Recessions, Running and Roadpops.

If you regularly read this blog, you know that I’m an avid runner.

Back in the day, I used to keep a daily log of my overall mileage and times. Now – more or less – I run for the enjoyment and exercise not to mention the positive effects it has on my asthma and my mental well being.

But one of the most interesting things is I sometimes come across some interesting shit that you wouldn't normally see barreling 70 mph in the country with your Led Zeppelin blaring.

As a road runner, I’m always looking at the gulleys on the side of the road in hopes of finding the mother lode in the form of a diamond ring, a rich-man’s wallet, CDs or even a Netflix DVD.

Since Daylight Savings Time is in full effect and the snow has started to melt, I’ve noticed a spike in the amount of debris scattered in my neighborhood compared to last year.

In particular, I've seen a lot more beer cans. Busch Light to Labatts Blue and everything in between. I even noticed an unopened Samuel Adams bottle, which is a very rare find in any neighborhood.

My theory on this noticeable uptick is simple:

• Bath is a pretty well-to-do neighborhood. Lots of rich folk. Plenty of middle-class folk. And not too many poverty-stricken folk.
  


• More people, especially rich people, are extremely stressed out about the economy and their ever-depleting 401ks and stocks.
  


• More people are secretly gulping down said cans of booze and tossing them out the window before they get home so their wife or husband doesn’t find out how stressed out they are.

As I went about my run on Sunday afternoon and gazed at the endless formation of dead soldiers lining the road, I thought to myself that I would love to be a fly on the wall in one of those cars, trucks or motorcycles right before one of those cans were thrown out the window.

I wonder what was going through their buzzed-up minds?

ON A RELATED BATH NOTE: This past weekend I just noticed that someone moved into the house where Jeffrey Dahmer committed his first murder. I wonder if the real estate company mentioned this little nugget of information to the family when they sold them the place?

Dog Poo Everywhere!

Look, you may think from reading this post and this post, that I’m constantly consumed by turds. Or am I simply consuming turds?

Regardless, truth be known that every single day of my life I try to escape poop, feces, doo doo, #2, shit or, as my daughter calls it, 'poo poo'. But I just can’t.

It's part of me. It's everywhere. From the office to the home - I'm destined to always be around turds in every facet of my life. Even when I run.

Let me tell you story.

Yesterday, the weather was above 50 degrees, so I thought I’d skip out of work a little early and go on a long run.

Warm days in Ohio during the month of February - like yesterday and today - are extremely rare.

'How rare?' You ask?

Well, remember that scene in The Perfect Storm when the crew of the Andrea Gail hung on for dear life as their boat was relentlessly twisted and catapulted by the angry saltwater of the mighty Atlantic Ocean?

Then, just like that, everything subsided. George Clooney, Mark Walhberg, John C. Reilly and the rest of the crew popped their heads up, took a glance out of the window and noticed the sunny skies and the calmness of the sea.

For a couple of seconds they looked around at each other and smiled thinking to themselves “Yeah, we beat this thing.” Oh, but reality quickly crashed down when they soon realized that they didn't escape the storm at all. They were in the eye of hurricane. Then, that huge giant CG wave kicked the ever-loving shit out of them.

In Ohio, that giant Perfect Storm wave represents winter and the Andrea Gail represents Ohioans in February. This freak weather is nothing but a cock tease designed to give us blue balls (pun intended) for two more months. Screw the groundhog. The Spring - as the rest of the world knows it - doesn't hit Northeast Ohio until early May.

But I digress...I pulled into the Bath Nature Preserve parking lot, tossed on a pair of shorts and running shoes, then took a quick whiz before staring my run.

I noticed a group of high school kids playing Frisbee football in the wet soccer field. A warm (gasp!) wind was blowing in from the west. And, for the first time in a long time, I was comfortable outside.

Yay!

