Night Run

My eyes popped open from my deep sleep. I looked over at the clock. It was 3:20 a.m.

The stress of buying a new home, changing jobs and being a literary success took its toll on my brain. 

After tossing and turning in bed for an hour and a half, I thought to myself, "Fuck it, I’m going on a run."

I quietly skirted out of my bed, tip-toed around the house to grab my running gear and quietly slipped out of the house.  

Like a chef walking into a meat freezer, a cool breeze hit my face and took my breath away. I stared in awe at the darkened Bath night.

“Where are you UFO’s?” I thought to myself. “Will I ever see you before I die?”

With that last thought, I hopped into the car, clicked on the ignition and slowly careened out of my driveway.

I pulled into Bath Nature Preserve around 3:50 a.m. for an impromptu illegal run (hours are from dawn to dusk). So here I was. The darkness enveloped the entire sky. The skitters and scampers of little forest creatures could be heard in the distance. But that was it. The air was still. I could see my breath misting in the cool air.

To be honest, I was a bit creeped out.

“Maybe I’ll just get back in the car and drive over to the high school and do a couple laps on the track,” I thought to myself.

“Pffft,” the little Eimer devil whispered on my shoulder. “Are you really going to be that big of a pussy?”

“Nooo,” I said to my evil doppelganger, then pulled a 180. “Fuck it, I’m already here. What’s the worse thing that could happen?”

I could die. Gulp!

Thankfully, I had my trusty Energizer Headlamp with four unique shine frequencies, including infrared lens. Yeah, it was dark, but I would be safe and sound as long as my headlamp remained on for my 3.5-mile night run.

"Right?"

I set my watch and took off down the dark grainy path. In the distance to East, I saw the slightest spit of  light from the Fairlawn shopping center. No sign of the sun trying to pull itself out of the darkness. Too early I guessed.

The trail took me through a field. 

I felt a slight tickling at my back and thought about the 'thing' from JEEPERS CREATURES. The thing that could fly in the air. The thing with the cowboy hat. The thing with the dusty MATRIX-like coat. The thing that likes to use people’s bones to create an altar.

Anticipating an aerial assault, I lurched my neck back and forth shining the light from here to there. No JEEPERS. No CREEPERS. 

I continued to run and cut off down a gravel hill, which connected to a rough the horse trail - a trail that was separated to the right by a huge pillar of pine trees and oaks and horse pastures to the left. I noticed a huge mansion, outdoor lights glowing in the distance. Yeah, I was in Bath after all.

I descended the hill and my near-sightedness kicked into high gear as I noticed a black spot down the way. The blur became the creature from XTRO, the alien creature that dropped from the sky and raped a woman with its mouth. A horror that still haunts me to this day. I ignored the lump of whatever on the ground. It may have hissed at me. I picked up my steps and glided by the creature before it could impregnate me with its nasty-eating orifice.

The horse trail careened up a hill. My breathing deeper and shallower, I huffed and puffed up a like the Little Engine That Could; the flashlight on my head bobbing up and down, up and down illuminating the ground in a wobbly, almost-BLAIR WITCH PROJECT-type of cinema verite.

I ran up a forty-five degree incline near the natural gas pump, one of six that lay in the Bath Nature Preserve. To my left, a strange formation stepped out of the woods, it looked to me like the possessed goat in DRAG ME TO HELL. I remembered the white eyes. The satanic look. The immediate hunger for human flesh. My heart began to race as I passed the creature that lay before me...

...only a deer.

It gave out a snort and took off into the woods. That’s when I felt my heart beating more than the required 200 beats per minute. The buck snorted, once again, and shot off into another section of the woods. 

I hung a left down an old grassy trail, which connected, back again with the main running trail, and approached an old wooden bridge.

In the darkness, it almost appeared like a moat bridge from CASTLE GREYSKULL inviting me to commiserate with the likes of He-Man, Man-At-Arms, Beast Man and, more importantly, She-Ra to discuss the political situations with Skeletor on Planet Eternia over a pint of mead.

Then, my mind immediately shifted to think the story of BILLY GOATS GRUFF; more importantly the troll that lurked beneath the bridge. "Could there be a troll underneath this bridge?" I thought as I clopped, clopped, clopped underneath the wooden slats, I overheard the stream gently bubbling underneath my feet. 

