Best. Race. Photo. Ever.

Look, I know nobody is out there anymore, but I just had to share this somewhere. I've been running for 18 years, I'm slower than ever, I just entered the 45-49 age group, I'm dealing with poison ivy on both ankles, I took 10 days off before my two "training" runs prior to race day — clearly, I'm not at peak Viper condition — but still, this is the greatest race photo I've ever had. Just look at that guy's face after he sees I've passed him at the finish line. 

And just so you don't think I'm only here to race shame some poor stranger, you should know he got the last laugh. He must have started way behind me, because his chip time was still faster than mine by 17 seconds. He had just passed me right before the final turn, and that made me mad. No matter how slow I get, I can't quell my competitive urges during a race. I kept the puke threshold at bay. I beat him to the timing mat. My celebration beer was Weihenstephaner Festbier. And hey, I guess this constitutes an age group PR, score! 

If any of my runblogging friends are still out there, I wish you well. Hello and goodbye again!

The Tannenbaum Testament

For a second I thought I was going to surpass the puke threshold. True, it had been a long while since I had felt this way, but one never forgets that sensation. You might be asking yourself, "Did he finally go on a run?"

No. We put up the Christmas tree.

Usually, Mrs. Viper helps me with some of the lifting, but with the baby along for his first tree hunting trek, she couldn't do much more than give direction. When we put the trunk into the stand, she steadied the tree while I tightened the screws. Otherwise, it was all on me.

We went to a new tree farm this year, Doc Miller's Christmas Trees at Happinest Farm in nearby Alliance, Ohio. It's a bare bones operation with great prices. They provide a saw and tree shaking, but that's about it. They'll help you tie your tree to your car roof, if needed, but you have to supply the rope, tarp and anything else you might need.

In the past, we've gone to places that bail your tree, tie it up for you and charge about twice as much. Bailed trees are a hell of a lot easier to transport and set up, but there's no room for such luxury in our new "world of no." We needed a cheaper venue, and Doc's is the place — and it's awesome.

We trekked "out to the Maple tree and turn[ed] left" to find the spruce trees and began sizing up the selection. It was chilly, so we made our choice quickly to make sure Baby Viper wasn't out in the cold too long. Even so, we got guff from my father-in-law about how red his cheeks were in the obligatory Facebook photo of baby's first Christmas tree adventure.

I worked up a good sweat, cutting the tree down, lugging it back to the pay shack and securing it to the roof of the car. Part one was complete. Part two was getting the tree inside and set up. And that's when I almost puked.

Getting the stump into the tree stand required me to hoist and hold the tree aloft for several long seconds until Mrs. Viper could successfully guide me in. (That sounds naughty.) She held the tree steady as I tightened the screws. When I stood back up, I felt lightheaded.

Damn, that's the feeling of being out of shape. "I need to start exercising again," I said. And so it was with that testament to my recent slothfulness assured that I decided to spend 10 minutes this morning working out. No, it's not much, but it was something. And that's all that matters.

Flashback Friday: Faster, Weaker

My arms were powerless. My body hung squirming from the bar. There would be no more pull-ups today. Had the urge to rediscover the puke threshold sabotaged the rest of the workout? Or was it that these weeklong breaks between workouts keep forcing me to take a step back after a step forward? Maybe it was just the heat.

Yesterday's visit to the Sand Run Parcours Trail occurred on Northeast Ohio's return to summery weather, with a temperature in the high 70s, which is probably the hottest it's been during a run this year. Can you say "sweaty mess"? I knew that you could.

Although running the par course has become a weekly event this month, breaks of five or more days between runs remains a fairly regular thing, because obviously these short runs are really tiring. My own frustration over my lack of consistency sometimes causes me to do something really stupid like seeing if I can get myself to puke by starting off the workout in a near sprint. By the time I got to the pull-up bar, my body felt wobbly.

