Reveling in 5K Mediocrity

     Today I had the pleasure of running a 5K race (3.1 miles.) It was for a good cause and it was right here in my own neighborhood, who could say no? I’ve been a runner for several years now, however, not always a very enthusiastic one. As a result of my lack of enthusiasm for the sport, I’ve never really gained that Killer Competitive Instinct which all other runners seem to have.  They will joke and laugh with you at the starting line but when the gun goes off it’s all business, take no prisoners. 

     My goal for the very first race I ever ran was to not die and to not come in dead last.  I managed both, but just barely. I was comforted by the fact that it was largely sponsored by a doctor and backed up by the staff from our local hospital.  After a few more 5K’s, I got used to racing and am no longer intimidated by the sleek, muscular legs of everybody else, or their barrage of gadgetry that makes them look professional. I don’t bat an eye when I see people wearing arm warmers or running tights. As far as races are concerned, I consider them just another workout only with more people and at a slightly faster pace. I try to put forth just enough extra effort so that my time is just marginally better than it is when I jog around on any other day. That means instead of running a mile in, say 11 minutes, I may kick it up a notch and run it in…10:55. 

     Even the speed of others, although enviable, does not motivate me to try harder. You would think being so far behind in the pack would become disheartening. Perish the thought. There are advantages to being pokey and here they are:

1.       1.  The EMT car is usually right behind you. If you collapse they will be literally 2 seconds away. The speed weasels at the front of the pack will have to wait a heck of a lot longer for help to arrive than I will.

2.       2.  You can goof off.  Today I actually stopped, drank my water, walked it back to the garbage bag and waited for my friend Wendy to catch up. It was her first race ever and far be it from me to put personal success ahead of my pal. Besides, I was so slow I was certainly not setting any PR’s (Personal Record for those of you not familiar with running lingo.) The little girl handing out water was screaming for me to GO- JUST THROW IT DOWN & RUN!! (the water cup) but I was in no hurry. I should hire that little girl to be my running coach.

3.       3.  The volunteers along the way give you more encouragement. I think they feel bad for me because I run so slow. I try to explain that it’s alright, I just lack the desire to try harder and they just clap and say “Good Job! Keep it Up!” anyhow because they think I’m being modest instead of truthful.

4.      4.   When you finally get to the end, everyone else has already completed the race and therefore a larger crowd has congregated at the finishing chute to cheer on those who are just now arriving for the party. It makes me feel like Rose at the end of “Titanic” when she walks down the grand staircase once again and everyone on the whole dang ship has lined up to clap and cheer for her while Leonardo DeCaprio takes her hand and escorts her to the bottom. Only I’m extremely sweaty (even minimal exertion makes me sweat like a man), there’s no hot man waiting to take my hand (usually just a race volunteer who does nothing more than rip off my info at the bottom of my race bib) and Rose never bent over and threatened to throw up on her own shoes.

5.       5. Food.  While the serious racers are busy pacing back and forth in front of the results, waiting and waiting to see where they placed, I’m up to my armpits in bagels and bananas. FREE GATORADE- WOO HOO!!! I pillage and plunder the free buffet while they nervously await their time. Not me, I don’t care, I’ve got a poppy seed muffin in one hand and a blueberry muffin in the other, life is good my friend.

6.      6.    It boosts the self esteem of others.  I figure, if there is some new person who’s never raced before, more than likely their goals are similar to what mine were the first time. (Not die, and not come in dead last.) So what I’m actually doing is helping them meet their goal. They don’t finish last, I get muffins, it’s a win/win for everyone.

7.       7.   I can huff and puff as loud as I want and not have to worry about distracting the serious runners. (I have been asked by people passing me if I’m ok before. My response is usually: NO- who’s dumb idea was it to run this?!!) When I am in the back, no one can hear the loud breathing as I labor towards the finish line.

8.       8.   I’m proving Newton’s third law: To every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. It is a fact that in the world of running, some races hire what they call a “rabbit.”  The job of the rabbit (which is actually a person) is to set the pace of how fast the race will go, as pre-determined by the race directors. Bet you didn’t know that, but it’s true. (“Steve, today you will be running at the speed of a gazelle about to be eaten by a cheetah.”) I won’t go into all the intricate details so if you don’t believe me, just look it up. Only the rabbit doesn’t get to finish the race. Instead they sort of disappear somewhere in the middle and you will never even notice them. But they have done their job because the competitive runners will continue running at the pace the rabbit set, unaware. I am the self appointed Turtle to the Rabbit. *Note: there is not a rabbit at every race, usually just the high profile races.*  I am the opposite reaction to the rabbit. They go quick, quick like a bunny. I see their quickness and raise them one slowness. They don’t finish the race, I do. Opposite.

 9. Rabbits get hit by cars more often than turtles. It's much safer to be a turtle. Turtles don't dart out into traffic. They're already in the middle of the road when you come upon them, and usually, instead of running them over, you get out of your car and try to help them along. Who doesn't love a turtle?

