tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53150064643899541992024-03-05T14:35:01.054-08:00Running JokeBrooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-80641949343654367032014-05-15T07:13:00.000-07:002014-05-15T07:13:27.905-07:00Never Stop (Especially after you cross the finish line because there are 20,000 people behind you)Ever since I moved to Phoenix, I’ve had some variation of
the following conversation with pretty much every local resident I’ve met.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Arizonan</b>: So, you’re a runner?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me</b>: Yeah. I ran track in college, and I still run pretty much every
day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Arizonan</b>: Have you ever done Pat’s Run?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://pattillmanfoundation.org/pats-run/">Pat’s Run</a>—an annual event that raises money for the <a href="http://pattillmanfoundation.org/">Pat Tillman Foundation</a> and honors the legacy of a <a href="http://espn.go.com/espn/eticket/story?page=tillmanpart1">fallen American hero</a>—is the crown
jewel of the Phoenix racing calendar. It’s essentially the last major race
before the city again descends into the fiery depths of hell (a.k.a. summer)
for approximately four months. It’s also the Valley’s largest running event of
the year, with more than 20,000 participants.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It didn’t take long for me to ascertain that I would never
truly be accepted into the Phoenix running community until I had at least one
Pat’s Run under my belt. It’s a rite of passage of sorts—an initiation into the
fraternity of fellow crazy people who scarcely bat an eye at the thought of
logging several miles in triple-digit heat. So when I found out that my company
was sponsoring a team—and offering to pay half of each participant’s
registration fee—I took it as a sign from the Universe that it was my destiny
to run this race.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the way, the theme of the entire shebang—and the
inspiration for the title of this post—is “Never Stop.” And let me tell you,
the organizers of this race really live out their rallying cry to the fullest
extent possible—as in, “Never Stop promoting this race until everyone within a
500-mile radius uses it as a go-to topic of conversation when making small-talk with hobby
joggers,” and “Never Stop allowing people to register for this event, even when
the size of the race field far exceeds the capacity that the race venue can
comfortably support,” and “Never Stop running, even after you have crossed the
finish line, because there are literally thousands of people coming in behind
you and that shit backs up <i>quick</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All in all, the race itself was fairly uneventful. My
performance was neither outstanding nor abysmal: I finished the 4.2-mile course
in 25:27 (the distance is a tribute to Tillman’s jersey number as a
member of Arizona State’s football team) to nab sixth-place honors in the
women’s race. Now, that might seem somewhat impressive considering the massive list of entries, but keep in mind that the vast majority of
“runners” in this race were not runners at all. In fact, I would estimate that
the true “racing” field—that is, people who actually treated this event as a
competition—consisted of about 2,000 people.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, the real challenge of Pat’s Run is arriving not at
the finish line, but at the starting line. Here’s what I was up against:<br />
<br />
</div>
<ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">7 a.m.
gun time</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">12-mile
commute to race site (Arizona State University in Tempe)</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Road
traffic from 20,000 race participants (plus spectators)</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Limited
parking</li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Adding another layer of difficulty to the whole ordeal was
the fact that I was flying solo. With no support crew to chauffeur me to the
starting line and baby-sit my belongings, I had to plan very, very carefully.
The night before the race, I hemmed and hawed over whether I should drive to
Tempe—and deal with the headache of bottlenecks and parking wars—or take
advantage of public transportation. I opted to go public, concluding that I
would rather take my chances with smelly train bums than waste my adrenaline
reserves contending with road-raging douchebags. With my transportation
decision locked in, I chowed down some pasta and turned in early. Here is how
it all shook out on race morning:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:00 a.m. – Alarm goes off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:01 a.m. – I briefly consider the possibility that I am
merely having a dream in which my alarm is going off, because who in their
right mind sets an alarm for 4 a.m. on a Saturday?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:02 a.m. – <i>The race. I have a race. I have to get out of
bed so I can get to the race</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:03 a.m. – <i>But I don’t really </i><span style="font-style: normal;">have</span><i> to go to the race. I mean, I already
have the t-shirt. And what’s the point of running when I already have the
t-shirt?</i><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:04 a.m. – <i>I paid $20 to run this race. I am running it.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:05 a.m. – <i>Then again, what’s the value of restfulness?
Can you really put a price on sleeping in on a Saturday?</i><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:06 a.m. – I remember that Pat Tillman died for America.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:07 a.m. – COFFEE.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:10 a.m. – Still drunk with slumber, I clumsily jam a piece
of bread into the toaster. I then take dedicate a few minutes to unnecessarily
banging around the kitchen, slamming random drawers and cupboards in hopes that
I will wake my upstairs neighbors—who apparently feel it is 100% acceptable to
vacuum their floors at 11:00 p.m. Every. Single. Night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:15 a.m. – I stuff a piece of toast into my mouth. Chewing
requires an exorbitant amount of effort.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:30 a.m. – Clothes on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:35 a.m. – Hair done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:38 a.m. – Teeth brushed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:40 a.m. – Number pinned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:45 a.m. – <i>How dafuh does this disposable chip thingy
work?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:50 a.m. – Chip thingy secured (I think).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:55 a.m. – I gather up my essentials (money, debit card,
ID, sticky note with emergency contact numbers written on it) and tuck them all
into the tiny zipper pocket on the waistband of my shorts. I make the difficult
but necessary decision to leave my phone behind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5:00 a.m. – Phone-less, I get into my vehicle and drive to
the closest metro rail park-and-ride. I realize that, for the next several
hours, no one will be able to contact me. I’m basically off the grid. It’s
almost as if I do not exist. <i>I am a rogue outlaw</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5:15 a.m. – I purchase a ticket for the metro. I am
surrounded by other racers, many of whom are laughing and chatting as if
hanging out in downtown Phoenix at five in the morning on a Saturday is a
completely normal and in no way insane thing to do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:05 a.m. – I arrive in Tempe. There is a sea of Lycra-clad
people as far as the eye can see.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:20 a.m. – I locate the start line. There is literally
nowhere to warm up. Claustrophobia begins to set in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:21 a.m. – I decide to get in line at the Porta-Potties.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:22 a.m. – I realize that, as usual, I have picked the
wrong line. I refuse to move because I am already too committed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:30 a.m. – As I emerge from the Porta-Potty, I notice that
there is a track directly adjacent to the starting corrals. I look from the
jam-packed staging area—with its dire lack of warm-up space—to the perfectly
empty, perfectly good track. Butt-to-butt people. Deserted track. People.
Track. People. Track. <i>Oh no, I’ve gone cross-eyed.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:35 a.m. – I do 20 jumping jacks and slap myself in the
face a few times.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:40 a.m. – I need to use the bathroom again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:42 a.m. – Again, I choose the wrong line.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:50 a.m. – I begin to stress over whether I will make it to
the starting line on time. This only intensifies the need to relieve myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:55 a.m. – I briefly wonder if anyone would notice if I
just popped a squat behind a bush.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:58 a.m. – I make it to the front of the line. I then put the
“pee” in “speed.” (That means I peed really, really fast, for those of you who
aren’t hip to super-funny, super-clever bathroom puns.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:59: a.m. – I hastily ditch my warm-up top on the curb next
to the starting line.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7:00 a.m. – The race starts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7:01 a.m. – My body is a skin-bag of pain and struggle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7:13 a.m. – I snag a cup of water at the first aid station
and dump the entire thing over my head in a futile attempt to shock the
lethargy out of my muscles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7:14 a.m. – My body is a cold, wet skin-bag of pain and
struggle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7:20 a.m. – I start to think that maybe running this race
was a bad idea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7:21 a.m. – Confirmed: running this race was definitely a
bad idea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7:25 a.m. – I see the finish line. I’m crossing the finish
line. Heave. Gasp. <i>Water!!!!</i><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7:26 a.m. – I am being ushered out of the finish area. The
next several minutes are a blur, but I somehow manage to navigate my way
through the post-race expo, avoid all of the giant complimentary iced coffees
being shoved into my face by a disturbingly peppy group of Dunkin’ Donuts
representatives, collect my warm-up top—which, by some act of God, is on the
sidewalk exactly where I left it—and make my way back to the metro rail
station.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8:52 a.m. – I am awoken from a daze-like state of
dehydration and sleep-deprivation by the sound of a robotic voice announcing my
stop over the loudspeaker. I attempt to exit on the wrong side of the train. A
kind elderly gentlemen politely stops me and points me in the right direction.
I try to thank him, but all that comes out is a pathetic grunt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9:15 a.m. – I collapse on my futon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9:16 a.m. – Never. Again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHGTErkpXs0hPLKuIikQkwkmlEf1QHMbS1n5RW2n2tbFx_bBbzjSD_2LguZSUF_dv4q4GbrOyxX3AcsAPu2IYBlyOkb3UyBV634wxpVPVQCpy3zcGcuNEhuTiqOuLi_qjyZaWSAXEVJA/s1600/neverstop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHGTErkpXs0hPLKuIikQkwkmlEf1QHMbS1n5RW2n2tbFx_bBbzjSD_2LguZSUF_dv4q4GbrOyxX3AcsAPu2IYBlyOkb3UyBV634wxpVPVQCpy3zcGcuNEhuTiqOuLi_qjyZaWSAXEVJA/s1600/neverstop.jpg" height="400" width="282" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alright, well, maybe next year.</div>
Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-4381789830192239962014-03-24T20:49:00.000-07:002014-03-24T20:49:53.270-07:00My life as a (running) groupieFinding the right running group is kind of like dating:
there are the ones that aren’t good enough for you, the ones that act like
they’re too good for you, the ones that have questionable personal hygiene, and
the ones that never call you back. The other problem is that I go into every
interaction with impossibly high expectations—thanks a lot, <a href="http://utahrep.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/ryan-gosling.png">Ryan Gosling</a>—thus
setting myself up for constant disappointment. So it’s really easy to get
discouraged and convince myself that I’m better off going it alone.<br />
<br />
My first foray into the world of group runs occurred a
couple of months ago. I saw the announcement on Twitter, and after waffling
about it for the better part of an afternoon, I finally resolved to suck it up
and go. Yes, it could be awkward. Yes, it could totally suck. But I would never
know if I didn’t try, right*? Plus, they were giving away free socks to all
attendees on that particular evening, and my inner George Costanza simply could
not pass up such an enticing freebie.<br />
<br />
I knew within five minutes of showing up that things weren’t
going to work out, as the high volume of running skirts made it immediately
clear that this was a group for <i>joggers</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
not </span><i>runners</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I don’t mean to
sound like an insufferable asshole, but there is a difference. Out of
politeness, I slogged through four painfully slow miles, which I considered a
more-than-fair price for the complimentary socks. To go back to the dating
analogy, this experience was the equivalent of enduring 90 minutes of
agonizingly boring conversation with a horribly incompatible date for the sole
purpose of acquiring free food and cocktails. So yeah, it was pretty much a
disaster.</span><br />
<br />
Then there was the super-duper serious group. I met them at
the finish line of a local road race. Actually, I didn’t so much “meet” them as
I was “aggressively approached” by them. I had barely caught my breath when
they cornered me by the post-race refreshment table and launched into a
terrifyingly enthusiastic pitch for their group. Although I had a sneaking suspicion that they were all addicted to crack-spiked espresso, they seemed cool—and
definitely much more legit than the jogging operation—so when I got home, I
looked them up online and sent them a message expressing my interest. Not only
did it take them almost a week to respond to my inquiry, but when they finally
did, it was basically a “sit tight, we’ll get back to you” kind of message. So,
I sat tight. And they never got back to me. They were basically the Guy With an
Inflated Sense of Self-Importance Who Feigns Interest but Then Blows You Off
Because Hey, a Dude Bro’s Gotta Keep His Options Open.<br />
<br />
But, as the old saying goes, sometimes you have to kiss a
lot of <a href="http://www.deathandtaxesmag.com/200536/did-jon-gosselin-murder-ed-hardy-with-his-tiny-spray-tanned-hands/">Jon
Gosselins</a> before you find your <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2577569/Its-beautiful-feeling-Kendra-Wilkinson-shows-bump-husband-Hank-talks-falling-love-over.html">Hank
Baskett</a>. So I pressed on, clinging tight to the hope of one day finding the
group with which I was truly meant to run. Then one day, by complete
happenstance, I spotted a crowd of runners circling the track near my
apartment. At first glance, I thought maybe it was the high school track team.
But as I got closer, I realized that a few of the runners had gray hair and
mustaches. So either they had been held back for the last 45 years or this was,
in fact, an adult running group.<br />
<br />
I didn’t have the guts to crash their workout right then and
there—plus, I didn’t want to seem too forward. Instead, I checked my watch and
made a mental note of the time. When I got home, I made a beeline for my laptop
and proceeded to Internet-stalk the crap out of them. My detective work turned
up a number of promising leads. Apparently, they were a local group open to
anyone, and they met every Tuesday evening at the local high school track. I
resolved to attend their next workout—no excuses.<br />
<br />
Of course, by the time Tuesday came around, I had a million
excuses in my back pocket. I wasn’t in track shape. I didn’t want to push
myself to the point of injury. The cookie I had at lunch would give me a side
ache. I really needed to start my taxes. I was still too emotionally compromised
from the season finale of <i>Orange is the New Black</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Obviously, I’d been jaded by my previous experiences. It was akin to
having a couple of bad dates in a row and entering all subsequent dating
experiences with the expectation of getting a detailed lecture on the evils of
gluten and a guided tour of a Facebook album dedicated exclusively to gym
selfies.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"> </span>Finally, I settled on a compromise: I would start running
toward the track, and if I didn’t like the vibe I got, I’d bail. Simple as
that. When I got there, I immediately spotted a woman in normal** running
attire stretching by the fence. I drew in a deep breath and approached her.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know if there’s a running group that meets here?”<br />
<br />
“Yep,” she responded with a smile. “The workout starts at
six, so everyone just kind of warms up until then.”<br />
<br />
“Great!” I responded.<br />
<br />
Now, I knew the worst possible thing I could do was jump in
and hijack the whole production. If I wanted to make friends, I had to play it
cool and keep my track skills on the DL. So, I nodded my head and bit my tongue
as one of the other runners explained the workout, gave me some pointers on
pacing, and made sure I knew that a “400” was track-speak for one lap. On tap
for that night: 3x400, 4x800, 3x400.<br />
<br />
Admittedly, I’m a bit rusty when it comes to speed work, so
I was more than willing to start out conservatively. As we took off on our
first 400, I slipped in mid-pack. This also allowed me to assess the caliber of
the other runners. When I realized that I was actually in the company of some
pretty legit athletes, I felt comfortable enough to move up and run with the
leaders.<br />
<br />
I felt like we were flying. For real, you guys—I thought we
were freaking sprinting. Our first lap was about a 75, which is fast by most
standards. But considering that I used to be able to run four laps at that
pace, it’s actually not that impressive. In fact, I found the disparity between
my perceived effort and my actual speed to be quite hilarious—so hilarious that
I couldn’t help but chuckle out loud. This made me look insane, and I stopped
immediately.<br />
<br />
Apparently, though, my five-second fit of laughter was
enough to invite conversation from one of the other runners—a very fit-looking
woman who appeared to be around the same age as me. “Hey, you’re really fast,”
she said. “Did you run in college?”<br />
<br />
Oh, God. I’d given myself away.<br />
<br />
“Yes,” I replied quietly, hoping no one else had heard.<br />
<br />
“Oh, cool. So did I,” she said. “What events did you do?”<br />
<br />
This initiated a friendly exchange of collegiate running
bios and wistful memories of bygone track days. My new friend and I ran
together for the remainder of the workout, and at the end of the evening, she
asked if I was going to come back again the following week.<br />
<br />
“Yes, I think I will,” I said, trying not to sound too
excited.<br />
<br />
“Good,” she replied with a smile. “See you then!”<br />
<br />
With my “second date” secured, I couldn’t help but grin all
the way through my cool-down jog. Now, if only I had something to wear!<br />
<br />
<br />
*#YOLO!<br />
**No running skirt <br />
Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-44274401570590448022014-02-19T07:05:00.000-08:002014-03-25T07:13:06.887-07:00Reckless racingA couple of weeks ago, I received some very concerning news.<br />
<br />
Don’t worry, it’s not cancer or anything. Although if I’m
being perfectly honest about my health, I will divulge that a recent routine
health screening revealed that I, Brooke High-Strung Andrus, suffer from high blood
pressure. Shocker.<br />
<br />
No, this particular bombshell came not from a medical
professional, but from the infinite Internet time-suck known as <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/">BuzzFeed</a>. The undisputed
king of trivial lists, laugh-out-loud GIFs, and snarky commentary recently
ventured into new territory: interactive quizzes.<br />
<br />
Now look, I am fully aware that these quizzes are the
epitome of meaningless frivolity—a digital metaphor for everything that is
wrong with America. But like <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null">KFC</a>,
Lunesta, and <i>Here Comes Honey Boo Boo</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
these silly little questionnaires are habit-forming. Eventually, you simply
won’t be able to go on with your day until you know BuzzFeed’s opinion on <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/dorieanstevenson/what-kind-of-girl-scout-cookie-are-you">which
Girl Scout cookie you are</a> or <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/lyapalater/why-are-you-single">why you’re single</a>.
They’re basically the Generation Y equivalent of newspaper horoscopes, and most
of the time, the results are pretty harmless. You might think, “You know what?