It seems those prescribed walk breaks along the course help you recover from each exercise before getting to the next station. Furthermore, I had forgotten my watch, which I use to time my recovery between each rep at the pull-up bar, and I know I usually spend a good five minutes there. Instead I rushed myself and wasn't able to match my previous outings. My arms crapped out after six pull-ups. OK, maybe it was more like five and a half.

By this time, sweat was spurting from my brow. My  body sagged like it had a sad. My mind wandered to cope with the total bummer that were the remaining exercise stations. Do you know what this nice weather reminds me of doing? Running barefoot. I haven't done that in a really long time.

Doing 10 push-ups felt the way it would if you were William "Refrigerator" Perry but had the arms of Kate Moss. Leg lifts seemed to be rupturing my quadriceps. Forget about not embarrassing myself on the balance beam. In the end, though, it was another course record, shaving a full three minutes off last time. Sadly, the puke threshold eluded me.

Dropping the Mike: Pending Fatherhood

Amid the fallout from the terribleness at the Boston Marathon last week, there's a better than average chance most of you missed my "dropping the mike" reference at the end of last Monday's pre-bombing post regarding the pending parenthood at Chez Viper.

I had this smart-alecky idea of sliding in our pregnancy news at the end of that post and then doing a bigger reveal the next day. Well, best laid plans, and all that about going astray.

Mrs. Viper and I are extremely excited. She's due in early October, which gives me six more months to totally freak out about having a baby. Everything changes, everybody always says. ZOMG!!1! What does that mean?!?

The prospect of having a child is both invigorating and enervating, but in the aftermath of last week's events I find fearing the kind of world we're bringing him or her (we're not finding out) into and thinking hard on the type of father I want to be and the lessons I want to teach my child.

This is all very normal, I assume.

All these thoughts jump into my head: What if we screw him up? What if she grows up to hate us? What if we can't give him a good life? What if we spoil her too much? What if he becomes a douche bag? What if she turns out to be a True Belieber? What if he turns out to be a terrorist like those kids in Boston? What if she's caught in a terrible tragedy like that?

And then there are the more selfish concerns: How are we going to afford all this? What's going to happen to our marriage? Will Mrs. Viper and I ever go on a date again? What about our sex life? Will having a kid make us want to strangle each other? Will I ever have time to play the banjo or fiddle? I'm never going to run again, am I? I'm going to get really fat, right?

I'm already calling my weight gain "sympathy weight," regardless of the fact that I've been hovering around this heft since before the New Year. Despite running more regularly and trying to eat better, my scale keeps telling me I'm a mere couple pounds from my heaviest.

This is all stupid, I try to tell myself in more rational moments. But, cripes! This going to change everything! To help me cope with this life-changing event, I'm turning to you, dear teammates. In the months ahead, I will post parenting questions for your consideration. Because this is a running blog, the first one will deal with what I can expect on that front.

PENDING FATHERHOOD QUESTION NO. 1: With six months until D-Day and a pregnant wife at home, how much running should I attempt? One last shot at a big race vs. just enough to keep fit or somewhere in between?

Maybe a Bit Too Far

Sunday's perfect weather finally lured me out for a run on the Buckeye Trail. Everything was going fine until I puked.

Mrs. Viper had to work that day, and we didn't have anything in the pantry to make breakfast, so it was off to McDonald's for some McMuffins and hashbrowns. Less than an hour later, I dropped my wife off and headed to the trailhead, already having adorned my running gear.

My plan was to run north on the Buckeye from Jaite until it intersected with the Valley Bridle Trail near Brecksville and return on the horse path. I didn't really know how far that would be, but I guessed about five miles. I hadn't run since Oct. 24.

This section of the Buckeye Trail is a bit unfamiliar, having only run it once before — another instance of running farther than intended. This section is also rife with oddities and side attractions.

Evidence of a civilization that was forced to abandon its dwellings in favor of a national park, these tractor remains sit in the middle of the woods, just off the trail. Somewhere out here is a bathtub that many trail runners visit almost as a rite of passage.

