Running news roundup

A lot has been happening in the world of endurance sports, and since this is my blog, I would like to offer my take on some of the top headlines of late. If I were writing for a respected news outlet, I would be required to mention that this piece does not necessarily reflect the opinions of this organization, its sponsors or its affiliates. But let’s be real—this blog never has been, nor ever will be, a respected news outlet. And it definitely doesn’t have any sponsors or affiliates. So, I think I’m safe in that regard. Also, I would like to point out that I realize I have missed the window of timeliness on some of these items, especially by journalistic standards. Again, this blog is not a respected news outlet, so those rules do not apply. (Sorry, Mom and Dad—that journalism degree will come in handy at some point. I promise am fairly confident.)

A different kind of paid appearance: the Suzy Favor-Hamilton debacle

Look, I’ve seen Pretty Woman. I know there are a lot of Vivian Wards out there just waiting for their own Edward Lewis to whisk them away from a world of blonde wigs and cheap platform shoes in a white stretch limousine.

Suzy Favor-Hamilton is not Vivian Ward. She’s not the charmingly unrefined “hooker with a heart of gold” who dreams of a better life. She’s an Olympian with a successful real estate business, a $600,000 home and a loving husband and daughter.

A former world-class athlete voluntarily “going the distance” with the rich sleazeballs who frequent the high-roller tables at the glitziest casinos in Vegas? That’s not charming. It’s gross. And a little bit sad.

I’ve heard a lot of stories about has-been athletes unraveling in the wake of their inevitable retirement from professional sports. Ryan Leaf. Dennis Rodman. O.J. Simpson.

Those guys did some pretty terrible things, but as a former middle distance runner, I was genuinely rocked by Suzy’s admission. It’s usually male athletes who fall from grace after being “caught with their pants down” in the midst of some kind of crime or scandal. Suzy’s exposure was both more literal and more surprising.

As shocked and disappointed as I was when I first heard about this story, I found myself slowly drumming up some sympathy for poor Suzy. Why? Because something she said resonated with me: she missed the thrill of competition, and her double-life as a high priced call girl somehow filled that void.

Why she didn’t try filling that void with skydiving, base jumping, drinking tap water in Mexico or some other similarly-risky-but-less-morally-questionable behavior is beyond me. I miss the thrill of competition too, but I get my adrenaline fix by singing terrible country karaoke in bars full of drunk strangers. (If only Suzy and I had connected before this whole thing blew up—it all could have been avoided with a simple duet version of “Strawberry Wine” by Deana Carter!)

Also, for any other Olympic runners out there who are interested in leading secret lives as Vegas escorts, here’s a golden drop of advice: you might want to keep the whole Olympic runner thing under wraps. No matter how rich and successful they become, dudes will never stop bragging to each other about their “conquests”—even if they technically paid for them. Bedding an Olympian? You better believe that one’s gonna come out at next week’s poker night.

Liestrong

Speaking of getting caught with your pants down*, let’s talk about Lying Lance Armstrong.

I am well aware that technically, this story isn’t about running; it’s about running’s rude, less attractive cousin—cycling. But I think it deserves a mention because it centers on an issue that affects all endurance sports, including distance running: blood doping and the use of performance enhancing drugs.

Lance Armstrong’s recent Oprah interview—in which he confessed to using banned substances during his seven-year streak of Tour de France victories—dealt a heavy blow to athletes across the globe with highly disproportionate quads-to-biceps ratios.

I mean, if THE Lance Armstrong—a longtime proponent of sportsmanship who for years vehemently denied gaining any sort of unfair advantage through the use of banned substances—is actually a lying cheat, what does that mean for the rest of us? I feel like I’ve lost all faith in not only the purity of sport, but also in humankind in general.

The benefit of the doubt is dead to me. There is no longer any benefit. Benefit scammed thousands of people out of their life savings in an elaborate Ponzi scheme and then hightailed it to Mexico. Benefit borrowed your Mad Men season 2 DVD box set and then dropped off the face of the planet. Benefit ordered a dozen shots of Patrón on your tab and then slipped out the back door of the bar.

Now there is only doubt. Doubt in the legitimacy of every notable performance in distance racing. Doubt in the moral fortitude of my childhood heroes. Doubt in sportsmanship and the sanctity of honest competition. Of all the times I have been beaten in a race (not that there are very many), how many were true losses? I will never know. It’s not like Oprah is going to demand answers from every person who’s ever won a 5K.

It makes me sick to think of all of the social cause bracelets I have refused to wear out of loyalty to that original yellow silicone band. I politely accepted dozens of imposters—pink for breast cancer awareness, green for cervical cancer awareness, even blue for prostate cancer awareness—only to bury them at the bottom of my junk drawer.

Turns out, the only imposter in this sad situation is the man behind that rubber ring of hope. It’s a good thing Oprah is such a classy lady. If I had been the one sitting across from Lance when he dropped the doping bombshell, I probably would have kicked him in the nut.

Presidential run

Here’s a news item that further corroborates my longstanding theory that Maine is way too close to Canada for its own sanity, and that eventually it probably will just sort of quietly fade into Quebec.

Some crazy dude decided it would be super awesome to run from his home in Maine to the Presidential Inauguration in Washington, D.C. Total distance: 700 miles, or approximately 27 full marathons.

I don’t know about you, but my list of people for whom I would run 27 consecutive marathons is pretty short:

People for Whom I Would Run 27 Consecutive Marathons

1. Pat Sajak (assuming I have a spot as a contestant on Wheel)
2. Prince William (pre-Kate, obviously)
3. Carrot Top (if he was chasing me)

Sorry, crazy Maine guy—clearly my list is way too exclusive for an American president to make the cut.

In fairness, he did raise money for charity through his efforts, so I have to give him props for that. All I’m saying is that next time, maybe he could run to a Bon Jovi concert or something cool like that.


*I’m not really sure if that idiom applies here, but let’s just assume that at some point, Lance pulled down his pants to give himself a steroid shot in the derrière (that’s French for buttocks, since we’re also assuming that said offense occurred in France).

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.