I wasn't 1/4 mile into my run when I heard a familiar sound: SHLUMPF! I looked down and my right Asics running shoe was now a rotten shade of brown. I was so ecstatic about being outside that I forgot to look where I was running. I had just stepped into the biggest pile of dog shit you’ve ever seen.

And, judging from the various shades of brown and the size, I later surmised that it wasn’t simply one giant turd left by some Marmaduke dog - but an assembly of various dog turds from a variety of mutts.

Yay?

I cursed the owners of the foul beasts, scraped my foot in the melting snow and continued on my run.

About a mile in, I decided to give this particular run a title: Dog Poo Everywhere! (at least I assumed they were from a dog).

From big piles to small pebbles. From dark brown to light tan. Tons and tons of dog turds were strewn on the jogging trail as far as the eye could see - sort of like the fallen soldiers in Gone With The Wind or the injured kids who fell off the trampoline in that one episode of The Simpsons.

Again, I cursed the owners.

Did they not know that snow melts quicker than dog turds?

What were they thinking when they passed up the doggy poop bag dispenser at the beginning of the trail?

Is there some sort of dog shit amnesty that I'm not privy to, which states that you don’t have to pick up your dog’s crap when it’s snowing out?

In any event, I decided to turn this disastrous run into a game and imagined that I was NFL running back dodging doo doo defenders on my way to the end zone.

That's when I felt a slight pang in my intestines.

“Oh no!”

Oh yes. Just like the many dogs that pranced around the park and did their business, I suddenly had to take a crap.

I pulled a small bundle of toilet paper from my jacket pocket (Boy Scout Motto: Be Prepared) and pranced into the woods like a white-tail deer dodging a hunter’s bullet. I found a nice clear, piece of un-melted snow and proceeded to do my business.

After wiping my bum, I covered up yesterday’s dinner with a pile of snow and pulled up my shorts.

In my urgency to get back on the trail, I did a 180-degree turn and suddenly heard a familiar sound: SHLUMPF!

I looked down and my left Asics running shoe was now a rotten shade of brown.

I silently cursed myself.

A Warm Run in Bath.

On my way home from work, I stuck my head out of the window.

Mid 60's with a slightly warm wind.

Perfect running weather.

I hopped out of the car, kissed the kids on the forehead, made a beeline to the bedroom and tossed on my shorts, t-shirt, running shoes and bandana.

In less than a minute, my gladiator outfit was complete. I was ready for a run.

I hit the pavement with full gusto. But, before I could take a single stride, my neighbor pulled up beside me in his riding lawn mower.

"Howdy," he yelled.

I acknowledged him with a nod.

"Almost Deere Season," he yucked pointing toward the green and yellow beast under his ass. "You ready?"

"Yup," I said slightly annoyed and pointed toward the highway horizon. "Well, the road's a calling."

The sky was blue. The birds were chirping. Chainsaws were purring.

Spring was in full bloom in Bath, Ohio.

I inhaled and took a deep sniff of my surroundings.

Wild flowers. Freshly cut grass mixed with gasoline. A dead possum thawing out on the side of the road.

Ahhhhh, the smells of paradise.

I ran down the hill and dodged a beer can thrown out the window from a passing Porsche. A baby boomer returning from a hard day of 18 holes, no doubt.

The can clanked and clacked on the side of the road until it came to a complete stop in the mud. It was Labatt's Blue. The best selling Canadian beer in the world. Good brand. Bad tact.

"Thanks rich Bath dude who likes to drink and drive," I yelled as I put up my middle finger. "You rock."

I concentrated on the road. I concentrated on my running. I took deep breaths and let them out slowly, just like the September 2006 issue of Runner's World magazine told me to do.

For a brief moment, the world was my oyster. I closed my eyes and outstretched my hands in a Christ-like pose.

The rays of the sun warmed my cold, rickety bones shaking away the six-month Northeast Ohio winter. The warm air blew through my slowly receding hairline. "Ouch." I slapped at a sting on my arm. It was a dead misquito.

The blood dripping from my small wound let me know that the season was alive.