Just when nervousness was starting set in that the turn off for the bridle trail had slipped by unnoticed, the sound of motorcycles in distance quelled my anxiety. If the other trail didn't appear soon, I could just split off and bushwhack toward the road. But then it appeared.

The mud had made for a difficult run. The thrill of finding the Valley Bridle Trail quickened my pace. As the path winded toward the road and dropped into a the small valley of a stream bed before turning right back toward a steep hill, something suddenly lurched up inside me.

The tasted of bile filled my mouth. My throat choked it back. Yes, this was a perfect time to walk.

Stomach acid would sting my palate for the remainder of my run. No matter how much water I drank, the taste wouldn't go away. Perhaps McDonald's wasn't the best choice for a pre-run meal.

Atop a large hill on the way back, I could see the row of yellow houses at Jaite. These were company housing of the Jaite Paper Mill, but now are used as offices for the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. Just around the corner was where my car was parked.

This was the first time I'd run this section of the Valley Bridle Trail. I hoped it would deadhead toward the yellow houses, but as I descended the zenith, the path veered leftward. I should have known. The trail was heading toward the Towpath, where Jamoosh and I had made our turnaround during our run back in May.

Once the trail reached the road, about a half-mile from where those houses are, I had to backtrack toward my car.

What I thought would be about five miles turned out to be almost six. The taste of puke had finally dissipated. It felt good to have run again.

Tequila Flights, Anyone?

There was a moment Saturday night when I doubted my ability to attend the Buckeye Half Marathon. It was somewhere between feeling sick at dinner and trying to fend off the insistence of my riding a mechanical bull.

My fellow bachelor partygoers and I left Progressive Field after the Cleveland Indians won in dramatic (i.e., awesome) fashion, with the recently returned Jim Thome hitting his 602nd home run, then all-star short stop Asdrubal Cabrera driving in the winning runs with a three-run bomb in the eighth inning, and finally Pure Rage Chris Perez earning another save after a gambit to throw out the lead runner at third base and then striking out the last two batters. But you didn't come here for a recap of the ballgame. And so we walked over to East 4th Street to finish off our revelry.

Pregame
Four of us had started the day with a few hours of paintball, a surprisingly fun time where I eventually reenacted Willem Defoe's final scene in Platoon, after capturing the flag and attempting to run through no-man's land. Unbeknownst to me, my fellow teammates had already perished, and I had no cover from the barrage of paint that pelted me to my demise. I hoped this wasn't foreshadowing.

Our wargames worked up a powerful thirst, and so we picked up a few 12-packs of beer and a case of water on the way to the hotel to check in and wash the paint from our hair. After the rest of my "crew boys" arrived, we headed to Great Lakes Brewery for a tour and dinner at the brewpub. (N.B., you'll have to ask the Enthusiast for an explanation of "crew boys," which refers to a dream she had recently.)

I started to feel unwell partway through the tour. The hot brewery made me feel nauseous, and my head started to hurt. I had to sit down to finish my beer samples. Earlier, when we stopped for beers on the way to the hotel, I had realized I was hungry and possibly suffering the early effects of caffeine withdrawal, as I had neglected my morning coffee. At the gas station, I grabbed a hot dog, potato chips, and a bottled iced vanilla latte.

Thinking I needed more caffeine, I asked my best man to get me a cola before eating, which I downed quickly so I could move onto beer. For dinner, I had Great Lakes' delicious bratwurst and pierogi dinner, a Celler Dweller (i.e., German style lager), and finally a Big Black Smoke (i.e., my favorite pub exclusive brew). We also had a couple appetizers for the table: two orders of the pub's homemade pretzels and a crock of spinach and artichoke dip with pita bread and banana peppers.

I ate my three pierogis, but the two brats weren't sitting well. I barely ate half of one, feeling like I was about to prematurely cross the Puke Threshold with each bite. I downed a couple glasses of water as I sipped the Celler Dweller. With my stomach feeling iffy, the only other food that tasted good were the pretzels. This didn't bode well for proper fueling for my race.

