Knowing When to Quit

Pain is one of the best teachers we runners have. If you feel it, you're doing something wrong. Last night's trek home from work taught me a few cruel lessons.

Yesterday was hot and humid with thunderstorms in the forecast. Rain would have provided a welcome relief, but the clouds never cracked while I was out there sweltering. My scenic trek included two long stretches without much cover from the sun.

I was prepared to hydrate properly, sucking down water at work and carrying my handheld on the run. I was not prepared with proper fuel. Lunch did not provide enough calories to power my body for almost three hours.

My legs started to cramp by the 10th mile or so. The run was supposed to be 16 miles, but I'd had enough at 14. The heat, humidity and lack of proper fueling had gotten the better of me. After trying to climb the Memorial Parkway hill back home, I swallowed my pride and called the Enthusiast for a ride.

I knew I made the right decision when I got home. I grabbed a granola bar and started mixing a protein shake while I drew a cool bath. I was feeling hot and lightheaded and nauseous. I needed to cool down and consume some calories fast.

There was a rare Coca-Cola in the fridge, and I asked the Enthusiast to bring it to me as I stumbled to the bathtub. Within a few moments, my temperature was down and the cold cola had revived my energy.

Sometimes we all need a reminder of how to prepare for a run.

Bad Blood, Good Beer

As you can imagine, I've just about had it with all the LeBron James news. I wasn't even going to mention his leaving Cleveland for Miami, but then the news became relevant to Booze Hounds. Great Lakes Brewing Co. will release a LeBron-themed beer to commemorate the Cavaliers' former star player.

Behold: Quitness! Described as "really bitter" ale, this brew will only be available at the Great Lakes brewpub for a limited time.

[Drunkard's note: Thanks to Gin for the link.]

Cleveland: Where You Might Win

The Cleveland Marathon was Sunday, and people you've never heard of won. Some bloggers whom you might have read also ran.

The race directors have continued to improve the race over the past few years. The marathon and half marathon races sold out for the first time in 33 years. However, despite the increased popularity, the race doesn't draw the big names. That said, Cleveland could be the place where you win.

Women, if you can run a marathon in less than three hours, you have a real chance of winning in Cleveland. For the men, if you can get under 2:30, you're in the hunt. Likewise, the half marathon winners finished in 1:12 for the men and 1:20 for the women. The 10-K is the event you have to watch out for, as that race draws the Kenyans and Ethiopians -- but still nobody you've heard of before.

It seems that the Cleveland Marathon is the only sporting event in the city where the local athletes win.

Ohioans took five podium spots in the marathon and half marathon, winning the men's and women's marathons and women's half marathon, and placing second in the women's marathon and men's half marathon.

Yet, for some reason, I seem to be advocating for outside competitors to come make life miserable for the homegrown runners. I guess I'm just used to watching the home team lose.

Flashback Friday: Who Concussed Tim Couch?

I bailed on a cold run last night in favor of a warmer weekend weather forecast, frailed on my banjo for an hour, and sat down to watch something that hadn't happened since 2003. The Browns of Cleveland beat the Steelers of Pittsburgh for the first time in six years, snapping a 12-game losing streak to the black and gold jerks.

The last time this happened, the Brown's field general was Tim Couch, a vaunted college quarterback out of Kentucky who came to the Browns to end his playing days by getting sacked 166 times in 62 games between 1999 and 2003. Couch's legacy in Cleveland is not his win-loss record, but a tearful post-game interview he gave after suffering a concussion.

Cleveland fans will say that a win over Pittspuke always matters, but this win actually does in this case. The Browns doubled their wins and likely knocked the Steelers out of the playoffs after winning the Super Bowl last year. Take that!

Now, about that running ...

Back Talk
Wherein we eschew running fashions for fashion runways.

XC2 is among the legions of women who drool over the thought of my tights-encased legs: "Men in tights. Got to love it!"

Answer: They're real. And they're spectacular.

GeorgiaSnail helpfully expands my running fears: "From the looks of your fun temp. gauge to the right displaying 32 degrees currently, I would say you also might want to beware of ice patches...."

Answer: I expect to be donning my YakTrax soon for the first time this season.

The warming intoxicants of Happy Hour are nearly upon us, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well.

