Five humorous stories for the marathon maven.

; Story 1 : «, cf Zombie Runner

I ‘ | \i hey walk kind of funny

} ’ [om don’t talk a lot. If

4 you stand at mile 20,

you’ ll see them a-plenty, and

3 you’ll want to cheer. “Stay

: strong,” you’ll holler, “you

. can do it.” And they’ll gaze

A ¢ y at you forlorn, worn, tattered,

and torn; but they’ll try. Off

& t they go, heave ho, two steps

and then they slow—stumble,

fumble, and do that funny walk, again.

During my first marathon nine years ago, and in every marathon since, I have ended up a zombie runner. As I proceed mile after mile there’s a sucking sound that gets louder and louder. Then, somewhere around mile 20, he appears. Beady eyes stare over a black cape he holds to hide his face. “Thank you,” he slurps, “I vill see you next time.”

Mostrunners call this point in the marathon the Wall. I call it Dracula’s revenge, but in either case it’s awful. When I hit it, there are always well-wishers at the side of the road yelling, “You can do it, you’re looking strong,” but they know better and they don’t fool me. And those little kids, mothers, and weak men who whisper as I pass. ““What’s the matter with that guy? He looks like a zombie.”

“Oh, yeah?” I’ll say, and I’ll put on a burst of speed for two seconds. Then they talk louder because they think I can’t hear (I’ll only be five feet farther away

than I was in what seemed like an hour ago), and they say things like, “Oh, the poor guy—call an ambulance—get the broom,” and they’ll look at each other with eyebrows raised and someone will say, “What’s that squishing sound?” Well, I don’t care what any of them might have thought, but I’ admit to you that the squishing sound came from a puddle of blood in my brand new Adrenaline Supersonic Motion-Control sneakers. That never slowed me, though, but it did make a weird sound—kind of like galoshes in a mud puddle. And, of course, the pain on the outside of my right knee and between my shoulder blades didn’t help, either. But we marathon mavens know how to ignore pain, don’t we?

Emil Zatopek, arguably the greatest runner of all time, said it best. “If you want to run —run a mile. If you want to experience another life—run a marathon.” He knew about zombies.

And what about Freddie Fartlek? What did he think about the Wall?

But, back to my story…

In preparation for my first marathon (San Diego Rock ’n’ Roll, 2000), I adhered to a strict training regimen: ran two 18-milers (well, almost), got up to 40 miles per week (once), did speed work, hills, intervals, and tapered for a week—even bought new running clothes and shoes just to make sure I had every advantage. There was a heaping plate of spaghetti at Luigi’s the night before, and really, I didn’t drink that much Chianti. The morning before the race there were bagels, three last-minute cups of coffee, and packs of GU that I took every third mile—but none of it worked. I hit the Wall at 18 miles.

Since that first marathon, I have run eight marathons over the past eight years and hit the Wall every time. On each occasion I suffered some combination of sore knees, sore calves, blisters, upset stomach, a pain between my shoulder blades, chaffing on my inner thighs, bleeding nipples, a really stiff neck and shoulders, and other unmentionable discomforts. Once, at mile 17, when my shoestring came untied, I couldn’t bend down, and when finally I did, I couldn’t get back up.

The reason marathon zombies stare at their feet and don’t talk a lot is that, after 20 miles, they function with only the medulla oblongata part of their brain. That’s the most primitive part of the brain, also called the lower brain stem or the marathon brain. It controls all the automatic functions such as breathing, heart rate, and vomiting (with which some of us are familiar). With what little cognizance

is left over, the marathon brain will repeat and repeat: “I’m never going to run another marathon,” and “Don’t you dare run to the side of the road and assume the fetal position.”

And when the end finally comes (of the race, that is), there is always the foolish sprint to the finish line with arms raised in victory. This is an ego thing, of course, and a necessary display of “heart” (which is now pumping only air), but you want to give the crowd a thrill (even though there are usually only three remaining, my wife and two guys disassembling the announcer’s platform). Then it’s off to the chip-removal station. Snip, snip, and Miss Snip will say, “I’m sorry, we’re all out of medals, but congratulations, anyway,” and she’ll yawn.