Then I heard a rustle. Then I did a 180-degree turn and high-tailed it off the bridge back to the trial and up the hill. I imagined the angry CAVE TROLL from THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING, pulling itself from the wooden bridge, goblins by its side, as it ripped and tore the sides of the bridge and quickly reached the nape of my neck.

I yanked my head back. Nothing. I let out a sigh and continued on my journey.

About two miles into my run, I was getting into my groove. Heart beat at 180 or slightly higher, half a yard steps, even breathing and a nice 9:00 pace (hey, I’m not trying to break any world records, here). The darkness grew more ominous as I entered an overlap of trees and slightly into the denser forest.

I heard a faint rustle in the woods to my right. I shined the light into the weeds. Deep in the distance a faint shadow appeared. Memories of AMERICAN WEREWOLF IN LONDON shot through my skull. The scene where the man is heading up the escalator and scans down the steps to see the hulking werewolf slowly, almost casually, heading toward its prey.

Which reminded me of a story...

When I was a little kid, we had two sets of stairs in our house. The first set of steps ran up from the kitchen and pantry into the upstairs bedroom, which I shared with my brother. Every single time I walked down those steps I was convinced a demonic Gladiator Centaur with bow and arrow in hand was going to shoot out of the attic door, pull three of four fiery arrows from his sheath and, in a machine gun cadence, proceed to shoot them towards my back. Convinced this was going to happen, I always sprinted down the steps like a boy possessed.

The second set of steps headed down into the basement. The steps had openings beneath each step. No carpet, no wood, just functional steps. Going down into the basement was never a problem. However, heading upstairs, was a big problem. I was convinced that as I reached the sixth set of steps, the WEREWOLF from THE HOWLING was going to shoot his hand through the open slats, snatch my ankle and squeeze with all its might. Convinced this was going to happen, I always bounded up the basement steps like a boy possessed – as well. "Why do you do that?!!" my mother would always scream.

Back to the night run...

My pace quickened. My blood pressure felt like it shot up another 10 points. Goosebumps covered my entire body anticipating a strike from the beast in the woods. However, after another inspection with my trusty light, the shadow revealed itself to be a large boulder. Phew! Instant death diverted once again.

I careened off the bike path and onto a dirt, running trail past a gargantuan steel dragon. The JABBERWOCKY from Alice in Wonderland???!!!! No, only the steel pulsing of a gas well going up and down, up and down. Chugging gas from the ground up into its steel basin.

The trail careened into an even darker forested umbrella. Blackness covered me like a cold blanket of Death. I clicked the highest shine function on my Energizer Headlamp.

The crunch of my steps on the hard pebbles and rocks was the only sound echoing into the eerie, wooded terror land. I thought of the movie PUMPKINHEAD. The green creature spawned by hate from some section of hell. I thought about the CENOBITES from HELLRAISER, led by Pinhead, the unflinching psychopaths from Hades. The  things that wanted to tear your soul apart. I glanced over into what I knew was an empty, dried up bog. For an instant, I thought I saw the menacing creatures waiting in the woods. Waiting for me to slightly step off the trail so they could tear my body from limb to limb, ripping each and every piece of my body until only a puddle of blood remained.

I closed my eyes. “Just movies,” I said to myself. “Only movies.” I opened my eyes and the creatures were gone.

Again, wanting this run to be over, I quickened my pace once again as I set up another hill, which turned slightly into a concrete path before opening up into a field of wheat, or hay, or simply tall grass. I wasn’t sure. I ran into a plume of fog, which slightly cooled my body. It felt like I was running into a thousand deathly souls roaming the Earth.

For a moment I was expecting the creature DARKNESS from the movie LEGEND to come through the fog, through the smoke; inserting his scabbard hand into my heart and ripping it into pieces.

This was supposed to be a 30-minute repast during my day. It was supposed to be my relaxing three-mile run. Instead, it was my own personal internal hell. My own personal demons terrorizing my every step.

Which reminds me...