I only started feeling better after the Martini ordered me the Big Black Smoke. The thick, smoky porter seemed to settle my stomach. And so I drank it quickly before we rode the Fatty Wagon over to the game.

Game Time
The Fatty Wagon is a bus service run by Great Lakes to take customers to Cleveland's sporting complexes on game days. Its name derives from the fact that the bus runs on the used frying oil from the brewpub kitchen. Only a dollar for a ride.

Finally feeling better after not eating much and arriving at a more soothing beverage choice, we got to the ballpark where our only convenient choice for beverages was Miller Lite. And so we drank quite a bit of it.

A few innings into the game, Martini reminded that in less than 12 hours, we'd be running a half marathon. He of course was attempting to actually run well at the race and had abstained from all but a sampler of the Big Black Smoke.

Cultural Diversity?
After the game, our group pared down to four again, but a slightly different four from the morning. We went to Flannery's, an Irish pub that had a band and some very comfortable couches for us to shoot the proverbial shit and watch passersby on East 4th from the giant window.

After a Guinness and a cherry bomb (my brother's choice of shooter), we walked across the street to Zocalo, a Mexican restaurant and tequileria. I was hoping to get some food there, but the kitchen was closed. They had Modelo Especial on draft, and my brother asked to see their expansive tequila menu.

Zocola has a number of tequila tasting flights, and we got two of them to split between us. Do you want to know how they tasted? Go to the restaurant and order the Ambassador flight because that's about all I remember of them. The first one, I recall, was pretty decent. The second one slightly twisted my stomach. And the third twisted the rest of me.

Remember when I mentioned that moment of doubt? Here it was.

From there, we went to a douchebag infested dance club called Cadillac Ranch, which has a mechanical bull immediately upon entering the bar. I used the bathroom and rejoined my groomsmen, who had a bottle of Bud Light waiting for me. I had a couple sips as I repeatedly refused to ride said bull. Thankfully, the bar closed and forced us to leave before there was any attempt to strongarm me to my eight seconds of fame, or half second of shame.

Bed Time
Back at the hotel, we drank one final beer. Then I cracked one of my two bottles of Gatorade and downed that with a bottle of water and a tablet of Alka-Setzer. Before going to sleep, I managed to arrange a wake-up call and set my phone alarm for the race. In about three hours, I'd have to wake up again.

Note to Readers
This is already long, but I don't like making multipart blog posts. So if you need a break, take one now. The actual race report follows.

Race Morning
The wake-up call came at 5:50 a.m. My phone alarm went off 10 minutes later. Finally, Martini sent a text message and another and another before I finally engaged my brain and responded. This tiny bit of communication was what really woke me up.

I was in the elevator at 6:27 a.m., and the continental breakfast wasn't supposed to open for another three minutes. I stopped by anyway, hoping they'd let me snag something to eat. Nobody was around, but there were bagels and bananas out. I had wanted to hit the road by no later than 6:30, but it was more like 6:40.

The Enthusiast called me to say she was also on the road and hoped to make it there in time to see me start. She was dealing with her own Puke Threshold after her bachelorette party in Ohio's wine country.

Without much traffic and a fairly straight shot down the interstate, I managed to get to the race by 7:10 a.m., with 50 minutes before race start. I was diligent about drinking water and electrolytes and slowly eating an energy bar. I was not so diligent about my race gear preparations.

Yes, I had brought everything from my list. I just didn't use it all. I had on the basics: shirt, shorts, socks, shoes, and bib number. I pulled on my new favorite Buckeye hoodie to keep warm on this cool, late August morning and went to go find Martini. I finished my breakfast and jumped in line for the portable toilets.

The 2011 Buckeye Half Marathon & Relay hoodie.

The Enthusiast arrived as I grabbed one last drink of water. We only had time for a quick hello and goodbye before I made my way down to the starting line.