Next is the banana table, only to find I don’t have the strength to peel it. My faithful and beautiful wife always waits longingly at the exit with a radiant smile for her returning hero; we’ll join hands, look kindly into each other’s eyes, and she’ll say, “You look like shit.”

Then she’ll drive us home in our Humvee Gigantis. She’s always chatty as she bounds through freeway traffic on two wheels. “So. You had a good race?”

she’ll chirp as she rolls up and over the car in front. we \ Ad

“Huh?” “You’re tired, huh?”

“What?”

“Did you hit the Wall?” she’ll ask.

“Uh-huh.”

“You going to do another marathon?”

“Never!”

“Jeez. You’re a lot of fun. How come you won’t talk to me? You don’t love me anymore.”

And then, more times than not, by the time the In a nation of over 307 million people (Wikipedia) about 468,000 finished a marathon in 2009 (MarathonGuide.com); that’s 0.15 percent of the population that finished a marathon. Is there a message here?

My first marathon was June 2000 at San Diego’s second Rock ’n’ Roll. Since then I have completed eight more, including Boston in 2008, but I have never been able to run the entire 26.2 miles without taking a walking break; the farthest was 23 miles. What does it take? Does anyone out there have a secret for me? I’m now 78. It’s not looking good, and although I swore Boston would be my last marathon, I’m not so sure—maybe just one more. I don’t know. I think I need to check with my medulla oblongata.

police pull us over, she’s already crying.

Epilogue

Story 2 Running in Rain Is Not a Pain

y friend Annie Pedanny, who lives a

shady life in Gary, Indianie (I live in San Diego), recently wrote to ask if ]could suggest a book about running safely in rain.

Surprisingly, the best information, I told

her, would be found in a peculiar and littleknown publication by a manufacturer of rainrunning equipment. Annie reminded me that she has been on the lam for so many years that she has developed extraordinary dexterity and speed—thus her newfound interest in running and racing. Well, she’s an old friend, so I agreed to help and wrote her a letter…

Dear Annie,

Good to hear from you, and I’m happy to see you are out of jail again.

The most interesting source of information I can suggest is found in a sales catalog that features rain-running equipment and is published, now and again, under the title: /t’s Only Rain—Don’t Complain, by Wayne, Payne, Pinsky, and Nussbaum Manufacturing and Investments, LLC. Each issue has an FAQ section. The most recent copy addresses some things you might be worrying about. For example:

Q: Should I add extra layers of clothing to protect from the rain?

A: Only if you want to get extra wet, carry extra weight, and take extra long to dry out.

Q: [heard packing newspaper in your shoes keeps your feet dry.

A: Newspapers get wetter than water. But, if you insist, be sure to read it first; it will quickly become soggy. You will know this by the revolting squishing sound you will hear within a half mile.

Q: Would you recommend running in a trash bag?

A: If there’s enough room, but seriously—make sure you remove all the garbage first. And remember, it doesn’t “breathe,” and neither will you if you wear it while running.

Q: Will wearing two pairs of socks keep me drier than wearing just a single pair? A: No, wearing none is better; that way your socks won’t get wet at all.

And Annie, I recommend, too, that you check “Running in Rain” Web sites, where every runner I know (and their probation officers) gives advice. But I can tell you that nothing compares to the tsunami of information found in their sales catalogs. You, in particular, will enjoy the section titled “Attitudes for Runners.”

They write: “Don’t be afraid to run in the nude, scream at the rain, tap dance in puddles—and sing. Go ahead, belt it out. If there’s thunder and lightning, don’t cower—hold your head high, raise your fist in defiance, and race on. If it’s your last day, so be it—pick up the pace. The odds of being killed or injured by lightning are 400,000 to 1; and if you do get unlucky, at least you will die with your galoshes on (which, by the way, are on special at 20 percent off for the remainder of the year).”

And Annie, if you have any money left from your last bank job, there’s a section labeled “Ponzi Derivative Investments.” The company’s investment division offers anyone able to show proof of completing one marathon an investment opportunity in its flagship 26.2 percent annual yield Marathon Hedge Fund. They urge, however, that you get in quickly, before it collapses.

But Annie, it’s the Running Products section that really speaks.

