The Quest for Peace

Lately, my temper has run rampant. Unmet expectations build frustration. Dobson barks. I tell him to stop. He doesn't. I get mad. I want to drive fast to work. I get behind a slow driver. I get mad. The time crunch hasn't helped. I'm stressing myself out.

During this morning's spell of road rage, I had one of those moments. You know the ones, where you actually see yourself acting like a jackass. "This is not the person I want to be," I thought to myself as I held up my middle finger to the gentleman who executed a tight passing maneuver over a double yellow line to leapfrog me and then the guy who was driving 35 mph in a 45 mph zone.

Boiled down, my frustration arises from not being able to do what I want do. The Tao Te Ching says, "Acting with no expectations, leading and not trying to control: this is a supreme virtue." Or as my grandma would say, "Hope in one hand, shit in the other, and see which one gets filled first."

The lesson is the same: I can't control what happens. I might as well make peace with that. It's time for an attitude adjustment.

Quitness Sells Out

So much for drowning my tears in the latest local beer. I reported Tuesday that Great Lakes Brewing Co. was releasing a limited edition beer to commemorate Cleveland's most recent sports related misery. Great Lakes tapped Quitness yesterday afternoon. It sold out last night.

Flashback Friday: Two-a-Day and 'Where the Fuck Are Your Shoes?'

The lumbering hiker was squeezing under a fallen tree on the trail at Hampton Hills last night as I approached from the other direction. As soon as he saw my feet, he started acting like a bully.

Him: "Where the fuck are your shoes?"
Me: "Left them in the car."
Him: "Here, let me step on your feet so you don't make that mistake again."
Me: "Yeah, OK."

Then he told me to find the fucking park ranger and tell him to grab a fucking chainsaw and clear the fucking tree from the path. Had it not been for that fucking tree, I could have just blown past him and ignored his jackass comments. "By the way, it's clear the rest of the way," he said as I climbed through the fallen foliage and left him to swear at his silent wife and dog.

I was more concerned with the sharp pebbles on this part of the trail, trying to avoid stepping on the ground so it wouldn't hurt. The hills (and perhaps my five-miler yesterday morning) had tired my legs, making it difficult to maintain a high foot turnover rate. I longed for the smooth, soft soil awaiting my feet at the end of the run.

I finished the circuit three minutes faster than I ever have barefoot or in my Hippie Shoes (aka huaraches), and I was 30 seconds faster than I was in shoes this year--and possibly ever. When I emerged from the woods, I saw the profane hiker sitting on a picnic table with his wife and dog. I walked confidently across the gravel parking lot to my car. He kept his fucking mouth shut.

Back Talk
Wherein we set the bar only as high as it needs to be to beat our previous best.

Our Comrade BrianFlash thinks my marathon race pace goal shouldn't be too fast or too slow, but just right: "I like the Surgei Bubka approach to setting PRs--beat each one by a whisker so you can set another during the next race.

"I say--go 3:59:59!"

Answer: It seems I've inadvertently already applied Bubka's strategy in my last 5-K. Perhaps I'll run as hard as I can at the marathon and then wait in front of the finish line if I'm early. That way I know how fast I could have been, but still save a PR for next time.

Happy Hour is almost upon us, teammates! Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!

2 = 1+1 = 11

As penance for gorging myself on maple frosted doughnuts yesterday, I went home and leashed up Dobson for a quick two-mile run around the block. I'm still taking it slow with the pooch while he learns how to run in straight lines and at a faster pace.

Though I ate two doughnuts, two miles didn't feel like enough of a punishment. I rolled out my mat and set upon another round of the Eleven workout. Barefoot Josh challenged me to an Elevens duel, so I really tried to knock it out as fast as I could. My score: 8:13.

BFJ still has me beat by a full two minutes, but I'm willing to bet I got a better workout as Dobson tried to tackle me every time I dipped down for a push-up or dropped back for a sit-up.

Do you know how tough it is to fend off an exuberant puppy in the middle of 55 push-ups and 55 sit-ups? To compound the problem, every time I shoved him away, he thought we were playing and came right back at me.

However, I'm happy to note that I don't have to resort to girlie push-ups anymore. And unlike Josh, I can do real sit-ups.

[Drunkard's note: If you can't solve my fuzzy math equation in the title, that's 2 (doughnuts) = 1+1 (miles) = 11 (workout).]

Jumping on the Virtual Bandwagon
Razz is trying his hand at being a virtual race director with his Global Warming, My Ass! 6.66 Mile Run. How do you sign up? Follow my handy link and write "I'm in" in the comments. You have until today to get on board, so hurry up. Then all you have to do is run 6.66 miles some time between March 5 and March 14. And make sure you blog about it, or Razz will cry and call you names.