Sometimes during my run, I think about death. I think about possibly dying when I’m older on one of these trails. Will my body be found? Will it lie there and slowly decay for years and years? What will people think when they come upon it?

Sometimes, even during my day runs, I look back and imagine a black figure gliding effortlessly through the trail, 50 yards or so behind me, matching my pace, waiting, anticipating that moment when I trip, my heart skips, I have a stroke or I simply stop breathing.

Back on the trail...

I came around the turn and approached a ubiquitous shadow; a blurry figure walking closer to me. This was the time that I wished for my glasses, or contacts or the fucking Lasik eye surgery. Anything for me to focus on the image in front of me.

Was this my time? Was this my death?  Was that the GRIM REAPER from THE MEANING OF LIFE with his long scythe waiting patiently for me to finish my run. Waiting patiently to take me away from my family, my kids and my not-so-bad life?

“Excuse me,” the creature said. Only it wasn’t a creature.

“Huh,” I said startled as I slowed to a brief walk, then stopped in front of the man’s face. He was an older gentleman, about 60 or 65. A just-as-old golden retriever stood next to him panting a rather jolly pant.

“Do you know how to get back to the main bike trail?”

I nodded and pointed in the direction I came. “Follow this loop and it will take you back to the trail.”

“Thank you so much,” the man said petting the top of his dog’s head. An odd two-second silence whisked between us. My mind started again. I imagined a knife in his back pocket. I imagined the OLDER GENTELMAN from the movie LET THE RIGHT ONE IN. The guy who killed in order to accumulate fresh blood for his young vampire princess. I took a slight step back from the man and the dog, which looked a bit angrier from the last second I looked at him.

“A little creepy out at this time of day, eh?” asked the old man.

I nodded.

“Your mind can play some crazy tricks on you that’s for sure” he said.

“You’re telling me,” I said. “Be careful.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” the old man laughed and patted his loyal dog on top of the head. “That’s why I have her to protect me.”

I looked at the dog and through about my dog, Otto; a loyal Rottweiler-Doberman mix that was the best dog in the world.

“Well, have a good run,” the old man smiled and started on his way. “And thank you.”

“You too,” I said and headed off to my car.

During my half-mile run back to my car, I thought about the old man. I thought about the ghosts and goblins that tormented my mind. I thought about my life, my dreams, my family and my job.

I thought about all the scary things that this world can throw at you day in and day out. And all of the things on this Earth that can just as easily take you away from it all.

I thought about my mother whispering in my ear before heading off to school. “Heck, every time you step outside of your house, you can get killed,” she said. “Just think of all the ways you can die in a day...”

For some reason those comments have stuck in my mind.

Today, I was able to outrun and outfox Pumpkinhead, the Cave Troll, the American Werewolf in London, the grim specter of Death and other creatures lingering and lurking in the back of my brain.

Tomorrow, I may not be so lucky.

Maybe I’ll go on an afternoon run instead.

Whip It...Good!

As I’ve stated in a couple previous entries, I'm an avid runner.

As I've also stated in a previous entry, I find a lot of crazy shit when I run on the highway.

Last year, I noticed an uptick in the number of beer cans strewn on the side of the road. I blamed the stock market.

This year, I’ve been noticing something a bit more peculiar...Reddi wip™ cans.

No, not the circular Tupperware-like plastic containers of Cool Whip, but the long, metallic cylinders of whipped cream.

There are literally dozens and dozens of these festive-looking cans strewn along the road.

At first, I pictured a rather large-and-in-charge male or female navigating their high-priced Lexi (plural of Lexus) down Hametown Road, driving with their knees, as they juggle a Hostess® Fruit Pie in one hand, a can of Reddi Wip in the other hand, attempting to indulge in an extraordinary dessert.

But, c’mon! Let’s be realistic. That’s not what’s happening at all.

If I was a betting man (and I am) I would say it’s a group of teenagers-possibly from the Revere school district or, at the very least, neighboring Cuyahoga Falls, Medina, Richfield or Fairlawn-doing Whip its.

Yep, Whip-Its® - the act inhaling nitrous oxide from small compressed canisters or compressed cans of whipped cream. (Thanks Urban Dictionary!)

