How to Win

I’ve lost hundreds of races. Literally. I haven’t been the first one across the line since high school. And that was in the slow heat of the quarter mile (it was a long time ago) in a dual meet in small town Vermont.

It is true what they say – everybody who climbs off the couch and gets out running is a winner. In some sense. But another cliché that is equally true is that second place is just the first loser.

Running is rewarding for its own sake. Otherwise, given my level of success, I would have quit long ago. But I have had enough success to know that all else being equal, winning is a lot more fun than losing. So for the majority of us, who chose the wrong parents or have jobs, families, or injuries that keep us from being that one guy on top of the heap, how can we experience the joy and satisfaction of coming out on top?

The typical way that your garden variety mid-pack runner challenges himself is that old standard – race yourself. Everyone can train harder, put in more miles, eat better, and strive to beat last year’s time in the local 5K.

Yeah, but. Let’s admit it. We want to beat people. Other people. We want to be the one who congratulates the lesser runners for putting forth a good effort. We want to modestly tell others that it was just a good day, and that some other time, you’re sure they’ll come out on top. All the while, inside you’re dancing and shouting “In your face, slugs!”

The key to achieving the victories we all crave is to find an environment conducive to your success. You want to find races that play to your strengths and minimize your weaknesses. Maybe you’re strong on hills or especially sure-footed on rough trails. Maybe you run best first thing in the morning, or in the heat of summer. Maybe you’re better off if you avoid races with free beer. Figure out what works best for you, search out the race that fits, and sign up!

But what if, even in the perfect race for you, after a great season of training and a good night’s sleep someone faster shows up? Face it, that’s usually the case. What then?

Well, then you have to create the environment that allows you to succeed. Narrow things down, twist the rules if necessary (not too far!), get choosy enough, and you too can be a winner!

When you join a running club or go to a weekly local event, like a pub run, you’ll soon begin to recognize other regulars who always finish at about the same time you do. Get to know them. Drink beer with them. Learn their kids’ names. And beat them. Friendly races within the larger race can be a lot of fun.

If you try and try, and just can’t beat your friends, sign up for a relay race with them and let the faster runners carry you to victory. Relay races are a nice break from the solitary routine of running. If you choose your friends carefully, you’ll be sharing the glory in no time.

Look for races with multiple events. Maybe a 10K with a 5K or a marathon with a 10K. The faster runners always go for the marquee event, leaving the other race open for you to sneak in with a win. Note: don’t go so far as to enter the children’s races – that would be tacky.

The most common way a runner like you can increase your chance of success is to grow old. Age group awards were created just for this purpose. You might not be able to run with the young studs, but you can compete with other old farts like you. Keep at it long enough, and soon you’ll be heading to the awards stand regularly. Long enough may mean into your seventies or later, but no one needs to know that there were only two people in your age group, and the other was using a walker.

There are other categories you can aim towards. Handicapped people tend to frown on people who walk up to register for the wheelchair division. But anyone can be fat. Look for races with Clydesdale and filly divisions, and clean up at both the awards ceremony and the post-race spread.

If you find that the Clydesdale prizes end up being won by tall, fit guys rather than short, fat guys, maybe you can create your own division. At the 2006 Boston Marathon, two men competed for the title of “World’s Fastest Joggler.” They didn’t have to race the other 20,000 entrants for that title. You’ve got to imagine that they would have had to struggle to find a third competitor. There are plenty of other choices. Races have divisions for runners in red dresses, runners pushing beds, even naked runners. Surely you can find something that no one else wants to do?

If all else fails, go small. Any of the ideas we’ve discussed are more likely to earn you the coveted win if you apply it in a race with a total of 30 people. When you’re on a vacation in the country, look for a race in a nearby small town. Find races that run on weekday mornings. Run early on New Year’s Day. With the internet, there’s no excuse for missing out on those hidden gems. First place is first place – the trophy doesn’t say how many people you beat.

