Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts

Thursday, December 20, 2012

Mail bag!


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, December 5, 2011

The run that put the Geo in ghetto

I was chatting on the phone with my mom the other day, mostly about my new job and my plans for Christmas. Then, completely out of the blue, she adult-ADD’d this into the discussion:

“Oh my gosh, Brooke, I couldn’t sleep the other night—I was just lying there wondering if you’ve been locking your doors at night. You should really have them locked all the time, especially in that neighborhood you’re in.”

I was taken aback for several reasons, chief among them the fact that our conversation about Christmas lights had somehow segued into a lecture on home security.

But I felt bad that I was the indirect source of my poor mother’s insomnia, so I patiently answered a barrage of annoying—though well-intentioned—questions.

“Yes, Mom, I always lock the door when I’m home alone….uh huh, and the deadbolt, too.”

“No, Mom, I really don’t think it would be necessary to install a panic room.”

“Uh-huh, I always stick to the main roads when I run…no, Mom, I would go insane if I ran on the treadmill every day.”

Although I put every effort into convincing my mother that I live in western Montana—not South Central L.A.—I secretly knew that her worries were not completely unfounded.

Mom, you should probably stop reading here. Seriously, if you want to sleep tonight, go back to watching Nancy Grace—I hear there’s an update on the “People’s Court Mom.”

The truth is, I’ve never felt completely safe in my new neighborhood. At first, I tried to get past its rough outward appearance by admonishing myself for being so judgmental.

Don’t be silly—I would tell myself—They can’t all be drug dealers.

When I was driving home for the second or third time, I saw a little boy out playing in his front yard. He appeared to be practicing his baseball swing.

See? It’s a family neighborhood. What was I so worried about?

Upon closer examination, however, I realized that the little boy was actually mercilessly beating a tree trunk with a large stick. That’s when I knew that if I was going to live here, I was going to have to toughen up.

On my first day in my new apartment, I decided to go on a timed run to explore the area and acclimate myself to my new environment. In 25 minutes, I passed two trailer parks, three junkyards, six stray cats, four front porches with sofas on them and eight Geo Metros. The farther I went, the more I found myself looking over my shoulder and clenching my fists—you know, just in case I had to go all Mike Tyson on some tweaked-out meth head.

When I got home, I felt like a snobby bitch for drinking soymilk and not having a mullet. But mostly, I felt scared, and a little bit guilty for making so many horrible assumptions about my neighbors.

Then again, everyone knows that an area’s crime rate is directly related to its per-capita density of outdoor sofas.




Still, I resisted the urge to log on to Family Watchdog to search my address, mostly because I knew that if I saw the results, I would probably stop running forever, and with the holiday season in full swing, that simply was not an option. There are too many hot buttered rums to be had.

I headed out the next day with an open mind, though I decided to stick to the roads with the most witnes—er, traffic.

About a mile into my run, I saw flashing red and blue lights up ahead. All I could think was: Drug bust.

In the 90 seconds it took for me to arrive at the scene, I tried reasoning with myself.

Don’t be ridiculous. It’s probably just a traffic stop. There are dozens of those every day. Even Geo Metros can get going too fast sometimes.

As I approached the police vehicle, however, I saw a large, handcuffed woman with a cop on either side of her. One was supporting her weight and holding back her hair as the other held an open vomit bag in front of her mouth. And yes—she was using it.

I made a loop around the block and headed for home at interval pace. At least living here will be conducive to speedwork. By the time spring rolls around, I’ll be in shape to PR in the 800.

In the meantime, maybe I will invest in some pepper spray.