Confessions of an Appy Man

It seems my hypocrisy knows no bounds. For years, I've railed against those who are slave to their Garmin. Look at me, I would say, I get by with a Timex I bought on clearance back when I first started running. I need not the wonders of GPS. I log my runs manually. Praise he who manages his running life with little use of modern niceties.

For shame, I have fallen from my Luddite perch.

Late last year, in the act of combining our lives in marriage, I dropped my old cellphone carrier and joined Mrs. Viper's plan. In the process, I upgraded to a smartphone with an Android platform and delved into the world of "apps." Lo and behold, I found a free one for running by MapMyRun, a website I've used for years to sketch out various routes.

For the last run of last year, I used the GPS app for the first time.

Tucked into the breast pocket of my vest, my phone is barely noticeable when I'm on the move. I set it and forget it, as they like to say on those infomercials. And Mrs. Viper likes it because she feels more comfortable knowing I have my phone in case of an emergency.

My wife would be an easy scapegoat for betraying my anti-technology stance, but the fact is the phone is just as convenient as running with my watch. I only fear what will happen when the weather is nicer and I don't have a suitable pocket to stow my phone. I'm against armbands or fanny packs. But I was once against GPS devices too.

Using the MapMyRun app has had other benefits as well. I have started using the site more to track my eating habits with the food log, which has helped me with that thing I'm not going to mention even if it's my own blog and I can write about whatever I want however much I want. Of course, I can also use my app to log my meals.

Sometimes it's difficult for me to admit the benefits of technology. I like simple things. I like old things. I need to realize it's OK for me to like new things too.

Maybe you Garmin people aren't so bad after all. Except Nitmos, he's the worst.

We Got the Funk

The first step is admitting you have a problem, and I've got one. I'm in the middle of running malaise -- a funk.

I went from 21 miles, to seven miles, to three miles, to no miles so far this week. I've logged back-to-back 20-mile weeks only once this year, and that was back in January. (Though I came close in March with a 19-mile week followed by 20 the next, but we all know close only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades.)

I have yet to run a race. The most involved post I've written about running this year (or maybe ever) was completely fabricated by my inner Jayson Blair.

I get home from work and usually prefer to snack than run. My only exercise of late has been two to three walks with Dobson. I no longer have the convenient excuse of bad weather.

I know this happens to us all. But it still sucks.

I need a shot ...

In the arm, not of whiskey.

Magnum Failus

Not to be confused with "Magnum Fallus" or "Magnum Phallus" or even Magnum condoms. This blog title is not a reference to our dear friend Biggus Dickus, but rather an indication about my big failure, which--OK fine--should actually be something like "Magnum Deficio," but my high school Latin classes were too long ago for such accuracy.

Bless me, runners, for I have slacked. My last run was 10 days ago. Instead, I have gift shopped, played my new banjo, holiday partied, indulged in liquid indulgence, lounged in front of a faux fireplace with the special ladyfriend, eaten too many cookies, eaten too many candies, eaten too many everything, opened a generous amount of gifts, felt somewhat guilty when some of those gifts were running related, felt less guilty after cracking open a booze related gift and looked upon a fine day for a run and opted to let this mileless streak ride. It appears that 1,000 miles will not happen this year.

Moving right along.

What'd I say up there? Oh, right, running related gifts. I got a RoadID, some reflective tape to make some of my running gear more night-worthy, Echo Kit sunglasses with interchangeable lenses (dark, yellow and clear) and Christopher McDougall's Born to Run.

That booze related gift? A fifth of Johnnie Walker Red Label. Tasty!

I hope the holiday gift-giving fairy was kind to all of you. Cheers!

Flashback Friday: Confessions of Concession

I hate admitting when idiots are right, but this is one of those few occasions.

First, the idiot accused me of whining about not running as I had planned over the weekend when I was stating the facts. And as I said then, I'm just not into running enough at the moment to go out in shitty weather.

But the fact remains that I have not been very motivated to run, and the idiot's recent post caused me to examine why.

One major reason is because unlike the last two years, I am not training for a race right now. In the past, my goodly employer paid my entrance fee to the Cleveland Marathon, but this year the economy has forced him to abandon that nice side benefit.

I was holding out hope for a while that the rumors weren't true, and I even considered running the full marathon for a time. I even started using the "training" tag in January. But as reality set in, so did my sloth.

Instead of running I have:

• Played my banjo a lot
• Gone wine tasting
• Seen Watchmen
• Gone to Opening Day
  
• Et cetera

It's been thrilling.