I </span><i>am</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> a Tagalong. Thank you for
enlightening me to this very important analysis of my personality, BuzzFeed!”</span><br />
<br />
But every once in a while, you’ll get a result so
horrifically appalling that it will stop you dead in your tracks and force you
to completely reevaluate your life. Such was the case when I took the quiz
titled <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/mikespohr/are-you-ready-to-have-kids">“Are
You Ready to Have Kids?”</a> Here’s was BuzzFeed’s advice to me:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRG_eyfZ7JrOtEnCo0j1ts-192X27k0aXqjPqXjQVFBK_lHpHlj9Z6FbJSTvpkkL-AYNyvC_mIo0983CSulFC6A_Ij0IVodqQdUd03oCUCZGzEuRwOCqlcl4UEEiNAP9ByXZdmb6p9FJo/s1600/Screen+shot+2014-02-16+at+11.25.53+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRG_eyfZ7JrOtEnCo0j1ts-192X27k0aXqjPqXjQVFBK_lHpHlj9Z6FbJSTvpkkL-AYNyvC_mIo0983CSulFC6A_Ij0IVodqQdUd03oCUCZGzEuRwOCqlcl4UEEiNAP9ByXZdmb6p9FJo/s1600/Screen+shot+2014-02-16+at+11.25.53+AM.png" height="240" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Image courtesy of buzzfeed.com</span></div>
<br />
Yeah. Scary. Obviously, I had to take BuzzFeed’s two cents
on this particular matter with a grain of salt. I mean, let’s be real for a
second: I live in an apartment with a hot water heater the size of a beer keg
and shoddy electrical wiring that prevents me from running the dryer and the
microwave at the same time. I put off removing moldy, rotting leftovers from my
refrigerator in hopes that a tiny fridge fairy might come along and take care
of it while I sleep. Perhaps worst of all, I believe it is 100-percent
acceptable to wear socks that look like this, because come on, the rest of the
sock is still totally fine: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW1YKNO1rNDcaTXAGdAj-X6cOYJZhd4MOQdvU-cI701bzAwqr6o0jFc0iKCNiY9UP5EtXNjYb0nKLx7FNWa5cm1CsGOFwLipzuYXPH0dMjsJ6b7C9DV_qB6Tj3lk1Ec7sFhTWtD4vp7Sg/s1600/sockhole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW1YKNO1rNDcaTXAGdAj-X6cOYJZhd4MOQdvU-cI701bzAwqr6o0jFc0iKCNiY9UP5EtXNjYb0nKLx7FNWa5cm1CsGOFwLipzuYXPH0dMjsJ6b7C9DV_qB6Tj3lk1Ec7sFhTWtD4vp7Sg/s1600/sockhole.jpg" height="290" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">As you can plainly see, approximately 99 percent of the sock remains intact.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Also, I have to question the accuracy of any quiz that
doesn’t offer “Every Taylor Swift Song” as possible answer to the question
“What’s your relationship status?” Still, even with such glaring fallacies, I
knew the quiz couldn’t be completely devoid of meaning. I just had to read
between the lines a little bit.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Clearly, the BuzzFeed powers that be didn’t just take my
quiz answers at face value; they used them as a series of tiny windows from
which they caught a series of tiny glimpses into my very soul. And from the sum
of those glimpses, they drew the only logical conclusion they could: “Here’s a
woman whose idea of a great Friday night is a bottle of Yellow Tail and a
shitty David Duchovny movie on Netflix. Seriously, could she be any more uncool? Jeez, lady, go lease a Dodge Grand Caravan already!”</div>
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<br /></div>
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After noodling on it a bit, I concluded that the quiz
geniuses at BuzzFeed weren’t actually telling me to have a baby; they were
merely telling me to stop acting like I’m about to have a baby. To stop being
so predictable and responsible. To go out on some limbs and take some risks
more daring than buying clearance meat or parking in a spot marked “For Jimmy
John’s Customers Only” before walking straight through the doors of Chipotle.
(To be fair, I really did feel like I was living on the edge of the law. It
said violators would be towed <i>at the owner’s expense!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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So, as an answer to BuzzFeed’s desperate plea for me to stop
wasting my youth, I pulled the most insanely reckless move that a straight-laced
distance runner could possibly pull: I signed up for a 5K race mere hours
before start time. Okay, okay, look: I’m never going to be
Justin-Bieber-drag-racing-crazy, or even Tom-Cruise-couch-jumping-on-<i>Oprah</i><span style="font-style: normal;">-crazy. But check this out: I didn’t taper at all, I
drank multiple beers the night before the race, and I ate a pre-race dinner
most competitive runners would consider pure suicide: spicy Italian
sausage pizza. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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If I still haven’t convinced you of how coco-bananas my
spontaneous race sign-up truly was, take a look at this flowchart depicting my
normal decision process for race entry:</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv0IQw3M__Gd8fnlb8yqRt5o9rhnCFCntnI904aWBsvAZeOa2j-tsL31pOEFqbrKGxswp3ET-1PwFOQQsCIwwvnVplScbBpprI7oG2GHTcEZEdaw7T8B9TsjFOTXlNXTAByxJ3KF-PUVM/s1600/RaceDecisionChart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv0IQw3M__Gd8fnlb8yqRt5o9rhnCFCntnI904aWBsvAZeOa2j-tsL31pOEFqbrKGxswp3ET-1PwFOQQsCIwwvnVplScbBpprI7oG2GHTcEZEdaw7T8B9TsjFOTXlNXTAByxJ3KF-PUVM/s1600/RaceDecisionChart.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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But I didn’t limit my new, more carefree lease on life to
the registration process. Oh no. When I arrived at the race to find that there
were approximately 12 available toilets for a crowd of nearly 2,000 runners, I
made the quick—and spontaneous—decision to forego my warm-up in favor of
evacuating my bladder. When I caught myself waffling over whether to wear my
long-sleeve top in the race—chilly morning, no warm-up jog—I promptly shut down
the internal debate that was raising my blood pressure more and more by the
second and spontaneously ditched my pull-over. And when, about a half mile into
the race, I noticed that my forearms were going numb from the cold, I
shrugged it off and thought, “Meh. Give ’em another mile.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With about 1,000 meters to go, I zeroed in on a woman in the
distance—the female leader, as far as I could tell. Instead of hemming and
hawing over whether my legs had enough gas left in the tank to catch her—as my
former, baby-ready self might have done—I picked up the pace without allowing a
single “Should I?” to cross my neural pathways. And when I surged past her with
the finish line in sight, instead of stressing over whether she would come back to edge me out in the end, I thought, “Let’s wrap this thing up so I can get my free
pancakes.” (Yes, there were free pancakes—I didn’t throw the decision chart
completely out the window.)</div>
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<br /></div>
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And as I consumed said pancakes while enjoying a bit of
entertainment at the expense of the poor soul who was conned into wearing a <a href="http://pic.twitter.com/jH7MThs6I0">plush pancake costume</a>—again, the decision chart still applies here—I felt content
with both my performance and my newfound personal philosophy of spontaneity.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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Even during the awards ceremony, when I found out that I not
only did not win but was, in fact, <a href="http://results.active.com/events/runner-s-den-pancake-run-presented-by-ihop/">beaten by nearly a minute</a>, I just shrugged
my shoulders, nodded my head, and clapped my hands for the badass runner lady
who was so fast that I didn’t even see her during the race. (Hey, at least I
didn’t take <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/lyapalater/taylor-swiftly-recovers-after-getting-prematurely">yet another page from my girl T-Swift’s book.)</a></div>
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<br /></div>
To be honest, I was kind of impressed with my
own maturity. No wonder BuzzFeed thought I would make an excellent parent.
Clearly, any children of mine would be perfect pictures of poise and
sportsmanship—even if they had a few holes in their socks.
Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-67050065172047654132014-01-18T09:43:00.000-08:002014-01-18T09:43:05.020-08:00Gyms: there are no wordsAs a writer, I’ve grown increasingly concerned about the
status of the written word. I will save my <a href="http://www.foxnews.com/opinion/2013/12/12/conspiracy-so-vast/">government
conspiracy theories</a> for another day and another post (get out of my Amazon Wish List, Obama), but suffice is to say that we should all be quite alarmed by
the downward trajectory of written communication through the ages.
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First, email replaced letters. </div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ZqcL3-PuzPoGRnDimnqhrRStfHrK9a2CWAQe5jGPFMkDWMmILwJqzA9hCVRtacVU_TGu7WuVvFYIx5TBYf_3sxS3mvtgU3gQzk3IGxUk5-AwNJJahCd9u8JxE5aKTSy8402i7qU7K4Q/s1600/noletters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ZqcL3-PuzPoGRnDimnqhrRStfHrK9a2CWAQe5jGPFMkDWMmILwJqzA9hCVRtacVU_TGu7WuVvFYIx5TBYf_3sxS3mvtgU3gQzk3IGxUk5-AwNJJahCd9u8JxE5aKTSy8402i7qU7K4Q/s1600/noletters.jpg" /></a></div>
<span id="goog_2035996577"></span><span id="goog_2035996578"></span><br />
<br /></div>
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Then instant messaging replaced email. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihlBL7Ry-7oUSwEF5ZZPJlagvXHTyoWugAawCwUrJ0k-TB-VbB06_QUJp4KnLncWEspJobCNjTAdXFSt_u5eBbV8GR20DZDW3zzweFl5UqZvb2mll-vh_uQV9dXk1fSmjxa_xC5iSOs0I/s1600/noemail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihlBL7Ry-7oUSwEF5ZZPJlagvXHTyoWugAawCwUrJ0k-TB-VbB06_QUJp4KnLncWEspJobCNjTAdXFSt_u5eBbV8GR20DZDW3zzweFl5UqZvb2mll-vh_uQV9dXk1fSmjxa_xC5iSOs0I/s1600/noemail.jpg" /></a></div>
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Then texting replaced instant messaging. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRCW1YhzE6xLRbn10aWwBSfa1_tmEsoSzmhp3dDR260XxMSCRxvVjt3MoaAH3JGD9w4_JI-aI_ymmkITbwds_j8sEjFArXw73XbKZEpOqc0EMv3hFY-S48tYTcy9Ap-5vX9IePEtUw7Lk/s1600/noinstant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRCW1YhzE6xLRbn10aWwBSfa1_tmEsoSzmhp3dDR260XxMSCRxvVjt3MoaAH3JGD9w4_JI-aI_ymmkITbwds_j8sEjFArXw73XbKZEpOqc0EMv3hFY-S48tYTcy9Ap-5vX9IePEtUw7Lk/s1600/noinstant.jpg" /></a></div>
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Then acronyms and abbreviations replaced actual words.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkkbKp0Ay34hyxk-8bL99LcD6mOHpbAriaBv5xPuTr9azd4iMW27B24q79twALwu5zUsXVVfm5RfKR0xWUI665laEi2hC0-wPs3yGWw_9rWgYmM5OuR7tnkxTPE0TKpTvDWOtFCASXEgk/s1600/notextwords.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkkbKp0Ay34hyxk-8bL99LcD6mOHpbAriaBv5xPuTr9azd4iMW27B24q79twALwu5zUsXVVfm5RfKR0xWUI665laEi2hC0-wPs3yGWw_9rWgYmM5OuR7tnkxTPE0TKpTvDWOtFCASXEgk/s1600/notextwords.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
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Then emojis came along and eliminated the need for
alphanumeric characters.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNNtAqcvwSk1kcAS_LG9z90_pghxN8hkHolm85i-GbA6Dt6XNUSoLHUWnif0e0HALbWyOlmA3YpYmejFqXfRk8004MjAReaw46hNjpRb_dsDwtIJWXUHlkGKtEfEQW8EGu0rdHAlzmYCI/s1600/noabbrevs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNNtAqcvwSk1kcAS_LG9z90_pghxN8hkHolm85i-GbA6Dt6XNUSoLHUWnif0e0HALbWyOlmA3YpYmejFqXfRk8004MjAReaw46hNjpRb_dsDwtIJWXUHlkGKtEfEQW8EGu0rdHAlzmYCI/s1600/noabbrevs.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
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And now—ugh—there is this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMIaIBCThMg13R7MrimmAcXT8CnyK72Q8hV8F5ofGbAUBYIB83WLs_-xBVeZoQeO2WidjPdGKBCydwbGLt3YOOXq9ROb9Wa8EI-UO5rUzMo-S5JPxLMtZ16wT6LzBmcd751oQ9odzotGg/s1600/noemoji.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMIaIBCThMg13R7MrimmAcXT8CnyK72Q8hV8F5ofGbAUBYIB83WLs_-xBVeZoQeO2WidjPdGKBCydwbGLt3YOOXq9ROb9Wa8EI-UO5rUzMo-S5JPxLMtZ16wT6LzBmcd751oQ9odzotGg/s1600/noemoji.jpg" /></a></div>
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Yes, people have actually come up with a way to communicate
via <a href="http://techcrunch.com/2012/12/26/inside-snapchat-the-little-photo-sharing-app-that-launched-a-sexting-scare/">rapid-fire selfie exchange</a>. This is a crisis situation, folks. At this
rate, it won’t be long before the alphabet itself ceases to exist, and novels
will begin to resemble extremely complicated sets of Ikea instructions.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi1Cbv-YAe8Pjea01PHXNjuo5MFiro3lDWALLSnkTqF-B3YLOEw0JnyQq8dJBkBcPRibG05ben9LP1gRv25uEUjfjGxzQZiGBzyOnnMNPUa5R-LcGlJWZGqPLlFulubheLt4CmcmdlRfQ/s1600/ikea-install-instructions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi1Cbv-YAe8Pjea01PHXNjuo5MFiro3lDWALLSnkTqF-B3YLOEw0JnyQq8dJBkBcPRibG05ben9LP1gRv25uEUjfjGxzQZiGBzyOnnMNPUa5R-LcGlJWZGqPLlFulubheLt4CmcmdlRfQ/s1600/ikea-install-instructions.jpg" height="320" width="301" /></a></div>
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And thus, human civilization will come full circle.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSVZVk1N8QoxWUDK8q8KoEt-f7q8OZXraLLYWmEFyoa30pc90QGDxbRMagFmP4-p2-yZcdNJzBkTA0dTEd6XoNWA5iY7oTxGaLAUi2AyYzUuBbRv5PwZ9FpOAeeMUR9fyC7Kf-j9_cpD4/s1600/cave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSVZVk1N8QoxWUDK8q8KoEt-f7q8OZXraLLYWmEFyoa30pc90QGDxbRMagFmP4-p2-yZcdNJzBkTA0dTEd6XoNWA5iY7oTxGaLAUi2AyYzUuBbRv5PwZ9FpOAeeMUR9fyC7Kf-j9_cpD4/s1600/cave.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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But, as I’ve learned from working in the technology sector,
there’s no sense in fighting innovation. You can cling to your fancy stationary
and your luxury fountain pen all you want, but it’s only a matter of time before
those Snapchatting teenagers are running the world. And since they are
basically illiterate, you can plan on a total phase-out of complete sentences
by 2030.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Another thing I’ve learned from my tenure in the tech field
is that there’s one language that will never go away: the language of numbers.