I’ve used all these techniques, and have a (small) pile of hardware to show that they work. All it takes is a reasonable amount of training and an eye for an opportunity, and you can have something to show for a race besides a t-shirt and sore feet. You can be a winner too!

Life sucks?

Are pacifiers cruel? Sure, mom and dad get some blessed peace by triggering Junior’s suck reflex with a hunk of inert plastic. But it provides no sustenance, no matter how hard Junior works.

Or maybe it’s wise to start teaching baby at an early age that you don’t always get what you want, and you might as well accept and learn to like what you get?

Pythonathon!

Coming Jan 5. to the Brattle Theater in Harvard Square, it’s Pythonathon! Four Monty Python moves in a row, starting at 3:30PM.

If you can’t make it, get your Python fix wherever you are with these Monty Python collectible toys. I want the Knight of Ni hat.

Things that work

Life is full of mixed blessings. One of them is a new pair of glasses. Sure, they’re expensive, and yet another sign of my advancing age. But when I put them on, they’re as clean and scratch free as they’ll ever be. I’m more relaxed because the need for a constant tiny level of squinting goes away. Everything looks bright and sharp and clear and !new! If only Prozac worked so well.

What simple thing makes you happy? Discuss!

Why Run?

The average barfly, if he thinks about running at all, doesn’t think much of the idea. Running is for those scrawny, obsessive types. You know, the guys who don’t eat meat, or care about Tom Brady’s passing (or Brady’s girlfriend) as long as they can get out to put in their weekly mileage.

There are some runners who are like that. But most runners are average guys or gals who’ve figured out that the benefits of running outweigh the risk of looking odd while running down a winter street in a reflective jacket and spandex tights.

What are those benefits? First and foremost, if you do enough running, you don’t look too bad in those spandex tights, even if you are a guy (as long as you don’t pick an exceptionally colorful pair). Running helps balance out the days spent behind a desk, and the nights spent trolling at Daisy Buchanan’s. One mile of running burns off about one beer’s worth of calories. Since anyone who can run at all can do a mile in less than 15 minutes, you’d have to be pounding them down to need to spend as much time running as you do drinking.

Running will get you into better shape for your real sports. Let’s look at basketball as an example. Don’t get me wrong, a good game of hoops is a great workout. But playing basketball for an hour isn’t going to get you into the shape where you can easily run 3 miles. Everything else being equal (running won’t make you taller, or give you a jump shot) the guy who can run 3 miles can beat the guy who can’t, because he’s going to be able to get out on the break better, get back on D better, and keep it going longer.

Can you think of other things where extra endurance will help you out? I can, and so can your significant other.

Suppose you don’t have a girl (or boy) friend. Running is an excellent way to meet someone who takes care of themselves. That brings us back to the spandex. Don’t you think that if runners didn’t look good in spandex, running clothes would be made of something less revealing, like maybe wool? Races and running clubs are full of healthy, attractive people of all ages. You’ll know that you’ll have at least one thing in common with that hot babe, when you both have a race number pinned to your chest.

A lot of those races, especially the smaller local races, are sponsored by bars or by breweries. You know what that means. That’s right – free beer! If you look around, there’s at least one race every weekend where you can pay your entry fee, slog through a few miles (or just hide until the race is over), and then pound down as many cold frosties as you need. There’s usually food to absorb the beer and help you build your strength for the next run. A lot of races start late on weekend mornings, which means that the post-race beers make a great warmup for the afternoon’s Sox or Patriots game.

And if you want a bigger event, you’re never going to play in a World Series game or a Super Bowl, but you can run the Boston Marathon and run in front of a crowd larger than anything either of those events could hope to draw. To get in, you can work your ass off and meet the qualifying standards, collect a lot of money and slide in by the charity route, or be a lazy bastard and just jump in and run as a bandit. Thousands of people will be cheering for YOU, especially if you’re wearing something identifying you as a local (Go, Somerville!).

