Is Your Television Running?

I like running right when I get home from work. Well, I used to before daylight savings time turned 4 p.m. into midnight. Lousy farmers.

I was able to increase my mileage through the summer, even if it looked like I fell in a pool by the time I got home. Now the temperature is more pleasant, and I barely look sweaty at all when I return, and my shirt doesn't feel like chain mail clanking against my skin.

I have a running mix I play occasionally; it's full of '80s punk and hardcore where teenagers scream about Reagan and the cops, along with heaviness and screaming from all eras. I don't always use it, in fact now that running isn't so much of a chore, I'm more inclined to put the iPod on random and see what pops up.

The past few weeks, however, I've been playing Television's "Marquee Moon" at least once a run.

I'll pop it on after I've gone about two and a half miles, where the little aches and pains from the beginning have faded away and I've gone through Avondale with one of the parks on my left. The sun is starting to set, and I've seen other runners, old people walking dogs, and cats just hanging out on yards. The clouds are turning orange and purple and the 10 minute plus song is halfway over.

I'm feeling good - limber and relaxed with a sheen of sweat coating me and cooling me off. I start to think, "Hey, I could do this for hours. Maybe I should run a marathon. Or double marathons."

If I've timed it right, that whole chimey, intertwining guitar part at the end is building to a climax while the skies get brighter and more picturesque, and that bass line is reminding me not to go too fast, to sort of hang around and watch the skies. 

Plus, the thing's so long that it takes up a good portion of both my run and the sunset.

After that, I'm running back through Murray Hill in the dark, now listening to whatever else comes up, or maybe replaying it to get me back home.

It's funny that the song I now associate with nature and exercise and the awe-inspiring Florida sunset was probably written in some horrible filthy NYC junkie pad, but I guess you have to take your inspiration however you find it.

Ankle Biters

Nestled among the ads for X-Ray Specs and Sea Monkeys in comic books was usually an ad for a fake cast. The drawing featured a guy proudly showing his cast while two girls consoled him.  "Avoid unpleasant tasks! Gain sympathy," the ad promised.

This was highly appealing, as these were two things I was always on the lookout for. I never broke any bones, so the thought of wearing a cast seemed cool and exciting. Girls would probably look at me differently, my friends could write stuff on it, and best of all, I'd get out of yardwork. Yes, a whole exciting world would open up to me once I broke some bones.

I never ordered the cast because it was expensive and I couldn't figure out how to trick my parents into thinking I had broken my arm and somehow gotten to the doctor's office to get it set without them knowing. I put it out of my mind, except for those days when I had to rake or pick up mangoes and wished I had a fake cast to end the misery and injustice of my child labor.

My luck held and I never broke a bone, even after a lifetime of foolish decisions and risky stunts.  In fact, probably the closest I've come happened last week.

I was out running last Thursday evening. I was feeling good. In fact, I was thinking about running the whole 7 mile trail which I hadn't done in a while. I was pretty close to doing some air guitar/drumming to certain motivational songs, as well as some Rocky-esque shadow boxing.

Then I hit a hole. My foot went in, twisted, then tripped me on to the street. As a man, my first reaction was to get up, pretend it didn't hurt, and keep running, only maybe at a slower pace. Then I got those weird stomach pains that signal, "Yeah, I think that really messed you up. You should probably limp home."

Holy crap, was that a long walk home.

As with all injuries or problems, I figured I just needed a good night's sleep and everything would be all fixed up in the morning.

A week later, my girlfriend noted that I still had "corpse feet," thanks to my swollen and purple toes and ankle.

First night. I used to have an ankle.

It looked bad. So bad that I kept making up "C.S.I" opening scenes in my head.


"Looks like this guy....was defeated," the desensitized detective would say, right before Roger Daltry screamed to signal another episode of gross forensic mysteries, possibly focusing on foot decapitation for creepy sex purposes.


So I started wearing a boot. It's a big, clunky, pre-cast thing that takes about 3 hours to strap into and makes me walk like Frankenstein.

Couple things I've noticed during my recovery:

One, architects love to put stairs all over the damn place. Houses, businesses, you name it; apparently a building isn't complete until a set of rickety or narrow stairs are installed.

Secondly, I don't feel I'm getting as much sympathy and freedom from work as the ads promised a young me. Even though when I'm making a difficult work call or driving around town with a throbbing ankle, I'm saying "Come on. I have a busted ankle," that doesn't seem to have any effect on people's reaction to me.

About the only thing I was able to get out of was mowing the yard, although paying the guy $15 just made me feel like a puss. I could feel Hank Hill shuddering as I forked over the cash.

Since I don't have an actual cast, I also can't have people write on it, so I'm really not getting the full effect here.

I'm beginning to think that ads in comic books have completely lied to me.

Marathon Man

An ex-coworker has half-convinced me to run a marathon in December. I figure I did a 15K and didn't die, and a marathon would only be three times that, so how hard could it be?

Since I'm already setting goals I might not reach or even attempt, why not aim higher? I could write up my experiences into a book. You know, like the one where the guy read the whole Encyclopaedia Britannica or the guy who lived a whole year strictly adhering to the Old Testament*. Hell, people buy that stuff.

I could start talking about my shitty diet and general out of shapeness, and how I end up using the self-confidence and goal setting learned through long-distance running to solve my problems and become a better person. It would help if I were working through something big. I got divorced, but that's been a while. Haven't had anyone close to me die. Maybe I'll just make something up.

In between the fascinating chapters on me, I could have a history of marathon running, from the Greeks up to the rediscovery of distance running in the '70s. I could have interviews with ... I dunno, who's a famous runner? Yeah, them. And maybe someone who could humble me and teach me life lessons, like a vet who ran a marathon on a prosthetic leg, or a grandma who set a record after losing her husband of 40 years.

