so all is well in the Dog's pound.

I Agree To A Chicago Relay

I did a long run (for me) on Saturday morning, again enlisting the aid of the Pups to be my water mules (it's a cross-breed designation, slightly confusing, but it works for me) for just over eight miles. I ran a slow, 9:50 pace, and felt great. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and it was a beautiful day in the Ozarks. Add a dozen dancing Geisha girls and we'd have had a party. The run itself was fairly uneventful, other than the opportunity to have an ongoing conversation with my water mules. All was well in my world, if just for the moment.

But then chaos erupted (reason for said chaos involves my much better half, mentioned below): a good friend of mine from college (we'll call him Bone, because that's what I call him, for reasons that can't be divulged at the moment) invited me, via text (not relevant, but I felt necessary to mention), to compete with him and another buddy of ours in the Mens Health Chicago Urbanathlon. I've never done it, but from what I can tell from the website the Urbanathlon is the equivalent of race-lite. Like decaf coffee. Coors Light on ice. Sex with a condom (scratch that...had other things on my mind at the moment). It's only about 12 miles long, but run it as a relay (as we plan to) and you're only looking at a 4-mile leg, albeit with a few obstacles thrown in.

The last time I was in Chicago, it was with the same guy, a bunch of other guys, and events included much drinking of beer and being accosted by a hooker with a knife (and not the hot, Julia Roberts Pretty Woman-type, either) . Another story, another time. But suffice it to say, I was innocent of all charges. But I digress.

I'm flying into Chicago on October 16, sampling a few local brews, and catching up with my teammates. The first buddy invited couldn't make it so our other guy is Bone's brother: younger, in better shape, and dropping us into a younger age bracket, damn his young hide. We'll get up bright and early Saturday morning, and we're off when they blow the horn at 8 am. At least I think it's at 8 am. I might want to verify that prior to the actual race.

Chaos, to whit: My much better half is not overjoyed that I'm traveling to Chicago to compete in said race, as she knows that Bone and I enjoy a brew or two or ten, and she's already looked at the race information and is not impressed ( "...TWELVE miles? Divided into THREE legs? Are you kidding me?!?..." ), and sees this as an excuse to get out of the house and imbibe heavily on the pretense of a Big Medicine race. Which it's not. Entirely, that is. Training details and email torrent to follow...

Just trying out the new mobile posting feature...

Well, crap....

My last post was August 17, 10 damn days ago. I intended to post to this blog way more often, but obviously I've blown that goal off. Since then I've run three times, lifted 4, and drank heavily for at least 4 days.

My run times have been decently fast, but not long:

1st run - 4 miles, 9:31 pace (on purpose...trying to slow myself down)

2nd run - 3 miles, 8:30 pace

3rd run (last night after work) 5 miles, 8:31 pace. Although last night I felt pretty good about it because I'm running the infamous "negative splits". The first half I ran an 8:51 pace, the second half came in at 8:15. I'm planning on 8 miles on Saturday. Of course, I like to talk a big game and then lie about it afterwards. Much like my sex life.

I came the closest I've come in a long time to having an incident while running. And by incident, I mean shit. Something gurgley (if it's not a word, it should be) was going on in the gut, and between mile 3 and 4 I slowed to try and put the prairie dog back in the hole. I was successful, and he didn't make another appearance, but it was close there for short while.

Random observations...

• Paradise By The Dashboard light is good running music. Really
• Ipod earphones are quite possibly the worst designed earphones. Ever.
• Fugly guys can talk to cute girls as long as the dogs they're walking will stop and sniff each others asses.

That is all. Run Dog.

Good Boys

I have 12 year-old twin boys. Both are reasonably active in team sports, like to run around and do boy things, but they never got into Dad's activities, namely adventure racing and cycling. This was mostly due to the fact that neither is a spectator sport. It's a little hard to feel "Go Team!" when the team you're trying to watch passes by during a water stop for 5 minutes in the middle of a 12 hour race. I get it.

But recently I've begun taking them on my runs; letting them ride mountain bikes and hauling my water on the local trails. It's worked out really, really well. They keep me occupied with conversation and questions, they are getting some exercise in, and most importantly, it allows us to spend some quality time together. I appreciate their interest, and I tell them.

Nothing exceptionally funny happened during the ride. It was just a good time with some good boys and their dad.

My Garmin was dead. I thought I had charged it prior to my run, but apparently not, so I had the boy keep track on mileage and time using the bike computer. Not stellar, but the results of Saturday mornings run:

6 miles

57 minutes and change

9:31 avg.

Onward and upward...

Moon River

Took my first full physical in probably 4 years yesterday. And by full, I mean bend over and exhale. And by exhale, I mean...well, you know what I mean. She (yes, my doctor is a woman. Insert joke here) is pretty cool. Roughly my age, plain spoken, no drama. Made no big deal out of neither the "turn your head and cough" nor the aforementioned "bend over and exhale" portion of the physical.