Seems to be quite a resurgence going on in this particular neighborhood nowadays. And I have a couple thoughts as to why:

• It’s harder and harder for the youngsters to get alcohol.
• It’s harder and harder to steal mom and dad’s prescription ‘back pills’.
• It’s harder and harder to buy expensive weed on a high school student’s budget.
• Simply put, it’s harder and harder for younger people to catch a buzz nowadays.

Look, I’ll admit it, I’ve done Whip-Its in my lifetime.

Yes, it's addictive. And, yes, it does kill mega brain cells by depriving fresh oxygen to your noggin. Hence, the buzz.

The last time I did Whip-its was about seven years ago...

I was living in Columbus, Ohio. It was a dull Wednesday night. My two good friends (who happen to be married) and I decided to grab a 12-pack of beer and a couple canisters of Whip-its, a canister cracker (I think that’s what they're called) and some balloons at a local Kwicky Mart.

We giddily drove to my buddy's house and indulged in an hour and a half of pure nitrous fun! With our lips blue and our heads throbbing, we watched about 10 back-to-back episodes of COPS and then called it a night.

Another story...

During a Spring Break waaaaay back in college, five of my buddies and I crammed into two small Honda Accords and hightailed it down to Hunting Island, South Carolina, with a huge tank of Nitrous Oxide hidden deep in the trunk. And when I say tanks, I'm not talking about the little itty-bitty canisters used by your neighborhood dentist. I'm talking the big-ass tanks they use to juice up drag-racing cars.

In any event, it took six dudes less than two days to suck down an entire tank of the stuff. In the middle of the night, I remember more than once hearing a silent zipping sound of the tent being opened, then suddenly an extremely loud discharge of the Nitrous Oxide tanks echoing in the night as one my friends filled up their designated balloon with the hippity, hoppity fun-filled gas.

Little did we know the buzz would evaporate for good. Shortly after our fun-filled Spring Break, nitrous oxide manufacturers deliberately added a small percentage of sulfur dioxide to the tanks as an irritant to discourage substance abuse by goofballs pining to achieve the laughing gas effect. Damn them to Hell.
But I digress...

While I think it’s fine that America's newest generation of pimple pushers are experimenting with this somewhat trippy drug that makes you giggle for a couple seconds, I’m a little perturbed that they’re being thrown out the window like an errant used condom after a quick back-seat bang (not that that’s good either).

So, Northeast Ohio youngsters, can you do me a favor?

After you get your little jollies off inhaling your whipped cream, please, pretty please (with some fucking sugar on top) toss your canisters in a plastic bag and pitch them into the garbage. There are plenty of bins and receptacles around the Bath area where you can toss these metallic eyesores. Maybe you can even look to recycling as well.
All I know is that Mother Nature would be much, much happier.

And, more importantly, so would I.

Snakes? Snakes? Where are you?

If you are the one or two people who frequently read this blog, you know that I do a lot of trail running.

Pretty much, I've hit every hiking trail in and around the Cuyahoga Valley National Park region. I've also had my share of running adventures in Central Ohio as well.

But, I'm not here to brag.

I'm here to make a specific point about snakes. (work with me, here)

When I was a kid, my brother and I would find a plentitude of snakes all around our home of Martins Ferry, Ohio. We used to pick snakes up with ease, like it was almost second nature. With precision, we would pull on their tails from in between two rocks, throw them in the grass, grab them on the back of the head, squeeze and pull them up. Their tails would slowly slither around your arm.

It was a cool feeling of empowerment over the smaller creatures of the world.

Waaaay back in 2007, when I moved up to the Northeast Ohio region (particularly Lakewood) I would come across a number of snakes on my runs. Most of the time, I would mistake them for a stick and, as soon as I jumped over them, they would skitter away giving my heart a slight tremble.

Lately, I've been a little out of practice in picking up snakes. So I thought to myself 'On my trail running, if I see a snake, I'll get back into the practice of snake-picking-up just in case I run across one with my kids.'

Important note to fathers: You don't want to look like a sissy in front of your kids, especially if it has to do with insects or snakes. So I recommend you get over your fears of eight-legged and no-legged creatures prior to having children.

