Where the Hell You Runnin'?

The Sound of Summer Running - Alison Brown (mp3)
God Shuffled His Feet - Crash Test Dummies (mp3)

Running sucks. People who are passionate about running don't like people.

I mean no intentional offense to anyone reading this who likes to run, but it's just about the most horrific hobby/interest/passion/whatever in the entire fuckin' world.

Yes, I'm writing this intoxicated. Which is something runners don't generally understand or appreciate, because they're mostly too busy stretching or getting rest for a run they've gotta do in a couple of hours, 'cuz they're gonna wake up at, like, 4 a.m. and run 20 miles and buy groceries at Greenlife or some other hoity-toity grocery store like Whole Foods and then run 20 miles back home with their groceries strapped on their back. Then they'll run in little circles around their kitchen while the whole-grain bagel is warming in the toaster. They wouldn't dare be awake at midnight having poisoned their body with three or four or God forbid five beers. (Even dedicated runners mock those Michelob Ultra commercials.)

If you run, I mean no offense, but you people are friggin' weird. I mean, like, messed up in the head. Like, as in you should be institutionalized. Forever. But no offense, seriously. I'm just funnin'.

My daughters both qualified to run in this citywide youth cross country race. Trust me, this has nothing whatsoever to do with inheriting genes from their father. They apparently are in modest shape and have found it in themselves to run at a decent pace. Whatevs. Not jealous. Not at all.

Anyway, when they raced, they had these two "coaches" who served as the "rabbit." Which is to say, two human beings who can only be described accurately as "beanpoles" served the same purpose as a mechanical "rabbit-looking" device would to dogs who race around in circles for a living. Except these men seemed to think this responsibility was an honor. Being a damn rabbit.

What scared me is that apparently young runners are no safer from obsessive and crazy parents than kids whose parents shove them in other sports. You had parents warming their kids up and getting there an hour early just to walk the course. You had parents feeding them particular energy bars or standing several hundred yards from the finish line and running with them, shouting at them all the way down the stretch.

At one point, I wanted quite badly to shout, "Go, Seabiscuit!!"

Ultimately, however, my discomfort at the thought of my girls becoming dedicated runners goes back to my original comment: all the people I know who are obsessed with (or "dedicated to," if you prefer) running are isolated and isolating people.

In all the world, of all the ways one can choose to condition and hone one's body and health, running is far and away the most solitary, the least sociable. Hell, just ask a runner!

Runners would read my criticisms and joyously proclaim, "Exactly!" Running is the perfect exercise for an introvert. The activity gets them out in the open and even, occasionally, around other people, but they don't ever have to actually acknowledge those other people anymore than you have to acknowledge some toll booth operator.

Friends of mine who have found joy in running tell me it gives them time to think, that it takes them away from the worries of the world and gives them an almost meditative peace. I'm left to wonder just how long one must be dedicated to running in order to get this feeling, because the only feeling I get when I'm running is "Can't.... breathe.... holy... shit... why am... I... doing this... to myself!??!"

Never once -- not when I ran cross country in middle school and high school, not when I tried running on tracks or up and down hills or even running away from a dude I thought wanted to beat me up -- have I run a long way, finished and thought, "There couldn't possibly be a better way to get from Point A to Point B than this!"

Runners want to run away from people. They want to run away from interaction. The only time they seem to want to interact is when they are trying to convince others about how great it is to run.

I'm not much of a fighter, but the very small part of me that enjoys physical activity (heyyyy) really needs someone else to participate with me (heyyyyy stop that!). Competition is a minor motivational factor for me.  It's more about the need to enjoy someone else's company. Misery loves company; when I'm exercising I'm miserable; ergo, I need someone with me.

Runners don't need anyone. They don't want anyone. They just want the isolating joy of their feet hitting pavement, moving them away from troubles. And wherever you find troubles, you find other people. They want to run away from people.

But I'm sure they'll deny it. 'Cuz who wants to admit even unintentionally being a misanthropist just 'cuz you enjoy running?

Today's post was inspired by Ann Coulter. I hope she runs. Off a very large cliff.