As I approached the bottom of the hill, I heard a scurry in the woods, followed by cracking branches and splashing water. Four deers hopped out of a brier bush and sailed into the woods. I could have sworn I saw turds fly out of one of the doe's butt.

"Fancy that," I thought. "I scared me up some game."

The beauty of nature indeed.

I careened into the graveyard to greet the dead bodies and wish them a happy Spring day.

"Hello Martin Douglas," I yelled to his gravestone. "Born January 3, 1920. Deceased September 20, 1985. Sixty-five years on this planet. Not too shabby."

"Hello Dolores Baker. Born May 21, 1905. Deceased June 17, 1940," I yelled at another gravestone. "Thirty-five years on this beautiful Earth...wait a minute. That's how old I am!

Suddenly I got depressed. Only three more months until I pass Dolores up on the annual birthday scale. Suddenly I got happy again.

"Ha Ha, Dolores," I whispered out of the side of my mouth to her decaying body six-feet under. "I'm almost beating you in the game of life."

I continued the loop, looked up from the ground and, suddenly, stopped in my tracks.

There was a car. Parked near the woods. Away from the gravestones. Next to the stream. And it was running in neutral.

I looked around for an old man (or an old woman) with flowers in hand kneeling and blubbering over a loved one's slab of stone. I found none.

"Who could it be?" I thought to myself. "Who could be parked in my graveyard?"

I decided to forge ahead and solve the mystery once and for all.

As I approached the car, I heard what sounded like Pink Floyd's The Great Gig In the Sky blaring from the speakers. The car was also moving side to side. Side to side. Side-to-side. In a rythmic motion. Almost to the music. As I got closer, I noticed a faint silhouette in the car.

Someone, or something, was inside.

As I slowly tip-toed beside the car, I slyly turned my head to see what was going on.

A full moon greeted me with a vertical "Hello." It was a dude's ass bobbing up and down. Up and down in the wide backseat of the car. Beneath him, I assumed, was a woman. The painted toenails gave her away.

I looked around for dug-up graves. There were none. More than likely, she was alive.

"Well, well, well," I thought to myself. "This lad was laying some backseat pipe to his girlfriend in the middle of a graveyard."

They didn't notice me. They didn't miss a beat. They were doing their thang without a care in the world.

Ahhhh...young love.

"Carry on my good man," I shouted to the gentleman in the car. "Carry on."

I, too, went on my way.

Yet as I headed out of the graveyard I couldn't stop myself from glancing back at the car one more time.

That's when I noticed the bumper sticker.

"Go Revere High!"

Screw Deere Season. It was Parking Season. Spring had officially sprung in Bath.

Oh, and for the parents who happen to be reading this blog...

Blue Toyota Corolla. Ohio License Plate #GVW 365.

Now you know where your kid was last night.

Running to run (and eating anything you want).

I ran track in high school. I remember clocking my first 400-meter dash in 50 seconds. It was my sophomore year. And I was pretty proud.

After that, I sucked.

One day, I remember coming into school the day after a track meet. My government teacher, Mr. Hill, saw me coming down the hall. His arms were crossed and he had this disappointed look on his face. I thought I had been busted for cheating.

Nope. That would've been to easy. He simply arched his arm and pointed his finger over to a bulletin board that posted the previous day's track meet times. Gulp!

Eimer - 400-meters - 1:06

A 66-minute 400-meter dash. Yep, pretty pathetic.

Suffice to say, the next year, I gave up track and field for wrestling. Then, my senior year, I pretty much did nothing except bag groceries and drink beer. It wasn't until my freshman year in college that I noticed a slight beer gut forming right above my nether regions.

That's when I started running to stay in shape.

Since that time, running has become an almost daily ritual for me.

I've run a couple marathons, some half-marathons and numerous 5k's. I've ran in rain, snow, sleet and hot sun. I've ran in in temperatures ranging from 100-degrees to zero degrees. I've ran up mountains, on pavement, in a desert and through the mud. I've even ran in a real-life rain forest.

