Get real

Well folks, it’s that time of year again—the time when I usually start making frequent withdrawals from the excuse bank to make sure I never have to do that torturous uphill mile repeat workout. Yep—it’s cross country season.

Thankfully, my days of pounding the dirt for several long, unpleasant intervals are over—but that doesn’t mean I’m out of the woods (literally and figuratively).

When I heard that the local high school runners would start practicing this week, I experienced an unsettling emotional reaction that can only be described as a cross country veteran’s version of post traumatic stress disorder.

Suddenly, I was back at the trailhead where that miserable, hot, dusty workout began. Everything was so vivid, so real—I could feel my lungs burning as my legs struggled to carry my sweaty, exhausted body up the rocky incline. I could taste the turkey-bagel vomit spewing from my mouth as I bent over the edge of the trail, gasping for breath in between regurgitations. I could smell the men’s team as they grunted past me, leaving in their wake a hot, wet cloud of unwashed-running-shorts stink.

When I finally snapped back to reality, my forehead was dotted with beads of cold sweat, and my stomach was a knot of imaginary ill-digested turkey bagel.

How did I ever survive that sport?

Then it hit me—I not only survived cross country, I reveled in its status as a sport reserved for ultra-tough renegade badasses.

There is a reason sixty kids go out for soccer while only six go out for cross country. When it comes down to it, any semi-athletic high-schooler could kick a ball, but not very many have the guts and determination necessary to power through three miles of continuous pain and suffering.

So yeah, being on the cross country team made me feel special, even if the other kids didn’t exactly feel that way about it. I think I even remember one of my high school teachers asking me when I was going to try a real sport.

For the record, *Mr. Daniels, cross country is pretty much as real as it gets. I left a pile of bagel barf on the side of a hiking trail, for eff’s sake. And to the stupid football jocks who made fun of the awkward, skinny cross country athletes: I don’t really care anymore because you’re probably fat now.

* Name has been changed

V is for VICKtory

Are you a serious runner who does serious workouts?

Do you run insane combinations of intervals and race multiple events in a single day due to a psychiatric condition and/or merciless coach?

Do you live in Montana, a.k.a. Perpetual Winter, where you must train and race at excessive altitudes in dry, arctic conditions?

Do you constantly suffer from phlegm build-up and an annoying dry cough despite the fact that you are an otherwise healthy non-smoker?

Are you tired of scaring away fellow gym patrons who avoid using any piece of equipment within a 50-foot radius of you for fear of catching your death cough? Do said exercisers shoot you uncomfortably long glares of disgust as they gather up their things, as if to say, “Why aren’t you wearing one of those Chinese SARS masks?”

Are you beginning to suspect this post is actually a poorly written script for a low-budget infomercial?

If you’ve answered “yes” to one or more of these unnecessarily numerous questions, then you need VICKtory, the only mentholated ointment specifically designed to relieve the symptoms associated with runner’s cough—from the makers of Vicks VapoRub.

Cough syrup can lead to upset stomach, drowsiness, and drug dependency. Throat lozenges often taste like off-brand cinnamon bears doused in cheap whiskey and become a dangerous choking hazard when used in conjunction with vigorous exercise.

But VICKtory stops runner’s cough dead in its tracks—safely and conveniently. Simply open the tub, scoop the goop, and swipe directly onto the skin between the nose and upper lip. It’s that easy!

Still skeptical? Check out these testimonials from real* VICKtory users:

“From what I could tell, it was just regular Vicks in a slightly different container with a new label. But yeah, it worked, I guess. At least until I started sweating and it melted onto my lips and mouth.”

-Brian (Bozeman, MT)

“It was, uh, interesting. Like eucalyptus-scented Vaseline. It did help my cough, but I wasn’t crazy about having slimy goop all over my face. People kept looking at me like I had a booger hanging out.”

-Alan (Aspen, CO)

“I absolutely LOVED IT!!!!!! Truly a miracle product. I’m going to start using in place of lip balm, body lotion, toothpaste, cooking oil and peanut butter!”