Belly Stretching

Tomorrow is my favorite holiday. Gather ye loved ones and liquor. Nothing feels quite as merry as Thanksgiving. Friends in from out of town. Family gathered to feast. The kitchen aromas tantalizing your nose. Beverages in hand. Football teams I don't care about playing games that actually appear competitive in comparison to the Cleveland Browns. It is a perfect day. Perfect, except for the snow in the forecast, that is.

You must have a powerful hunger and a mighty thirst if you intend on making this holiday a success. Your belly must be well stretched, yet you must burn off the calories you take in during the stretching process to ensure a proper appetite.

Today, eat a hearty lunch and dinner, and go for a moderately long run. Then, tomorrow morning, eat a small breakfast (try oatmeal) and go for a short run. If you do nothing after your run until the time the bird is served, you'll be ravenous. That's where your trusted beverologist comes into play. The perfect aperitif will stave off the hunger pangs without taking up valuable bowel space, allowing you to perform up to your consumptive abilities come feeding time.

I find that a crisp white wine does wonders while I'm waiting for the dinner bell. You may find that a light cocktail or a bold beer does the trick for you. Regardless of your flavor, enjoy your holiday. Except for you foreigners, no turkey for you.

Flashback Friday: the Hopeful Time

EVERYTHING LOOKS GREAT today as I ponder the near enough future. I have a solid plan for my upcoming races. My training has been the best it's ever been. My legs feel great. There's a batch of Dogfish Head Punkin Ale and Bell's Third Coast in the fridge just awaiting. My favorite season is blowing in from the northwest. The Browns don't suck yet. I've got a guy building me a banjo. Life is good. What could be better than right now?

How about a track session without a FAIL? No such luck. Here is the statistical rundown:

• Intervals: 10x 800 meters
  
• Goal pace: Sub-3:35 per interval (7:13 per mile)
  
• Fastest Lap (1): 3:16.7 (6:34 per mile)
  
• Slowest Lap (8): 3:39.46 (7:21 per mile) FAIL
• Average pace: 3:29.92 (7:00 per mile)
  
• Total distance: 9.2 miles

[Drunkard's note: Total distance includes one mile warm up, 400-meter recovery laps and one mile cool down.]

That one bad lap pisses me right off! When I crossed the line for 800 meters, my only thought was, Why am a coasting already? I passed another runner with about 50 meters to go and acted like that was the interval. Not having enough gas is one thing, but that was just weak.

A Solemn Flashback
Today's weather is exactly how it was eight years ago, cloudless and crisp. Nothing ominous about it. I was driving a bus. I had a tape in the deck to avoid annoying morning radio. I got off work at 9 a.m.

I went into the campus library, and one of my old coworkers said, "Did you hear we're at war now?" I had no idea what he was talking about.

I went to my class. The professor sent us home to be with our families. My mom works on campus, so I walked to her office. Then I went to the journalism building, where all the superstar student reporters were in a frenzy. There are only so many times you can watch that TV footage.

I felt like I needed to do something. I called the bus service and asked if they needed help. I went back to where my day started and helped keep the buses running as students left classes and were trying to get back to their cars or dorms.

At one point two military jets roared overhead. I wonder now if they were headed toward Pennsylvania, as there was still that one plane left. It's an empty feeling to remember so well.

Back Talk
Wherein like enough serious stuff because you'll get that everywhere today.

Nitmos thinks my half marathon goals need some mental fortitude: "Why not just beat 2 hours to boost your confidence and stop all of this wishy-washy 'couple minutes here, couple minutes there' crap? You did this last year in 1:49! Beat 2 hours. Pocket the confidence. Keep focused on the marathon. Plus, I don't want to read the inevitable 'well, I just missed my half goal by a minute so now I'm not sure about the full marathon goal.' Do it. Best wishes."

Answer: What can I say? Even a broken clock is right twice a day. Unless your broken clock is a Garmin. Then it's just a useless, overpriced ornament with a blank face.

The good news now that you've made it to the bottom of this post is that Happy Hour is upon us. Have a finely brewed weekend and good luck to my fellow racers. (Special shout-out to the biker companion who is running the Buckeye 5-K for the hoodie.) Run well and drink well, teammates. Cheers!

Drink, Recovery, Run, Drink, Recovery Run

Success! Last you heard, I was preparing my liver and legs for a series of powerful performances for the Flag Day weekend. I wanted to make sure I got my birthday drinks in, but I didn't want to miss any training runs.