A lot of people run in order to help charities.  After all, there are a lot of things you can do for exercise.  When you enter a race, often a portion of the race fee goes to help out some local charity.  Some people want to do more, or they figure that if they’re going to do something as “crazy” as running a marathon, they need the extra motivation of knowing it’s for a good cause.  These people sign up to collect money to help others.  Often the larger charities will organize training groups to provide camaraderie and and support for inexperienced runners.  These groups have target collection requirements, and if you meet those requirements your race entry and sometimes travel to the race is paid for by the charity.  The targets are often thousands of dollars.  Charity programs have generated millions of dollars  over the years.

If your tastes lean more towards drinking than helping, and you don’t mind running a couple miles for a good party, you might want to check into the Hash House Harriers, a “drinking club with a running problem”. Each week, hashers meet at a different location in the area. Before the run, beer is consumed. Then the “hares” mark a trail, and the rest of the group tries to follow it. Usually, the trail is marked in a way that keeps the fast runners from getting too far ahead of the slowest runners, many of whom actually are walking. Each trail has one or more “beer checks”, where the pack stops to rest and replenish their fluids. At the end of the trail, more beer is consumed, silly (often profane) songs get sung, and there’s food (and more beer). Hashes are everywhere – just check the internet (or ask the drunkest person at any race). When you travel, going to a hash is a good way to get some exercise and find a party too. Hash often enough and you may get your very own “hash name”, usually something you wouldn’t want to share in polite company. If you do go to a hash after reading this, be sure to say that “Boner in the Circle” made you come (you will be asked).

And of course, if you want to compete, running a race is just about the purest form of competition there is. The gifted few get to compete to win. Screw them. For the rest of us, there are the smaller races, where almost anyone has a chance to win an age group award. There are races with clydesdale/filly divisions, where heavier people can win without having to beat the scrawny types who train on air and vegetables. And you can always compete with yourself against the clock, trying to do better than you have before. Even when you’re just chugging along to get to the free beer at the end, you’ll find that your competitive urges kick in, and you break into a sprint to beat that fat guy or pass the girl with the nice ass you’ve been following the whole race. Finishing 102^nd instead of 103^rd can be a great victory sometimes.

So drag your butt off the barstool and give this running thing a try. Take it from someone who stopped three times for beer during one Boston Marathon – the worst thing that can happen is that you’ll develop a better thirst.

Terrorist Cat 1990-2007

Ruth had Terrorist Cat put to sleep today. TC was almost 18 years old.

Ruth had been his person since she brought him home when he was a tiny kitten. TC supposedly didn’t like other people much when he was younger. Dave and Donna often took care of him when Ruth was away, and TC had Dave intimidated. By the time I met Ruth, he may have mellowed somewhat. He approved of me for the most part, and was sociable with the runners when I was hosting a run while he came to visit (or maybe he just liked the smells).

TC was supposed to be a short-haired cat, but turned out to have a thick coat of dark brown fur. When he was lounging about, sometimes he’d forget his tongue and leave it lolling outside of his mouth. He didn’t understand why we found that funny.

TC was a house cat. He would watch the birds at the feeders from his perch on top of the couch’s backrest, but he wasn’t concerned with chasing them. When Ruth would let him out, he would poke around cautiously, but he was always ready to go back inside.

But he had his reckless side. No warnings could keep him from his favorite toy, a plastic grocery bag. And he was always ready to risk being crushed by settling underneath us while we were streching or doing yoga.

TC always came to the door when we arrived. He’d check me out and then go for Ruth. We had an ongoing low-level competition for Ruth’s attention. We’d be together, and TC would come over and butt in, maybe reaching up with a paw to wave for attention, or maybe climbing in between us. TC didn’t like anything that got between him and Ruth. If she was working at the computer, he would pester her until she picked him up. Then TC would settle down on the desk in front of the monitor. If she was reading the paper, TC would climb on top of it and sit, looking pleased.