Yes, your high school calculus teacher was right about one thing (and lord
knows it wasn’t acceptable combinations of plaids): math truly is the universal
language.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So, as a preemptive move to preserve my relevancy as a human
being, I’ve started challenging myself to express my thoughts in a more graphic
fashion. And by graphic, I literally mean graphs. So instead of banging out a
long-winded narrative of my rants and raves as a gym patron, I condensed all of
my commentary into a series of graphical representations. Enjoy.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1UJkRrorSOiFF7SSgn6a02tX7W-WsUUpGGoJiu2yaV5BZqKkM1OH16VoIN9bz2BGRKbGAsi8UPPTb8zABJEVQwPVFmozeqzDQZe_AVkE3xDs3nzoPlQqwcroYVZ-CIgcyTawtCHliK-g/s1600/GymGraph1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1UJkRrorSOiFF7SSgn6a02tX7W-WsUUpGGoJiu2yaV5BZqKkM1OH16VoIN9bz2BGRKbGAsi8UPPTb8zABJEVQwPVFmozeqzDQZe_AVkE3xDs3nzoPlQqwcroYVZ-CIgcyTawtCHliK-g/s1600/GymGraph1.png" /></a></div>
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJ7XgwF0CtCXP2F3rBiDvFZn0ENDzkLEHRQ36SEvA7WKzfudZSluXzJsgIKebXwLqigKDPnb7cJ0tI94s5o4dXrgFpcV_RoWzjaSu1F63II-GE7CGTcH5u9x1trqtBwfMR-q-eNU6BO0/s1600/3CircleVenn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJ7XgwF0CtCXP2F3rBiDvFZn0ENDzkLEHRQ36SEvA7WKzfudZSluXzJsgIKebXwLqigKDPnb7cJ0tI94s5o4dXrgFpcV_RoWzjaSu1F63II-GE7CGTcH5u9x1trqtBwfMR-q-eNU6BO0/s1600/3CircleVenn.jpg" height="400" width="348" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzThhKXvFWXqyt0XZwVMBbdDjgDd6wax6yaNBVCc1PHK_8j9ho8VfOx5lUxQ6E4Eu48lfFvYR3K2q1H97ZRQkUHCH2gk6VcfkbI7T1DrtKRcO14FXb6W_5mNKUzluiqwUF64hbWtdGpTY/s1600/GymGraph2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzThhKXvFWXqyt0XZwVMBbdDjgDd6wax6yaNBVCc1PHK_8j9ho8VfOx5lUxQ6E4Eu48lfFvYR3K2q1H97ZRQkUHCH2gk6VcfkbI7T1DrtKRcO14FXb6W_5mNKUzluiqwUF64hbWtdGpTY/s1600/GymGraph2.png" /></a></div>
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Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-16588480266802769472013-12-03T19:30:00.000-08:002013-12-03T19:41:10.136-08:00Eight crazy things that happened at my Turkey TrotIn honor of this year’s rare convergence of Thanksgiving and the first day of Hanukkah—which, as every child raised in the Mountain West learned courtesy of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rd1Pyu9_rxo">Adam Sandler’s “Hanukkah Song,”</a> lasts eight crazy nights—I have structured this Thanksgiving blog post around this sacred Jewish number. Think of it as a literary menorah. L’chaim!<br />
<br />
<b>1.) I won a pie.</b> And in the process, I became enlightened to the immense motivational power of this hallowed circular pastry. Titles, medals, trophies, scholarship dollars—none of these even remotely compare to pie’s exceptional energizing quality. Every time I caught a glimpse of someone in front of me who could potentially stand in the way of me and my soft, buttery, flaky specimen of baked excellence, this was my thought process: <i>She looks like she could be in my age group. Okay, her calves have wrinkles and she clearly reads every issue of AARP The Magazine cover-to-cover, but there is freaking pie on the line, and I’m not taking any chances. What if she’s like the female Benjamin Button? Beatrice Button, prepare to eat my dust.</i>
Then, a few minutes later: <i>Hmmm...that’s either a 12-year-old boy with exquisite bone structure or Keira Knightley’s American doppelganger. Either way, I will not gamble with androgyny. Time to surge.</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfOxnyXOyE89k05UAfGK3ucqZeTjis0jDvd5bg5USSa135bX7lgdQsBlWjTnLtGYBV_k4CQUrVWBQ-2cS0OdOqYqjaTqZU3Qytm0ijbA2mBTm65Zi4MMbP7YO8EHaKgA6IamkllSYrz8/s1600/pie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfOxnyXOyE89k05UAfGK3ucqZeTjis0jDvd5bg5USSa135bX7lgdQsBlWjTnLtGYBV_k4CQUrVWBQ-2cS0OdOqYqjaTqZU3Qytm0ijbA2mBTm65Zi4MMbP7YO8EHaKgA6IamkllSYrz8/s400/pie.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">So worth it.</span> </div>
<br />
<b>2.) I embarrassed myself while receiving said pie. </b>Usually, when the time comes for me to accept an award, I am able to reign in my excitement enough to create a façade of maturity and sportsmanship. But when the award is pie, I completely lose my shit. (Which, I’m told, makes other race participants uncomfortable. Whatever.)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img src="http://i.minus.com/i9ZKkOTR46ksU.gif" />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Actual video footage of me when they announced that I had won a pie. (<i>Source: i.minus.com</i>)</span><b><br /></b></div>
<br />
<b>3.) A dude in <a href="http://itsarunningjoke.blogspot.com/2011/03/foot-gloves-new-sock-shoes.html">rubber foot-gloves</a> beat me.</b> Perhaps my only regret of the entire day was failing to out-sprint the foot-shaped-flipper-wearing asshole I spotted in front of me near the end of the race. But alas, with my pie secured, I simply did not give enough of a hoot to rally my fast-twitch muscles (or what’s left of them) for a kick-driven statement against <a href="http://itsarunningjoke.blogspot.com/2012/07/born-to-be-shod.html">minimalism</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>4.) I was nearly outrun by a “13-year-old” girl.</b> (The quotation marks indicate my doubt of said girl’s given age.) Why the suspicion? For one, I refuse to believe that my athletic prowess is comparable to that of a middle schooler—a high-schooler, sure, but definitely not someone who <i>just</i> got the official go-ahead from the Motion Picture Association of America to watch <i>Dumb and Dumber</i>.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://s1123.photobucket.com/user/singleladad/media/Animated%20GIF/jeff_daniels2.gif.html" target="_blank"><img alt="http://singleladad.blogspot.com photo jeff_daniels2.gif" border="0" height="223" src="http://i1123.photobucket.com/albums/l556/singleladad/Animated%20GIF/jeff_daniels2.gif" width="400" /></a>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The wrong kind of turkey trots. (<i>Source: photobucket.com</i>)</span> </div>
<br />
But more than that, a recent workplace step-counting contest tainted my trust in the competitive integrity of my fellow humans. Just as one can attach a pedometer to a Fido’s collar for a few hours to pad one’s weekly step totals, one can enter oneself in a less competitive age division in order to increase one’s chances of securing a pie. (Believe me, my running partner and I spent considerable time contemplating whether we could pass for a couple of 45-year-olds.)<br />
<br />
<b>5.) I ran a <a href="http://www.racetecresults.com/MyResults.aspx?CId=16432&RId=34&EId=1&AId=19314">5K “PR.”</a></b> (The quotation marks indicate my doubt of the race course’s advertised distance.) As much as I would like to believe that I ran a community Turkey Trot faster than any of my collegiate 5Ks, I am a realist. Pie may be an incredible motivator (see item 1), but it’s not powerful enough to revert my body back to a level of fitness I will never again achieve.<br />
<br />
<b>6.) During the race, I burned a number of calories that represented a mere fraction of what I would later consume, but I nevertheless justified my consumption of said calories with the completion of said race.</b> Like a dieter who hits up Dairy Queen for a “reward” after 25 minutes on the elliptical—<i>I broke a sweat, which means I had to have burned at least, like 5,000 calories, right? One large Snickers Blizzard with extra chocolate, please!</i>—I reasoned that my 5K effort would cancel out all the gluttonous activity on the docket for the rest of the day.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimXe4nxoWM6_yi5frHE0HppTfTdhmu61Gy8YfX6DqcUv9Nz9KojC6vAMc8muNGg4RhQXzOGceEw1oHItlSmpsxzYJZ7xWfD7ALXQ8FrC8imZJ8PhjvaTd-H6c1rH0lLmSeps66j5630g/s1600/quickmemeburger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimXe4nxoWM6_yi5frHE0HppTfTdhmu61Gy8YfX6DqcUv9Nz9KojC6vAMc8muNGg4RhQXzOGceEw1oHItlSmpsxzYJZ7xWfD7ALXQ8FrC8imZJ8PhjvaTd-H6c1rH0lLmSeps66j5630g/s320/quickmemeburger.jpg" width="246" /></a> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Source: quickmeme.com</span></i> </div>
<br />
<b>7.) I solved all my problems—save for the one above—courtesy of the problem-solving station.</b> Yes, this is actually a thing, which begs the question: Where was it during that whole congressional standoff fiasco?<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr0_LCz2gWiwObqCz8NO9Hcg8ypewUMhTfX35Bh4h244EffTeH9Z7mhLhn5M9_EOku6Yjxlp05AMingncmP83oONPr990UeYC2z9nTqZyGhoq5a9BuLSMQx3QjwgAMruVSehwkCYJChOU/s1600/problemsolving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr0_LCz2gWiwObqCz8NO9Hcg8ypewUMhTfX35Bh4h244EffTeH9Z7mhLhn5M9_EOku6Yjxlp05AMingncmP83oONPr990UeYC2z9nTqZyGhoq5a9BuLSMQx3QjwgAMruVSehwkCYJChOU/s400/problemsolving.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">We got 99 problems, but lack of pie ain't one.</span> </div>
<br />
<b>8.) I inadvertently shed my amateur status by offering my official endorsement of a commercial product.</b> After the race, an <a href="http://www.aquaphorhealing.com/">Aquaphor</a> rep offered my friends and me some free product samples on one condition: she had to take a photo of us holding them. So yeah, now that my celebrity is being used to market healing ointment, I am, <a href="http://www.petersons.com/college-search/amateur-status-sports-college.aspx">by definition</a>, a professional athlete. Eat your heart out, <a href="http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/more/news/20131115/mary-cain-college-track-pro/">Mary Cain.</a>Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-72882702356607170742013-11-17T14:24:00.000-08:002013-11-17T14:27:31.403-08:00Medal headOver the past few weeks, I have made a
concerted effort to spread my wings and step outside of my comfort
zone—my “comfort zone” being Netflix
and <a href="http://www.microwavecookingforone.com/">microwave cooking for one</a>
(although let’s be honest: that’s a good-ass Friday night right there). So,
when the opportunity to participate in a big 10K race presented itself, I
nudged—nay, forced—myself to accept. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything about the race itself was awesome: fast course,
decent competition, ideal temperature, adequate number of water stops. It was the
post-race process that puzzled me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because even though the finish-line chute basically dumped my
fellow competitors and me directly into the post-race expo—where apparel
booths, nutrition stations, and Jazzercise (yes, it’s still a thing) dancers
could keep us occupied for hours—there was NO AWARDS CEREMONY. I repeat: NO AWARDS CEREMONY.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In
my opinion, this represented a huge
oversight on the part of the race organizers. Why? Well, I’m not exactly
proud
to admit it, but my years as a competitive high school and collegiate
runner conditioned me to crave the 30 seconds of fame and affirmation that a medal ceremony provides. Somehow, the high that accompanies the ritual of
having
a medal placed around my neck is enough to magically offset the horrible
agony
I put myself through to earn said medal—thus validating my efforts and
keeping
me coming back for more. So, while Lady Gaga and I might not see eye to
eye on
a lot of things—one of them being <a href="http://blogs.browardpalmbeach.com/cleanplatecharlie/Lady-Gagas-Meat-Dress.jpg">acceptable
uses for top sirloin</a>—we’ve got one thing in common: we both <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pco91kroVgQ">live for the applause</a>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Without the promise of such a high, however, I had no
motivation whatsoever to linger alongside the hordes of sweaty people milling
around the expo. Plus, the lack of public recognition made the whole experience
a bit anticlimactic. I busted my ass to finish <a href="http://www.ceptiming.com/2013/misc495/13Phoenix10k-10K-All.txt">fourth overall for women</a>—and second in my age group, thank you very much—but all the
stragglers out there still huffing and puffing away as I cooled down would never know that. So,
after I caught my breath and drank my complimentary bottle of water, I jogged
back to my car and left.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fast forward to a few days ago when I went to collect
my mail. Underneath mountains of grocery store flyers and a few promising Papa
John’s coupons, there was a small padded envelope. The return address was a
P.O. Box for the Phoenix 10K. My eyes widened as a brief rush of excitement
flooded my body. I tore into the envelope with a zest I have not exhibited
since receiving my last high school report card.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As
I pulled my second-place medal from the mangled mess of
bubble wrap, I smiled with great satisfaction. Holding that medal made
me feel
good. Really good. And then, as quickly as it had come, that good
feeling
disappeared. Because about 15 seconds after I extracted the medal from
its packaging, I realized that it was completely and utterly useless.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now look, medals might not be <a href="http://itsarunningjoke.blogspot.com/2011/03/new-funtier.html">my award of choice</a>, but I
enjoy them as much as the next obsessively competitive narcissist. The
problem is, there’s an unwritten rule in the running community that one can
only wear one’s race medal on the day of the corresponding event. Thus, the
value of any medal hinges on timely receipt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With this epiphany, I suddenly felt very angry.
Why—WHY—would they send me this NOW? Was this the race director’s idea of cruel
joke? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS?!?!?</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> I lamented aloud, shaking my medal at the sky.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I returned to my apartment, I carelessly tossed that
stupid, worthless hunk of metal on the kitchen table. <i>I just can’t deal with
this right now</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, I thought. </span><i>I have
too many other things to worry about, and </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Wheel
of Fortune</span><i> is about to start.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And there the medal stayed, taunting me day after day with
its hokey logo and its crumpled neck ribbon. I grew to despise—even
loathe—it. Why didn’t they just send me a gift certificate, or a water bottle,
or a nice pair of socks? I would have even settled for a couple of GU packets.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, unable to endure the torment for another waking
second, I resolved to take action. Based on my rudimentary understanding of
human psychology—garnered from my introductory college psych course, the Jodi
Arias trial, and <i>Shutter Island</i><span style="font-style: normal;">—I
concluded that in order to let go of my debilitating resentment of this object,
I had to live out the experience—or more precisely, the missing experience—that
it symbolized.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Obviously, there was only one way to accomplish this, and
even though I wasn’t exactly thrilled about it, I knew it had to be done. So, I
put on my race outfit, pinned my number to the front of my top, did my hair and
makeup (hey, it’s a re-creation—I’m allowed to take certain creative liberties),
and placed the medal around my neck. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I did something that, under normal circumstances, I
would never, ever, ever, ever, never, ever consider doing: I pulled out my iPhone and started
snapping selfies with reckless abandon. (For those of you who aren’t hip to
Millennial lingo, selfies are basically self-portraits taken with smartphones.
And according to <a href="http://elitedaily.com/humor/generation-why-the-selfie-epidemic/">this
article</a>, they are “pretty much the most embarrassing photos you could ever
take, and everyone thinks lesser of you because of them.”)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With that in mind, here is the product of my digital
catharsis (Note: I hold the Phoenix 10K 100% responsible for what you are
about to see):<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj695JoPDdkc-OjgWueJqCtJR-f8pKpgbwLgIdn2SULB97gxq2gPdORClIGYgHiCXqW2u6voo7CwdShyiSaELlb9PjcA96Scn-q15P551zgjd3I4yKYEk7bzuCzGoD6KCuf4WTjs0MiQiU/s1600/ermahgerd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj695JoPDdkc-OjgWueJqCtJR-f8pKpgbwLgIdn2SULB97gxq2gPdORClIGYgHiCXqW2u6voo7CwdShyiSaELlb9PjcA96Scn-q15P551zgjd3I4yKYEk7bzuCzGoD6KCuf4WTjs0MiQiU/s320/ermahgerd.jpg" width="233" /></a></div>
<br />
Cue standing ovation:<br />
<br /></div>
<a href="http://reactiongifs.com/?p=3076"><img src="http://www.reactiongifs.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/standing-ovation.gif" /></a>Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-10927331433196234672013-10-28T22:08:00.001-07:002013-11-13T05:44:35.589-08:00Train wreck<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, after nearly two years of successfully averting the
need to purchase a gym membership through my hodge-podge patronage of <a href="http://itsarunningjoke.blogspot.com/2012/10/one-night-stand.html">hotel gyms</a>, <a href="http://itsarunningjoke.blogspot.com/2013/01/treadmill-time-machine.html">apartment gyms</a>, and <a href="http://itsarunningjoke.blogspot.com/2012/01/home-body.html">kitchen table gyms</a>, I finally caved. In a moment of
weakness, I signed my name on a dotted line and agreed to pay $30 a month to
get sweaty with a bunch of <a href="http://i.qkme.me/3qg4wd.jpg">dudes in bro tanks</a>. (By the way, I am seriously
disturbed by what I like to call the Bro Tank Invasion. It’s sort of like the
British invasion, except instead of everyone jamming to the Beatles, everyone
is wearing ridiculous sleeveless garments that were designed for the express
purpose of making the wearer look like a total douchewad.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, as part of my new membership, the gym offered—and by
offered, I mean aggressively forced upon me—one free personal training session.
I tried, multiple times, to politely decline said offer. I even canceled the
first appointment I made in hopes that I might quietly fall through the freebie-gym-session cracks, never to resurface again. Instead, the receptionist
just went ahead and rescheduled me for another day and time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So alas, aside from pulling a full-on no-show—which is a
total dick move, because even greasy, over-juiced personal trainers have
important things to do and important schedules to keep to (otherwise, how would
they have time for gym, tan, <i>and</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
laundry?)—I was not going to get out of this thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With my fate sealed, I tried to keep an open mind. I really,
really tried. But I just couldn’t shake the feeling that my complimentary
workout was going to be a total disaster. Call it women’s intuition, call it
five years of following Division I strength training programs—any way you slice
it, I just couldn’t drum up the naivety necessary to respect personal trainers
as real experts in exercise science.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I arrived at the gym, I noticed a sign at the front
desk advertising an upcoming educational workshop where you could earn a
personal training certificate in just three days <i>for only $399</i><span style="font-style: normal;">! So, while I spent my collegiate career following
lifting plans carefully designed by professionals who’d spent years studying
the intricacies of human kinesiology, I was about to entrust my health and
wellbeing to some guy who attended a three-day seminar. Fantastic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I met my trainer—let’s call him Miguel—I could not help
but notice that he was approximately 17 ½ years old. I also could not help but
notice the not-so-subtly placed body fat percentage caliper directly in front of the
chair where he invited me to take a seat. Clearly he knew that I, like all
women, came to the gym in search of a cheaper, less invasive alternative to liposuction. (Cue eye roll.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was eager to get right into it—and, ahem, get it over
with—but Miguel wanted to go all the way through the standard initial
evaluation he’d probably learned about mere days prior. First, we talked about
goals. What follows is a rough transcript of our conversation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Miguel: So, Brooke, I see you signed up just a couple of
weeks ago. What spurred you to join our gym? What are your goals for yourself?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Well, uh, I signed up because the equipment in the
workout room at my new apartment complex appears to be missing some very
important components and also there are signs all over the place that say, “Use
at Your Own Risk.” So, despite being a known and unabashed cheap-ass, I could
not justify risking serious injury in the name of saving a few bucks. As for
goals—well, mostly just maintenance and injury prevention. I’m a distance
runner, so I’m not looking to get huge or anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Miguel: Hmmm, OK, OK. [<i>Stalls as he fumbles for what to
say next, as this scenario did not come up during the role play portion of the
seminar</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.] So…you, uh, aren’t looking to
like, lose five pounds, or gain five pounds, or anything like that?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: [<i>Raising one eyebrow for 15 silent, uncomfortable seconds</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.] No.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Miguel: Right. I mean, I didn’t think you did. Or that you
needed to. OK, well, let me tell you a little bit about what we do here at
El-Lame Fitness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Miguel proceeded to explain the philosophy behind the
traditional Monday-Wednesday-Friday lifting schedule and to give me a short
lesson in delayed-onset muscle soreness. At various points throughout his
lecture, he stopped and—using a vaguely condescending tone of voice—posed
questions to help frame his spiel. These included things like, “Now Brooke, can
you tell me <i>why</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> our muscles feel sore
after we work out?” Or: “Brooke, do you know why rest days are so important?”