   So if you’ve been thinking of dabbling in the weird and wonderful world of running, come- join us! If it is a race that I’m also in, I can practically guarantee that you won’t be last. And if you are, think of all the fabulous benefits listed above that come with the territory. If after some time, you also fail to develop that need for speed the majority seems to possess, my brother and sister turtles will welcome you with open arms into our shuffling community. 

Dante's Inferno- Just Another Family Vacation

***DISCLAIMER****

The following blog contains me poking fun at my very dysfunctional family. This does not mean that I don't love  them. It just means that we would have been a good case study on social behavior, falling under the category "What Not To Do." And remember, this was written in the spirit of fun. Or lack thereof... at the time....  So if you feel you can handle seeing deeper into my psychosis, read on. Otherwise, I urge you to try www.hyperboleandahalf.com or www.theoatmeal.com. Both of them are quite hilarious and I'm not related to them in any way and I'm certain they have no idea who I am, although I am a huge fan of both. 

AND NOW.....

     The other day Pop called me to discuss some things. During that discussion he said (and I quote) "...incase one of us gets incredibly rich and takes the whole family on vacation and we all die in an accident."  I will not divulge the topic of our conversation since Pop is very private and also because he's certain Al-Qaeda is stalking us via the internet. Eventually my gales of laughter that had burst forth at that phrase subsided. Pop is a lot funnier than he gets credit for. First of all, as President of the Poverty Stricken, I don't forsee any of us getting rich in this lifetime. And secondly, if we did, the likelihood of a family vacation would fall somewhere between getting hit by a meteor and finding Bigfoot. He was right about one thing though - a family vacation, for us, would most likely end in death. If not by accident, then by each other's own hands.

      Most remember their childhood family vacations will a rather sunny attitude. Nay, not us. Our family vacations felt more like a punishment.  Sentenced to spend hours in the back seat of the car with my little sister.  We hated each other. Fighting was the rule, not the exception.  To be trapped in such close quarters to one another was akin to splitting the atom - there was going to be more excess energy than one Chevy station wagon could contain. This in turn, would set off a rather unfortunate chain of events.

    Our car needed a sign above the doors that said "Abandon All Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here" and we came to believe that our car really was a portal to hell. Here is how a typical vacation went: I would be reading a book or looking out the window.  My sister would start singing, usually a nonsensical chant. It would be something designed to get my attention. Something irritating like: "You caaan't touch me, you caaaan't touch me, I've over heeeere, I'm over heeere." Ignoring her would not shut her up. My dirty looks would not shut her up. My asking her to be quiet would not shut her up. Eventually the dam would break and I would slug her.

     As soon as my fist crossed the imaginary line that separated the backseat from Her Side and My Side, even before contact, she would begin shrieking and screaming. Pop would hear the commotion, even with one bad ear. His knee-jerk reaction to the howling was to END IT. Pop "ended it" by reaching into the back seat and waving his arm back and forth, frantically and desperately trying to gain purchase on one of us while keeping his other hand on the wheel and both eyes on the road. He didn't care who he got a hold of, as far as he was concerned both of us were guilty of ruining this relaxing and lovely drive to Timbuktu.

     Pop's vacation persona took on that of a pirate: "The floggings will continue until morale improves."  So it was, that we would see Pop's arm flying into the backseat to reach us and we would curl up our legs, lay on the floor, whatever it took to evade his Long Arm of Punishment. If he was successful and actually found one of us, we would begin bawling dramatically in hopes that Mom would intercede on our behalf, which usually worked.

     Her intercession worked so well that they ended up getting into an argument with each other and forgot all about the brats in the back that started the whole thing.  The argument would last for miles and miles and ended with everyone crying except Pop. Hoist the Jolly Roger, we're sailing into stormy seas, aarrrrrr.

     With bullheaded perseverance that would have made Captain Ahab proud, my father forged ahead with our family vacation. I suppose "Having A Good Time" would have been his Moby Dick. And just like in the book, it just about did us all in.  Call me Ishmael, for I have lived to tell the tale.

     There is a scene from National Lampoon Vacation which comes to mind where Clark Griswold launches into the Fun Monologue: "Well, I'll tell you something. This is no longer a vacation! It's a quest! 
It's a quest for fun. I'm going to have fun and you're going to have fun. We're all going to have so much $&% fun... ...we'll need plastic surgery to remove our $#*@ smiles. 
You'll be whistling zippity-doo-dah out of your @*&@$%!

     By the time we made it to our destination we hated each other's guts. We would pout and drag our feet and be of poor attitude everywhere we went which would outrage Pop and make Mom cry. Then they'd fight about why Mom was crying or why Pop had to be such a bonehead. And the two little devils in the backseat would continue to be at each other's throats. Yet, each summer, we would try it again. I believe that is the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

     A few years ago there was an occasion that called for my sister and I to go to New Jersey.  We thought the sands of time had erased the awfulness of being together for any length of time. We were wrong. When I got home I signed and dated a piece of paper that said "I hereby solemnly swear, being of semi-sound mind and questionable body to never travel with an immediate family member, they can't be trusted." It hung on my fridge till the fridge died and I had to get a new one. Now it is filed away so I will remember.  Welcome to my psychosis.