But the real spotlight would be on me, just like in all those other books. I would use my runs as springboards to give readers long discourses on my fascinating inner life. Like, running through Avondale could start me talking about my fears of growing old with no money. Seeing a family could get me talking about my relationship with my parents. Throughout, I could examine my fears and anxieties, and my history of poor decision making. Like, for instance, starting on  a whim to train for a marathon with very little knowledge or willingness to learn in the middle of a Florida summer.

The big payoff will come after I get this phantom book printed to thunderous acclaim. I can hear my NPR interviews  now - I'll be charming and witty, yet reverent when I talk about the grandma or the vet. That oughta be enough to get me on TV. And if I get an interview on Conan or something, I'd have a much better chance of meeting Scarlett Johansson than I would as a disgruntled librarian in Jacksonville.

From there I could launch my career as a humorist. Yep, no longer would I be a dude telling the same stories over and over (seriously, have you people ever actually read this thing? It's either me embarrassing myself, or getting drunk, or talking about how I like the Minutemen), I'd be a social critic shining a light on today's problems, using my wit and humor to inform the public like a modern day Mark Twain.

Plus, I'd be making bank and cruising with Scarlett.

Actually, that all sounds like a lot of work. I'm already possibly maybe running a marathon, what more do you people want from me?




* That was the same guy? Wow, he really has the market cornered on that stuff, huh?

Runnin' with the Devil

Ran that race I was talking about. My only goal was to not walk, stop or pass out. I did way better than I expected, a new experience for me.

The thing was packed - over 18,000 people. Like everyone said, I spent the first mile or so dodging crowds and pretty much power walking while getting more and more frustrated. I didn't bring my ipod, so I had no idea how far or how fast I was going until I'd make it to a station, and even then I was lost since I would frequently lose track of how many miles I had run.

There were old people, little kids, people dressed up like Darth Vader, and some dude that would stop and do pushups every mile. Showoff.

I hadn't run a race since high school, and those were only 3 miles. Plus, high school was a long time ago. Here's a photo of our track team:


I didn't think I had trained enough. I only started a few months ago, and only made it up to 7 miles once, and this was 2.3 miles more than that. Plus, when I'd pass the stations, the digital readouts said my pace was much slower than what I should be doing to qualify for next year.

Through the race, Husker Du's "What's Going On" kept repeating in my head, along with the intro "Professor, what's another word for pirate treasure?" from some Beastie Boys song. I have no idea why that was in there, or why my mind wouldn't actually play the rest of the song. Other than that I worried if I could find my group after the race, since I didn't bring my phone. Was I going to have to walk home after this? Also, I was concentrating on not dying.

The bridge killed me, as I expected, and while technically I didn't walk it, I came pretty close. I also noticed my chest was stinging a little. No big deal, just sweat. After that it was pretty much done. I even had enough juice in me to sprint to the finish line, at least for a little while.

My time crossing the line was one hour and 32 minutes, two minutes away from qualifying, so I was kind of bummed. Plus, when I found my neighbor/coach he pointed out that I was bleeding.


He was right. I thought that red was just a design on the shirt. But no, that was from my nipples. Nobody warned me about that.

Later that day when the official results were posted, I found I actually finished in 84 minutes, which is pretty good, and I got a medal, which I can use to reenact the end of "Star Wars."

I've been pretty psyched since, even though it feels like someone transplanted the legs of a 90 year old man on me overnight. I actually set a goal, accomplished it, and did better than expected. This sensation of actually feeling good about myself is very strange and will take some getting used to. Do normal people feel like this every day? How do they get things done without constant self-doubt and low self esteem spurning them on to accomplish stuff?

I'm going to keep running, especially since the scales tell me I've lost about 15 pounds, even if I can't really tell, except my shirts don't feel as tight. Which is helpful, since my nipples still really hurt.

The Running Man

I registered for a 15K race, the first race I've run since high school. It's also probably farther than I've ever run before. I announced it on facebook, knowing that if I told enough people I'd be too ashamed not to do it.

I was running for a while at our old apartment. I had built up some distance and was feeling pretty good about it. That all stopped once we bought the house and I was spending most of my free time working on it and using most of my excess energy freaking out over all the money we didn't have and all the repairs we needed.

I picked it up a few times since then, but it would turn cold or rain for a few days and that would be it for me. Plus I was started getting shin splints, something I always thought were just made up by slackers for sympathy.

Once my neighbor Bryan pointed out that I was running way too fast, things got so much better. I'm not getting injured or burning out. I'm feeling the way I felt when I first started biking, not really obsessed but really looking forward to it on the days I don't run.

If Bryan can't make and I have to go by myself, I have a kick-ass metal and hardcore playlist. I had to make a playlist since listening on random would mean there's about a 67 percent chance that I'd get a novelty Halloween song or Dean Martin or some indie rock ballad, all of which are great, but don't give me the stuff TO POUND THROUGH YOUR STREETS, CLUELESS SUBURBAN SQUARES! Sure, I may look like a doughy middle aged guy stomping through the neighborhood, but inside I'm screaming for the youth! THAT'S RIGHT, MR. REAGAN! YOUR FASCIST POLICE STATE CAN'T STOP ME! RISE ABOVE, WE'RE GONNA RISE ABOVE!!!

Oh, that's right, most of those songs were written like 30 years ago. WELL, DON'T FORCE YOUR NAZI HEALTH CARE ON ME, MR. OBAMA!

After my forced transfer, I sit in traffic every morning, getting angrier and more frustrated by the minute. "This is no way for a man to live," I think, as I glare at the back of the stupid car in front of me.

Luckily, three or four times a week I get to feel like an actual person again.