And even: “Can you guess what you need to eat to help your muscles repair and
rebuild after a hard lift?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, just to drive home his extremely important point about
muscle recovery, he supplied a hand-drawn illustration, which I’ve reproduced
below. (Side note: he had obviously practiced producing this figure several
times, as he was able to draw it upside down with ease. I found this slightly more
impressive than those waiters at Macaroni Grill who sign their names upside
down on the paper tablecloth.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifI8B1MXB80qtnU5IIyV45S8syJOtkuvzQuyhzv8iH63MG8tWg8JvLc6mGoPf9_jCU19SlH-iizAI0wctz4yOY3TJslhGUMAnZZLzoqcKn4PgyzsszRFRvp5oXZb4bkoI6md1nl2rBrEI/s1600/PersonalTrainerDiagram.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifI8B1MXB80qtnU5IIyV45S8syJOtkuvzQuyhzv8iH63MG8tWg8JvLc6mGoPf9_jCU19SlH-iizAI0wctz4yOY3TJslhGUMAnZZLzoqcKn4PgyzsszRFRvp5oXZb4bkoI6md1nl2rBrEI/s320/PersonalTrainerDiagram.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When lesson time was finally over, he asked me what cycle I
wanted to do that day: push, pull, or legs. (FYI: push and pull are both
arm-exclusive workouts.) I told him I’m not really into the
specific-muscle-group-on-a-specific-day thing, and I gently suggested we do
something more circuit-like.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now look, I know my sales experience is minimal (I’m still
trying to get over the fact that I was the lowest-selling member of Brownie
Troop #4408 during the 1996 Girl Scout Cookie season), but I always thought the
first rule of sales was to give the customer what the customer wants.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, if you’re trying to sell me on purchasing additional
training sessions, maybe it would be a good idea to adjust the workout to suit
my preferences rather than forcing me into a program I am clearly not
interested in following. In my mind, this would be akin to telling a waiter
you’re vegan and then furiously clenching your teeth as he launched into a
longwinded sales pitch for the succulent bacon-wrapped filet mignon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there was no changing Miguel’s mind. There was no time
for circuits during the three-day seminar, and that meant I had a decision to make. I reluctantly chose “push.” And push I did. Naturally, my arms were
fatigued about three minutes into the workout. I begged Miguel to let me do
some squats or lunges or calf raises or <i>anything</i> that involved the muscles below my waist. But he was ruthless. Finally, when I could barely
lift my arm for a half-hearted fist-bump, Miguel announced that I would be
ending the workout with push-ups.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you effing kidding me right now?” I protested.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nope. Drop and give me ten.” He demanded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I dropped all right. I dropped straight to the floor when my
arms gave out beneath me on my first rep.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Get down on your knees if you have to,” Miguel suggested.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At that point, angry annoyance gave way to full-on rage. In
my world, girl push-ups are a form of public humiliation. I would sooner pick a
wedgie while knowingly walking in front of Brad Pitt than voluntarily complete
a girl push-up in the middle of a crowded gym. But Miguel made me do it, and
now I am scarred for life. (Literally. The friction from the carpet on the
floor tore open the skin on my knees and there’s a pretty good chance I
contracted staph.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I finally rose to my feet, blood trickling from my carpet-burned knees and daggers shooting from my eyes, Miguel knew he'd lost the sale. In fact, he didn't even ask me if I'd like to purchase a personal training package—probably the smartest thing he'd done all day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now, just because, here's the movie clip where I am pretty sure Miguel learned his sales skills:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/c1EyN9xTK94" width="560"></iframe>Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-23237395266591508472013-09-21T16:35:00.000-07:002013-09-21T16:36:42.487-07:00Hit and run<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just for fun, I’m going to veer from the usual and start
this post off with something a little bit different: a poll. Ready? OK, here
goes:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have you ever witnessed a motor vehicle accident?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Note: When I first wrote this, I was under the assumption
that I could embed an actual poll question— with results
computation and everything—into the body of this post. However, I am apparently too
technologically inept to crack the code (pun intended) on Internet polls, which
I find slightly worrisome considering that I work in digital media. Hopefully I
did not list “Internet poll administration” as a skill on my resume. I must
make a note to confirm that. Anyway, I’m too committed to this intro to revise
it now, so let’s just think of this as a rhetorical poll. But feel free to
write down your answer or say it out loud or even leave it as a comment.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My follow-up question to that inquiry would be: Have you
ever witnessed a motor vehicle accident 4.8 miles into a 5-mile run in
100-degree heat? What’s that? You haven’t? I didn’t think so. I win. (Yes, in
my ultra-competitive world, you can win at polls.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had been running for approximately 35 minutes when it
happened. As you might imagine, I was extremely sweaty and even more extremely
thirsty. I only had another two blocks to go when I approached the last
intersection before my apartment. The light was green and the walk sign was
illuminated, so I picked up the pace to make sure I got through the crosswalk
before the light changed. (Remember, I was sweaty, thirsty, and definitely in
no mood to stop for an entire light cycle.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just as I was about to step into the street, I noticed that there was a vehicle in the left turn lane. It was creeping into the oncoming lane of
traffic, and I wasn’t entirely certain that the driver saw me. So, despite
being in a fire-ass hurry to get across the street—and I say that in a
completely non-figurative sense, because it was 100 degrees out and my ass was
quite literally on fire—I jolted to a stop to let the driver execute her turn.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just as I came to a halt, she saw me and slammed on her
brakes—at which point a car in the oncoming lane zoomed through the light and
smacked right into her driver’s side headlight, smashing it to smithereens and
sending a confetti of automotive shrapnel flying through the air. I drew my
sweat-covered hands to my sweat-covered face and gasped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here is what went through my head in the first few seconds
after the wreck:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Holy
shit!<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">I hope
no one is hurt.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">What
do I do?<o:p></o:p></li>
</ol>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At that point, another witness to the accident pulled up to
the sidewalk next to me and got out of his car.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did you see it too?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I nodded, still in shock. He then sprung into action,
checking to make sure both drivers were OK and offering to help in any way he
could. I just stood there like a dumb-dumb.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my defense, I was incredibly dehydrated and a little
light-headed. I noticed goosebumps forming on my arms and legs—a sure sign of <a href="http://www.runnersworld.com/running-tips/ask-coaches-goose-bumps-and-chills-warm-weather-marathons?page=single">heat
stress</a>. Still, despite clearly being in the early stages of heat
exhaustion, I knew I had to stick around to give a statement because I’m a good
citizen and it was the right thing to do. On a more selfish note, I knew this
story was going to make for a super entertaining blog post.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time we had established that no one was injured, my
dizziness had subsided and I started to get my wits about me. My mind raced
with thoughts, questions, and concerns—many of them slightly inappropriate
in the context of the situation at hand. Here are the highlights:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">Are
those firemen ever going to offer me some water? (They did not.)<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">Oh my
god, I ran through two giant gnat swarms and I probably have insect
carcasses plastered all over my disgusting, sweaty face.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">What
if I have to give a statement to the police? What if they send a really
good-looking cop and he’s totally grossed out by my disgusting dead-bug
face? What if I smell? (At this point, I performed a discreet armpit check and
discovered that I only smelled a little.)<o:p></o:p></li>
</ol>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cop who did show up was not only inexcusably late to the
scene (it took him about 40 minutes to get there), but also inexcusably
dickish. As he took the left-turner’s statement, she indicated that she couldn’t
recall all of the details and that he should probably ask me about it because I
had the whole thing recorded in my memory in perfect slow motion. We’re talking
<a href="http://www.businessinsider.com/iphone-5s-slow-motion-2013-9">iPhone 5s-quality</a>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I launched into a very animated, incredibly accurate
account of what had occurred, and this cop—who, by the way, looked like the
goddamn missing link in human evolution—put up his hand and cut me off
mid-sentence with, “We’ll get to you. Let her finish talking.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wish with all my heart that I had come up with a clever
retort right on the spot—something like, “OK, right after I let you finish
evolving, Officer Cro-Magnon!”—but instead, I simply raised my insect-dotted
eyebrows and shot him the most disapproving glare I could muster. I cannot be
sure if he saw said glare; it is possible that his field of vision was obscured
by his frighteningly prominent brow line.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After talking to both drivers, he retired to his
air-conditioned cruiser to spend 20 additional minutes entering the information
into his computer. We continued to stand in the hot sun. He did not seem the
least bit concerned about this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, much to our relief, an angelic Mexican woman who lived
in the apartment complex immediately adjacent to the scene of the accident
yelled down to us from her balcony: “Would you like some water?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes! Please! Por favor!” we shouted from below.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She proceeded to drop several ice-cold bottles of water into
our hands, thus restoring my faith in humanity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Around this time, the driver of the other vehicle struck up
a friendly conversation with me. As we talked, I took stock of his nice teeth
and his toned, muscular physique. He was very attractive and very personable.
When he asked me for my phone number “for insurance purposes,” I briefly
fantasized that he actually intended to use it “for cocktail invitation
purposes.” Later, after returning home and discovering the true gravity of my
dead bug situation, it became indubitably clear that he would do nothing more
with my digits than pass them along to his Allstate agent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Deputy D-bag finally emerged from his
climate-controlled environment, he half-heartedly asked for my “version of
events.” Was this guy serious? What I was about to describe was not my
“version” of what happened—it was what fucking happened! What in Tim Tebow's name would I
gain from distorting the truth? Furthermore, I had just spent the last hour of
my life standing on a street corner in a sweaty sports bra while making small
talk with total strangers and completely sabotaging my weeks-long effort to
even out my tan lines in preparation for an upcoming wedding. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gritted my teeth and somehow managed to keep my composure.
I gave him a detailed play-by-play, speaking slowly and using small words so as
not to confuse him. And then, thankfully, I was dismissed to return home—which
meant recruiting my stiff, electrolyte-depleted muscles to plow through another
quarter-mile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, despite the inconvenience, I took pride in my good
citizenry. Don’t worry, I won’t let my heroic exploits go to my head—although I
might <a href="http://weknowmemes.com/2012/05/im-sick-of-this-stereotype-that-all-women-wear-superhero-capes/">wear
a cape</a> for a couple of days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-45878464680028460332013-09-14T10:15:00.000-07:002013-09-14T10:15:47.874-07:00How to increase your training motivation in one easy step<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s face it: finding the motivation to hit the road can be
a tall order for even the most dedicated runners—especially when they are
forced to choose between a grueling training session and a leisurely social
engagement. Are you going to tell me that Paula Radcliffe has never been
tempted to ditch a mile repeats in favor of getting bloody right bladdered with
her best mates? Bollocks!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, as any experienced dieter will tell you, the best way
to stay on track with a plan is to eliminate the temptation to stray from it.
If there is no Nutella in the cupboard, there is no chance that you will
spoon-shovel the entire jar of said Nutella into that vacuum of self-control you call
a mouth, thus completely sabotaging the four ounces of lean protein and steamed
vegetables you just choked down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Similarly, if you eliminate the opportunity to go out, you
will significantly reduce your chances of abandoning a run to barhop with your pals. And the best way to do that—the titular “one easy step,” if you
will—is to completely isolate yourself from anyone with whom you have friendly
relations. If you live upwards of 30 minutes away from your nearest friend,
you’ll be much less likely to give into the urge to get your party on, which in
turn makes you much more likely to resort to filling your free time with a nice,
long run instead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like, let’s say—hypothetically, of course—that a casual
Internet search for nearby live music shows reveals that the “valley’s best Tom
Petty cover band” will be playing at a bar less than two blocks away from your
apartment—tonight! This piques your interest because Tom Petty—one of the
greatest classic rock musicians of the last quarter century—is one of your
favorite musical artists of all time, and the next best thing to seeing Tom
Petty live and in concert is seeing the valley’s best Tom Petty cover band live
and in concert.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, further research on the concert venue—in the form
of several exceptionally eloquent <a href="http://www.yelp.com/phoenix" target="_blank">Yelp</a> reviews—yields a slightly unsettling consensus: it’s a “total dive biker bar.” Unsure of what to do, you
again turn to the Internet for advice because hey, you’re a blogger, and you
know what you’re talking about at least 40 percent of the time. So there has to
be someone out there with some insightful advice on the subject of young women
frequenting drinking establishments alone. You enter the query “can women go
out to bars alone” into the Google search field and hit enter. Upon perusing
the results, you make the <a href="http://www.karmenmoxie.com/1/post/2013/01/a-single-woman-in-the-barprostitute.html" target="_blank">shocking discovery</a> that when a woman goes into a bar
alone, she’s sometimes assumed to be—get ready for this—a prostitute!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And just like that, your dreams of rocking along to “Won’t
Back Down” are dead in the proverbial water because—ironically—when it
comes to prostitution (or even the semblance of prostitution), you will back
down. On the plus side—there’s always a silver lining, folks!—once the option
of going out is wiped off the table, running becomes a viable form of evening
entertainment. More than viable, actually. As illustrated by the charts below,
it is in fact the preferred choice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<b>Running</b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtMCRXr6Ti6IRI8DURHrHE2MYq5IuJRnFAqbOUmjlN2EOI_JpcD8h2mmASdf8R5uMoTa-Xac-sZOg1-2Q5oxH57LJSJ9qq_3x_rlh7s8kN23P29TqO6ZINdDR4C13ZD7O9U77Oz4Dxps/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-09-14+at+10.03.56+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtMCRXr6Ti6IRI8DURHrHE2MYq5IuJRnFAqbOUmjlN2EOI_JpcD8h2mmASdf8R5uMoTa-Xac-sZOg1-2Q5oxH57LJSJ9qq_3x_rlh7s8kN23P29TqO6ZINdDR4C13ZD7O9U77Oz4Dxps/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-09-14+at+10.03.56+AM.png" style="cursor: move;" /></a></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><b>Drinking</b></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42jn5hI5Lx_dQOS8yLLFs87YL9xw3TWFsYpLzg-BPBqicgR5y1SgNsMbzYXvyRUzyTKJboot2oqfkE1LwqWHRTHwprTGCwen7g8dRwjD693ia4yzRr1EvY8Lr5Q72fxckaMXi7NdUlZU/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-09-14+at+9.59.25+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42jn5hI5Lx_dQOS8yLLFs87YL9xw3TWFsYpLzg-BPBqicgR5y1SgNsMbzYXvyRUzyTKJboot2oqfkE1LwqWHRTHwprTGCwen7g8dRwjD693ia4yzRr1EvY8Lr5Q72fxckaMXi7NdUlZU/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-09-14+at+9.59.25+AM.png" style="cursor: move;" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Plus, depending on the intensity level of your workout, the end result could be very similar to what you might experience after a night of heavy drinking. You’ll feel tired, dehydrated, dizzy, and possibly even a bit nauseous. The only difference is that you won’t wake up with a hangover the next morning (yep, there’s that silver lining again!).<o:p></o:p></div>
Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-81617750536970147412013-08-18T09:19:00.000-07:002013-08-18T09:19:41.846-07:00How to get owned in a 5K
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Are you tired of always crossing the finish line first? Does
the thought of winning <i>another</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> gold
medal/blue ribbon/gift card/souvenir mug/pair of men’s running socks make you
want to light your racing flats on fire and scratch out the Prefontaine quote
you so meticulously stenciled above your headboard? Do you need a swift reality
check to cool your ego and crush that ridiculous pipe dream of “going pro?” If
you answered “yes” to any of the above questions, then you need to lose a race
by an embarrassingly large margin—and fast! Based on my own experience racing a
<a href="http://competitivetiming.com/results/2013BRRO">5K in my hometown</a>
last weekend, I compiled the following step-by-step guide for running your
way to a fantastically disappointing runner-up finish. Now, get out there and
lose like a winner! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Train exclusively: <o:p></o:p></div>
<ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">on
flat concrete paths <o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">at low
elevation<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">in
temperatures above 100 degrees (that way, you’ll never go faster than
7-minute mile pace) </li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Choose a race course that:<o:p></o:p></div>
<ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">is
mainly dirt/gravel<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">features
lots of hills<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">is
located in a cool mountain climate</li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. To promote maximum muscle tightness, select an event at
least 1,000 miles away, book your flight for the night before, and put in a
full eight-hour workday before boarding the plane.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. When selecting your seat assignment, make sure you are
surrounded by a half dozen screaming children whose parents are most likely
deaf from years of auditory abuse—at least judging from their disinterest in
controlling the volume of their unruly spawn.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5. Do not sleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6. To increase the chances of a major flight delay, travel
as late in the day as possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7. Sit on the tarmac for two hours while engineers
troubleshoot a “mechanical problem.” Let your paranoid inner voice convince you
that this is code for “imminent engine failure,” thus signaling your adrenal
gland to release of a healthy dose of cortisol into your blood stream. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8. Avoid using that tiny, despicable excuse for a lavatory
by staying as dehydrated as possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9. During your layover, find the greasiest, most flavorless
chicken sandwich you’ve ever spent $15 on. Eat all of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10. Arrive at your destination well after midnight. Do not
go to bed until 2 a.m.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
11. Toss and turn for five hours. Wake up unrefreshed and
unprepared to compete.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
12. Arrive at the race site 15 minutes before the scheduled
start, allowing yourself just enough time to register, do three ominously
laborious warm-up strides, and seriously regret your decision to show up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
13. Gasp and heave pathetically as you strain to keep up
with the teenage girl who is kicking your ass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
14. Ignore the resulting chest pains.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
15. Lumber across the finish line nearly 45 seconds after
the first-place finisher. Wave awkwardly when the race emcee announces you as a
“former star.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYpT76B5p3QEXI5hfboPl1QlNfsfA0jrdtF-idMu5KOvrgJdoTLXAWiex-qnS2AV8ACWv0H4_kruHshn0-Vz0cDrbswazJV1QutX4Eepozzt67eD21OQ4phg85dZkQM55Nipz-36b2lc/s1600/secondplace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYpT76B5p3QEXI5hfboPl1QlNfsfA0jrdtF-idMu5KOvrgJdoTLXAWiex-qnS2AV8ACWv0H4_kruHshn0-Vz0cDrbswazJV1QutX4Eepozzt67eD21OQ4phg85dZkQM55Nipz-36b2lc/s320/secondplace.jpg" width="253" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mission accomplished.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-36382383531943241832013-08-01T06:01:00.000-07:002013-08-01T06:01:40.776-07:00The Sweactrum<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the old saying goes, you never know what you can do until
you have to—like satisfy your urgent craving for Lucky Charms by using back-of-the-fridge milk that smells vaguely of old flip-flops. Or hold your pee in traffic for 45 minutes because some d-bag got
up that morning and decided he was Ryan Gosling in <i>Drive </i>(and found out the hard way that he is not)<i>.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span>Or even abstain from using Facebook Mobile for six whole days because
your little brother exhausted the entire monthly data allotment watching YouTube videos in a non-WiFi zone (which you cannot complain
about for fear of reminding your parents that you’re still on the family phone
plan despite being an employed, fully grown adult).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, there was a time when I would have sooner purchased
a ticket for <i>Grown Ups 2 </i><span style="font-style: normal;">than attempted
to run in 100-plus-degree heat. Then I became a Phoenician.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, as we approach the dog days of monsoon season—who knew
it rained in the flippin’ desert!?!?!—I have been forced to exercise in what
are surely the hottest, muggiest, stickiest, most ass-slickening conditions in
the entire first-world. Seriously—when I step outside, I feel like I’m stepping
into the butt crack of that naked fat guy in the locker room at LA Fitness.
(To clarify, I have never actually seen this man, but I have heard stories.
Lots of stories.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In pushing the boundaries of my temperature tolerance, I have
become very in-tune with my sweat glands and the various environmental stimuli
that trigger them. I also have come to appreciate the nuanced stages of
perspiration—collectively, the Sweactrum—which I have detailed below for your
education and entertainment:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Dainty Dew</b>: This is that elusive glow that seems only to
exist in Lululemon ads, the <i>Sports Illustrated</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Swimsuit Edition, and Beyoncé. For me, it occurs during the 2.7
seconds between turning the door handle and crossing the threshold into the outdoors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Glamorous Glisten</b>: This is really just Dainty Dew
intensified, perhaps with the addition of a tiny patch of chest sweat: Nike
ads, <i>Flashdance</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, and Ke$ha.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Beaded T-Zone</b>: Eventually—or, if you are me, almost
immediately—those sexy flecks of shimmer will coalesce into discernible sweat
droplets. At first, these adorable beads of moisture will concentrate around
your nose and forehead areas. But like a fictional amoeba-esque alien, they are
bound to expand and wreak havoc on other regions of your face and body.
