Mail bag!

You know how some well-established magazines and websites sometimes publish letters from their readers? Well, I don’t get very many of those, so I’m going to milk this one for all it’s worth and make an entire blog post out of it. I would love to say that I’m going to make this a regular thing, but if the past is any indication of the future (and in this case, I think it is), I won’t get another fan letter for at least nine months. And once every nine months can hardly be considered a regular thing, unless you are the Duggar family.

I recently received an email from a gentleman by the name of John Hofacre, The message began with him telling me that he had stumbled upon my blog because its title is similar to that of his website: The Running Joke Cartoon.

Clearly, this man had good taste, so I felt compelled to read on. Also, I’m a total sucker for praise of any kind, and I wanted to see what else he had to say about me.

Turns out, John is an age-graded regional class runner, which with some help from The Google I determined to mean that compared to other old guys, he’s pretty freakin’ fast. This piqued my interest because I decided a while ago that since I have probably reached my peak as a regular runner, I should start focusing on my career at the master’s level. I figure that if I am able to maintain the speed and fitness that I currently have, I will be a top-ranked athlete by the time I’m 40. So watch out, master’s running scene—in 15 years I am going to rock your world!

So anyway, since John and I both enjoy poking fun at the sport of long-distance running, and since we both have goals of beating other old people, I started to develop a sense of camaraderie with him.

Further down in the email, he said something along the lines of, “You really should check out my book, The Running Joke Cartoon Book. I’m pretty sure it will be the second-best thing you’ve ever read, after your own blog of course.” (OK, so maybe that’s not exactly what he said, but remember, I’m paraphrasing.)

At this point, I was extremely intrigued and decided to follow the links to his work that he had provided for me. And it was good stuff. I mean, really good stuff. It was like he took things that I could spend an entire blog post blabbering on about and made them into one small, simple, colorful, laugh-out-loud package.

In fact, it kind of made me jealous. I once spent an entire afternoon sketching the stick-figure chicken for my title art (see top of page), and John has the kind of genuine artistic talent that I, tragically, was born without. (Other talents I tragically was born without include but are not limited to: gardening, baking, getting off of ski lifts, playing stringed instruments and singing songs other than “Fergalicious,” which I can karaoke the crap out of.)

You can check out some samples from John’s book on his website. You can also “Like” his Facebook page to see new cartoons as he posts them. One of my favorites is a cartoon showing an alien spacecraft hovering over a pack of runners. The top caption reads: “Buzz 'em again if you want, but I still say it’s not intelligent life.” Ha!

The other really cool thing about John’s book is that all of the proceeds support an endowed scholarship honoring his sister, Susan, who died of cancer in 2005. So if you’re looking for a last-minute Christmas gift for your best running buddy, it’s pretty much a win-win purchase.

Don't forget the lyrics

I am so over winter.

I know it is exasperatingly passé to complain about the weather, but everyone else is doing it, so I will too: spring, you have really outdone yourself this year. I’m used to surprise hailstorms here and there, but you usually tease me with a few warm, sunny days in between. This year, you’ve been stingy even with your mild 50-degree days, and for that, you suck. Seriously.

OK, now that I’ve gotten that out, I’m going to move on to something even more exasperating. Endless Winter 2011 has forced me to spend more time exercising inside than I would prefer, but excess elliptical training is not the main source of my frustration.

As any routine gym user will tell you, indoor exercise can get really, really boring. Electronic devices like built-in TVs and iPods are effective sources of entertainment—to a point. But there comes a time in every regular gym-goer’s life when he or she simply cannot fathom the thought of sweating through one more episode of Dancing With the Stars.

Somewhere over the course of my many years as a runner living in the Arctic tundra of western Montana, I developed something I like to call Silent Gym Karaoke. As you might surmise from the title, this activity involves soundlessly mouthing the words to your favorite songs as you listen to them on your personal music device.

My favorite variation of this game was inspired by the popular television program Don’t Forget the Lyrics! It involves randomly pressing the pause button on my iPod and trying to correctly complete the next verse of whatever song I’m listening to.

My second favorite variation of this game involves pretending that I’m Steven Tyler and the gym is the stage at an Aerosmith concert. This version allows for a good deal of creativity with facial expressions and microphone stand stunts.

Here’s the problem: based on observable reactions from my peers, I get the feeling that my rock star miming routine is annoying—possibly even frightening—to the general population of gym users.

The other day, for example, I was cruising along on the elliptical to the beat of one of my favorite songs, “Fergalicious.” It is common knowledge that I know every single word to every single Fergie song, so I was (silently, of course) rocking pretty dang hard—especially when I got to the line about being “up in the gym just working on my fitness.” (Because hello—I was actually up in the gym working on my fitness.)

I was having such a good time that it took me awhile to notice the grumpy old dude—er, ill-tempered elderly gentleman—glaring at me from across the room. He stood motionless next to a stationary bike with one hand resting on the seat, as if to say, “I cannot possibly continue with my planned leisurely bike ride/AARP The Magazine reading session until you have ceased behaving like a complete idiot.”

The moment I realized his menacing gaze was directed at me, I closed my mouth and cast my eyes downward in embarrassment. I stared blankly at my machine’s electronic screen for roughly three minutes—enough time for Mr. Blister to start his workout and become distracted by a riveting exposé on denture adhesive.

When I was sure he was sufficiently occupied, I cranked the volume on my iPod, skipped ahead to “Glamorous”—another Fergie fave—and karaoked like a champ. And no, I did not forget the lyrics.