I've been on some very rustic runs in the Akron area and, let me tell you, I've only come across a total of five snakes since moving down to the Bath area in 2007. Five freaking snakes!

That said, I wasn't surprised when I came across this article on Yahoo.com today concerning our slithery friends.

Seems that the world's scientists are in agreement that there is a noticeable decrease in the snake population - not just in Northeast Ohio....worldwide mother fucker. Worldwide.

According to the article, some key factors known to play a role in the decline include climate change, habitat loss, pollution, disease, lack of prey and over-exploitation, either for food or trade.

I know some people will clicking their heels in excitement over this news, (My wife would prefer to be reading a similar article about spiders.), but I'm a little disappointed to read this news.

Hopefully there will be an upswing in the population. Hopefully the little tiny country mice will get busy humping. Hopefully St. Patrick isn't taking his snake campaign worldwide and running the snakes out of the planet.

Hopefully this article isn't true and it's simply a slow news day.

It's all in the numbers. Life, that is.

Just got back from my doctor. I had a blood test to check my cholestoral and other stuff. It's amazing how much they can read from a couple vials of blood.

In any event,

- My cholestorel isn't great (204)
- My good cholestoral is bad (45)
- My bad cholestoral is bad (130 - think)
- My triglycerides were up (due to frequent stops to Dunkin Donuts, no doubt)
- My liver function was OK. Not great. OK

Well, why am I highlighting all of this to total strangers? I don't know. But I do know that I'm not 25 anymore. I'm going to be 38 in July, which is very weird writing it (even saying it). I still feel like I'm 25. Perhaps, I'm still eating that way as well.

While I was on a run yesterday, I was thinking how bad off my body would be if I didn't exercise. Take note, I got these crappy results and I EXERCISE ALMOST EVERY DAY.

(sigh)

Well, at least I don't have cancer. At least, I don't have some sort of crazy kidney or liver disease. At least, it's just high cholestorol. Which can be treated with a pill.

Speaking of pills, it feels like I'm at CVS every other day picking up prescriptions for either myself, my kids and my wife.

I like that my bartender knows my name and my drink.

I don't like that my pharmacist knows my name and what drugs I'm taking.

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.

100-Meter Record Shattered!

Usain Bolt, set the world record in the 100-meter dash on Saturday night with a time of 9.72 seconds at the Reebok Grand Prix.

It was .02 seconds faster than the previous record held by fellow Jamaican teammate Asafa Powell.

Check out the ESPN.com article right here.

The crazy thing is that Bolt is a 200 guy and wasn't even considered a contender for the 100 record before he ran a 9.76 (the second-fastest 100 ever) last month at a meet in Jamaica.

Knowing this nugget of information, I'm still sticking to my guns on a previous post I wrote and saying that the world record will be broken again in Beijing. Then, I believe it will be broken two or three more times until it remains at 9.5 for a very, very long time.

Speaking of the Olympics, I don't know about you, but with all the crap going on in the world, I'm really looking forward to this year's Summer Olympics.

Add to that the fact that it's taking place in censorship-heavy Beijing, China - and you've got the possibility that something really, really crazy is going to happen.

I'm talking 'fist in the air in the land of hypocrisy'-type Olympic stuff.

If the torch-carrying protests around the world are any sign, the Beijing Olympics will be a hotbed of political intrigue, anti-censorship rants and negative criticism.

I can't wait!

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.

What Five Songs Will Be Played At Your Funeral?

Sometimes, when I'm jogging, I cut into this graveyard and do a couple laps on this 1/4 mile cul de sac.

This past Saturday, I decided to say 'Hello' to my little ghostly friends.

As I rounded the corner and passed the metallic graveyard gate, I looked up and my shoes came to a cartoony screeching halt.

Lo and be hold, a funeral service was taking place.

People dressed in black, were standing next to a casket with a pastor reading scriptures. Two women were dabbing their eyes with tissues. Their husband's consoling arms were draped around their shoulders.

Add some snow flurries dropping from the sky and five plus inches of snow on the ground, and you've got a stark funeral scene straight out of the movies.

Having never, ever seen anyone at this particular graveyard, it was an eerie sight to behold. So I decided to forgo my jaunt amongst the dead, and opted for a different route home.