In Umbrellas you’ll see two hand-held and four head-mounted models. Other sections feature spats, hats, flats, mats, bats, rats, sunglasses with detachable windshield wipers for either or both eyes, racing % galoshes with mechanized drain ports, and grounding shoelaces for running \ in lightning.

The four head-mounted umbrellas include a fixed unit with elliptical speed hole openings for drag reduction and three spinner models. All spinner models rotate at 240 rpm, which effectively increases the rain protection area of the umbrella by 50 percent and in many situations (depending on wind direction and velocity) may provide a helicopter effect. On downhill sections, Annie, this feature alone will place you above the crowd and eliminate pounding in your quads, and if you don’t accidentally fly away or crash-land, you’ll be in the money.

Now, then, the basic spinner, the Spinner-Winner model, includes a handwinder key to tighten the constant-force clock spring that stores energy to spin the umbrella for up to 35 minutes. A quick-wind hand crank, available as an option, provides an alternative and much quicker means to tighten the spring full taut (less than a minute as compared with three minutes with the winder key).

The next unit, the Spin More Win More, has a solar-powered unit that provides spinning power for up to four hours (depending on the brightness of the sun) and also includes the quick-wind hand crank as standard in case it’s cloudy.

And finally, the top of the line: the Dominator. This unit is not only solar powered but also includes the quick-wind crank and the revolutionary antigyro stabilization package. A spinning mass, as you may know, Annie, has a strong tendency to resist changing direction (gyroscopic effect). The antigyro package guarantees that your head (to which the umbrella is attached) will follow your body within a maximum of 1.5 seconds from the time you change directions. Heavy-duty chin straps are included with all models to assure a firm grip under your chin during “helicoptering,” and medically approved sprain neck braces and liniment are provided with the top-of-the-line Dominator.

Well, Annie Pedanny, I hope this helps and finds you well. Take care and stay in touch.

Best wishes,

Amold

Story 3 Running in Heat Can Be Sweet

B ooks about running in the heat and running in a heat tumble from the bookshelves as water falls over Niagara, but what about running in heat? You know: running in heat. I had been looking for something provocative to write about, but this subject was not exactly my forte.

“Yes, itis,” my unmarried 38-year-old daughter persuaded me vigorously. “That is a great subject for investigation.

Do it,” and she turned me loose. I remembered an article I had read not long ago and looked it up (paraphrased below). Would it provide a clue?

Lap dancers in heat get better tips

Human Behavior by professor Geoffrey Miller and his colleagues (University of New Mexico, Albuquerque, Psychology Department), lap dancers who worked during estrus earned tips that totalled about $335 per five-hour shift compared with $260 during the luteal phase and $185 otherwise.

Was I onto something? Would a woman in heat run faster, be stronger, and have more endurance? Seemed reasonable. Female marathoners deserved to know.

I searched for weeks and found nothing . . . until, one morning, while rummaging through the musty shelves of a San Diego used-book store, I stumbled upon a pile of unbound pages stacked carelessly in a section labeled “Fruits and Vegetables.” I eased the pile to the edge of the shelf, filled my lungs, and blew

as hard as I could. As the dust settled and I finished blowing my nose, there it was—written by hand in large red crayola: Running in Heat, by Madam Muy (pronounced Moo-ee) Caliente. It was bound tightly and knotted with kite string, yellow and frayed.

I studied the knot. It was a Farrimond friction hitch knot, so I proceeded with great care. Riffling through the pages for a peek, silverfish and worms fell on my sandals, and a spider crawled up my hand, but—voild, it was the document Thad been looking for.

The first page had a table of contents in two sections. Section one was devoted to “Running in the Heat,” with graphs and subjects you would expect to see in a book about running in hot weather: charts, tables, definitions, medical symptoms, and advice—standard stuff, like, for example:

Heat Index Chart

Air Temperature (F°) 70° 75° 80° 85°: 90°

Relative Humidity Apparent Temperature (what it feels like) 0% 10% g 20% SSO 30% 135° 148° 40% 137° 151° g 50% 135° 150° z 60% iF 8 70% 144° 2 80% = 90% & 100% 2 Apparent Temperature Heat-stress Risk 90° – 105° Heat cramps or heat exhaustion possible 105° – 130° Heat cramps, heat exhaustion likely 130°+ Heatstroke likely

She mentioned, too, a study from the 2002 Boston Marathon, where it was documented that 30 percent of the runners suffered from water intoxication; they drank too much water. In addition, there was an abundance of dos and don’ts, which, as I said at the top, are readily available from a host of sources.