However, the nicer weather of late has gotten my running juices flowing again, but I still don't have a race to train for on my schedule. I'm going to post a DNB at Cleveland. Instead I'll explore some alternate races. Variety is the spice of life, as the man says.

Another trail run last night. It kicked my ass. Maybe if I'd run more often that wouldn't happen.

I'm still running without socks. Unibroue has been my flavor of late.

No Back Talk today.

Happy Hour is a state of mind, teammates. Have a good Friday and a fine weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers.

Protest Correction

I claimed that I would not run in temperatures of 20 degrees or lower. What I meant was temperatures in the 20s or lower.

Thanks to tfh for pointing out my error, else you might have checked the weather near me, which as of this posting was 24 degrees, and thought, "Whelp, I guess ol' Viper's gonna go run tonight."

Horsefeathers!

What I should have said was "29 degrees or lower" or more simply "below 30 degrees." And while I'm at it, I might as well amend my protest further and say that if the predicted high temperature is below freezing -- that's 32 degrees, for you nincompoops -- I'm not running.

So, in short. I will not be running tonight. I might run tomorrow. Only Goddard knows.

Where Have All the Good Shoes Gone?

My stomach has grown used to its semi-daily doses of naproxen sodium tablets. Today, the ankle is wrapped. My left ankle has felt beat up. I don't know why. I suppose it could be a result of this and this. But who knows, really? The pain could also be derived from old shoes.

Out to Pasture
In my bedroom, in my closet, on a shelf, a box of unworn Brooks Adrenaline shoes sits. This is my booty for running the Akron Marathon. But the box reminds me that my old Brooks are a year old and nearing retirement.

These shoes have served me well over 416 miles, on the good days as well as the bad, through training runs and races, delivering some memorable PRs and accompanying brilliant revelations. But their time has come.

I feel the shoes got a fair send-off, though, as I wore them on my 10-mile run in Cooperstown last weekend. I didn't know it when I picked them to accompany me on vacation, but the Brooks had one last long run in them. I'm glad it was that run.

Now, I'm wearing them around more. I think they know.

Screw 'em!
The paradox about retirement is that it is both a reward and a death sentence. You work long and hard for it to come, but when it does? You get a party, where your former coworkers introduce you to your young replacement, who reminds you how you'll spend the rest of your days as a useless slouch in a mind-crushing stupor before you shuffle loose this mortal coil.

Why do you think all those poorly treated Wal-Mart greeters are former retirees? They just want to have a purpose again, even if it's welcoming shoppers who coldly ignore them or handing out smily face stickers to children who pity their sad existence.

Retirement, otherwise known as pre-death.

I don't want that for my Brooks. I feel that they can still serve me well at short distances. Or, perhaps, they need a makeover. I have considered making screw shoes since last year, but I never had the guts to possibly ruin a pair of shoes.

When I discovered this procedure, my shoes were far too young. Perhaps the Brooks are willing to donate their soles to science.



The First Step
Yesterday, I received a comment from an anonymous coward reader, who informed me of a mistake in my Tuesday post. I wrote that I was running alongside Lake Otesaga when I was in Cooperstown. I was wrong.

The lake is Lake Otsego. The Otesaga is resort hotel that is on Lake Otsego, where I ate dinner one night. (Very good, but pricy.) I admit it, I didn't check my facts. I hope this confession absolves me of my sins. Or least that sin.

Flashback Friday: Chicked Sprited

There is something I have not told you. Something I left out of my recent race report. It happened during the final uphill of the course, the third mile.

I had seen this kid, who couldn't have been more than 15 years old, who earlier in the race blew past me with a haphazard stride. Now, he was walking on the side of the road. Of course, he started running again as I approached, sliding back into the pack a couple stridelengths ahead of me, but I still felt a boost of pride knowing I could catch up to someone almost half my age. Bum knee and all.

That giddy feeling vanished when I sensed a presence to my left. The kid felt it too. As the translucent girl bounced past me, the kid looked over his shoulder with a look of dread. He was about to feel what I felt. Perhaps worse, as I could tell he knew this sprite.

No, not that sprite. More like this ...



Her head reached no higher than my rib cage and I'm sure I had her beat by 100 pounds. She had one of those annoyingly efficient, effortless strides. How the hell do you compete with that? The kid picked up his pace, but he was already done for. In truth, I felt sorry for him. It may have been his first time. It wasn't mine. I'm sure it won't be the last. You get used to these things.

I saw the kid in the finishing corral. His face was flushed. I saw the sprite too. The kid approached the sprite without words but a look of defeat. My knee felt good.