When Ruth wasn’t available, TC would settle for me. Often this would occur when I was awake at night. TC saw that someone else was up, and he’d come over for some company. It could be difficult to get him to understand that I didn’t want to minister to him at that particular moment.

TC would enjoy it when I’d scratch his head, but a backrub was the fastest way to start him purring. His asthmatic purr would go on as long as I could keep rubbing. When he was in a good mood, TC enjoyed exchanging headbutts. He often took the opportunity to rub his nose on my glasses, leaving me with smeared vision.

TC was losing his appetite towards the end, but he still loved chicken. If we were getting anything out of the refrigerator, he’d wander over and sit in front of the door, waiting expectantly. Chicken would only appear a small percentage of the time, but he was always hopeful.

TC was diagnosed with liver cancer, but managed to survive with that for two years. He had been slowing down recently, losing a lot of weight while his dark brown fur turned drier and greyer. He began stumbling some as he tried to follow Ruth up the stairs or climb to his usual spot on top of the couch. He was spending more and more time just napping in the rocking chair in the living room.

The decline sped up over the weekend. We came back early from Vermont to beat the snow, which allowed Ruth to have one last day with him.

Phases of water

Saturday (Berlin, VT)

It’s bitter cold. -2 when we go out. But it’s not windy, so layers of polypro and fleece along with an outer shell are sufficient, and we’re soon warm enough.

The bright day gives us energy. Two colors dominate – the blue of the cold, clear sky and the white of the unbroken expanses of snow that cover the fields. The stubble of leafless trees on the mountains and the rundown houses add a dour touch, but that’s balanced by splashes of color – Ruth’s bright orange hat, scattered Christmas decorations, dogs frisking in the snow, wanting to play as we run by.

We power along chatting or listening to the crunch of a light layer of snow on the road beneath our feet. The vapor from our breathing creates the only visible clouds.

Soon an extra layer of fleece appears as the sweat wicks to the surface and freezes into crystals. Lacy tendrils of ice attach to the tufts of curly hair that peek out from under Ruth’s hat.

Sunday (Arlington, MA)

The sky is grey and sullen with snow, weighing down everyone’s spirits. It’s much warmer, and getting warmer still, but that just means the snow is heavier and will need to be moved before it freezes solid. As we all rush to clear the snow, filling the few available unused spaces much too early in the season, the precipitation turns to rain. Soon its absorbed by my coat and meets the sweat from shoveling, making everything uniformly damp and heavy. Waves of slush crash onto the shores of the driveway repeatedly as plows cruise by. Finally the driveway is clear enough. Rain and melt cover the asphalt, ready to become a skating rink when night falls. Running now, sloshing through more of the mess while dodging plows, is just too much effort.

GTB

The ESPN Sports Guy’s latest mailbag has a discussion of baseball’s Mitchell Report on steroid use:

Q: In the Mitchell report, why didn’t they punish Edward Norton for the illegal supplements he took for his role in “American History X”?
– Ryan, Hoboken, N.J.

SG: You didn’t see that page? They revoked all of his wins in “Fight Club.”

and also has a sidebar on breastfeeding from his wife:

With all the diets out there, I’m blown away there isn’t a Hollywood Lactation diet. I mean, you lose 500 calories a day — that’s at least one sprinkles cupcake or a large Pinkberry with fruity pebbles on top! How come there isn’t a breast pump for non-moms called the “Fat-Sucker” on QVC?

Grow up!

“How can you slam dance after you realize the world is nobody’s fault?“

-Daniel Handler, in and article about a Metric concert in The Show I’ll Never Forget, paraphrasing a Spin article

Is part of maturing realizing that bad things usually happen because of forces beyond anyone’s control, or do we just wear down as we grow older? Is it growing up, or giving up?

A six hour tour

When I had a car, a typical commute home from Bedford to Arlington took about 20 minutes one way. Now that I take public transportation, the trip on the 351 bus and the walk from Alewife home generally takes about an hour.