Ah, but in the second section, labeled “Running in Heat,” here Madam put her fork to the meat. Chapter titles read:

¢ Prepubescence ¢ Full On

¢ Final Moments

¢ Frankly, I Don’t Give a Damn Anymore ¢ Oh, the Trauma

This was it! I had to have the manuscript. Cost be damned. So I cradled the tattered bundle under my arm and carried it to the counter, where an elderly woman with a gray bun on the top of her head sat sipping tea and listening to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony on a 1940s floor-model Philco vacuum-tube radio. It was as big as her desk. She gazed at me over purple granny glasses and lowered her tea cup.

“Yes, my good man,” she said. I swallowed hard for fear she would ask more for the manuscript than I could afford. I braced for negotiations, but the kindly lady insisted I take the manuscript at no charge. I objected, demurred, and stomped my feet, but she beat me back with surprising vigor for such a frail-looking old lady.

“That’s been sitting around here for five years,” she said, picking up her tea cup, again with a sturdy hand, “No one has ever even looked at it. The pages are all dried out. It’s a fire hazard; you’d be doing me a favor,” she said. “Take it.”

What could I do? I thanked her and she thanked me. I walked to the door and she went back to her tea. As I stepped into the sun, I turned. She smiled sweetly and said, “Hasta la vista, baby.”

Once home, I spread the pages on my desk, and here’s what I found.

Madam’s story

The preface tells the story of how Madam was raised in the steamy jungles of the Amazon—a bedraggled waif with heat all around her. She ran in it, did “La Cucaracha” in it, and admitted, innocently, that she had been in heat lots of times. It went on to reveal that Madam was the mother of nine robust teenagers and, before her fourth marriage, was principal marimba at the Croquis Club in Wabash, Tennessee, where she rose quickly from marimba to lap to pole and beyond—and for several months even reigned as queen of the chardonnay room.

With money accumulated from her work at the Croquis Club, Madam returned to Brazil to study at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro, where she earned a PhD in physics. Madam Muy won kudos for her doctoral dissertation, in particular for her penetrating analysis of Max Planck’s law governing heat transfer and radiation between similar bodies. It was said, however, that her extraordinary performance at the oral examination was what blew them away and secured a place for her as one of the university’s all-time top physics graduates, certainly the most memorable.

A black-and-white photo celebrating that event was glued to the bottom of the page where Madam is seen sitting on a bar stool with her legs crossed, surrounded by members of the examination committee. The printed caption reads: “Brilliant, Insightful—Expectations Handsomely Exceeded.” Barely visible at the bottom left-hand corner margin, I was able, with the aid of my 4-inch Bausch and Lomb hand-held steel-rimmed magnifying glass, to make out a pencil scribble that read “Yes, sir-ee!””

Full On

In this chapter, Madam raises her mighty literary mallet and hits the gong straight on by instructing “her girls” to think differently when running in heat. “If heavy breathing comes from behind,” she urges, “slow down—it may not be because the lad is out of breath from running but because he senses something in the air. He is doing what is known as hot pursuit, and you must maintain an air of calm and aplomb while covertly encouraging the chase.” Here she offers what she calls her three “snare-the-hare” strategies: “If you are trying to qualify for Boston and your prey is fading, look back longingly, wink, and wrinkle your nose to give him heart. If he falls from exhaustion trying to catch you—well, he wasn’t your speed, anyway. Or if you are not in a particular hurry, stop and pretend there’s a pebble in your shoe; limp, whimper, whine, and bring up a tear. This tactic will bring Herr Hare hopping to your lair, unaware, without a care, and God help him,” Madam writes with flair. “Once there—he hasn’t got a prayer.”