Basically, you are rural Pennsylvania and your sweat is the Blob. (Because I
just watched a documentary on frivolous lawsuits, I feel compelled to mention
that this metaphorical movie reference is for dramatic purposes only. Please do
not spray your face with a fire extinguisher and then attempt to sue me for it.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Crying Forehead</b>: Now those cute little droplets have
morphed into full-on face tears, carving dozens of miniature salt-water rivers
across the length of your facial plane. In entering this stage, you’ll
likely feel a faint sense of camaraderie with Joan Rivers, whose tear ducts are
actually located in her temples. And forget about drying your sweaty mug with bottom
of your shirt—the absorbency factor of that thin layer of fabric simply isn’t
going to cut it. In fact, short of sticking a maxi pad to your forehead in some
sort of deranged ad concept for Always, your sweat flow cannot and will not be
stopped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Ink Blot Bra</b>: Sorry, ladies, but even if you have the
most breathable sports bra in the universe, it won’t save you from the
impending doom of boob sweat*. Right around the time your chest starts to look
like a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rorschach_test" target="_blank">Rorschach test</a>, you’ll be cursing your decision to wear any color but
black.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Bug Face</b>: If you’re like me, this phase dominates the
majority of your warm-weather runs. You inadvertently bring the gnat species
one step closer to extinction each time you penetrate one of their annoyingly
invisible swarms. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Bug Neck</b>: This extension of the Bug Face stage occurs as
you continue to produce even more sweat, eventually dislodging the carcasses of
the dead insects on your cheeks and forehead and carrying them to a soggy mass
grave in the saucer-like divot where your neck meets your clavicle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Below-the-Belt</b>: Did you really think I was going to get
through the rest of this post without another reference to butt sweat**? Look,
I don’t mean to be crude, but butt sweat is just a fact of life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Salty Soak</b>: At this point, you might as well do a
full-body plunge into a pool of pure human perspiration, because you’re totally
drenched in it anyway. On the plus side, since all of your clothes are now
approximately four shades darker, it’s almost like you’re wearing a whole new
outfit! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">a.k.a. “Swoob”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
**<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">a.k.a. “Swass”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-32372255595309522412013-07-14T15:17:00.000-07:002013-07-14T15:17:18.509-07:00S#@! old people say
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seniors say the darndest things. (No, it’s not a Bill
Cosby-hosted television show featuring old peoples’ hilariously cute responses
to random interview questions—although it totally should be. I think we can all
agree that TLC is in desperate need of some fresh content. They’ve kind of
overdone it on the whole freaks-and-train-wrecks-reality-TV front.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m no Bill Cosby, but even in the absence of quick wit and
colorful cable-knits, I seem to be a magnet for comical commentary from the
65-plus crowd—<a href="http://itsarunningjoke.blogspot.com/2013/04/seniority-rules.html" target="_blank">especially when I’m running</a>. Well, comical to me, anyway. I’m
sure some of these episodes fall into the “you kinda had to be there” category.
But hey, this is my blog. I was there, and it’s not my fault that you weren’t.
(Not that I want you stalking me or anything. That would be creepy and would
likely result in you taking a pepper spray shot to the face.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, in an effort to give you the most complete picture
possible, I have prefaced each laughable one-liner with a few contextual
details that should make you feel more like you were there, even
though—again—it’s not my fault that you weren’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The time: Early morning (we’re talking pre-6 a.m.—prime
senior-spotting time)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The place: Immaculately landscaped walking path in the
middle of a bustling 55-plus community.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The character: An 80-year-old, 5’4” man in red swish-swish
shorts, a striped polo shirt, and a khaki fishing hat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The comment: “Are you sure you belong in this neighborhood?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The response: Taken by surprise and unable to formulate a
verbal response before leaving Gilligan’s Island in the dust, my running buddy
and I instead burst into a weirdly synchronized nervous giggle and left it at
that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The time: Later that same morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The place: Residential road named for some Indian* tribe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The character: A remarkably fit 60-year-old woman in
Jackie-O sunglasses and a Jane Fonda leotard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The comment: “It’s so good to see some young blood out
here!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The response: My 6-in-the-morning brain isn’t really capable
of producing anything more expressive than a classic Echo Response (e.g., “Good
morning to you, too!” or “What a beautiful day, indeed!” or “Yes, there <i>are</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> dead gnats all over my face!”). But that wasn’t
really an option in this case. My friend and I talked over each other in an
clumsy but good-intentioned answer that came out as something like, “We also
you think awesome fit great exercise leotard!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The time: Mere minutes after above incident.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The place: Main boulevard in the same neighborhood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The character: A very tan, very enthusiastic 70-year-old man
in a white Toyota RAV4.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The comment: “Hey! Stop! Stop! Come back!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The response: My friend and I were split on this one.
I—being the product of an upbringing with <a href="http://itsarunningjoke.blogspot.com/2011/08/why-i-need-to-stop-watching-nancy-grace.html" target="_blank">inordinate exposure to <i>Dateline</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and </span><i>Nancy Grace</i></a><span style="font-style: normal;"> (courtesy of my mother)—did not acknowledge the motorist, instead
picking up my pace and scanning the roadway for emergency escape routes. She,
on the other hand, sauntered right up to the open passenger side window like a
child who had just been offered candy and a puppy. Feeling slightly responsible
for her safety, I backtracked to the open window, arriving just in time to hear
our senior stalker proudly proclaim that he has run every day for the past 35
years. He then congratulated us for not being fat like everyone else in our
generation. I politely thanked him for this “compliment” and ushered my friend
away from the vehicle before he invited us into the back seat to check out his
“race medal collection.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The time: Early evening (another prime senior-spotting
time—post-four-o’clock-supper but pre-double-gin-and-tonic-nightcap).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The place: Shaded walking path.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The character: A tall, slightly overweight man in plaid
cotton shorts, long tube socks, and black sneakers. At his side: an energetic,
impeccably groomed wire-haired fox terrier.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The comment: “What high school are you with?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The response: Five seconds of awkward silence followed by
five seconds of awkward laughter. Unsure of whether we should be flattered or
offended, my friend and I fumbled for a witty comeback. We were nearly out of
earshot when I finally chimed in with: “Oh, we’re out of high school.” She
quickly added: “Yeah, we’re out of college!” Of course I am totally kicking
myself now, as it would have been huh-larious if we’d advised him to get his
eyes checked because we were actually a couple of retired widows.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The time: Early evening.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The place: Wide, well-maintained public sidewalk.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The character: Friendly elderly gentleman on a recumbent
bike. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The comment: “You’re going ten miles an hour!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The response: “LIAR!” (OK, I didn’t really say that, but it
was obvious that he was either Canadian or Confused—Canadian if his speedometer
was actually in kilometers per hour, and Confused if he simply forgot how to do
numbers in the midst of a brief “senior moment.”) In reality, though, we
politely moved to the edge of the path, let him pass, thanked him for the rate of
motion estimate, and quietly debunked said estimate based on the fact that it
was over 100 degrees outside and there was no way in hell—literally, because
I’m pretty sure <a href="http://infernoerrorifico.files.wordpress.com/2010/05/upper-hell.jpg" target="_blank">Dante’s first circle of hell</a> is actually Phoenix, Arizona—that
we were churning out six-minute miles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The time: Later that evening.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The place: Drinking fountain on the border of the local golf
course.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The character: <a href="http://disney-clipart.com/snow-white/jpg/Dwarfs/Doc.jpg" target="_blank">Doc from <i>Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs</i></a><span style="font-style: normal;"> (minus brass buckle belt, add fanny pack).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The comment: “I’ve got a bar of soap if you want it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The response: To put this comment into context, imagine two
sweaty, panting, half-clothed runners (us) splashing cold water all over our
heads, faces, shoulders, necks, chests, and arms. I mean, we might as well have
climbed into the basin of this drinking fountain—and probably would have had we
not been concerned about compromising its structural integrity. Anyway, we were
so surprised by the sharp-witted humor of our white-haired onlooker that we
froze mid-bath, looked at each other with raised eyebrows and pursed lips as we
warded off a bout of hysterical laughter, and muttered something about how nice
and cool the water was. Once we were a safe distance away, we let loose all of
our pent-up giggles and, after we’d caught our breath, decided there was a
strong possibility that Mr. Magoo was actually serious about the soap because
heck, you never know what old people are carrying around in those giant waist
pouches with their IHOP coupons and their jars of Cetaphil.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, that’s it for this week’s edition of <i>Seniors Say
the Darndest Things.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Join me next time when
I delve into sexting, thong underwear, and other inappropriate topics of
conversation for retirees having boozy dinners at family pizza
restaurants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsAK5BiBCDKntmPF-T_3Gf-qhnUqLMPiPGvBdt9IspbM6SxVgc3dkrWNcphtQe7FTrmsgiYk2ntwTMbdS7wVsbvK5tCBIYeh3Woc9SX0FlA1CvMc0mGBFgdfVfgGe12_9K8SaMUUgOKq4/s1600/billcosbybrooke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsAK5BiBCDKntmPF-T_3Gf-qhnUqLMPiPGvBdt9IspbM6SxVgc3dkrWNcphtQe7FTrmsgiYk2ntwTMbdS7wVsbvK5tCBIYeh3Woc9SX0FlA1CvMc0mGBFgdfVfgGe12_9K8SaMUUgOKq4/s320/billcosbybrooke.jpg" width="273" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Zippity boop bappity bop.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*Should this be Native American? I can never keep up on
what’s PC these days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-34347936900734410682013-06-16T09:55:00.002-07:002013-06-16T09:55:31.918-07:00Daddy-daughter running diaries
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Not long after I published my mushy <a href="http://itsarunningjoke.blogspot.com/2013/05/running-momeries.html" target="_blank">Mother’s Day post</a>, a
good friend—and loyal blog reader—of mine pointed out that I sure as heck
better write something equally sappy to commemorate Father’s Day. Of course, I
was already planning to do so because (a) my dad is awesome and deserves mad props
for his awesomeness, and (b) writing this blog post was much cheaper than
buying and mailing a card. (Thanks for teaching me how to budget, Dad!)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHj_G-EItS3aTwVrgy3gGcT9UC4xotPbskbYx9nhJ3nZrSl5sAQtkWaSaE4P1vRti5Kb0HNxRSRl5B-0qv6V19mwthbfXeamvAvLgvyImybUliYe6v033meC_jB62HfIKcOHAi5_Cw7Y/s1600/DSC_0090.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHj_G-EItS3aTwVrgy3gGcT9UC4xotPbskbYx9nhJ3nZrSl5sAQtkWaSaE4P1vRti5Kb0HNxRSRl5B-0qv6V19mwthbfXeamvAvLgvyImybUliYe6v033meC_jB62HfIKcOHAi5_Cw7Y/s320/DSC_0090.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">My dad and I chillin' like movie stars in SoCal (Brad Pitt is taking the picture).</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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My dad and I share much more than just our good financial
sense. From him, I inherited <a href="http://itsarunningjoke.blogspot.com/2011/05/toe-woe.html" target="_blank">my charming foot deformity</a>, my taste for anchovies
and green olives, and, perhaps most notably, my insatiable desire to win at
everything. As a pro football coach, he pretty much has to be competitive. And
although he always emphasized sportsmanship and humility above all else, my dad
definitely nurtured my innate competitive drive throughout my childhood—whether
I was vying for the lead in the local children’s theatre production of <i>Oklahoma!</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> or a spot on the middle school math team. So,
despite being raised in the age of participatory trophies and no-score youth
basketball games, I developed a competitive spirit so strong that to this day,
I can’t even get through a friendly game of Scattergories without a little
smack-talk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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And even though cross-country was a bit outside of his
wheelhouse, my dad fully immersed himself in the world of distance running to
support my passion for it. If that’s not the definition of great parenting,
then I don’t know what is. Here’s the “run”down (see what I did there?) of our
most memorable father-daughter running moments:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>A Daddy-Daughter Jog Down Memory Lane<o:p></o:p></u></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1996 (summer) – I enter my first 5K road race. My parents
also enter the race. After leaving my mom in the dust, my dad and I set out on
a joint mission to conquer the eight-to-ten-year-old female age division. By
the midway point, I am whining and complaining so much, you’d think it was an
episode of <i>Toddlers and Tiaras</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Knowing
full well that my drama queen antics are all for show, my dad risks a CPS investigation as he basically drags me through the
final mile. Just as he predicts, my tears magically disappear when I see the
huge throng of spectators gathered around the finish. I sprint across the line,
win my age group, and receive my first-ever gold medal. From that moment on, I am in
love with running.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1996 (fall) – My dad lets me race his offensive linemen in
practice drills in hopes that they might be motivated by the threat of getting beat
by a third-grade girl. I am oddly satisfied by my repeated victories over a group
of 300-pound men.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2002 – It is the morning of my very first high school
cross-country meet and I am a nervous wreck. It also happens to be school
picture day, and in the midst of dealing with a <a href="http://www.last.fm/music/Beyonc%C3%A9+as+Foxxy+Cleopatra">Stage-5 Hair
Crisis</a>—trust me, curlers never work the way you want them to—I almost
forget to pack my race bag. When I finally get to school, I make the horrifying
discovery that in my rush to get out the door, I forgot to bring a sports bra.
I immediately go to the office to call home. My dad answers the phone. My face
burns red with embarrassment as I explain my predicament in panicked whispers.
Ten minutes later, my dad shows up at school with the necessary equipment
wrapped discreetly in a plastic bag.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2004 – My dad is coaching in Europe, and my family and I
visit him over spring break. I am right in the thick of training for my
sophomore track season. Because he does not want me to get kidnapped by a group
of Euro-thugs in a <i>Taken</i><span style="font-style: normal;">-type
scenario—although, for the record, <a href="file:///watch">Liam Neeson
ain’t got nothin’ on my dad</a>—he insists on accompanying me on all of my
training runs. He enacts the rule that I must stay within his sight at all times,
so I end up doing a lot of back-and-forth running. This seemed overprotective
and annoying at the time, but in hindsight was actually very loving and sweet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2005 – For the second year in a row, my dad spends hundreds
of dollars to take me to California so I can compete in the Footlocker West
Regional Cross Country Championships. My race performance is mediocre at best,
but he knows I gave it my all and offers lots of congratulatory praise
nonetheless. Afterwards, he tries to ease my disappointment by devising a
completely skewed, wholly inaccurate mathematical calculation proving that I am
actually one of the top 50 high school runners in the United States. Also, he
buys me a <a href="http://www.originaltommys.com/">Tommy’s chiliburger</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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2007 – It’s my freshman indoor track season at the
University of Montana. I’m set to run the 800 meters in a meet at the
University of Idaho, which happens to be in the middle of butt-effing nowhere.
My dad doesn’t even think twice about making the five-hour trip to Hick Town,
USA, to watch me run for two whole minutes. In his rush to get there in time
for the race, he neglects to fuel up and runs out of gas midway through the
drive. Without a moment’s hesitation, he gets out of the car, and—dressed in
jeans and a leather jacket—begins jogging down the interstate toward the next
exit. A nice young man takes pity on him and gives him a ride to the closest
gas station. He makes it to the track just in time for the 800. A local sports
writer is so impressed by this story that he later pens <a href="http://missoulian.com/sports/bill-speltz-parenting-comes-first-for-andrus/article_6f0b985b-432c-539f-9d23-c9a16bac48d6.html">an
entire column about it</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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2010 (spring) – I’m set to run the 800 in one of the most competitive
track meets of my college career: the Rafer Johnson/Jackie Joyner-Kersee
Invitational. The meet takes place in Los Angeles—my dad’s old stompin’
grounds. I’m pretty sure my coach has fudged my entry time so I can run in the
fast heat. To get myself in the psychological state necessary to compete
against women with thighs the size of my torso, I repeatedly tell myself that
(a) I am a badass and (b) as such, I can definitely keep up with these chicks
and their massive quads. Once I hear my split at the 200-meter mark—27 seconds,
the fastest I have ever run 200 meters, period—I realize that my plan is effed.
I blow up hard core at 500 meters and finish dead last. My dad commends me for
taking a risk and tells me it’s good experience to race against such a
competitive field. Also, he buys me a <a href="http://www.originaltommys.com/">Tommy’s
chiliburger</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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2010 (fall) – It’s my senior cross-country season at UM, and
we’re on our way to one of the biggest meets of the season: NCAA Pre-Nationals.
For some odd reason known only to the NCAA and possibly <a href="http://organ.blogsome.com/2006/01/09/media-analysis-dr-phil-knows-everything/">Dr.
Phil</a>, the Division I cross-country championship course was built in the
boondocks of western Indiana and is only accessible by a series of windy
backwoods two-laners. My dad has traveled all the way to the Hoosier State to watch
me compete. I have no idea how to direct him to the course, so I suggest that
he follow the team van. He is staying at a hotel a few miles up the road from
ours and plans to jump on the freeway as we approach his exit. Despite my
moronically vague descriptions of our location—“Um, we’re, like, on this road
that is next to, like, another road...oh, and the roads have lines on them!”—my
dad somehow manages to perfectly time his freeway entrance, sliding right in
behind the team vehicle in the legendary maneuver that forever will be known as
“The Merge.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2013 – I’m now a full-blown has-been, and I’m running in my
latest community road race—a <a href="http://itsarunningjoke.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-perfect-predicament.html" target="_blank">10K in Polson, Montana</a>. When I pick up my race
packet, I find out that the 10K course is actually just two loops of the 5K
route. I also find out that there are approximately six people registered for
the longer distance, half of whom are men over the age of 50. After the starting gun—er, whistle—goes off, I am running
alone within seconds. To help me deal with this double-whammy of monotony
(repetitive course + no competition), my dad drives the car alongside me at
various points throughout the race. He and my mom cheer just as
enthusiastically as they would if I were pulling ahead of Kara Goucher in the
Olympic Trials.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So Dad, thanks for always being there to cheer me on no
matter what. I can always count on your congratulations, encouragement, and
support—whether I win a major award or just a participatory trophy (although
for the record, I hate participatory trophies and think they are slowly
destroying America). Love you! <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-83471775726364749322013-06-01T17:02:00.000-07:002013-06-01T17:02:38.070-07:00One for the birds
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love baby animals. And if you don’t, well then, you’re a
heartless asshole.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That being said, I realize that not everyone cares about
baby animals as intensely as I do. Some people prefer to focus their attention
on other, similarly important things like war and disease and human starvation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps you tear up when you see one of those <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j_aRUUdEFRY" target="_blank">Christian Children’s Fund commercials</a>—as well you should, because they are very, very sad. But nothing tugs at my heart strings more than those <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9gspElv1yvc" target="_blank">Sarah McLachlan animal cruelty commercials</a>, which I cannot bear to watch for fear of developing a serious drinking problem. Whenever one
comes on, I instinctively close my eyes, cover my ears, and sputter out
sentence fragments like a Tourette’s patient until I can locate the remote and
change the channel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that you have a bit of context, I’ll get on with my
story. It all started a few days ago when my friend Kim and I headed out for a
run on a particularly breezy afternoon. The sidewalk was covered with windblown
leaves, fallen branches, gum wrappers, flimsy Dairy Queen napkins, Taylor Swift concert tickets, and other worthless bits of debris. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As we turned onto the main road, I caught a scurrying blip
in the far left corner of my peripheral vision. Upon closer examination, I
realized that it had tiny legs. And a tiny beak. And tiny wings. I gasped in
horror as my brain caught up to my eyes. It was a baby bird—an itsy-bitsy
panic-stricken ball of fluff trying desperately to jump over the curb so he
could make his way back to the tree from which he had fallen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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He was obviously too young to be out of the nest, and my
heart broke as I watched him fail—over and over again—to scale the towering
curb. Every few steps, his tiny bird feet lost their footing, sending him
crashing into a precious little heap of yellow fuzz. It was the most pitiful
thing you could ever watch—besides, I’m told, <i><a href="http://www.nj.com/entertainment/index.ssf/2013/05/the_hangover_part_iii_review_o.html" target="_blank">The Hangover Part III</a></i><span style="font-style: normal;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that all of his efforts
were in vain—that he would never be able to climb the tree and rejoin his
little bird brothers and little bird sisters in their happy little bird home.