The Race
Not sure if I was just tired, hungover, or still a little drunk, I slowly walked the half mile to the start, as everyone else was getting in their warm-up jogs, which I considered doing and then quickly dismissed of the idea. I needed this time to think and realize all I had forgotten.

Timing device? Well, at least that's one less reminder of how slow I'd be running. Medical tape? That's unfortunate for my nipples. Skin lubricant? I couldn't even find it while I was packing the day before.

I lined up almost at the very back of the pack. My combination Parrott-McMillan race prediction was a 2:14:38 finish, based on the previous two weeks of training. I only scooted up a few places trying to find anyone I knew, but still I was well back of the 2:10 pacer. And just like that we were off.

The first five miles or so was all about sweating out the toxins and catching up on sleep, as I ran with my eyes half closed, catching myself as I swerved off track. I caught up to Julie @ ROJ Running, and we ran a few miles together.

As I neared the completion of the first loop, I started to feel pretty good. If I had felt like this at the start of the race, I might have had a new personal best, but I was still on track for a solid personal worst. This good feeling lasted only a few miles before it gave way to exhaustion.

The sun came out and the humidity rose for the final five kilometers. My legs started to feel the effects of my undertraining. The only thing that propelled me forward was that I was still picking off runners. I was happy to repass two guys who had blown past me earlier at the relay exchange (a new race feature).

I continued to walk through each water stop. And at the last one, by Szalay's farm, I drank a sip and dumped the rest over my head to cool me off for the final push down Riverview Road and up the final hill to Howe Meadow.

Rounding the corner off Bolanz Road, I picked my mark to help motivate me to a strong finish: a man in a red shirt who passed me just before that last cup of water. He hadn't created much separation, despite my little walk break.

I didn't reel in my target until I reached the top of the last hill. I parked myself behind him as we approached the railroad crossing and entered Howe Meadow. The man in red slowed on the rocky terrain of the park's access road. I was nervous of passing him now with the approach of the sharp hairpin turn before the final tenth of a mile. But I did. I weaved around another runner and cut the last corner tight.

There was not much effort left to give, and so I ignored good form and expanded my stride for the final sprint.  I had hoped to catch the 2:10 group, but finished with 2:11 and change, my new personal worst securely in the books. At least I beat my pre-race predicted time.

Post Race Revelry? 
Despite the Martini wanting me to join him and extend my bachelor party after the race, I chose bed instead. I downed a small plate of pasta, and the Enthusiast and I headed home. My last race as a bachelor is over.

There is but a month until the Akron Marathon. Each remaining run prepares me for my first race as married man, and another personal record: my post-wedding PR.

Flashback Friday: The Last Hurrah

This is it. I've imagined the wedding as a great ship, built over the last year and set into the water on an unstoppable voyage toward nine, ten, eleven. People like to ask the Enthusiast and I these questions: "Are you ready?" or "Are you nervous, yet?"

The next 15 days are the crescendo to our getting married symphony. The last minute details need detailing, but everything has been set in motion long ago. Everyone else is frantic, which is the only reason why any of this is any kind of stressful. Yes, I'm ready. No, I'm not nervous. These are stupid questions.

This Saturday is my bachelor party and the Enthusiast's bachelorette party--the so-called "last hurrah" for us as singles, even though we haven't really been single for the last three years, but whatever. And then, Sunday is the Buckeye Half Marathon. Everything has taken on a theme of "the last time I (fill in the blank) as a bachelor." (E.g., this year's Buckeye Half Marathon will be the last time I run a race as a bachelor.)

To me, the race is every bit as important as going out with the guys. And the best part is seeing the woman I love at the finish line. In the end, this is all still about her and us and our lives together. What I'm looking forward to even more than my last race as a bachelor is my first as a married man.

The last hurrah? Nonsense. It's just the beginning of many hurrahs to come.

Back Talk 
Wherein we get a new kind of racing advice. 

Carolina John has something to add to the list: "You're forgetting to make the groomsmen drive you down there! Make 'em run it with you."

