Rejection from Econo Lube N Tune

I forgot to put lotion on my legs this morning. I could almost hear Buffalo Bill Gumb in my head:

It puts the lotion on its legs!

It puts the lotion on its legs or it gets static cling!

It’s annoying, but not the end of the world. I only mention this to tell you what kind of day it started out to be. Twice, once while driving to the train station and then again driving from the station to work, other drivers thought I was racing them. They must have, otherwise their sudden lane shifts, speeding up or down to keep me out of their lane, and swerving can only be interpreted as rudeness bordering on road rage.

I’m also taking an off day from running, so I have no endorphin high on which to stave off the general apathy and depression from this morning. I did this with the intent to get my truck lubed. I’m somewhat religious, though not in a praying at the alter, lighting candles and virgin sacrifes way, in lubing my truck. Virgins are hard to come by these days anyhow. I’ve had too many vehicles go out on me for lack of lube simply because I wanted to jam another dozen McDonald’s double cheeseburgers and accompanying fries down my gullet.

Mmmmmm cheeseburgers.

But I digress.

The old lube place I used to go to closed. Probably because their prices were ridiculously low, which is why I kept going. They closed without informing me, which, as their single most important customer, I found extremely unprofessional. Fortunately, as I was driving to the post office near my work, I found an even closer lube place, so all was forgiven.

Today, I jumped in my truck, eager to exchange my hard-won cash for their excellent service. My truck fairly roared to life even before I put the key in the ignition and turned. It lovingly, but in a non-gay way, caressed my buttocks as I slid into the driver’s seat. We were both very excited.

I pulled in to the lube place, saw that only one other car was being serviced, and smiled at my good fortune. Clearly, they knew that I would be coming today, and cleared their schedule in order to provide their utmost top quality to one who would join the ranks of their happily satisfied customers.

But what was this? As I pulled up, an attendant walked out of the main office and looked in my direction. I waved, and gave him a thumbs up, expressing my gratitude for all this company had done to make my first visit an experience to remember.

The attendant ignored me, looked around the parking lot for a moment, then sauntered (yes, he sauntered, it’s slightly more arrogant than sashaying) back into the office.

Perhaps he hadn’t seen my hearty wave hello. Perhaps my chummy thumbs-up was an insult in his country. He appeared caucasion, American, perhaps even from California.

I was baffled.

I pulled slowly toward one of the stalls, and waited a moment, peering hopefully out toward the office. I tried to see if the grease-jockeys were performing some kind of song-dance number that required their immediate attention before going back to their wonderful and fulfilling jobs of changing oil and lubing chassis.

Nothing.

My heart sunk to the floor, my truck felt deflated. The engine coughed, once, in a sulky way.

Then, behold, an attendant came forth. The same attendant who had earlier rejected my friendly tokens of goodwill. He came out, but did not open the chain that covered the entrance so that I might proceed in. He yelled something that I could not hear because the windows were up.

I smiled, rolled down the window and he repeated his question:

“What do you want?”

I looked around for hidden cameras, looked carefully at the signs that read “Econo Lube n Tune”, looked at the quarts of oil carefully and lovingly stacked against the walls, looked at the air-filters and grease-guns all in their assigned slots.

I looked back at the attendant.

“An oil change?”

Yes, I asked it as a question. Clearly, I was befuddled. Perhaps I has misinterpreted the signs and the advertisements, one of which stood directly in front of the attendant and read, “OIL CHANGE: $17.95”.

“Why do you yell at me?”

“What?”

“Why are you yelling?”

“Sorry, the engines on.”

“No. Why are you so mad? What do you want here?”

"An oil change?"

"What's all the yelling for?"

It was then my truck, thoroughly insulted, put itself into reverse gear and drove itself off the premises. I waved, kindly, to the attendant who continued to yell at me, and chased me to the corner why my truck’s superior speed and handling lost him in a crowd of pigeons.

Was he trying to not lose my business? Was he sad that my truck had left? Unusually embarrassed by his lack of understanding as to the needs that drove automobiles and drivers to his doorstop?

I will never know the truth, as my truck now refuses to go near the place.

But tomorrow, I will definitely use lotion.

No, Seriously . . .

Dateline November 20th, 2006 . . . a date that will live in infamy . . .

The above should be said in a Darth Vader-esque voice with sufficient omnipresent surround sound and appropriate god-like reverb.

So, I jumped on the treadmill, punched in my coordinates and took off. The first mile was the hardest. It wasn't physically challenging, per se, it was just that I wanted to run faster than the pace I was holding to: 10 minute miles.

If pressed, my 30-something body could probably clean a mile in under six and half minutes. The pressure would have to take the form of some sort of threat of physical harm coupled with some kind of time machine that would allow me to retrieve and use by 20-something body, but it could be done.