Friday evening was a gathering of my cronies at the local, cheap Mexican eatery, Mariachi Coco's. I ordered myself a giant Dos Equis as everyone arrived. I ate a bean burrito and rice to lay down as good of a base as possible before the sponsored drinks started to arrive.

First was another giant Dos Equis. Then the restaurant staff filed behind me with a sombrero. One of them placed a shot of tequila before me as the group sang "Feliz Cumpleaños." Within minutes of downing the complimentary shot, the erratic epicurean bought me another. And then the Martini bought me a third.

Flashforward to more good times. The erratic epicurean invited the 12 or so of us to her place for an aftermath party. Martini got me again with a flask full of Bushmills, while I revisited the goodness of Great Lakes Glockenspiel. From there, it was only a hop, skip and a jump to Blackout Isle.

Saturday morning disappeared mostly before I awoke, killing my hopes of running that morning. Plans took me to Cleveland for an artsy parade and an afternoon baseball game. I took the hair of a dog that didn't bite me with a late lunch at the Winking Lizard downtown. After Albert Pujols single-handedly beat the Clevelanders, I was ready to run.

I got home at about half past eight, quickly changed into my running gear and headed out to Sand Run for five miles at eight to nine-minute miles. Darkness consumed the park and I felt like a drunkard as I misstepped my way along the crushed limestone path. I finished the run with an average pace of 8:36 per mile.

Sunday was the big day. Lots of plans -- both known and unknown -- filled my afternoon and evening. I had to get my long run done that morning with less than 12 hours of rest. I ran 10 miles in the Cleveland Metro Parks and absolutely killed it. I finished with a 9:02-per-mile pace, a two-minute negative split and a final mile of 7:50.

The rest of Sunday was filled with relaxing, barbecuing and surprise birthday partying, which was orchestrated by the polka-dotted queen of secrets herself. We partied into the late hours, and I was happy I had at the last minute decided to take a vacation day Monday.

I slept in yesterday and got some errands done before heading out for a three-mile recovery run.

After a weekend of serious drinking and strong running, today, my liver and my legs are taking a break. Cheers!

Oh, Hey, It's Been Two Years

In the day-late-dollar-short department, I've been blogging now for two years as of May 10. Exciting, isn't it?

But wait, there's more!

I'm feeling a bit under the weather after a temperature drop these past couple days.

I didn't run last night, but I hope to later this evening after dinner.

Regardless, I will not back off my weekly mileage goal.

The Cavaliers swept the Atlanta Hawks out of the NBA Playoffs.

The Indians pretended like they knew how to play baseball last night, but the only baseball I watched last night was Inning 1 of Ken Burns's Baseball.

This is my Raison D'Etre.

That is all.

Twice Baked Bastard

The weather turned hot this weekend with temperatures in the high 70s and 80s. Hitherto this heat wave, the temperature had only reached the mid-70s. The first hot runs always drain me more than I anticipate.

The lesson this weekend: Re-institute proper hydration before, during and after runs.

Friday evening, before reveling in the dominance that is a 51-ounce plastic bottle of Baltika No. 9 and Cavaliers basketball, I tried to knock out a few more miles toward my monthly goal.

I had just run six miles Thursday night at a 9:05 clip. I thought I would go for a trail run because trails have lots of trees and trees mean shade and shade means I'd be less hot.

Trails also tend to have more hills and steeper slopes, which mean more exertion, which means more hot.

I ran just under five miles at a 12:00 mile pace. I felt destroyed and many times had to take walk breaks. The heat owned me.

I fared much better on Sunday, but it was still a hot one. I wanted to run eight miles, but I cut it short to six because of the heat.

This time I was smarter, realizing I need to acclimate to the summer-like weather. I started at 10:33 per mile for the first half, but kicked it into 8:44 pace to finish at 57:50 for an overall pace of 9:38.

After my run, I found a great sale on a Unibroue four-pack sampler. I bought two and watched the Cavs finish off a four-game sweep of lowly Detroit in Round 1 of the NBA Eastern Conference Playoffs while the Tribe avoided a three-game sweep by beating Minnesota.

Today, the Indians start a three-game series against the Red Sox, so I'm sure I'll hear from Boston's annoying fans.

This weekend capped off my first 20-mile week in five weeks. I have 16 more miles to go if I'm going to beat last month's tally of 57.

[Drunkard's note: For the record, I do count partial miles in the overall monthly tally, but I won't count 57.1 miles as a success. It has to be at least 58.]