Personally, I would feel a little weird if I was at a funeral and a jogger in a hunter's orange cap listening to an I-pod ran by. Wouldn't you?

On the run home, my mind reverted back to the funeral.

Then I started to think about death.

Then I started to think about my death.

Then I started to think about my funeral.

Then i started to think about the five songs I would request to be played at my funeral.

Now, if anyone has seen High Fidelity with John Cusack, The making of a great compilation tape is hard to do.

To quote Rob Gordon from the movie:

"You gotta kick off with a killer, to grab attention. Then you got to take it up a notch, but you don't wanna blow your wad, so then you got to cool it off a notch."

Magnify that times ten for the perfect Death Mix Tape at your own funeral.

Seriously though, it would be tough to choose the five perfect songs from your vast collection of musical memories.

In addition, you would have to pick music that's somewhat uplifting, yet a bit melancholy. Although you would want people to have a good time and remember you in a good way, you wouldn't necessarily want people to pull out the cardboard and start breakdancing at your funeral.

Or maybe you would.

Plus, you have to choose music that not only defines who you were on this planet, but music that digs deep into your soul and portrays the heartbreak, the happiness, the sorrow and the joy you experienced on this Earth.

That said, if Death walked up to me today, tapped me with his sycthe and told me I was going to croak in 24 hours, here are the 5 songs I would request to be played at my funeral...

1. Sing It Again by Beck


2. I Don't Know by The Beastie Boys


3. Hurt by Johnny Cash


4. Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd


5. Big Balls by AC/DC

Keep in mind, if you talked to me in a week, a month or a year, some of the above songs wouldn't even be considered.

That said, more than likely, I will probably always include a song by the Beastie Boys, Johnny Cash and Beck. Some other artists under consideration were songs by Radiohead, Jack Johnson, Guns N' Roses, Cake and Lucinda Williams.

Seriously, depending on the day and how I'm feeling, the possibilities for my Death Music Mix are like Death's job on this Earth...endless.

Now I'm curious, what would your five songs be if you were going to die in 24 hours?

And please be sure to leave your name. I need to put a face to the songs, man. I need to put a face to the songs.

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.

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.

How Fast Can You Run the 100 Meter Dash?

I just found out that Sham Asafa Powell of Jamaica set the world record in the 100 meters at 9.74 seconds on September 9, 2007.

Pretty impressive.

In high school, I think I clocked my best 100 in a mind-blowing 12 seconds. It was a 'junior varsity' heat and I took first place. And no, it wasn't one of those 'special' races. But, that's beside the point.

In my personal opinion, I think the 100-meter record will be broken, once again, at the 2008 Olympics in Beijing, China. Then, I believe it will be broken two or three more times until it remains at 9.5 for a very, very long time.

With technology, new training methods, possible muscle-enhancing leg surgeries and secretive drugs pumped into your legs, is it possible that a human will ever run a 100-meter dash under nine seconds? Hey, while we're at it, how about eight seconds?

"No way," you say.

Well, that's the same thing they said about running a mile under four minutes in the 1950's and look what happened with that. In 1954, Roger Bannister silenced the naysayers and ran the first officially-recorded sub-four-minute mile at 3 minutes 59.4 seconds in Oxford, England. In 53 years, an impressive 16 seconds has been cut from that time with the current record of 3:43.13 set by Morocco's Hicham El Guerrouj in 1999.

"But what about the 100 meters?" you ask.

According to Wikipedia (take it with a grain of salt), at the inaugural Olympics in Athens, Greece in 1896, Tom Burke ran a 100 meters in 12 seconds (just like me!) - it was the earliest 'record' known to man. However, this was before the 1912 recognition of records. That's when Don Lippincott recorded an 'official' world-record time of 10.2 seconds.

Since then, the record has been broken or tied 65 times in 95 years.

But, sooner or later, don't you think there has to be a moment when the 100-meter dash record can never be broken? Forever?

What will that official unbreakable time be? And when and where will it happen?

Who knows, but I'm sure we'll get there a lot faster when all of our athletes are allowed to use performance-enhancing steroids at the All-World Steroid Olympics.