(Also, I don’t speak bird.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I stared pleadingly at Kim. The look of distress in her eyes
matched my own. What could we do? If we left him to fend for himself, he would
die—either from starvation or by the heavy paw of a feline predator. If we
tried to rescue him, he would die. (Anyone who’s anyone knows that a mama bird
will reject any offspring tainted by human scent!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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We paused for several moments and debated what to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What should we dooooooo?!?” I whined.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know, what do you think we should do?!?” Kim
squealed back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I asked you first!” I retorted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ooooohhh…look at him—he so cute!” She said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We can’t just leave him—he’ll starve or get eaten!” I
wailed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know, but what can we do?” Kim replied. “If we touch him,
his parents will smell us on him and reject him anyway.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, we could put him in a box and raise him ourselves,” I
reasoned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But what would we feed him?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, we could, like, chew up worms and spoon-feed it to
him with tweezers,” I suggested.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could tell from the disgusted look on Kim’s face that she
was not down with my worm-mash idea. In fact, she probably thought I was a huge
freak for even saying it out loud. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At this point, I knew I had to put a lid on the conversation before I
word-vomited any more repulsive comments. I lamented the poor bird’s fate one
last time before restarting my watch and resuming the run. I felt a pang of guilt,
like I’d just witnessed a pedestrian hit-and-run and was now fleeing the scene
of the accident as the victim lay in the street, bleeding profusely and
clutching a broken femur.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried not to let on, but the truth was that for the
remainder of the run, my mind was consumed by the memory of that poor baby
bird. The look of sheer terror in his beady little eyes haunted my every
thought. But there really wasn’t anything I could have done, right? RIGHT???<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As much as I wanted to believe my own words of consolation,
I could not shake the feeling that I was, in some yet-to-be-identified way, a
miserable failure. There was only one way to settle this—to free my mind of its
guilt-wrought shackles: consulting <a href="https://www.google.com/" target="_blank">The Google</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The all-knowing power of The Google never ceases to amaze
me. I am especially mystified by its crazy-accurate psychic powers. Like, I can
type the word “If,” and it will autocomplete the exact question I was thinking:
“If I had 7,856 nickels, how much money would that be?” (Answer: $392.80)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I brought up The Google and began typing “Can I,” and of
course “touch a baby bird” popped right up in the search field. (I wish I could
marry you, Google. You just get me.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hit enter, picked the most legit-looking search result,
and cupped my hand over my mouth in disbelief as my worst fears were confirmed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To put it lightly, whoever told you that mama birds will
reject their human-scented babies—your mother, your babysitter, your
kindergarten teacher, that guy <a href="http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1573424/former-blues-clues-host-steve-burns-still-not-dead.jhtml" target="_blank">Steve from <i>Blue’s Clues</i></a><span style="font-style: normal;">—was a dirty liar. Because guess what? It’s A MYTH!
The Internet <a href="http://mentalfloss.com/article/29055/if-you-touch-baby-bird-will-its-mother-really-abandon-it">SAID
SO!</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I probably would have spent a lot more time being upset and
angry about this revelation had it not occurred as a result of stumbling upon
the <a href="http://mentalfloss.com/amazingfactgenerator#f1327" target="_blank">coolest fun-fact website of all time</a>. And thanks to my adult-onset ADD, the
whole baby bird fiasco quickly faded into the annals of history as I clicked my
way through a series of incredibly-entertaining-but-ultimately-useless trivia
items. Well, useless to a normal person anyway. As a rambling blogger with
adult-onset ADD and a horribly disjointed writing structure, I know just how to
use them—as my concluding paragraph!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, here you go: Chickens have earlobes. Chickens with white
earlobes lay white eggs, whereas chickens with red earlobes lay brown eggs. In
an average NFL football game there are only about 12 minutes of actual play
time. Nine-banded armadillos always give birth to identical quadruplets.
Cashews are related to poison ivy. “Pepsi-Cola” is an anagram for “Episcopal,”
which some people believe the drink was named after. “Britney Spears” is an
anagram for “Presbyterians,” which no one believes she was named after. The end.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-72707093271478548592013-05-12T17:37:00.000-07:002013-05-12T17:37:10.242-07:00Running “Mom”eries
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in my competitive running days, I did a lot of
post-race interviews of both the formal (i.e., newspaper reporter) and informal
(i.e., curious spectator) variety. The question I received most
frequently—besides, “Really? There weren’t <i>any</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> other sports you could do?” and “Um, is that a dead bug stuck to your
forehead?”—was, “So, how did you get into distance running in the first place?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The short, gracious response: My mom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The longer, less endearing answer: I used to watch my mom
run when I was a kid, and I somehow developed an unshakeable inner resolve to
beat her at it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTqDHIDJfhNEvAzpyWFM_NyBIKFG0nvGVH_PVgPBlXTHrpSekJ7OODWId04AsyU8QG0uW9y7TZHZewBHp_wrb1bW4uVQWMOc-SqTq23I3sowJEHHQQQK83eXRrHpBSDA6APz6yj6w1G6s/s1600/DSC_2041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTqDHIDJfhNEvAzpyWFM_NyBIKFG0nvGVH_PVgPBlXTHrpSekJ7OODWId04AsyU8QG0uW9y7TZHZewBHp_wrb1bW4uVQWMOc-SqTq23I3sowJEHHQQQK83eXRrHpBSDA6APz6yj6w1G6s/s320/DSC_2041.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mom hustling like a mofo in a half-marathon a few years back.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Either way, the bottom line is that without the inspiration
I gleaned from watching my mother log lap after lap at the local college track all those years ago,
I never would have discovered the sport I have come to love so much. So, in
honor of Mother’s Day, I would like to present a timeline of running-related
milestones I’ve shared with my mother throughout the years. Thanks for always
being there, Mom. Even though I can beat you now, you’ll always be a winner in
my book.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>My Mommy-and-Me Timeline of Running Memories</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1994 – I see my mom running laps at the local track and
decide that I will stop at nothing to beat her, even if it means wearing out
the heel lights in my pink L.A. Gear high tops.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1996 – I enter my first 5K road race. My mom enters the race
for moral support. I show my gratitude by totally crushing her. Mission
accomplished.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1999 – I run the timed mile in my sixth-grade P.E. class
despite having a pounding migraine. After nearly passing out, I call my mom to
pick me up early from school. Thirty seconds after we get home, I projectile
vomit all over her immaculately clean bathroom floor. She rubs my back and
tells me it’s OK.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2000 – I get stuck in a Porta-Potty at the middle school
cross-country championships. In my panic to free myself from this poo-scented prison, I cut my hand on the
jagged, negligence-suit-waiting-to-happen corner of the metal latch. I bleed
profusely, miss the race, and cry like Tony Romo all the way to the emergency
room. My mom hugs me and tells me not to worry—there will be plenty of other races.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2004: My mom gets sixth place in her age division at the
Governor’s Cup 10K. This gives her legit bragging rights for the next eight
years, at which time she discovers that her name is still on the list of the top ten fastest milers of all time at her high school (which is actually pretty badass).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2005 – My mom takes me to Spokane so I can run in a really
big cross-country meet that my school won’t pay to send me to. I am driving and
forget to check the fuel gauge before we ascend a huge mountain pass. The gas
light comes on mid-climb, and my mom nearly has a heart attack as we coast on
fumes to the first gas station at the bottom of the hill. She refrains from
scolding me until after the race because she doesn’t want it to affect my
performance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2006 – State track is in Butte, Mont., a city known first
for its <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berkeley_Pit" target="_blank">giant toxic water hole</a> and second for its Yukon-esque climate. But I’m
an optimist, and as such, I pack like it’s going to be 75 and sunny. When we
get there, it’s 30 degrees and snowing sideways. My mom rushes to a nearby
sporting goods store to buy me a long-sleeve Under Armour shirt. Even though I know I am a huge idiot, she does not call me stupid. Instead, she lets it go and
focuses all her energy into cheering me on. I win three state titles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2007 – I’m about to make my college track debut in the
800 meters, and my mom has driven two hours to watch me run two laps. I trip
and fall 150 meters into the race and get last place by several seconds. My mom
hugs me and tells me I did great. It’s a boldfaced lie, but it makes me feel
better anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2012 – Even though I am now a full-fledged has-been, my mom
continues traveling around the state to watch me compete in fun runs. She and
my dad take me out to dinner the night before the local <a href="http://itsarunningjoke.blogspot.com/2012/03/fools-gold.html" target="_blank">St. Patrick’s Day</a> race.
I order a carafe of house wine that I would estimate as one step below Franzia in
quality, if that is even possible. The next morning, my mom wakes up with a terrible headache and is
unable to make it to the race. Still, she manages to cheer for me through my
kitchen window since the racecourse passes right by my apartment. She does not
blame me, or my poor wine judgment, for her troubles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2013 – My mom continues to read my silly running blog
religiously and always has something nice to say about each entry. So, it’s about
time one of my entries had something nice to say about her. Thanks for everything,
Mom. You're the best. Much love.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-74201634887733404202013-04-28T12:52:00.000-07:002013-04-28T12:52:57.742-07:00Seniority rules
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If there is one thing I learned from growing up in a neighborhood
teeming with senior citizens, it’s that there’s really not much that separates
me from the 65-plus crowd—you know, aside from roughly five decades and vastly
disparate degrees of colon function. In fact, I would go so far as to admit
that I am basically an outgoing septuagenarian trapped in the body of a
25-year-old woman. How did I arrive at this seemingly ridiculous conclusion? I
think this list sums it all up:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Things I Enjoy that I’m Pretty Sure Old People Also
Really Like<o:p></o:p></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Crossword puzzles<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Neil Diamond<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. <i>Wheel of Fortune</i><span style="font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. Small fluffy dogs<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5. One-speed bicycles with cute little baskets in the front<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6. Licorice<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7. Tonic-based cocktails<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At various points throughout my life, I have made a
conscious effort to remove myself from my comfort zone—i.e., the retirement
scene—in order to engage socially with a more age-appropriate group of people.
Though I have been moderately successful in this pursuit, I feel like the
universe is constantly rerouting me back to my true destiny—a destiny of bingo
tournaments, weekend trips to the dollar store, and date nights at Cracker
Barrel. Case in point: professional opportunities recently brought me to the the West Valley of the greater Phoenix area—a.k.a. Senior Central.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not that I mind. In fact, I think many of my peers would
feel the same way if they just gave old people a shot. If you’re a runner, one
of the best ways to experience the joys of interacting with the hip retiree
crowd is to take a nice run through an area frequented by AARP cardholders
(Florida, Arizona, and the five-mile radius surrounding any Golden Corral
restaurant are all great places to start).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To reap the full benefits of exercising among the elderly,
however, one must first understand the subtle cultural differences that
accompany the generational gap. Remember, old people have been alive for a
long, long time. They’ve been through a lot of shit. They are tired. They have
spent years catering to the needs of others—hard-ass bosses, nagging spouses,
ungrateful children, annoying relatives—and now, all they want to do is go for
a goddamn walk in their goddamn Crocs and tube socks in goddamn peace. And the last
thing they want is to have that peace disturbed by perky jogging
whippersnappers like you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the other hand, seeing you run often sparks in them a
pleasant nostalgia—a brief flashback to a time of youthful energy and stamina.
A time when they, too, wore shoes with laces on them. The key is harnessing
that sentimentality for your own motivational purposes. There is nothing more
inspiring than a “Looking great!” or a “Way to go!” or even a “You know, I
used to be able to do that too!” spoken through the soft, wrinkly lips of a
kindly senior.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not always easy. Old people are finicky, and eliciting
favorable reactions from them can be a bit tricky. So, to help you maximize the
benefit of your foray into geezer territory, I’ve put together a comprehensive
list of things to watch out for. Please read carefully. Then go out and make
some new old friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. <b>Fanny packs</b> – The fashion powers that be have done a
pretty good job of providing the aging population with convenient alternatives
to cumbersome wardrobe items—elastic waistbands eliminate the need for belts,
Velcro eliminates the need for shoelaces, and <a href="https://www.pajamajeans.com/" target="_blank">Pajama Jeans</a> eliminate the need
to ever change pants. Fanny packs also were designed with convenience in mind,
and seniors have embraced the ease and comfort of hands-free, on-the-go
storage. But when old people take their eyes off the road to rummage around
their waist pouches in search of Carmex, prescription medications, or
sugar-free cinnamon discs, they put everyone in their immediate vicinity at
risk—especially on a narrow walking path. The movement of a distracted fanny
packer is unpredictable, and that creates a dangerous hazard for anyone in his
or her immediate vicinity. Approach with extreme caution.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. <b>Unruly Shih Tzus</b> – Retirees are known for having a
borderline unhealthy obsession with their small pets. In their eyes, Mitzy and
Mr. Snugglepaws can do no wrong, least of all when they are sprinting,
unleashed and with teeth exposed, toward an innocent, unsuspecting runner such
as yourself. And if said runner inadvertently pins a fuzzy tail to the sidewalk
as she attempts to sidestep said bounding yappers, who is at fault? Certainly
not Mr. Snugglepaws. On the other hand, old people absolutely <i>love</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> it when you fawn over their fur babies. So if you
find yourself approaching—or being approached by—a miniature canine, take a
moment to compliment the pooch (“Cute dog!”) or even bend down and give him a
little pat on the head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. <b>Really dark sunglasses</b> – When it comes to ocular UV
protection, senior citizens don’t fuck around. They will not trust their
precious retinas to anything less than NASA-grade tinted eye shields. Armed
with the darkest lenses available in the retail market, these people could
stare directly at the sun for 45 minutes straight without so much as batting an
eyelash—literally. While it’s great that they take their eye health so
seriously, it makes it really difficult for approaching runners to determine whether
they are (a) paying attention to oncoming foot traffic, (b) visually impaired,
or (c) sleepwalking. So if you come up on an old person rocking some Ray
Charles shades, your best—and safest—bet is to swing wide, avoid direct
contact, and offer a friendly wave from afar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. <b>Motorized personal mobility devices</b> – Sure, Old Man Jenkins
lost his driver’s license last year after he “mixed up” the meanings of green
and red traffic lights, but that didn’t stop him from purchasing a souped-up
power wheelchair that goes from 0 to 35 mph in three seconds flat. Now he’s
tearing up the sidewalks in your neighborhood on the daily, plowing through any
obstacles—overgrown shrubbery, children’s toys, decorative garden gnomes—that
stand in his way. And you better believe that list includes inattentive
distance runners. So when you see him burning rubber down the cul-de-sac like
he’s Jeff Gordon in about 45 years, steer clear.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5. <b>Cell phones</b> – You thought you were doing Nana a favor
when you bought her one of those nifty <a href="http://www.greatcall.com/jitterbug/" target="_blank">Jitterbug phones</a>. The oversized buttons,
the simple menu, the louder-than-normal speaker—on paper, it seemed like the
perfect solution to the communication needs of elderly women everywhere!
Problem is, Nana is becoming quite the little texter. And when she’s more
focused on emoticons and TTYLs than the road ahead, her chances of colliding
with fellow pedestrians increase substantially. A senior citizen with a cell
phone is nothing to LOL about; in fact, when you see one, I’d suggest that you
GTFO of the way ASAP.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-64978371999663434962013-04-07T18:43:00.000-07:002013-04-07T18:43:58.930-07:00Pain in the Asics
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.asicsamerica.com/" target="_blank">Asics</a>, I have a bone to pick with you. Fifty-two bones,
actually.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a time, in the not-so-distant past, when I would
not have felt the need to explain the above biological reference. But since you
obviously no longer base your shoe designs on human anatomy and physiology, I
will spell it out for you: together, my feet contain a total of 52 bones. And
right now, thanks to your senseless redesign of my beloved <a href="http://www.asicsamerica.com/footwear/running-shoes/gel-cumulus-14-t246n-mens/" target="_blank">Gel-Cumulus</a>, not a
single one is happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I understand that product improvement is a natural,
necessary component of America’s consumer-based economy. To stay in business,
companies must constantly pump out “new and improved” goods that both attract
first-time buyers and keep the attention of repeat customers. I mean, think
about it: if Americans were satisfied with the original version of every
product on the market, we’d all be driving Model T’s<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">, </span>watching three channels
of black and white TV, and navigating unfamiliar cities with fold-out maps that
can neither search for the nearest Red Lobster nor provide step-by-step
instructions on how to get there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every once in a while, though, a company comes up with a
product so amazing, so brilliant, so incomprehensibly perfect, that the mere
suggestion of a redesign would be like telling <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Patrick-Dempsey-s-Hair/86489271956" target="_blank">Patrick Dempsey</a> to do something
with his hair. The Cumulus was, in my opinion, one such product.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I acquired my first pair of Cumulus the summer before my
sophomore cross-country season in high school. It was love at first run—the way
the light, cushy sole cradled my heels and arches with every footfall; the way
the laces hugged my forefoot with just the right amount of pressure; the way
the roomy toe box accommodated my abnormal phalangeal* structure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since then, I have purchased an average of three pairs of
Cumulus per year. According to the series of quick phalangeal** calculations I
just performed, that means I’ve gone through approximately 30 pairs of Cumulus
in my lifetime. In those shoes, I have logged upwards of 12,000 miles, or about
36 million foot strikes. THIRTY-SIX MILLION.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine, for a moment, that over the last decade you have
consumed 36 million <a href="http://www.mcdonalds.com/us/en/food/product_nutrition.chicken.291.mcchicken-.html" target="_blank">McChicken</a> sandwiches. What does that mean, aside from the
fact that you have spent $36 million on fast food and your liver
health/budgetary skills are questionable at best? It means that if the master
chefs at your local McDonalds tried to short you an ingredient—the unsettlingly
warm mayonnaise, for example, or perhaps the highly impractical shredded
lettuce that somehow always ends up on your lap, on the floor of your car, or
in some other place that is not your mouth—you would notice. Immediately.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So when I laced up my brand new Cumulus 14s for a nice
morning jaunt through the neighborhood, I could tell something was wrong before
I even left the driveway. These were not the Cumulus that I knew and loved.