The Case of the Mysterious Pee Spot

We recently came to be parents of a new puppy. Briggs is an Old English Sheep Dog and is a little over 2 months old. When we went to look at the pups, he and his litter mates were graciously using the newspaper provided in the kennel for their bathroom needs. FABULOUS I thought! He’s half way potty trained!


Briggs came home with us and immediately forgot the purpose of the newspaper. It became a playground for playing and romping, a play thing to rip and shred. We soon abandoned hope and are still trying to get him to potty in the yard like a good boy instead of on the porch, patio, and sidewalks. He feels that his job is to lay on the front porch at all times to guard the door and forgets to walk three feet to the grass when the urge hits. So several times a day I have to make sure to take him for a stroll in the grass to remind him that THIS is where we (Briggs, not myself) pee and poop.

Briggs likes to run in the basement door with me when I go in and out. He has discovered during his exploration there, that we have basement stairs. And these stairs lead to a door at the top. He has also discovered that by pushing and pawing this door, he can pop it open and find himself in the kitchen, a magical place with rugs and a garbage can.

He is not allowed in the kitchen. This domain belongs to our cat, Fat Gladys, who rules her kingdom with an iron fist and a stony glare. Suffice it to say that their first introduction was less than satisfactory. Husband felt it necessary for them to meet. I thought that was a nice idea. (It was Brigg’s first day at our house and he was smaller and less mobile than he is now.) He was calmly laying in the living room (we were still deciding what to do with him for the night) and instead of letting Gladys find him on her own and deem him acceptable or unacceptable, Husband picked up Fat Gladys and plopped her down right in front of Briggs.

Briggs continued chewing his stuffed animal and ignored Gladys. Gladys morphed into Halloween Cat and poofed her tail out. She remained with arched back and big yellow eyes for an eternity of seconds while she tried to figure out in her feline mind how she should react to this unfortunate turn of events. In the end she ran hissing out of the room never to be seen on the first floor for the next few days. Having another furry animal in the house totally destroyed her life.

That was a few weeks ago. They have since drawn up a treaty that states that Briggs may be on the porch as much as he wants. He may even have the basement because Gladys is not allowed down there (that’s our rule, not hers. She notes every time the basement door opens and if she doesn’t hear it close again, she sneaks down. She knows this is bad and she’s not allowed and yet the element of danger is such that she can’t resist.) As long as Briggs stays out of the house, they can be civil.

Briggs does not always honor this treaty though. Maybe his lawyer did not explain the parameters of the agreement properly. I’ve found him in the house several times already. Perhaps we should have named him Harry Houdini. He’s usually calmly sleeping on the kitchen floor, having licked up all the crumbs beside the stove. Once he came up through the basement. Another time, we suspect, he waited till the wind blew the screen door open and came in. Husband tightened the spring on the screen door so that doesn’t happen anymore.

That brings us to the Case of the Mysterious Pee Spot. Yesterday I was quilting. Gladys came in to twirl around my legs and say hello, then flopped down unceremoniously on the floor. We continued amicably in silence for awhile, me quilting, Gladys lounging. Eventually I went downstairs.

The kitchen rugs were askew. Hmm, I thought, that’s different. I walked past the living room. Our big afghan was halfway across the living room floor. I didn’t remember tossing it there for any reason. Why would I? In the hallway I found one of my good flip flops upside down. I circled back to the kitchen to make sure Briggs wasn’t in there somewhere. He was laying outside on the porch sleeping.

How odd, I thought. Maybe I got up to answer the phone and DID fling the afghan on the floor. Maybe the breeze stirred up the kitchen rugs. Maybe I carelessly kicked off my flip flops, it happens all the time.

Later in the evening we sat down to watch the telly. As I sat there, I happened to notice a dark spot on the living room carpet. It looked yellowish. I went over. It was slightly damp. I pointed it out to Husband who claimed that it was NOT HIM that peed on the floor. I know it wasn’t me either. We both looked suspiciously at the cat. She blinked and looked away. She uses her litter box religiously, but could she have been trying to frame the dog? The dog was on the porch when I found him. And Gladys was with me most of the afternoon. (She’s also too small and does not have the dental capacity to drag that huge blanket off of the couch.) The only other being to suspect would be Jim, our sometimes ghost. He’s really picky about the house though and prefers it clean. I don’t think he would manifest to pee on the floor.

All evidence points to Briggs. But how did he get in? And how did he know to get back out? Is he really that clever and cunning or did he just Mr. Magoo his way in and out? The mystery remains. Perhaps we should have named him O.J.