bakers dozen

If, three months ago, you had asked me if I had any interest in training for and running a half marathon through the streets of downtown San Jose come October, I would have looked at you, called you a fucking moron, and resumed eating my potato crisps.

However, here we are, one week shy of October, and I have not only surpassed my previous lifetime achievement of longest distance covered on foot above a brisk walk (though barely) of 4 miles, but I have run without stopping 12 whole miles using my own two feet! Humans shouldn't have to cover distances that far without wheels in this day and age!

Aside from the moderate complaints of slight hip and lower back pain, and a possible stress fracture in my right foot (merely a flesh wound) my body is holding up surprisingly well during these runs. I've overcome the mental hurdle of running this distance by tricking my body into thinking that if it just goes one more mile then I will let it stop and give it ice cream. Just one more...then one more...then one more...now ice cream? Right after this next mile... And then my body totally forgets about the ice cream when it registers that using this tactic it has successfully covered ten miles and burned 1,000 calories and who needs ice cream when it's 9:30AM and you've already accomplished so much??

Another big benefit of running this much is the superiority you have over pretty much everyone else you'll come across the rest of your weekend and how you get to lord your achievements over them mercilessly. For instance, if they tell you how they finally got around to staining that cabinet that they got from Goodwill last month, you can say "hey that's great, but you know what's even greater? Running 12 miles at 7:45 in the goddamn morning, that's what."

And then they win because you've showed them the joys of comparatives, and you win because you're obviously a more disciplined and higher functioning person.

It is also a real pleasure to walk into a sporting goods store or footwear establishment and when the salesperson walks up to you as you're admiring a nice pair of Saucony's, you drop a careless "yeah I just wonder how these will support my ankles during mile nine..." then pause for effect "...cause ya know, I'm a runner. I run."

Nevermind that I nearly faint if I push it over a 10 minute mile pace, or that sometimes each step sends a stab of pain up my right ankle and into my calf. Or that if I run with my sister's dog, at any given moment I can look down and he will be WALKING and looking up at me as if to say "is this all you've got?"

Because I am a runner. I run.

fall chicken

So last night as I was getting ready for bed, delicately putting my pajamas on so as not to jostle the insanely huge dinner in my stomach for fear I would explode, I realized with horror that something was "not right" in my joints.

Not the kind of "not right" that is laughing at midgets. Not the kind of "not right" that is Katy Perry's career. No, this was the kind of "not right" that involved attempting to contort myself in a variety of yoga and yoga-esque positions in a vain attempt to release the air pocket that was lodged somewhere between my stomach and my kneecaps.

I never used to have these problems. I was the indignant one when a friend or associate of mine would shove their hands under their necks and crank sideways in order to release a volley of snaps and crunches that I was sure would end in their death before my very eyes. People who cracked their knuckles were worse than parents who kiss their babies' heads.

But, after starting to work out pretty regularly about three years ago, I realized that strain on the body results in odd puffs of air being trapped inside you where you least expect them. Then, when you turn to the side to catch a glimpse of a fat squirrel running across the street and your back snaps unexpectedly, releasing you from a tension you didn't know you had, it's on. You spend the rest of your days trying to recreate that sensation, like a drug addict chasing his first high.

If you have never known the frustration of needing to "crack" a body part, then let me break it down for you. It starts as a little seed of an idea: "You know what would feel good right now? A tiny little pop. Just a small one. Loosen those joints up."

It quickly progresses to: "Yeah remember when I said it would be nice to release some of this built up air in between your bones? I meant that if you don't do it soon, this shit is gonna get real."

Then escalates to: "You fucked with the wrong air pocket this time. You think you were uncomfortable before? You can twist your spine off now for all I care. This shit's gonna stay unpopped till the break of dawn."

I twisted and flopped and stretched and pulled for hours, trying to get comfortable. Never in my life had I experienced air so stubborn, or so painful. I never did get it, and I spent the entire night in uncomfortable positions, unable to get a solid hour of sleep in.

This brings me to my next point: I am getting old.

I don't know how this happened, but although I am currently in the best physical shape of my life (I'm not one of those people who are proud to be in "high school shape" again...I'll admit it, I was a fatass in high school) and yet I am plagued by aches and pains that I thought I didn't have to expect until I was 55 at the very least. What the hell, body? Do I have to break your spirit so you let me sleep at night without complaining about a sore ankle or a tender muscle?

I have four weeks left until I'm scheduled to run a half marathon, but at this rate I"m wondering if all of my parts will be in working order on game day. Best case scenario is I'm the one snapping and cracking down the street in my race bib, trying to convince my body that age is just a number...

and then I ate a whole pork loin

Last week I took out a frozen Hormel pork loin that Hector had bought a while ago, in anticipation of him coming home and me cooking a feast to celebrate his joyous return. Fires broke out and he had to go out of county, so I had a defrosted pork loin on my hands that I didn't really want to eat in the first place and REALLY didn't want to eat all on my own.

I put off cooking that nasty pork loin for as long as possible. I reasoned that it was, after all, vacuum sealed and so it would last longer than a pork loin fresh from the butcher. And since it was from Hormel, I couldn't even be sure that it was technically pork in the first place, rather than "pork composite".

I attempted to recruit others to share in my bountiful loin, acting reluctant to split up the gifts that had been bestowed upon me by the pork gods. When there were no takers, I resorted to pleading and bribery. As in, "if you come over, I'll make sure you are fully supplied with libations" and "are you sure? There's gonna be cookies!"

However, when all was said and done, I had a vacuum sealed pork composite loin to eat all to myself and had no idea how to cook it. The last time I ate one of these (because Hector so thoughtfully purchased two), it was barbecued and not very tasty. It had a weird texture that no meat should have and was surrounded by a "lean" layer of fat that I am now fairly certain was created to add to the illusion that what you're eating is actually from an animal.

The first night, I ate the loin as nature intended, unadorned with a side of broccoli and cauliflower. The second night, I had to spruce it up and used it as a topping on my homemade pizza. The third night, again I just shoveled the sliced loin into my mouth without accoutrement because I had no time to prepare a fancy meal for one. And now, at lunch, I just successfully polished off the last of my pork loin masked in chicken fried rice. It took all week, but I did it America! Now if only I would use my powers for good instead of evil.