Answer: Actually, one of my bachelor party buds (Martini) is running the race too, but he's skipping out early so he can drive home that night instead of driving me to the race the next morning.

Robin lists another aphorism: "Here's to not throwing up along the course or the finish line! Oh, and don't forget to factor in the pre-race poop."

Answer: Yes, this race will be a good test of my Puke Threshold. And I never forget to poop before I run.

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

Secret Extra Effort

The Enthusiast begged and pleaded for us to delay our run last night until this morning. She was exhausted from work and didn't want to face the rough running conditions. After a hemming and hawing session, I agreed.

The snow started falling like crazy at about 2 p.m. yesterday and still hasn't stopped. If you want my opinion, it would have been easier to run last night, but I understand her reasoning for the postponement.

We got up before 6 a.m. to get ready and were out the door by 6:30. (Not being a morning person, I move like a three-toed sloth when forced to awaken that early.) The early part of our run was surprisingly easy, as someone had kindly snowblowered a long stretch of sidewalk that morning and the night before. After that first mile, however, the snow deepened.

We got between four and six inches of snow last night, with a couple more on the way. The Enthusiast at one point told me she felt sick, like she might throw up. I wondered if she wasn't sick, but rather nearing the Puke Threshold because of the extra effort needed to run in the slippery conditions.

Snow is tricky that way. You think, 'Oh, it's not so bad,' but then your legs start burning from exhaustion and it takes you twice as long to go half as far. Running in the snow is tough. Your feet slip and you end up working much harder to move forward and stay upright. The good news is that it also makes you stronger.

First run of the Enthusiast's training plan is crossed off. We're on our way. Cheers!

Race Report: Playing Ketchup

Remember my strategy for the Buckeye Half Marathon? Disregard.

My watch had been acting a bit screwy for the past month. It was dead on race day. Do you know what time it is? Time to get a new battery.

I lined up behind the 1:50 pacer as planned with Martini and a guy I met a few weeks ago on a trail run. When the race started, I followed Martini through the pack until I came upon another friend who was running easily at my pace (this guy has BQ'd). We chatted for the first mile or so until he darted ahead to run with his friend, the 1:45 pacer. I moved up a few places to run slightly ahead of the 1:50 pacer. My legs felt great.

The temperature was supposed to reach the mid-80s, but the morning started off nice and cool with clear skies. I couldn't have asked for better race conditions.

The stage was set.

The 1:45 group pulled away while I maintained a steady and comfortable pace. I split away from the 1:50 group a bit earlier than I planned -- like by the second mile.

Without my watch, my only indicator of pace was my placing between the 1:45 and 1:50 groups. My focus was instead on my running form and reeling in the runners ahead of me. Nobody presented a challenge to my passing and therefore I had not yet targeted my mark for the race.

This whole year I have noticed that the running club that hosts this race has been a bit disorganized. The website hasn't been as well maintained. They've had trouble getting volunteers. Parking was a mess for the race. They were still putting up mile markers during the first couple miles. Things have just been off.

My first indicator that these problems might affect my performance was when they didn't have a water stop along Akron-Peninsula Road as in year's past. I took in water at the second, fifth and seventh miles. After that, they ran out of cups.

The aid station workers were offering to pour water into our hands and on our heads. I just skipped it altogether. I drank a bunch of water before the race and hoped what little I'd taken in so far was enough to finish well.

If nothing else, those who did stop for water ahead of me would have to slow down so much that I could blow past them while they licked their fingers dry.

By Mile 10, I could no longer see the 1:45 pace group. However, I saw a runner far ahead of me with a bright yellow tanktop whom I marked for defeat. I continued to pull in the runners strung out ahead of me one by one.

I cruised through the final, cupless water station and moved up a few more places. Yellow Tanktop had just rounded the corner from Bolanz to Riverview. He was cruising along. He'd pass a group of runners, then I'd pass the same group a few moments later. I was slow to gain on him, until I saw something ahead that primed my accelerator.