Boston Billy, Barefoot and Blisters

***DRUNKARD'S SPOILER ALERT: Finally, for those readers who have been waiting to get a glimpse of the Viper, your day has arrived. See the bottom of this post.***

There is some race today. Some magazine is covering it live online.

Some of you have probably read in that very same magazine about the possible return of the that same race's legendary four-time winner, "Boston Billy" Rodgers. At the end of that article, which ran in the most recent issue of that magazine, you were left hanging with the question of whether Rodgers would actually run that race. Well, if you haven't learned elsewhere, he is. He probably won't win.

Robert Cheruiyot is the defending winner. Ryan Hall is the American favorite to save us Yanks from the tyranny of East African marathoners. Kara Goucher plays the same U.S. savior role on the women's side. I'll be rooting for my comrade in facial hair and prophet of sockless running, Brian Sell.

If you got this far and you're feeling like I half-assed this portion of the post (which I did), you can get a proper lead-up to this somewhat notable race at the Science of Sport, which really breaks shit down proper-like with way more numbers and graphics than I'm capable of fabricating.

DRUNKARD'S UPDATE: It's over. Ryan Hall and Kara Goucher each finished third in their respective races. Hall should have worn a wig and entered as a woman. He would have destroyed those girls. Brian Sell finished 14th. Bill Rodgers finished in 4:06:49--my new time to beat.

Hey, Detroit


Go Cavs!

Get Lost
Why is it that the scenery looks different when you're on foot compared to when you are driving in a car? I decided to run a different route through some of the the West Akron neighborhoods and in the process got lost when I missed a turn.

What I hoped would be another mile or so became another two miles or so. No matter. It was 71 degrees and I was enjoying another sockless run. The sun felt good on my skin, and the new terrain was fun to explore, albeit disorienting.

However, I have learned a lesson. My silver and red New Balance 767s don't seem to agree with my bare feet.

And now a new photo of me:


Who wants breakfast?

Faulty Forecasting

I was wrong Friday. Shocker, I know.

I did run three miles on Thursday night, but I did not run at all on Friday. It rained, and I'm not into running enough at the moment to go out in such weather.

The rain didn't let up until well after I left the ballgame after sitting through halfway through the top of the fifth inning (three-hour rain delay). Those pansies wussed out just five outs shy of a regulation game.

It was disappointing that I didn't get to see the finish, but there is no better way to spend an afternoon than at the ballpark with good company. I don't care if it's raining or my team loses. It's worth it to smuggle Cracker Jacks into my mouth underneath a giant blue poncho.

I ran a little under five miles on Saturday, veering off my usual beaten path to run some rough trails. I need to do more of that. The usual routine bores me shitless anymore.

Flashback Friday: Too Good to Be True

I'm not here. This message is coming to you from yesterday.

I planned to run three miles last night and six to eight miles this morning. I have no idea if I succeeded.

Today is Cleveland's home opener for Major League Baseball. I will be there on the first base side. I hope the rain clears ... that is, if it is indeed raining right now as it was forecast last night when I wrote this.

Don't worry. I won't kill any pitchers.

Back Talk
Because you left me comments, I will be snarky about it and pass it off as wit.

Ted has been tracking my track sessions: "Your pacing improved. You are getting faster. Have you been cutting down on beer lately?"

Answer: Yes, I've been drinking wine instead. It's like Gatorade, only more alcoholic.

An anonymous commenter doesn't get me: "OK explain to me how to do intervals - don't like pain - so why?????"

Answer: It's easy. You just run in circles as fast as you can until you can't take it anymore. Why? It's better than a good flogging.

It is Happy Hour somewhere. Enjoy your weekend. Run well and drink well.

And happy holidays to those who celebrate. Cheers.


[Drunkard's note: If you couldn't tell from the conspicuous logo at the bottom left corner of the above images, they were nabbed from someecards.com.]

Flashback Friday: No Snow, but Cold Again

It's amazing how quickly your body can get used to warm weather. Despite months of freezing temperatures and a long spell of sub-zeros, two days in the 60s has meekened my mettle.

Instead of hammering away on the pavement, I have elected to clawhammer away on my banjo. Instead of running shoes on my feet, I have been running plays on Tecmo Bowl Kickoff.



My mileage might be suffering, but at least Cleveland is having a winning season. So far.

Back Talk
Wherein, you know, I talk back.