All for the simple joy of running. Oh, and the fact that I don't want to be a fat ass.

Oh yeah, and to eat and drink anything I want whenever I want. Although that general philosophy has changed a bit over the years.

So imagine my shock when I came across this ESPN.com article about running streaks.

The story is about streak runners who've ran every single day for years. And I'm not talking two or three years. I'm talking over 30. Some of them have been running longer than I've been on this Earth.

In fact, Mark Covert, a 56-year-old teacher and cross-country coach at Antelope Valley College in Lancaster, Calif., holds the longest active daily running streak of 39 years, 130 days.

Let me clarify. That's, at least one mile per day. Every single day. For almost 40 years.

These guys are the real deal Holyfield.

On a personal note, after college I kept a daily log of my runs. In the late 90's, I was going to try and run every single day for an entire year. As it turned out the heavy partying, hazy all-nighters and mind-numbing hangovers took their toll.

Sadly, I only made it a month.

Even that was pretty damn hard, especially from a psychological standpoint. Every single day I woke up, my mind started contemplating when and where I was going to get my daily run in.

That's why I think a year of everyday running can be a pretty draining experience, especially if you're on vacation.

That's also why, in my opinion, the streak runners' achievements outlined in the aobove article completely eclipse my dedication to running.

Call it insanity or a healthy addiction. But, I think these guys deserve major kudos for their achievement.

In fact, this has motivated me to attempt my one-year goal of consecutive daily runs.

However, that will have to wait a couple more years, until my two little kids are a little bit older.

Hell, maybe they'll run it with me.

To add to that, I can only hope their 400-meter-dash will be a little faster than mine as well.

The United States of Chubby

Not sure if it’s the protective parents or their lazy spawn, but kids and adults are getting less and less mobile and more and more stagnant as the years roll along.

Especially when it comes to going outside to play.
I remember years ago when my brother and I were in grade school, my mom would slowly creep into our rooms and whisper in our ear "Just wanted to tell you that school was cancelled due to snow, you can go back to sleep."

With a smile on my face, I pulled the blanket over my head and drifted off into a deep sleep in anticipation of the white gold wonderland waiting for me outside.

When we awoke, we’d go to the living room window and quickly scan the snow. After deeming the collection of flakes sled-worthy, we'd grab a quick breakfast then hit the slopes to our hearts content.

We'd go in for a quick lunch, then we'd head back out to sled, play football, go hiking in the woods and, in general, have a helluva time. As the day wore on and night fell, you could still find us outside looking for new sledding paths to carve.

Oh, what a feeling. We were dancing on the ceiling.

Last winter, when I took my dogs on a walk in Lakewood, Ohio. I’d ask myself, "Where are the fucking kids?"

No kids playing in the snow. No kids building snowmen. No kids playing with their parents outside. Where was everyone?

Oh yeah, I forgot. American Idol was on.

As the father of two young kids, I’m disgusted with how our society is teaching young children that it’s cool to stay inside and watch TV or play video games.

And eat. And eat. And eat. And eat.

These little fat kids and their fat parents need to click off their fat TV shows, get outside and breathe some oxygen.

Wait a minute!!! What am I saying?

Scratch that. On second thought, stay exactly where you are.

I hear there’s another clip show of American Idol on tonight. Better stay inside to see who gets voted off.

I want that sled-riding hill for my kids and myself.

Run To The Hills

My family moved to Bath, Ohio, in the Spring of 2007.

It's a small country town about 15 miles out of Akron. There are no cell-phone towers, no commercial eateries, no McDonalds and no strip shopping centers. All in all, it's a fairly quiet town with a great view of the stars every single night.

And, if you can dodge cars speeding 70 MPH through the countryside, it’s also runner’s paradise.

From the Cuyahoga Falls National Park to the Bath Nature Preserve to a local track at Revere High School (for night runs) and O'Neill Woods, the place is virtually designed for cross-country runners.