Today, we had our first snowstorm of the year. People were leaving work early to try and avoid the expected mess. I had to wait until the first bus of the afternoon before I could go. That bus leaves the station at 3:15PM and gets to MITRE about 3:20.

When 3:10 arrived, I headed out to the bus stop. The snow was light and fluffy, but coming down heavily. Out on the road, I could see that traffic was hardly moving, so I expected that the bus might be late. I didn’t think it would be too late, because MITRE is not that far from the beginning of the route.

The bus didn’t show. The 351 runs every half hour, so I waited outside, hoping that the bus was just very late, or that the next one would arrive. 3:50 came around, and still no bus. I was starting to feel the cold and beginning to worry. A nine mile walk in the snow was possible, but would take hours. Commuter rail stops were just about as far away. A cab would be stuck in traffic for a long time, and be prohibitively expensive.

A little after 4PM, a Lowell Regional Transportation Authority (LRTA) bus came by, on its way to the Lahey Clinic via way of the Burlington Mall. I waved it down, figuring I could go to Lahey and double my chances of getting a bus to Alewife, as both the 350 and the 351 stop there. And I could get warm, at least for awhile.

I got on the bus, and settled down with my iPod and book. About a half hour later, we’d made it the mile or two to the mall. As we were waiting to turn in, the 350 bus coming the other way turned in ahead of us. I was hoping that we’d be able to catch up with the 350 and transfer over, but the two busses stopped in different places, so that didn’t work.

As we were leaving the mall lot, the 350 was coming out another exit and down Mall Road, also heading toward Lahey. Since traffic was moving so slowly, I jumped off the LRTA and ran over to the 350. When I got there, I could see that the bus was jammed full. People were packed in with no room to move. “Like sardines” is a cliché, but it was appropriate here. Even if they were letting more people on, I wasn’t going to spend the next two hours (or more, given the traffic) jammed in there, and they weren’t letting people on anyhow.

The LRTA bus was still hung up trying to get out of the mall lot, so I got back on for lack of anything better to do. I wasn’t going to be able to get on the 350 at Lahey, and who knew when the next bus would come by. Then the driver pointed out another LRTA bus heading the other way on Mall Road. It was running the same route, but was further along, so it was now an express heading back to the terminal in Lowell, where I could get the commuter rail. So I jumped out again, ran over, and got on the new bus.

This bus backtracked past MITRE (getting me back to where I’d started two hours earlier), then got on Rt. 3 North. We weren’t moving fast, and the lights in the bus were out so I couldn’t read, but at least the next stop was Lowell.

Or not. I could hear on the radio the dispatcher asking our driver to divert to cover another route that had been missed because of snow delays. Soon the bus pulled off Rt.3 and slowed down even more as it wound through North Billerica to bring in the stranded riders. At least some of the internal lights had come on, so I could read again while we crawled along, stopping once in awhile for accidents or to pick up cold, snowy passengers.

Finally, at about 6:45, we made it to the Lowell terminal. There was a 6:50 train to Boston scheduled, but it hadn’t arrived yet. That gave me time to go to the only source of food in the area, a Dunkin’ Dounuts stand. They were totally out of coffee (!) and most pastries, as it had been a long, busy day for them. The station is in a particularly desolate area of Lowell, so the only other option for travelers stuck there waiting was the stale food in the vending machines. I got a hot chocolate and one of the last bagels, and settled down to wait. There were three more trains scheduled, but the guy at DD had said the last one was two hours late, so I had no idea if I’d be getting home, or trying to find a hotel somewhere in town.

Luckily, the train arrived at about 7:15. The rest of the trip went by without incident, with the train getting to North Station about 8:15. I took the Green Line to the Red Line to Alewife, and then trudged the half-mile through the snow to get home. There, 10 inches of snow awaited me in the driveway, as did a washer full of wet clothes that need to be dried if I was to have anything to wear for my weekend trip to Vermont.

The whole trip took about six hours. I could have walked it in half that. Next time, I work from home.