Suddenly, I was at Yellow Tanktop's left shoulder. I was set to pass him, but I thought I needed him to push me along. "Let's catch those 1:45-ers," I said to the red herring, urging him to help me chase down the green balloon that the 1:45 pacer was carrying.

"You can do it," the man in the yellow tanktop said, as he relented and fell behind me.

The only real hill on the race course loomed ahead. I pushed hard to gain as much ground as I could while it was flat. This was a perfect place to close the gap because after the hill is a sharp right turn at a railroad crossing, followed by a gravel road with a hairpin left turn, before the final straightaway on a grassy field to the finish line.

Many runners tend to slow down as they traverse this technical section. Those runners are dead in the water if I'm close behind.

The 1:45 pacer was about 35 feet ahead of me when he reached the turn at the railroad crossing. My friend who was still running with the pacer peeled off the course there (bandit!) and I shouted at him.

"There you go, [Viper]!" he yelled back. His cheer pushed me past the pacer. Two runners were ahead. I weaved between them on the gravel road. I cut the left turn tight. Finally, I could hear the crowd at the finish.

I saw the Enthusiast and Dobson with his new haircut. Their cheers gave me the final push, and I let it all out. My stomach gave a slight heave with the effort. The clock ticked up. A PR was a certainty. I heard Martini's cheer as I cruised across the line.

I saw 1:44:27 when I crossed, but the race (dis-) organizers spotted me a few seconds in the official results.

I tore off my bib tab as I stumbled through the chute. I handed my number to the race official and slipped under the rope to avoid vomiting on the woman ahead of me. I bent double and my stomach heaved. Nothing. I took a few more steps toward the food and water tent. My stomach heaved again. This time, hurk, jackpot!

Oh, and there were no cups at the finish either. Runners were using pasta bowls to drink water.

And again the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad delayed runners at around the two-hour mark. The guy Martini and I lined up with at the start ended up running extra because there was no one at the railroad crossing to tell him he was supposed to turn right to get to the finish.

From what I've heard, the number of entrants doubled for this year's Buckeye Half Marathon. This is still among my top two favorite races, but those runners won't be back next year if the race organizers don't fix these problems.

Solutions:

• Have more cups
• Make signs to direct runners on course
• Start earlier to avoid train delays

Here's this year's hoodie.

Flashback Friday: On the Threshold

I love when seemingly random occurrences form a lattice of coincidences. Like this week, when my YakTrax review on Monday spewed forth a regurgitation of the Puke Threshold.

First, M2Marathon commented in the review that she used the same photo I did on one of her posts from last week that also contained her "Puke Threshold Treadmill Workout," which makes me want to vomit just thinking about running so intensely on such an awful machine. (She claims she didn't know my connection to the Puke Threshold.)

Later in my post's comments, Mike wrote, "I thought YakTrax were what you left behind after crossing the Puke Threshold."

That same day, Nitmos wrote about 2010 being the Year of the Ass Kicker, or YAK for short. YAK made me think of Mike's comment, which led to me writing, "I want to yak all over this post. Curiously, this week has marked the return of the Puke Threshold." Which probably led, in part, to Nitmos's post on Thursday, "Life on the Puke Threshold." In the comments of that post, Chris, whose blog I've never read, wrote, "Had you gone past the puke threshold, Yaktrax on your Asics would have an entirely different meaning." Chris's comment on Nitmos's post is almost identical to Mike's on mine.

All of these coincidences make me wonder where else the Puke Threshold has appeared online. I claim to have invented the term, but did I?

Oddly enough, "puke threshold" appeared yesterday on this forum page for the Savannah Morning News. The comment is in reference to a news piece on "White House openness." However, the Puke Threshold, as we know it, is in regards to running -- or exercise in general -- and drinking alcohol.

My research uncovered this blog post, written in August 2009, where the writer claims to have first used "puke threshold" in relation to running in high school and then later in college in relation to overconsumption of alcohol. However, we have no way to verify if this person's first usage of the term predates my first reference of it in July 2008, though it seems likely.