These were imposters.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That the folks at Asics thought they could sneak one by me
is not just upsetting—it’s downright insulting. Come on, Asics, did you really think I wasn’t
going to notice that you eighty-sixed the gel cushioning in the midsole? Or
that you narrowed the toe box to such a degree that I would have to amputate my
pinky toe to achieve the roomy fit to which I’ve grown accustomed (which, for
the record, I am not willing to do)?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had a relationship built on trust. For years, I trusted
you to provide me with a shoe I could rely on—a shoe so dependable that I never
even felt the need to try it on at the store. I would simply walk in, ask for a
size 7 ½, pay the nice man (or woman) at the counter, and be on my merry way.
Now that trust has been violated, and our relationship can never be the same.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It might sound like I’m breaking up with you, and if that
were the case, could you really blame me? You did me wrong, Asics. You hurt me.
Literally—my feet are effing sore. But, before I go looking for a new shoe to
call my own, I’m willing to give you one last chance to make things right. And
by “things,” I mean “shoes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fact, I’ll make a deal with you: As long as the Cumulus
15 is an exact copy of the 13, we can all just forget that the 14 even
happened, kind of like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Playing_with_Fire_(Kevin_Federline_album)" target="_blank">Kevin Federline’s rap career</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Of, or relating to, toe bones. That’s a good one to
remember if being a contestant on <i>Jeopardy! </i><span style="font-style: normal;">is part of your life plan.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
**<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Of, or relating to, finger bones. Yes, there are two types
of phalanges. Confused? I blame Canada.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-7926544105521596932013-03-19T14:19:00.000-07:002013-03-19T14:19:41.435-07:00The perfect predicament
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My college coach always taught her athletes to focus on the
positive qualities of each racing experience. In her eyes, a bad race was, if nothing else, a valuable learning opportunity. Over the years, this approach to
race evaluation has yielded many important lessons: Fudging your entry time is
not always a good idea. Pop-Tarts are not an appropriate pre-race meal.
Official lap-counters cannot always be trusted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A couple of weeks ago, I raced a <a href="http://itsarunningjoke.blogspot.com/2013/03/a-perfect-5-kilometers-that-is.html" target="_blank">5K in Arizona</a> and learned
that there is, in fact, such thing as a “perfect” race—one that does not
require any sort of post-race effort to identify the “positives,” because the
entire affair is, from start to finish, one big, sweaty bundle of positivity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last weekend, exactly seven days after my perfect 5K, I
decided to push my luck by entering another race. Considering that the second
race occurred in Montana and was double the distance of the first one, I’m not
really sure what I was thinking; I can only surmise that the thin mountain air
compromised my brain function, severely impairing my ability to think logically. I mean, honestly, what are the chances of hitting the jackpot two
weekends in a row?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Slim to none,” you might say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere between the freezing temperatures, icy wind, high
altitude and aggressively long hills, “slim” got thrown out the frost-covered
window. Before I even finished my warm-up, I knew there was exactly “none”
chance of repeating the flawless race experience I had achieved just one week
prior.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And…I was right. I know, I know, this story would be so much
cooler if I told you that through the power of positive thinking and sheer
determination, I was able to overcome the odds and pull out another perfect
race in spite of decidedly imperfect conditions—or, at the very least, that I
found five dollars. But alas, unlike <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/more-sports/coffey-mary-cain-steals-spotlight-millrose-games-article-1.1266314" target="_blank">Mary Cain</a>—who can expect a perfect race
pretty much every time she toes a starting line—I am human. (And in this
economy, people are much more careful with their five-dollar bills.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The problem, I have realized, is that once you find
perfection, it is very difficult to replicate. Now that I know what perfect is,
no other race will ever measure up. This is at once immensely satisfying and
immensely depressing—like getting a surprise upgrade to business class only to
have every subsequent flight for the rest of your life ruined by the memory of
fully reclining seats, excess legroom and complimentary cocktails.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Similarly, even though I ended up <a href="http://polsonrunning.com/PDF/2013/March-Meltdown-10K-Results-by-Time.pdf" target="_blank">winning the 10K</a> outright
by nearly six minutes, I did not feel entirely fulfilled. There was that
lingering feeling that it could have been <i>better</i><span style="font-style: normal;">—if it had been warmer, if the wind had been calmer, if the course had
been flatter, if I’d had more competition, blah, blah, blah…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not to mention that my prize as the overall female winner
was a pair of size 9.5-11 athletic socks. But hey, let’s focus on the
positive: I’m sure they’ll come in handy somewhere down the road—if I unexpectedly turn into an exceptionally large man, for example.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now, because I just couldn’t resist, here is a crude
artistic rendering of myself as an exceptionally large man:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB82t5aSEpUCSsFc6KmkgtRqkZ1CTk9MJjQFadyO263IKNv1oYNvMv7ExNuWu2_LwFcTG7aiqWVsgsAHPwl5bdikk6SC_Dlxk8ncAB4F9YvXPwimKJJ0YeoOKRtD9UhiSbBSIE-vmmJYw/s1600/brookehogan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB82t5aSEpUCSsFc6KmkgtRqkZ1CTk9MJjQFadyO263IKNv1oYNvMv7ExNuWu2_LwFcTG7aiqWVsgsAHPwl5bdikk6SC_Dlxk8ncAB4F9YvXPwimKJJ0YeoOKRtD9UhiSbBSIE-vmmJYw/s320/brookehogan.jpg" width="164" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The real <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brooke_Hogan" target="_blank">Brooke Hogan</a></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-91132320071206747002013-03-07T18:31:00.000-08:002013-03-07T18:31:34.315-08:00A perfect 5 (kilometers, that is)
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’re having a bad day, you should probably stop reading
now, because what I am about to say is going to make you insanely jealous of my
life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This past Saturday, I experienced a perfect race.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I used to think of a perfect race the way I might think of a
mythological creature—something that simply does not exist outside of fairy tales
and Nicki Minaj’s sexual fantasies. In my mind, a perfect race was like a unicorn, or a
good Nickelback song, or a bag of microwave popcorn with no burnt pieces—it just wasn't possible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Granted, “perfect” is a pretty subjective quality. One man’s
perfect is another man’s 1994 Toyota Tercel. So, to clear up any confusion
about my definition of “perfect,” below I have listed my Personal Parameters of
Perfection (oh yeah, that just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?). Obviously,
these parameters are tailored toward racing scenarios. I think we could all
agree that a general, all-encompassing Parameters of Perfection would include
only one parameter: Brad Pitt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>My Personal Parameters of Perfection for Racing Scenarios<o:p></o:p></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Temperature between 60 and 68 degrees Fahrenheit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Wind so light it feels like a flock of sparkly fairies
continually fanning your face with tiny palm leaves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Flat, smooth course with very few turns.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. Geographic location at or near sea level.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5. Field that is large enough to warrant chip timing but
small enough that it is feasible to make multiple pre-race bathroom visits.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The <a href="http://www.litchfield-park.org/Calendar.aspx?EID=1076" target="_blank">Litchfield Park Friends of the Rec 5K</a> satisfied all of
these criteria. Plus, there was bouncy house at the finish! The only negative
aspect of the entire affair was that I had to start behind a shirtless man with
so much back hair that I can say, with 95 percent confidence, that he was related to either Sasquatch or the Kardashian family. Unfortunately, I
was unable to snag a photo of him, but this detailed illustration should give
you a pretty good idea of what I was dealing with:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxTjem6NHByn6lAvltR9acZ0RumxiJ-CjsjWuAUdOfbx1QuvT8O8nqwdDMxTC8i0Xf8S1H50Xar0OQGdJWtUJ5ZJzVhptVDejugWOmtbjTrEVfyHYXNMQgOAmVECCOxFatCWIgmt3qBtw/s1600/furman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxTjem6NHByn6lAvltR9acZ0RumxiJ-CjsjWuAUdOfbx1QuvT8O8nqwdDMxTC8i0Xf8S1H50Xar0OQGdJWtUJ5ZJzVhptVDejugWOmtbjTrEVfyHYXNMQgOAmVECCOxFatCWIgmt3qBtw/s320/furman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To top it all off, I felt incredible! Seriously, if you
train in a cold, miserable, high-altitude location, I highly recommend racing
exclusively in Phoenix, Arizona. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unencumbered by bulky layers of fleece and spandex, I felt
light and free. In fact, I found myself intermittently looking down to make
sure I was actually wearing clothes. (Although I would hope that my friend
Kim—who, by the way, gets all the credit for finding this amazing race—would
quickly alert me to that type of situation if it were to occur.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went out fast and worried that my unbridled excitement
would end up biting me in the butt sometime during the last mile. Instead, I
held my pace and felt invincible. I don’t mean to brag, but come on, how many
perfect races do you get?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sprinted across the finish line in 18:07 to grab
first-place honors in the women’s race. To be fair, I have a sneaking suspicion
that this 5K was missing a few meters. My pal Kim finished close behind me to
snap up the silver medal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTvuLKMc_B2y7eV7Yh_J3vIHIQjDcpVnk5fhWP47aP6eZnODTaFmwpOL8m13tTzIqvKoXiNhyiFlFu2LtL9owih3Q91pw22UDxq2Hijl4Mu8b7pkQDWVlnMoEtaIVzsUY-TYqZeO7C0o8/s1600/litchfield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTvuLKMc_B2y7eV7Yh_J3vIHIQjDcpVnk5fhWP47aP6eZnODTaFmwpOL8m13tTzIqvKoXiNhyiFlFu2LtL9owih3Q91pw22UDxq2Hijl4Mu8b7pkQDWVlnMoEtaIVzsUY-TYqZeO7C0o8/s320/litchfield.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel obliged to mention that although I edged out Kim for
the win in the race, she later destroyed me in the tan-off that took place by
her pool.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgef651uAIRTWPIeC0MdybWbnM6guhKCFgHOHVTVJlMErQx0utrPpdB1X-SYgXMVWwvgbAK7cKEwOicenuD6ZfRFrGOcd4_APHk_1n_WJ4-o-0EaSFBrs5fTm2-OpEK-B0P8E-3ijjwtco/s1600/tanoff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgef651uAIRTWPIeC0MdybWbnM6guhKCFgHOHVTVJlMErQx0utrPpdB1X-SYgXMVWwvgbAK7cKEwOicenuD6ZfRFrGOcd4_APHk_1n_WJ4-o-0EaSFBrs5fTm2-OpEK-B0P8E-3ijjwtco/s320/tanoff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So even if you’re on the fence about the existence of
unicorns, Sasquatch and perfect races, you now have irrefutable evidence that
vampires are totally real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-5686608989775576192013-02-15T09:07:00.000-08:002013-02-15T09:11:18.981-08:00Paper boy<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recent trends in running fashion have left me worried that
we are all slowly losing our identity as runners. (On a completely unrelated
note, the recent upsurge of vehicles with Alberta license plates in my hometown has
left me worried that we are slowly being invaded by Canada.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The more we “borrow” gear items previously designated for
sports that are not running, the more we look like athletes who are not
runners. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s hogwash!” you might say.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But before you write off my concern as irrational paranoia,
consider the following evidence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Women running in skirts originally intended for playing
tennis:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKb7IxYOwzQON8k_zVbGtUioKQs5MffJFgUMGk2teOXTAWk7d0rOYcAgJFTPDKOkDYfCJB7hyfWfwLFfYTNmGBiIbOct-6VvL7nB3dpUJvWg3jA8CbpnhV01qFivduzOtrxed8I64JAbo/s1600/skirtdip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKb7IxYOwzQON8k_zVbGtUioKQs5MffJFgUMGk2teOXTAWk7d0rOYcAgJFTPDKOkDYfCJB7hyfWfwLFfYTNmGBiIbOct-6VvL7nB3dpUJvWg3jA8CbpnhV01qFivduzOtrxed8I64JAbo/s1600/skirtdip.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
People running in rubber foot-gloves originally intended for
yacht racing:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIuTzD6QC0SNzqdlsXOmUl0kDmkVwUVJd4UUYhsrRwmJ_wcIm3y-vTgZ1XcHHnJ1pjKQpArNgDBuRnvLqTlxuow9EuijW1taA1Kufwm1lTCqdHWcq8Y29EmvV5vmP7c9xkOZjPlspyFIs/s1600/vibramdip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIuTzD6QC0SNzqdlsXOmUl0kDmkVwUVJd4UUYhsrRwmJ_wcIm3y-vTgZ1XcHHnJ1pjKQpArNgDBuRnvLqTlxuow9EuijW1taA1Kufwm1lTCqdHWcq8Y29EmvV5vmP7c9xkOZjPlspyFIs/s1600/vibramdip.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Dudes running in calf warmers originally intended for Jane
Fonda:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRfKxxyCY_n_hcaQatlMb9uP-iUJstOGjpBM9RnZ93WadXorgiuQNhr68yCP2GryrE8c00USAWxd8iXgDu6_fVc10u5iOF4HWWuMbkY_8XKJQUIXIxHhEI__9c6OhRoyLfOHFAxi4qNRs/s1600/calfwarmersdip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRfKxxyCY_n_hcaQatlMb9uP-iUJstOGjpBM9RnZ93WadXorgiuQNhr68yCP2GryrE8c00USAWxd8iXgDu6_fVc10u5iOF4HWWuMbkY_8XKJQUIXIxHhEI__9c6OhRoyLfOHFAxi4qNRs/s1600/calfwarmersdip.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
If that’s not enough to totally freak you out, get this:
legendary running coach Alberto Salazar <a href="http://www.runnersworld.com/elite-runners/salazar-has-cain-rupp-run-shoulder-brace" target="_blank">recently revealed</a> that he is asking
some of his athletes—namely Olympic silver medalist Galen Rupp and high school
national recordholder Mary Cain—to wear equestrian shoulder braces while
training.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Yep, you read that correctly—equestrian. As in horse riding.
Because duh, small people who sit on top of horses that run have a lot in
common with small people who run like horses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
When I read this story, I couldn’t help but imagine <a href="http://itsarunningjoke.blogspot.com/2011/06/intentional-facemask.html" target="_blank">poor Galen</a> decked out in all of the crazy gear that is surely lurking in his closet.
How ridiculous would he look?!?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Well, thanks to my rudimentary Photoshop skills and a slightly
embarrassing amount of free time, we don’t have to imagine anymore. Below you
will find my most recent exploit in a string of non-revenue producing ventures.
I call it Paper Galen—soon to be the number-one toy among kid marathoners
everywhere! (So far this only includes the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/04/sports/too-fast-too-soon-young-endurance-runners-draw-cheers-and-concerns.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0" target="_blank">Welsch sisters</a>, but I have a feeling
America is on the cusp of a youth running craze.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe1gAn_i1QBQCK502-8KDw-BvEeFqa5a90MjHywG20pHJ-cpp1rh0V7GfBRDcVAxBuRANH6c6DvYkQoNVVjSfrqSt1MxnGeqh0pUSmZmIUuWHbDdT_GDPcVVJLogNKnw8Ekw1J5FeO1uE/s1600/RuppPaperDoll.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe1gAn_i1QBQCK502-8KDw-BvEeFqa5a90MjHywG20pHJ-cpp1rh0V7GfBRDcVAxBuRANH6c6DvYkQoNVVjSfrqSt1MxnGeqh0pUSmZmIUuWHbDdT_GDPcVVJLogNKnw8Ekw1J5FeO1uE/s1600/RuppPaperDoll.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-47795388417655092622013-02-05T10:42:00.000-08:002013-02-05T10:42:39.841-08:00Super Runday
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
This past Sunday, I—like many Americans—tuned my TV to one
of the most anticipated sporting events of the year. I am of course referring
to the <a href="http://www.nbindoorgrandprix.com/" target="_blank">New Balance Indoor Grand Prix</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a sly move aimed at preserving as much advertising
revenue as possible, ESPN2 elected not to broadcast the meet live on Saturday
night, as it would have blocked a valuable time slot from much more lucrative
programming options like masters water polo or competitive cup stacking. (I
didn’t make that up—<a href="http://www.thewssa.com/" target="_blank">cup stacking</a> really is a Thing and ESPN really televises
it.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wish I had been a fly on the wall in the ESPN programming
meeting where the Grand Prix scheduling decision was made. I imagine it went
something like this:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SCHEDULE BOSS GUY: Ted, when should we play that Boston
indoor track meet?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
TED: Uh, I dunno, Boss. I guess we could just play it live.
There’s nothing else going on that night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SCHEDULE BOSS GUY: Wrong! If you don’t learn anything else
from me, Ted, at least remember this: never put track and field in a time slot
that has even the slightest possibility of drawing an audience. Saturday night
is prime airtime for losers with no girlfriends, injured construction workers
with no girlfriends, and fantasy geeks with no girlfriends whose Dungeons &
Dragons game is on hiatus until the Dungeon Master recovers from the
flu. It’s ratings gold just waiting to be mined!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
TED: Oh, OK. So what would you put in the Saturday night
slot?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SCHEDULE BOSS GUY: I don’t know, maybe competitive cup
stacking—you know, something with broad appeal and moderate entertainment
value.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
TED: But what about the track meet? We’ve got to put it
somewhere.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SCHEDULE BOSS GUY: Think about it, Ted. What’s the one day
of the year when we have nothing to lose—when we know for certain that the
entire country will collectively not give a crap about what’s on second-tier
sports channels?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
TED: Umm…Super Bowl Sunday?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SCHEDULE BOSS GUY: Very good, Ted. You’re catching on
quickly. So, since we have pretty much no chance of attracting any sort of TV
audience on that particular day, we might as well play something that nobody
would watch anyway. Something like…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
TED: Track and field!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SCHEDULE BOSS GUY: Excellent, Ted! You’re the man.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
TED: No, Boss—you’re the man!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SCHEDULE BOSS GUY: I know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What Ted and his boss didn’t account for, however, is the
fact that there are literally tens of former track athletes out there just
waiting for an opportunity to watch their beloved sport on the small screen.