Madam Muy’s final tactic employs what she describes as the all-out full nelson. “Tf all else fails,” she says, “fall directly in front of your prey and weep a bucket. Crying”—and now you can hear Madam Muy’s voice crescendo from the page in fortissimo—‘is your birthright, your responsibility, your principal weapon; it is the atomic bunker buster in your vast arsenal. Be careful, though,” she warns, “there is a downside. Runners who don’t trample or fall on you might crowd around to laugh, snicker, and point fingers. These uncouth ruffians could block Br’er Hare from reaching you, but it’s worth the risk. Should an ambulance be required, you will have time in the hospital to develop a better strategy for the next race.”

Story 4/5 Pebbles in Your Shoes sy Peortes Peoples in Your Way sy Pesstes

ere we have a sort of collaboration

between Lady Penelope Peoples, PhD, and Sir Clive Pebbles, MP. It’s two stories in one book, soon to be published by Lord Drum Nuts Press and due out within a fortnit, or fift-nit (if at all nit).

It’s ladies first with Lady Penelope Peoples getting dibs on the first section where, in her very first sentence, she reveals the provocatuer that lies within. “Pebbles don’t want to be in your shoes any more than you want them there,” she writes. “They dislike that rancid environment as much as you dislike their aggravation.” A seemingly ridiculous statement until you read further, where Peoples explains the theory of random events and mathematical eventology and how it affects not only your soul, your essence, your relationship with the world, but how pebbles find a way into your shoes, too.

“You may have noticed,” she points out, “that prizefighters many times punch themselves in the face just before a bout to condition for what’s coming.” The good lady goes on to postulate that a similar tactic may also be employed to P.P. (pebble problems). “To toughen up for the errant pebble that might enter your shoe,” she writes, “one needs to practice with pebbles (not the other author) in order to toughen the feet.” She recommends inserting one pebble in the left shoe and working your way up, one pebble at a time, to five pebbles in each shoe. “Five pebbles,” she writes, “is one pebble more, according to mathematical eventology,

than it is statistically possible to accumulate over the marathon distance, thus providing a comfortable margin of error against P.P.” In a second solution, she describes and provides construction sketches that diagram how to cut a porthole in the toe of each shoe. “This is my favorite,” she exudes, “as it allows an exit path for pebbles.” In an erratum she provides a list of materials and methods for attaching a one-way flap so that pebbles can exit but are blocked if they try to sneak back in.

Sir Clive Pebble’s contribution is titled Peoples in Your Way, where he considers a variety of possibilities to overcome the problems of crowding at the start line. He warns against the intuitive inclinations of running in the gutter, trying to vault small children and old ladies, or using the beastie favorites of pushing, shoving, elbowing, spitting, biting, kneeing, or evoking the dreaded finger-poke in the eyes, all of which, he emphasizes, are in violation of and not tolerated under the Marquess of Queensberry rules.

In the tradition of his English ancestry and keeping to the mores of the English gentry, Sir Pebbles proffers two mannerly techniques to ameliorate the crowding problem.

First, he suggests, “Place a neon sign on your back that flashes, ‘Bugger Off!”

See the “It’s Only Rain—Don’t Complain,” sales catalog from Wayne, Payne, Pinsky, and Nussbaum Manufacturing and Investments, LLC, mentioned in a previous story, for a line of back-mounted neon signs powered by a small generator pulley set that attaches to your knees.

Acknowledging that this takes care of the rear, Sir Pebbles then addresses the uproar from his readers who shout: “But what about the front?”

“If you have sufficient resources,” he answers, “hire the snare drum section from your local high school and a gimpy-legged piccolo player to march ahead

and clear the way—or better yet,” he ruminates, “instead of putting water in your hydration vest, pack it with two liters of the chemicals listed in the appendix and attach the bite valve to a truck horn, which should be strapped to your chest.” He explains that the chemical reaction will provide more than sufficient pressure to power the horn and notes that it makes the same sound as a locomotive. “The blast,” he says, “is particularly effective when you pull to within 10 feet of a runner. They will disintegrate,” he chortles. But he raises a finger of caution.

“Tt is imperative,” he stresses, “to ‘toot’ the horn at regular intervals to relieve the continuous buildup of pressure from within the bladder (the hydration-vest bladder, that is—not yours), or there could be an explosion.