-Vicky McVaporub (Vixingtonshire, Alberta)

So what are you waiting for? Don’t lose to runner’s cough—let VICKtory bring out the winner** in you!

* “Real” in the sense that unicorns are real because people write about them

**This product is neither affiliated with, nor endorsed by, Charlie Sheen

I wanna go fast!

When I stepped outside the other day, I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with chilly spring air. It smelled like rain and mist and soggy dead grass. And that’s when I knew, without a doubt, that track season was upon us.

These kinds of days—the ones with still, foggy air and puddle-dotted sidewalks—were always my favorite for track workouts. I found the damp, cool air soothing to my throat, lungs and muscles.

When I set out on my run, I immediately felt a familiar spring in my step. At that point, I was no longer in control of my route. My legs took over, knowing exactly where they wanted to go.

I arrived at the high school track feeling fresh and ready to, in the words of Ricky Bobby, go fast. Without even thinking, I rolled into my pre-workout warm-up routine. It had been months since I’d last done my usual series of kicks, skips and leg-swings, but I was surprised at how easily it all came back.

I felt great. I knew it was going to be a banner day. I almost wished I had a coach or a friend or even a live studio audience to witness what was about to go down. I did a quick survey of the track facility and its immediate surroundings. There were a couple of groundskeepers working about 600 yards away from the stadium. I figured that since I could see them, they could probably see me. I decided that counted as an audience.

After doing a couple of strides, I made my way to the starting line. I was smiling, and I even thought about whistling the chorus melody from “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” Then I remembered that I never learned how to whistle, and I made a mental note to search for an instructional video on YouTube later that day.

I still hadn’t gotten a new watch, and I had a feeling the oral counting method would prove ineffective in a track interval scenario. But I didn’t care—I was doing this work out, with or without a working timepiece.

I slowly approached the line, shaking out my arms and legs to rid them of any lingering kinks. I leaned forward into the starting position, and boom! I launched into a full-on sprint, marveling at the quickness of my feet and the power of my stride. The first 200-meter interval was smooth and almost effortless. I actually felt like an 800 runner again—I wondered whether my training hiatus had affected my speed at all. Perhaps I was just some sort of athletic super human.

Then I tried to do another one. This 200, though, was not so smooth, not so effortless. This 200 hurt—bad. From the twinge in my calf to the tightness in my lungs, my body screamed at me, as if to say, “What the crap? I thought we were done with running fast. You are a liar and a scoundrel!”

I was just about to protest about the scoundrel part when I felt a sharp pain slightly above the back of my knee. I slowed to a more manageable pace. Suddenly, my brain was inundated with hypothetical crisis scenarios.

I imagined limping into the high school and asking various teenagers with bewildered looks on their faces for directions to the school nurse’s office. I saw myself hobble into her little examination room, where she gasped and exclaimed, in a thick Minnesota accent, “Omigash! Did you just come from Coach Brown’s P.E. class? I thought you guys were just learning how to juggle beanbags this week.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head, expelling from my mind all images of myself as an injured, pathetic failure. No, I would not give up. I was going to finish this thing.

During my last few intervals, I was glad the guys on the mini tractors were too caught up in their work to notice me. I was also glad I had no way of knowing just how slow I was running—thank goodness for Wal-Mart and its cheap, unreliable merchandise. The feeling of invincibility I’d started out with had long since faded into stubborn determination. The last few hundred meters were anything but pretty, but I finished them.

As I jogged home, the intensity of my spontaneous little trip down memory lane started to settle on my bones. I noticed pain in places that hadn’t felt it in awhile—shins, arches, hamstrings. I felt like a true has-been, risking my health to prove to myself—and anyone else who happened to be hanging around (i.e. totally uninterested park maintenance personnel)—that I’ve still got it.

Then I realized that wasn’t the case at all. I had nothing to prove. I just missed the feeling that I had briefly experienced during my first interval—that inimitable sensation of quickness, weightlessness and power. I knew that sooner or later, I’d be back at the track for more.

Well, maybe after a few hot baths and a trip to the chiropractor.