Usually this means sneaking into the living room in the wee hours of the
morning to catch a condensed replay of a weeks-old college meet on some obscure
sports network.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So when I see a TV listing for a track meet that is going to
play on ESPN2 during normal waking hours, I get pretty flippin’ excited—even if
it <i>is</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Super Bowl Sunday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure, I grew up in a football family that treated Super Bowl
Sunday like a sacred religious holiday. But was there really any harm in
skipping a bit of the redundant pre-game “fluff” to get my track and field fix?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boy, was I glad I tuned in. Not only did <a href="http://bostonglobe.com/sports/2013/02/03/high-schooler-mary-cain-shatters-record-mile-race/QnHnqqKXrjuUEaGbUxCmJM/story.html" target="_blank">Mary Cain</a>—the
16-year-old running phenom from New York—shatter the high school two-mile
record by SEVENTEEN FREAKING SECONDS, but also the camera crew managed to catch
would-be 800-meter winner Phoebe Wright hawking a giant loogie on the track as
she took her position on the starting line. (In case you were wondering,
spitting on an indoor track is generally frowned upon. Vomiting, however, is
totally permissible because come on, how are you going to stop that?)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Also, I will readily admit to giggling like a 6-year-old
girl when men’s 3,000-meter competitor Dejen Gebremeskel, completely oblivious
to the fact that he was being filmed at the starting line, did a not-so-subtle
pick-and-flick before running to a third-place finish.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The logical explanation for their lack of manners: they’re
not used to being on TV, and when they are, the only people watching are hotel
night auditors and insomniacs who are just trying to find some yawn-inducing
television until the Lunesta kicks in. Oh yeah, and pathetic track and field
has-beens.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
UPDATE: It has just come to my attention that the New
Balance Indoor Grand Prix allegedly was broadcast live on ESPN3, an online
streaming service loosely affiliated with ESPN. According to my <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ESPN3" target="_blank">research</a>,
access to this particular channel is heavily restricted by a series of complex
subscription regulations imposed on the vast majority of digital cable
providers. A recent survey of cable users revealed that ESPN3 is available in
approximately 17 homes nationwide. However, since this figure falls within the
margin of error associated with the survey, it is quite possible that
ESPN3—like Manti Te’o’s girlfriend—is nothing more than an elaborate Internet
hoax.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-51908354362193390872013-01-26T13:42:00.000-08:002013-01-26T15:49:59.948-08:00Running news roundup<br />
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 <strike>promise</strike> am fairly confident.)<br />
<br />
<b>A different kind of paid appearance: the Suzy Favor-Hamilton debacle</b><br />
<br />
Look, I’ve seen <i>Pretty Woman</i>. 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Those guys did some pretty terrible things, but as a former middle distance runner, I was genuinely rocked by <a href="http://www.thesmokinggun.com/documents/suzy-favor-hamilton-136952" target="_blank">Suzy’s admission</a>. 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Liestrong</b><br />
<br />
Speaking of getting caught with your pants down*, let’s talk about <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-400_162-57563952/lance-armstrong-tells-oprah-he-doped-to-win/" target="_blank">Lying Lance Armstrong</a>.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>Mad Men</i> 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<b>Presidential run</b><br />
<br />
Here’s a <a href="http://www.runnersworld.com/general-interest/maine-man-running-700-miles-presidential-inauguration" target="_blank">news item</a> 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I don’t know about you, but my list of people for whom I would run 27 consecutive marathons is pretty short:<br />
<br />
<u>People for Whom I Would Run 27 Consecutive Marathons</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
1. Pat Sajak (assuming I have a spot as a contestant on <i>Wheel</i>)<br />
2. Prince William (pre-Kate, obviously)<br />
3. Carrot Top (if he was chasing me)<br />
<br />
Sorry, crazy Maine guy—clearly my list is way too exclusive for an American president to make the cut.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
*<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">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).</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-59160983462457730332013-01-02T13:52:00.000-08:002013-01-02T13:53:01.987-08:00Treadmill time machine<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I recently moved to a new apartment complex. For the most
part, it’s pretty modern. We have high-speed Internet, covered parking, and
even a free cappuccino machine in the main office.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
But the first time I walked into the fitness center, it was
immediately apparent that the majority of the landlord’s budgetary surplus was
going toward complimentary espresso drinks. The purchase of updated exercise
equipment clearly has been on the backburner ever since Americans stopped winning the <a href="http://www.baa.org/races/boston-marathon.aspx" target="_blank">Boston Marathon</a>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The first day I went in there, I stopped dead in my tracks
and just sort of stared at the treadmill for a while. I wasn’t sure if I was
supposed to use it. I mean, it looked like it belonged in a Museum of Early
Running, somewhere between a Kalahari bushmen hunting spear and Bill Bowerman’s
<a href="http://thestyleraconteur.com/2011/03/01/nike-holy-grail-%E2%80%93-bowerman-family-unveils-long-lost-waffle-iron/" target="_blank">waffle iron</a>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
In case you don’t believe me, or you think I’m exaggerating,
here is some photographic evidence:</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSLCfPirn-g9QzLqAdnTrBZOfPqWlNxRW9DZBsb-wBzk3P9-Ql0mjuZ1sx9_bgJyfCSOmnYaSqDaJCJQd9W0pbzomzrkCDZvUUBpQPwujrtOQFOxkEJ1zQKg7PKu4Y818bUTy3fDf7mw/s1600/landice8700.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSLCfPirn-g9QzLqAdnTrBZOfPqWlNxRW9DZBsb-wBzk3P9-Ql0mjuZ1sx9_bgJyfCSOmnYaSqDaJCJQd9W0pbzomzrkCDZvUUBpQPwujrtOQFOxkEJ1zQKg7PKu4Y818bUTy3fDf7mw/s320/landice8700.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
As the daughter of an avid antiquer, I know that people
don’t buy antiques to <i>use</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> them. People
buy antiques to </span><i>display</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
For some reason that I have yet to figure out because I was
born after the Kennedy administration, filling your shelves with old, obsolete
crap like hat pins and oil lamps creates an air of sophistication in your home
that new stuff simply cannot provide.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
So at first, I thought maybe this treadmill was meant to be
a really big, really impractical decoration. But the more I thought about it,
the less likely this hypothesis seemed. If it were a decoration, it would be
presented as such—with a giant glass case or a perimeter of velvet rope or, at
the very least, an informational plaque.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Also, a 30-year-old treadmill does not exude sophistication.
It exudes cheapness. Not that I live at the Waldorf Astoria or anything, but
you’d think my landlord could at least get some cardio equipment from this
century.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Once I had determined that this relic from the running days
of yore—the Landice 8700—was meant for actual use, my train of thought moved on
to a new conundrum: was this thing older than me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The more I puzzled over this question, the more it escalated
from innocent curiosity to urgent quandary consuming my every thought. There
was no possible way I could go on with my life until I knew for certain whether
I predated the Landice. (This is a side effect of my obsessive-compulsive
tendencies. Another side effect of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies is my constant need to fold things that are not folded, so please excuse me for a
moment while I take care of the blanket that has been left on my couch in an
untidy mess of microfleece…OK, much better. Now back to the story.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I considered the possibility that the number 8700 indicated
that the machine was manufactured in the year 1987, in which case it would,
indeed, be older than I am. But a logical guess wasn’t good enough—I needed
corroborating evidence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
As I searched the rest of the treadmill for more
date-related clues, I was struck by yet another conundrum: what if we were both
“born” in the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;">same year—1988?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Luckily, I realized that this question had an easy answer.
My birthday is January 2. Therefore, to be older than I am, the treadmill’s
birthday would have to be January 1. And since January 1 is a global holiday, the chances of anything being manufactured on that particular date are
very slim.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Furthermore, if the treadmill had been produced on January
1, 1988, it likely would have been assembled by a bunch of hungover factory
workers, in which case its structural integrity almost certainly would have
been compromised, and the probability of it surviving 20-plus years in workable
condition would have been very, very low.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Anyway, after inspecting every square inch of the Landice, I
found no further evidence of a manufacture year. So, like any good detective, I
considered my context clues.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The treadmill is surrounded by fitness posters that
obviously were inspired by the music video for Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical.”
I could ridicule them at length, but really, the photos say it all:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJUZ3bCEHVNzlKJgHEOfl160pPRCDYPP_Hli-s4yH4Wlvb6abRX9TvAZrJPamg_OoEKi1_Oiv05VffEWz_Z1i3Zpvxm-CwX6Rm1ih_BTBE3f9N4UizwWDByjAU0Eq-WW59_2nhHmcoyqw/s1600/gymposter2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJUZ3bCEHVNzlKJgHEOfl160pPRCDYPP_Hli-s4yH4Wlvb6abRX9TvAZrJPamg_OoEKi1_Oiv05VffEWz_Z1i3Zpvxm-CwX6Rm1ih_BTBE3f9N4UizwWDByjAU0Eq-WW59_2nhHmcoyqw/s320/gymposter2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The copyright date on the posters: 1986. <i>Aha! </i><span style="font-style: normal;">I thought. </span><i>Now we’re getting somewhere.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> I felt like I was smack dab in the middle of a
classic mystery novel. (</span><i>Nancy Drew #61: The Secret of the Old,
Decrepit Treadmill</i><span style="font-style: normal;">)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Like Nancy, I am very observant—which is why I noticed that
there is something not quite right about those ’80s fitness posters. In fact,
they are downright creepy. Here, take a closer look at these shots and see if
you notice it too:</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Jo1K0zSuCDpCASi3ukgN7QUKYxFeg0njO0G4DbFybmgxUXGbQbobvvCUxPQin2k4niwVGQ0DGFQ4U5GBEGdNL-pVdabXa5J17PC_0vhd6iqNRrXiwQoOsVcjmJ9xYk07AfTBnidVfxE/s1600/gymposter5head.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Jo1K0zSuCDpCASi3ukgN7QUKYxFeg0njO0G4DbFybmgxUXGbQbobvvCUxPQin2k4niwVGQ0DGFQ4U5GBEGdNL-pVdabXa5J17PC_0vhd6iqNRrXiwQoOsVcjmJ9xYk07AfTBnidVfxE/s200/gymposter5head.jpg" width="159" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope I’m not the only one who is bothered by the fact that
THIS PERSON HAS NO FACE UNLESS SHE IS PICTURED FROM A SIDE PROFILE PERSPECTIVE,
AND EVEN THEN SHE DOES NOT APPEAR TO HAVE OCULAR CAVITIES!</div>
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<br /></div>
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Now this was beyond bizarre, and it was more than I could
take. I had to get out of there. Maybe if I ran fast enough, my dreams wouldn’t
be haunted by faceless aerobics instructors in Reebok high-tops.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Alas, I never cracked the case. Although it is difficult for
me to accept the treadmill's symbolic victory over my wit and skills as an
investigator, I have grown to appreciate the air of mystery surrounding
the true age of the Landice 8700. It’s like Joan Rivers, but with less plastic. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-610621846431495722012-12-20T16:44:00.000-08:002013-01-02T12:57:14.565-08:00Mail bag!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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: <a href="http://runningjokecartoon.com/" target="_blank">The Running Joke Cartoon</a>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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!</div>
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<br /></div>
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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. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Further down in the email, he said something along the lines
of, “You really should check out my book, <i>The Running Joke Cartoon Book</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. 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 </span><i>paraphrasing</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At this point, I was extremely intrigued and decided to
follow the links to <a href="http://runningjokecartoon.com/shop/the-running-joke-cartoon-book/" target="_blank">his work</a> that he had provided for me. And it was good
stuff. I mean, <i>really</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> 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.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can check out some samples from John’s book on his
website. You can also “Like” his <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Running-Joke-Cartoon/248574115214166" target="_blank">Facebook page</a> 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!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5315006464389954199.post-65565358287631475812012-11-26T16:13:00.000-08:002012-11-27T21:04:50.159-08:00How to put the ‘man’ back in ‘marathon’<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Let’s face it: compared to testosterone-fueled contact
sports like football, ice hockey and Jujitsu, long-distance running just isn’t
that manly.</div>
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<br /></div>
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As a man, it’s one thing to idolize famous athletes who look
like this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmh0qpM3v6nJecttZ6cTySpgisEdu0RSy8i9LeO5CF-rGJI0TUoiVE-BiQEIHIzPtXFP7Jk9ENWDh9xM9yedE81YXkAYfIXR76iA2Rmt34u-z6OgpIshrTCWRxKQQw7qyW0YwNmy1SCbE/s1600/Brett-Favre-green-bay-packers-83049_600_564.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmh0qpM3v6nJecttZ6cTySpgisEdu0RSy8i9LeO5CF-rGJI0TUoiVE-BiQEIHIzPtXFP7Jk9ENWDh9xM9yedE81YXkAYfIXR76iA2Rmt34u-z6OgpIshrTCWRxKQQw7qyW0YwNmy1SCbE/s320/Brett-Favre-green-bay-packers-83049_600_564.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo courtesy of blacksportsonline.com</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But anyone with a pair of testicles is going to have a hard
time explaining why their hero looks like an adolescent girl with a bad
haircut:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip39tM5mtEPqdwnHCj4rU0_0LGI8qj2Vcu1TZhym9ey73bqBx2P2HZdNHOMCm29i22RFRD3jDWmdkdHhzeKFKrdjibouQ1xUluBKy1T4nvRmTRGhdx8HiiPtBfaBv7umPIX-4E3AAravE/s1600/GalenFistPump.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip39tM5mtEPqdwnHCj4rU0_0LGI8qj2Vcu1TZhym9ey73bqBx2P2HZdNHOMCm29i22RFRD3jDWmdkdHhzeKFKrdjibouQ1xUluBKy1T4nvRmTRGhdx8HiiPtBfaBv7umPIX-4E3AAravE/s320/GalenFistPump.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo courtesy of Marcio Jose Sanchez/bigstory.ap.org</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Look, a community 10K is never going to be as effortlessly
macho as a backyard game of pigskin on a crisp fall day. That’s why Brett
Favre—not Galen Rupp—is the poster boy for Wrangler jeans. And that’s why Brett
Favre—not Galen Rupp—had the audacity to text photos of his junk to a woman who
looks like this:</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTvQXDGC8R1hTA5MrtJugqVrXpK68wDN_14Z47X23EJAGudlkoWflgt1wC9NwfycQNEPSTdhN2Wrb2sC-ZP07e176q-iYd0upYhhDkeNwg4-2J36UT77_a_OoSYFn_XNzUYDLOmXO-UMw/s1600/jennsterger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTvQXDGC8R1hTA5MrtJugqVrXpK68wDN_14Z47X23EJAGudlkoWflgt1wC9NwfycQNEPSTdhN2Wrb2sC-ZP07e176q-iYd0upYhhDkeNwg4-2J36UT77_a_OoSYFn_XNzUYDLOmXO-UMw/s320/jennsterger.jpg" width="290" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo courtesy of news.lalate.com</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But you don’t have to be a retired NFL star in grass-stained
Five Star Premium Denim to exude masculinity and win the approval of your
fellow XYs. You just have to follow a few simple rules to avoid coming off as a
bird-legged sissy in short-shorts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. <b>Have facial hair.</b> Nothing says, “I own a power drill”
like a little bit of mug-scruff. But beware—too much of a good thing will leave
you looking more hobo (i.e. Tom Hanks in <i>Castaway</i><span style="font-style: normal;">) than hunky (i.e. Brad Pitt in </span><i>Moneyball</i><span style="font-style: normal;">).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. <b>Either wear sleeves, or don’t.</b> Manly men do not slip
removable spandex tubes over their forearms in case it’s a bit chilly (or a bit
balmy) on the course. Sensitivity to temperature fluctuations is a known side
effect of estrogen, which is why arm sleeves—like half-tights and battery-powered mini fans—should be
reserved for female use only.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. <b>Listen to classic rock.</b> Before you head to the starting
line, make sure your iPod is loaded up with AC/DC, The Rolling Stones and Led
Zeppelin. When the dude to your right asks what you’re jamming to, your answer
should not be, “One Direction.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. <b>Wear black.</b> Johnny Cash was just kidding when he said
he’d love to wear a rainbow everyday. At least half of your outfit should be
black or gray. If you want to rock a lime green shirt, go for it. You just
couldn’t resist those bright blue shorts on the clearance rack at Sports
Authority? Fine. But please, for the love of all that is holy, do not wear them
together. Because when you look like this:</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUr4ePWK63qkUdRKcmPMG0uqkiR3ZQDfv2I6nXBABUHB39UKNLvwlyWxvAvKfStpXqNxMFWYiriTtyGSQLrYtln6LsFP4GmMoPQyMzC-dDsecK9P-1qEl_w3OALFRWRocyTDaRz57oCM/s1600/3-runners.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUr4ePWK63qkUdRKcmPMG0uqkiR3ZQDfv2I6nXBABUHB39UKNLvwlyWxvAvKfStpXqNxMFWYiriTtyGSQLrYtln6LsFP4GmMoPQyMzC-dDsecK9P-1qEl_w3OALFRWRocyTDaRz57oCM/s320/3-runners.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo courtesy of perfectionjourney.org</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<br />
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Other guys see this:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2zf6VTpUJXj9TvfoMpICutOsWQI4Teweou-CLpT8zsHmuBNDMz0XnNp5I-EVkzr2lbtHprClA69hw1JwCbMtFAkygixjGyzricHvv-o5cAVqpcuHWZFEdaL4Oe9QlfFXIQA3m5N56LyI/s1600/richardsimmons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2zf6VTpUJXj9TvfoMpICutOsWQI4Teweou-CLpT8zsHmuBNDMz0XnNp5I-EVkzr2lbtHprClA69hw1JwCbMtFAkygixjGyzricHvv-o5cAVqpcuHWZFEdaL4Oe9QlfFXIQA3m5N56LyI/s320/richardsimmons.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo courtesy of rumorfix.com</span></div>
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5. <b>Win.</b> A man does not engage in a competitive activity—be
it a sport, a video game or a checkers match with Granny—simply to
participate. He does it to destroy his opponent and thus prove his superiority
to the rest of the male race. If that means vomiting blood for 20 minutes after
out-kicking a slightly overweight teenager in a homestretch sprint for 41<sup>st</sup>
place in the local Turkey Trot, so be it. Bloody oatmeal barf is a small price
to pay for the preservation of your masculinity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brooke Andrushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03325130101070913995noreply@blogger.com0