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.

Total Suckage

The scale presented the straw to my camel's back. The screen flashed a number so high that I kissed my wife goodbye. I was going for a run.

It takes a lot to get me out for a run early in the morning. For some reason, I awoke 15 minutes before my alarm, which I usually let snooze for half an hour before getting up most workday mornings. With nothing else to do, I stumbled downstairs and stared off into space for a few minutes before deciding to do some push-ups.

After two sets of 10, I wandered back upstairs, where the scale greeted me from inside the room that will soon contain a screaming baby. It had been several weeks since I last weighed myself. And after a holiday weekend, I wondered.

The screen flashed a high, round number, and I was like, "Nooo, that can't be right." I reset the scale and stepped on again. "Shit."

This morning's reading matched my all time high. And just like the last time my weight had reached this unfortunate milestone, I went for my first run in forever. Instead of lacing up an old pair of Etonic cross-trainers that were a size too small, I went barefoot because I didn't need to add any more weight.

After five minutes, my lungs were burning. My legs were sluggish, but they didn't feel sore until afterward. How far I've let myself go.

Setting my watch to 30 minutes, I managed almost 3 miles, which isn't so bad considering it had been since June 18 that I last ran any distance whatsoever. My feet felt pretty good.

When I returned, I did two more sets of 10 push-ups because, man, that number sucks. It just reminds me of how much of a slug I've become. Maybe this is the motivation I needed to get back on track. I hope so.

Flashback Friday: What Goes Down, Must ... Fuck, Are You for Serious?

What are you trying to say, boy?

Well, I did it. I got out there. After more than a week, I ran. And it was good.

I'm not ready to declare an end to my funkiness, but I can at least stop staring at the big goose egg in my mileage counter for this week.

I decided to exorcise my running demons by descending into the valley of death, down Memorial Parkway to the Towpath, which is the biggest hill in Akron, in my estimation. (From the summit of Summit County, Ohio, into the Cuyahoga River valley.)

I ran about 4.5 miles total, but about 1.6 of those miles were spent stumbling down, then death-marching up a hill that averages between 8 to 12 percent grade, but has a stretch that peaks at about 20 percent grade. I mean, it's no mountain, but it tuckered me out.

My quads and hammies felt like hot pepper jelly afterward, and my calves are all like, "Dude, that was just mean."

Back Talk
Wherein we're disappointed with the media. Again.

Miss Zippy wasn't impressed with the reporting on the Boston Marathon: "I was trying to find coverage on TV and could find none. Still amazes me that the biggest running event doesn't make it, but I guess we are a minority. I did follow a few friends though -- it's so interesting to watch someone's race unfold."

Answer: From what I hear, you had to pay for terrible coverage. Couldn't we at least get a tape-delay?

Old Jess thinks maybe my funk is a result of a mysterious identity: "Maybe you ARE [Jayson] Blair, hiding under this pseudonym of 'Viper.' That's why no pics of you, huh? Finally. I have solved the mystery."

Answer: To add a little intrigue to this theory, I also went to school with a guy who was partly responsible for outing my Blair's fraud.

Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates, and boy-howdy is it a nice day for patio drinking! Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!