Ms. V. saw someone imitating me last weekend: "We did the Davis 5K, and when we were parking, this guy was doing a Viper Snot Rocket."

Answer: I hope, for your sake, you don't mean this Viper Snot Rocket.

TFH approves of my poetic run: "That sounds considerably more pleasant than getting trapped in a T.S. Eliot poem. Better Leaves of Grass than Wasteland."

Answer: Agreed. Been there, done that.

Happy Hour cannot arrive soon enough! Defile yourselves this weekend, teammates. You deserve it. Run well and drink well.

Flashback Friday: Horse Face Futility

Last night, the NFL Network was kind enough to remind me why I hate Colorado, the city of Denver, the sports teams that reside there, and especially the Broncos and that horse-faced former quarterback, John Elway. (Not to mention the fact that the people who live in that state are slow.)

During its coverage of the Denver-Cleveland game last night, the NFL Network showed highlights of how, 21 years ago, that dick Elway helped instill in me the proper, dysfunctional attitude and apoplectic flinching that accompanies watching your teams climb to within reach of the absolute height of success.

And then fail, dismally.

I, as a Viper pup, sat at my papa's knee and watched the Cleveland Browns play Denver in the AFC playoffs, one game away from the Super Bowl, a game in which Cleveland has never played because the first Super Bowl was in 1967 and the team's last championship was in 1964.

On that day in January, Cleveland was ahead 20-13 in the fourth quarter and had Denver pinned deep in its own territory with five minutes remaining when Elway rattled off a series of plays that became known as The Drive.

Cleveland lost. It was stunning. A season that was so exciting to watch had suddenly and quite finally ended. And then, I uttered those fateful words, "Maybe next year."

Next year has never come.

I have since watched the Browns leave Cleveland for Baltimore in 1995, return in 1999 in absolute dismal fashion, with only two winning seasons in that time, one of them last year, when it looked like just maybe this team might become respectable again, only to look like dog -- oh, I'm sorry -- dawg turds again this year, as they looked last night. Maybe next year.

I have seen the Cleveland Indians go from a team that was so bad they made movies about it, to a team that, in a new, record-settingly full ballpark, reached and lost the World Series twice in the 1990s, one time just two outs away from winning the whole damned thing, then all those players left Cleveland for bigger paychecks (bon voyage, Albert; bye, Jim; see ya, Manny), while the Indians got "rebuilding years," until last year when I saw the team win its last post-season game, putting them one win away from another chance to lose the World Series, only to lose three straight games to Boston, which won the Series, something Cleveland has not done since 1948, when ironically the team beat both Boston teams. This was supposed to be their year. Maybe next year.

I have seen the Cleveland Cavaliers, a team that has never won a championship in its existence, a team that in the late 1980s to mid-1990s was one of the best basketball teams in the league, a team that unfortunately had to play against a guy named Michael Jordan, who played in the same conference and prevented the Cavs from ever reaching the NBA Finals, eventually leading the team to break apart and fall into such futility that I stopped watching basketball altogether, until the team was so bad that it got the first pick in the 2003 draft and selected Akron-born phenomenon, LeBron James, who has returned the team to success, taken them to the playoffs three consecutive years, to the NBA Finals in 2006-07, losing to the San Antonio Spurs, returning to the conference finals again last year, only to lose, of course, to Boston. This is supposed to be their year. Maybe this is next year?

I have seen The Drive, The Fumble, The Shot, The Move, The Blown Save. I have seen coaches and players leave Cleveland to win championships elsewhere. (Oh, hi Jim, Manny, Bill and Ron! Thanks for joining, Charlie!) I have seen hope dashed, smelled its decayed flesh, and tasted its rancid bitterness.

I watch sports not thinking my team will win, but knowing it will figure out a way not to. I cheer for players who are rumored to be on the first flight out of Cleveland when their contract is through. I wincingly root for teams that I'm scared will build me up just to let me down (let me down) and mess me around and then worst of all (worst of all) they never call, baby, when they say they will (say they will) but I love them still.

I am a Cleveland sports fan. And I know why they brew good beer with 10 percent ABV.

This is my baggage. Thank you for listening.

Back Talk
Wherein I'm just too angry at my local sports team to be all that clever in response to your comments this week, but it doesn't matter because your comments are never all that good anyway.