Generally speaking, I'm in obnoxiously good health. Just not the fanatically good health that I've maintained the past few years. That whole job and career thing have gotten in the way of my leisure activities, so I'm having to relearn my training schedule. But I digress.

I was more than a little anxious when I showed up at the doc's office. They give you an inordinate amount of time to think about life, family, career...and the invasive portions of the examination. Which, in all honesty, isn't a big deal. Or not as big a deal as most guys would have you think. Hell, ANY woman on the planet would laugh in your face if you tried to complain about it. That whole child-bearing angle they bring up is a trump card that's hard to beat. Not to mention any conversation involving a speculum. I shudder to think...

So anyway, we did height (I'm exactly average, if by average you mean better than average), weight (below average, but only because I'm better than average), the standard life history questionnaire (drugs? no...sexually active? ummm...yes...alcohol? as much as possible...), and then I was told to undress and put on the gown, open in the back. Deep breath, slow the pulse...

The doctor comes in, and it's pretty anticlimactic from there: stethoscope, eyes-ears-nose-throat, reflexes, and then it's a short fondle, roll over and exhale (moooonnn riivvvveerrr), and we're done.

She looks at my left foot, and tells me it's not a wart, but a corn. What the hell? Put some acid patches on it and it'll be good in a week. Run away.

Right foot-toe isn't dislocated, possibly fractured (doubtful), but tape it and ice it, and as long as the pain doesn't stop me, I'm not going to be doing any long-term damage by running on it. Baby, I'm back!

Sister's birthday is tonight. Time to get my drink on, do a little dancing, then it'll be up and back on the road in the morning. See Dog run.

A Little Something's Better Than A Whole Lot Of Nothing

I still can't run. The spirit is willing, but my body is beginning to show the first signs of revolt. At 42 years old, I've spent the last 10+ years beating the hell out of myself with the attitude of "that which doesn't kill you only makes you stronger." Well, to a point.

I've got what I thought was a planter wart in the center of my left foot, and a possibly fractured middle toe on my right (too much beer on a lake day and a failed attempt at tying a Waverunner up to a sunken rock) is foiling my training schedule. So I did what I should have done two weeks ago: I made an appointment to see the doctor.

In the meantime, I had to do something, so I cut out early for a solo ride on Wednesday afternoon. While prepping from the takeoff point, my buddy Brett happened by, and chose to ride with me. 15 minutes later we were off on a directionless, convoluted route that involved much traffic and nothing but hills, all uphill. Combine that with 90 degrees and a less-than-regular ride schedule, and my heart rate was kicking. Garmin told me I was over 180 a half-dozen times over a 20 mile track, and we only averaged 14 mph. Like I said, all uphill. Into the wind. Both ways.

Thursday is the physical/checkup. No food or drink for 12 hours. I'm excited.

Rained out?

Seriously? Raining? I work about 45 minutes from home. Vanessa just sent me an IM - "It's an 'effin down pour here". Sun's out and high humidity outside my office.

I'm guessing Plan B: wine and apps at our favorite bistro. Oh well...best laid plans of mice and men. Better luck tomorrow. Dammit.

Accountability 101

I've been riding a bike for over ten years, the majority of the time pretty hardcore. I'd always try to log better than a couple thousand miles in a year, and try to average at least 100 miles a week during the warmer months.

I was a dedicated cyclist, and looked with disdain at those who chose to run instead of ride. And then in 2005 my family (sister, her husband, and my father) decided that they wanted to compete in an adventure race, asked me to join the team, and chose the biggest, baddest race in the area for their inaugural event. It was marked by catastrophe, not the least of which was the unexpected death of my father six weeks before the race. But that's another story for another post.

The end result of this particular race was that I've continued to do it, and have had to incorporate running into my schedule to be able to stay competitive. I've since moved on to other teams that are stronger and faster, and my physical fitness (particularly my running) has had to increase to keep pace with my younger teammates.

The story skips around a little here...I run and ride with the love of my life and much better half. She's done a marathon. I haven't. I have, however, competed and have done well in adventure races that have lasted upwards of twelve hours, and have required running in excess of 10-12 miles, in addition to all of the riding and paddling that comes with it. But I still haven't run a marathon. She reminds me of this every time I start to get a little cocky.

My motivation has always been to be the strongest member of the team. And herein lies the title for this first post...it's the team that has always made me accountable. I've always maintained a training schedule, HAD to maintain a schedule, in order to not let down my team. But now I'd like to run a distance race, preferably the full 26.2, and there's no team. And I've finding myself not being accountable.

This is where you come in.

You're job is to keep me accountable. I have to maintain my running schedule, and I'm not keeping up with the pace. Granted, I've had a couple of nagging injuries that are more than a little inconvenient (dropped a rock on my toe at the lake...it's ugly, and what looks like a plantar's wart on the ball of the other foot, dammit), but no excuses. I've got to do this, I WANT to do this. I will do this.

So that's it, in a nutshell. This evening I'm going to ride with Vanessa, and I'll let you know how it goes.

Thanks for hanging with me.

Dog