An online reference to the "puking threshold" that does predate my usage is this forum thread (sixth post down) on, of all things, a Volkwagon enthusiast Web site. The reference is in regards to weight lifting and was posted on June 3, 2008. (Though if the site uses European dating style, it could very well be March 6, 2008.)

Chances are that I wasn't the first to coin the Puke Threshold, but six of the top 10 results of a Google search of the term are all connected to my first reference, which has to count for something. Regardless, I'm always amazed how unconnected people can have the same thoughts in nearly the same time frame. It's like when I thought I invented "dudical."

By the way, if you go all the way back to the first sentence, you will see the phrase "lattice of coincidences." That too is not original, but from the 1984 movie Repo Man.



You see, the lattice of coincidences reveals our cosmic connection. When you reach the Puke Threshold, we all reach the Puke Threshold. So you might want to carry a barf bag the next time you go running, just in case.

One thing about the winter is it has a tendency to lower your Puke Threshold. Unless you are training for race or a professional runner, this season has knack of slowing us down and limiting our activity. Nitmos gave a prime example. I have also noticed that telltale tingling sensation just on my latest four-miler, which was by no means fast, but the added effort of running on hills, in the snow was enough to push me closer to my limits. And I must say, I miss that feeling. Pass the shrimp.

Back Talk
Wherein this already too long post gets even longer.

Xenia questions my integrity about my recent spate of reviews and wonders about my new running partner: "Since you appear to be practicing your Half Fast-esque whoring skills, can we presume there will also be a review of your new furry running partner?"

Answer: Firstly, a whore provides a service in exchange for money, and I got no money (or any sort of payola) in exchange for these reviews. My reviewed items were all purchased, either by me or as a gift to me -- and not by the manufacturer. Unlike that whore, Ian.

Secondly, Dobson has yet to run with me. Aside from getting involved with my stretching, he is still getting used to walking in a straight line when we take him out. My sources tell me I should wait until he's six months old before I start running with him.

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

The Puke Threshold

Dr. Viper has diagnosed the problem from Saturday's 10K. It wasn't that I started too fast. Or that I pushed too hard in the end. Or that I was hexed. Or that I didn't drink enough. The problem was I barfed. Plain and simple.

Had I not upchucked, I would have surely smashed my previous 10K. Hitherto Saturday's race I have always been able to choke back any regurgitation or wait until I crossed the finish. When I stumbled to a walk at the intersection and retched in front of the the cop and race staffer, I wondered why this was happening.

After a few brainstorming Sessions last night, I finally have the answer.

This fruitful post first sprouted in May after I helped inspire Marcy to cover all the bases and write about the one bodily fluid she hadn't covered: vomit. It was in the comments of that post that I revealed for the first time ... the Puke Threshold.

We runners know about lactate threshold. And we drinkers know about puking. For both activities, there is a point at which you can no longer hold it back, and that is the Puke Threshold.

This is not a static line. Akin to all things running and drinking related, the Puke Threshold can be improved upon. Drinkers can improve their tolerance by drinking more. And likewise, runners can improve their tolerance by running more. But more specifically, by running harder and faster.

If you don't practice the ability to keep it in, you won't be able to do it come race day. And that's where I failed. Typically, during intervals and tempo workouts, I will approach my Puke Threshold, either during a repeat or as I practice my finishing kick at the end of a mid-distance run. However, except for the last-minute 800s last week, I had not done any high-intensity runs for weeks. This is no way to maintain anti-honking skills.

To improve your Puke Threshold, you must push yourself. Feel that tightening in your guts. Relish the oh lordy moment. Enjoy your ability to not disgorge on bystanders. Practice is the only way to recruit those fast-clench fibers you'll need on race day.

If running harder and faster improves your Puke Threshold, then I'm sure drinking harder and faster will do the same.

But remember, if by chance you have to spew, please do so in the proper receptacle.



Run well and drink well.