Marcy thinks everyone whose name starts with V looks the same and admits to a perverted fetish for odors: "Are you and Vanilla the same person? You both said the SAME damn thing in your comments HAHAHHAAA I'm anal about smelling. I also put deodorant on before bed."

Answer: No, Vanilla and I are not the same person. I'm the faster and better looking one, whose only children are illegitamate. I also know how to copy and paste. Please keep the anal smelling talk off my site.

Xenia has some advice in regards to my not running: "Let's see -- you have poor eyesight, a propensity to drop your pants, and somehow hurt your leg while scooting closer to your desk. Perhaps if you laid off that extra-curricular activity of yours, you'd be able to run. Just saying."

Answer: Next, your going to tell me that forearm soreness is not a common running injury.

Ms. V shows why she is a good teacher: "Okay, I know it looks like we've been on your blog for like, 15 minutes, but seriously, my 5th period class spent all this time watching Soul 2 Soul and explaining to me that it's a REALLY old group.

"I'm like, NO, this guy that put this up is really young and hip. Except for the fact that you're experiencing some age related aches and pains."

Answer: My SiteMeter clocked you at 13:48. I'm glad to see your students are learning under the influence of my alcoholy writing. I'm a premium role model.

Thanks for stopping by everyone. I'm sorry if your comments didn't get the treatment you felt they deserved. Maybe next year.

Happy Hour is nearly upon us. I hope you brew a fine weekend for yourselves. Run well and drink well. Cheers.

Booze Hound 2.1

Well, the critics have spoken. I wasn't happy with my now-old new template. The so-called "Snapshot Tequila" was not 100 percent agave. We were asking for Petron and getting Tequiza instead.

Now, we've disposed of the colors. Thanks again to Xenia for her suggestions. I like grayscale. (Drunkard's personal note: The Viper is notoriously colorblind. In a past life as a professional driver, I had to take a color test along with a physical. I failed so bad they had to bring out three colored lightbulbs to make sure I could distinguish red, yellow and green.) I may fiddle some more with the shading. Let me know if anything is difficult to read. Thanks for chiming in.

Cavs, Beers Prevail


That's about how the pitchers of Labatt Blue went down.

Tonight, intervals!

F#CK.

Thanks for ruining my weekend Boston (and you too Vanilla). This heartbreaking Cleveland loss in the ALCS shall go down as "the choke" or "the stop sign" or perhaps "the curse of Joel Skinner."

However, baseball was the only reason for my cussing this weekend. I got back on the roads Sunday with a 30-minute run. No route in mind. I just ran until my timer went off and turned back toward home. Sometimes those can be the best runs. Running without direction or regimen.

Obviously, the world was glad to have me back. One kindly old lady aimed her car for a friendly bumper nudge. And I swear I heard a faint cat call from the window of a passing SUV. It's good to be missed. And this morning only a little soreness. But it's not the hip pain I was feeling before. This is more like the soreness of muscles that aren't used to moving so much. I even played with my big green bouncy ball again. Without falling!

It's time to get back into race shape. There's the Home Run for the Homeless, a four-mile race on Thanksgiving morning (read: hungover). And Martini is baiting me with an ultra in January. Apparently, he thinks we'll be able to train for a 50K during the typically mild Ohio winter. All I have to do is ramp back up to my marathon training in a couple weeks and then double the mileage. I'm sure it'll be fine. Good times! Now I can get back to writing about running instead of that rambling nonsense I posted Friday.

Beer Healing

I decided last night that I would not in fact go for a run. My knee didn't feel all that bad, but it was sticky balls hot outside and iced knee sounded better than icked knee.

What I did do was engage in two of my favorite non-running like an idiot activities. I grabbed my keys and went down to the pub where I plunked myself down in front of the projection screen TV to watch baseball and asked the kind barmaid for a draft beer.

It's been awhile since I've gone to the bar by myself, and I don't often get the chance to watch a game. I am of bare pocketbook and no cable so I usually just listen to the radio broadcast and wait for the highlights during the news.

But last night seemed special. I am near payday so a little $10 beer holla seemed like a cost-conscious splurge and the Cleveland Indians were about to sweep the Minnesota Twins in a three-game series with the grand finale that wasn't between C.C. Sabathia and Johan Santana. Basically, the game was over after the first inning, which ironically I listened to on the radio while I was eating my dinner at home. But despite not seeing too much action it was still a nice treat.

And we can just call it carb-loading for my eight-miler tonight.

Marathon Countdown: 29 days.