Once.

I would then die.

Painfully.

So starting out on a 6 mile tour, my body longed to kick it into high gear and go for the gold. That's the nice thing about a treadmill, no matter what your body thinks the ideal pace should be, the machine just ignores that and happily chugs along where it was set. I get the feeling that the tread would merrily go through the motions even if I wasn't standing ontop, running my little baboon heart out.

What a jerk.

But I digress. I started on my 6 mile adventure yesterday and moved through the motions nicely. My iPod sang sweetly in my ear (Killer Cuts from the old Killer Instinct videogame Eric and I used to play in college), my new running shoes cushioned my feet and I was off and running . . .

I hestitated above because I felt a semi-serious urge to add a "literally" after my statement. Generally, I abhor the use of that term as with exclamations points it is massively misused. However, the truth is that I was not metaphorically running. I might have been spiritually running, or even ethically running, but those were secondary to the actual, literal running I was doing.

So there, I said it.

As I was running, I thought over my previous post. It was more of a blog than the normal articles I prefer to write. An update on my otherwise boring and mundane, even pedantic life regarding an aspect that most people will either not care about or will care about only in relation to the periphery of thier own lives, giving thought only while the seconds tick down on their microwave toward the sweet satisfaction of industrial strength popcorn in a bag.

But I did think about it, because one of the concerns I have, asside from being more athletically capable, is my knees. Two knee surgeries and plenty of pain while moving (walking, biking, eating) will do that to a runner. So, having easily made it through my fourth mile and heading quickly to my fifth, I made a decision.

I haven't cleaned a full six miles in a single stretch in (yes, literally) years. My knees only recently became accessible again, and amiable to running any distance, let alone that of a 10K, even at sub-race pace. Further, I'm aware that my Johnny-cum-lately competitive streak often has me pushing my body when I should just work into the pace that I want. I'd like to think that's something I have in common with the legendary great Steve Prefontaine, but given that the guy once ran the 1500 meters in 3:38, asside from a love of the run, the drive to push a body beyond realistic limits is the only thing we would have in common.

So, there I was, coming up on mile five and thinking very hard about how doubling my normal workout distance, even at the sedate 10 minutes per, might actually be pushing my body too far again. My decision was to not push quite so hard. Six miles is six miles, and it will still be there tomorrow. In my mind I knew I could do it, and my body said it could do it too. The concern was that if I did it today, would I be able to do it tomorrow?

I strode up to the five mile mark, and then, began my cool down walk.

Today, my both my calves and my right leg are a little sore. It's a good sore. The kind of sore you know you earned and deserve. I could have gone the distance, and probably would have been just fine. I'd like to run 10Ks again, and be somewhat competitive in my age group. I'd like to set personal goals and beat my PRs race over race.

That's not going to happen with just three or four weeks of treadmill training. I've trained up to race paces in the past, and been competitive, even with knee injuries and whatnot. I know what it takes and I know there is some pushing that needs to occur. I also know, that I need to be mindful of my knees.

But sitting on my shoulder, swinging his cleated feet, my own personal Pref is whispering, "The best pace is a suicide pace, and today is a good day to die."

Yuck, Sweat

I've been cleaning three to three and a half miles every day since I joined my gym. I call it mine because it's the one I go to. If I called it yours, it would likely be a lie because most of you either live outside of California or don't own a gym.

So that would be silly.

Anyhow, three and a half miles, and generally I push to keep my splits below nine minutes each, which means I have a 27 minute run and then about 13 minutes of cool down.

It's still not enough. I get off the treadmill and look like an extra from the second half of Titanic. Not one of those that made it to a life boat either. After that I stand in a reasonably cool shower for another five minutes, and still, as I trudge across the tile floor, I'm sweating.

Not certain if that's a good thing or not, but there it is. I spend the next hour at work with extremely good posture so that I'm not leaning against the back of my chair. Fortunately, my office is run by penguins, so it's always just slightly above absolute zero.

Anyhow, I think part of the problem is that as a former competitor, I like to push. If someone next to me is running their treadmill faster than mine, I feel the need to push mine faster than their's.

It's silly, and worse, it's likely to reinjure my knees.

Of course, now I might be able to get my bionic knees like I always wanted, and then I won't have to go, "Dunnnnuhhhuuunnnnuuhhhhh!" while I'm running.

But I digress. I think today I'm just going to run out at 10 minute miles the entire time and try to clean five miles today. It's short of my immediate goal, which is to get back in shape to clean a 10k (6.2 miles . . . yes, the .2 matters). But it will be a decent test and since nothing is going on at work anyhow . . .

Addicted

Endorphins baby, yeah!