But what gets me really, really excited about running in Bath ... are the hills.

Ask any track and field/cross country runner and they'll tell you that If you want to lose weight, get conditioned and gain endurance, you should incorporate hills into your weekly running regimen.

Althought I have no facts to back this up, it's been said that former Chicago Bears running back Walter Payton ran steps and hills as his primary workout. Sure, he's dead. But, before meeting his make, he broke a ton of records in the NFL. So, I say if it's good enough for a Hall of Fame running back, it's good enough for me.

I finally got to head out onto the open highway and tackle my first Bath hill in March of 2007.

After lacing up my Asics running shoes, taking a shot of my inhaler and stretching, I walked out of my driveway and hit the pavement with full gusto.

About 100 yards into my run I careened a half-mile downhill. I then proceeded to run a half-mile on a paved road to Moore's Chapel cemetery. I proceeded to run the 1/4-mile loop of the cemetary - all the while being cheered on by Bath's previous living - then I hightailed it back home.

All in all, I was about a mile and a half away from the crib. Three miles in all.

However, stopping me from a fresh glass of water, and an after-run beer, was the initial 1/2 mile hill I had so effortlessly ran down.

As I approached the 70-degree hill, I slowed my jog, took a deep breath.

Like an extra from the movie Braveheart, I let out a battle scream and attacked the hill like a man possessed. Huffing and puffing. Huffing and puffing. I felt like the little engine that could. Chugga. Chugga. Chugga. Chugga. "I think I can. I think I can. I think I can."

More importantly, I could feel the blubber in my stomach pound back and forth and virtually burn away with each foot-stomp to the ground.

My breathing deepened. My legs started to burn. I was fatigued. I was almost to the top.

I stopped.

Hill - 1
Eimer - 0

I just got my ass kicked by a hill.

Breathing like a porno star after a two-hour sex session, I walked the rest of the way. However, as punishment to myself for not succeeding, I added another half-mile to my run at the top. It was a win-win situation. Or, depending on how you look at it, a lose-lose situation.

Barring a nuclear bomb leveling Bath - I knew that damn, dirty hill was going to be there tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. So, sooner or later, I knew I was going to kick its ass. And I've done that on multiple occasions.

Now, after a summer of tackling the hills of Bath, I make it to the top about 85% of the time. Not too bad considering my runs have been limited to about 2-3 miles every other day.

As I brace for a winter of 'not-alot-of-running' due to two kids under two years old, nasty Northeast Ohio weather and Day Light Savings Time, I expect I'll have a similar experience next Spring.

But you can count on me to be in tip-top thong shape before the pools open on Memorial Day 2008.

200 pounds? No fucking way!

So, last weekend I was over at my future in-law's taking a pee in the bathroom when I noticed a white, 8" x 8" square on the floor.

It was a bathroom scale.

"Eh, what the hell," I thought.

I hopped on. It calculated 197 pounds.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" I muttered.

You know, I run almost every day. I eat salad. I eat turkey. I eat like an Asian. But, yet I’ve still managed to stay put in the upper 190's since the beginning of 2007.

Jack Frost, Mother Nature, Father Time and Old-Man Winter are having a good ol’ laugh at my expense. They’re also having an orgy (the lucky bastards).

But, I digress. I'm 35. I drink beer (Maybe 2, 3, or 18 per day.) My metabolism is definitely slowing down. And I eat a lot of french fries. So, it's not like I don't know where the extra calories are coming from.

Here’s a little mathematic equation I thought up:
Less than 20 minute workouts every day + continuous beer drinking x sitting on your ass typing ad copy for 8 hours = EXTRA POUNDAGE.

I read somewhere that every year of your life, you gain an extra pound. Almost a bastardized way of saying 'every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings'.

So when I’m 70 years old, I should weigh somewhere around 230 pounds.

Great. It won’t be long before you see me requesting one of those fat carts at Walmart to do my shopping.

I'm hungry. Pass the french fries and gravy.