Since I’m a runner I’m aware of the “runner’s high”. While it can’t be compared with, say, cocaine or black tar heroine, it has none of those pesky side effects like emaciated weight-loss, lengthy prison sentences or death.

Last week, while I did some mega-running (literal not actual) around and time away from work, I was able to pick up a new set of running shoes. The irony was so palpable that I bottled the extra and sold it to people who lack a sense of humor.

Mostly Republicans and those living in Michigan.

My old shoes had protested their abuse, which can be read in the novel they released “I Left My Heart on the Treadmill” and they are now out on a book tour. Their replacements are some kind of New Balance running show that I’m quite impressed with. I’m not enough of a runner to warrant a set of Nike supreme-blessed-by-God-Himself shoes that run close to $200, although I wish I was. Instead, I went to our local Shoe Central, a warehouse type affair that operates under the prevailing philosophy of: You’re lucky you got through the door for free.

Their prices are reasonable, but their selection is pretty hit or miss. Indeed, at times their selection is akin to that of the Good Will. You might find the shoe you’re looking for, but it won’t be in your size or the condition that you would prefer.

Anyhow, Friday I had off, so Lil and I went running, but I hadn’t been able to run the two days before that, or the two days since.

Today, my body is going into a kind of drug-addicts withdrawal. I can’t think of anything but scoring 30 minutes on the tread mill. My hands shake except when I tie my shoe laces. Some guy saw me sweating and offered me a pair of Adidas that had “fallen off a truck”.

He seemed like a nice guy, which is probably why the police wanted to shake his hands. Both of them. Behind his back.

So today, I’m ready to run. My train-friend, Tim, asked me what I was running for? I related the stand-by runner’s joke:

Two guys were walking in the woods when a bear jumped out at them and began to chase them. Suddenly, one of the men stopped and started to tie his shoe lace.

“Dude! What are you doing?” cried his friend who also stopped.

“I don’t have to outrun the bear,” the friend replied. “I just have to outrun you!”

That’s me, baby! Yeah!

Jim Morrison Would Be Proud

You know, the day destroys the night.

The night divides the day.

Try to run, try to hide.

Break on through to the other side.

Break on through to the other side!

The Doors "Break on Through"

For some reason, and I can't say why, recently Morrison-twanging lyrics from The Doors have been running through my head. I have no idea why this is occuring. Could it be that Jim Morrison's spirit has visited me every night in an attempt for me to promote a really big rock-n-roll show? Is it the fact that my homage-poster/shrine to the fallen poet-cum-pop star is now complete with an original lock of each band member's hair? Or is it perhaps the new tattoo that I recently obtained on my chest of the L.A. Woman album cover?

No, it is none of these things, because those are all lies.

However, it might be because on Friday, when I mounted up on the treadmill, everything in my body functioned properly and without pain. Better than that, it functioned as The Flying Spaghettie Monster originally intended. Even better still was the fact that two weeks ago, I could barely clean 2 miles in my 35 minutes workout. But last Friday, I cleaned 3.25 miles without nearly the same exhaustion and paramedic-calling that previously occured.

Yeah, sure, I'm not the Olympic hopeful that I might once have been, but I'm bringing my negative-splits back down to where I can actually run with my head held high. This is also a good thing because running with your head down will guarentee a sudden and unexpected end to your daily run with a tree, lampost or Mack truck.

Boy was that driver surprised.

But I'm not plugging my gym for this because, for me, fitness just is. I haven't seen anything in any of the many gyms I've belonged to, to indicate that the pressence of equipment, trainers or even monthly fees/dues/membership-priviledge-tokens induces anyone to work harder.

The opposite is also true.

Lack of such does not a fat, slob, twelve-sandwich eating, couch-potato make. For example, I read a blog, every now and then, called Fat Girl to Triathlete. Reading through, though, I can't recall ever seeing her mention a particular health club that she has attested her new, trim, sensual-self to. Her trick? Her secret to a slimmer, younger-looking you?

Ok, come close.

No, no, closer.

Here it is: She reduced caloric intake. Right, got that? And, ok, she increased caloric output.

No, seriously. That's what it is. She tracks her intake and exercises. It's a pain, I understand, but there it is.

Now, I've never been fat, and I'm not likely to become the traditional sense of the term "fat". In part, this is because my damaged body won't let me. My metabolism has remained at a constant Furnace of Hell calorie-buring level, and even if I eat less, because I'm full faster, I would actually have to work at it, Homer Simpson-style, to achieve any size of any proportion that would begin to label me as "fat". So, to that end, I can't really empathize with folk who have a lower metabolism or who's bodies naturally store fat better than mine.

On any given pioneer trail, I would have died first, quickly and not had anything worthwhile to throw in the pot for the others.

But I can certainly share in that triumphant moment when a traitorous body acquiesces to the demands of a mind that no longer wants to be out of shape.