A WiiFit State of Mind

I Can't Stand Up for Falling Down - Elvis Costello (mp3)
I Don't Wanna - The Von Bondies (mp3)

Forthwith is an assortment of thoughts inspired during or in the aftermath of my WiiFit workouts.

--- As Sheriff Buford T. Justice would say, Ain't no way, nooooo way, I can do the Super Hula Hoop (get a picture of that!) exercise routine for five minutes rotating my hips clockwise and another five minutes rotating my hips counterclockwise, without thinking, "I wonder if this helps my sexual endurance." Looking at all the pretty colors on the TV screen and the goofy avatars does nothing to cure this mindset. And with each successive workout, my circles are looking more and more like ovals because I'm thrusting my hips forward and backward much more than side to side. But by God I'm a "Calorie Burner," and that means something!

--- I mocked the yoga exercises, and I shrugged indifferently at the high stress WiiFit places on "core" muscles, but there's no question my posture has improved and that my back, long a particular area of weakness, is getting stronger. My balance, while never too shameful, has improved fairly drastically. And I'm almost capable of imagining myself with stomach muscles!

--- As mentioned on a previous Facebook status update, there's no way I will ever admit vocally that I regularly and willfully place myself in the Downward-Facing Dog pose (get a picture of that!). I can write it; but can't say it out loud without resorting to an eye-roll or giggling like a child. That I regularly score a 99/100 on this particular exercise is even more reason to not go talking about it. ("You sure are mighty skilled at throwing your ass into the air, Billy!")

--- Lunges, even without weights, make me feel like a total girly-man. Even after eight or nine successful times at 20 reps per leg, I still have to fight and claw to get through it. And after I'm done, I walk around for 15-20 minutes like Roy frakkin' Rogers after his first whole day riding Trigger and getting along his little doggies on the plain.

--- I find nothing remotely redeemable about the step exercises on a board three inches above the ground, and less redeemable about jogging in place. To those who can enjoy either, bully for you. That I can somehow justify swiveling my hips in large ovals for 10 minutes whilst imagining I'm keeping five hula hoops going around me at mach speeds (and simulating some bizarre sex act, apparently) while thumbing my nose at any other activity on the planet is merely proof of humanity's love affair with hypocrisy. But I can do 1,800 rotations in 10 minutes and am going for 2,000, dammit! I've got dreams!!

--- Once every three or four days, I'll start my workout, and the male trainer (get a picture of that!) pops in and tells you he's filling in today for the female trainer. Apparently this is to keep you from getting too attached to a trainer. Or maybe these characters get sick or have personal problems. Maybe my female trainer had an illness in the family, or maybe she was depressed and refused to get out of bed that day, or maybe she choked on a granola bar or something. All I know is that the male trainer has this little bitty pig tail sticking out of the back of his head, and seeing it makes me realize that even I have yet to hit rock bottom when it comes to fashion sense and personal grooming.

--- A friend of ours got a WiiFit, and her husband, who has himself a modestly-sized pot-belly, hopped on for the initial Body Test. It labeled him a hair's breadth away from OBESE and right at the top of the OVERWEIGHT category. He stepped down, turned the TV off, and walked out of the house. He now refuses to stay in the room when his wife is using it. Apparently there are some things a computer game was never meant to have the right to tell you, and labeling you a fat ass is one of them. No one needs to pay close to $100 just to be called labeled "obese" unless they're into techno-masochism.

--- On more than one occasion, I've wondered what my female trainer's name is.

--- On two separate occasions, I found myself wondering what kind of alcoholic beverage she might like, and where she would hang out if she lived in Chattanooga. (get a picture of that!)

--- On one occasion, I even left my hotel key on the console just to see if she'd pick it up and meet me.

--- I found a note, unsigned, on the console the next morning that read: "I'm just not that into you. But keep working on your hula hoop motion, and we'll talk." I'm not sure if she's just trying to find a way to motivate me or if she means it.

--- Frequent reader and emotional support John showed me this WiiFit parody the other day. It's funny as hell regardless of whether you've ever stepped on a WiiFit board.



Yes, I'm kidding about everything about my female trainer other than wondering what her name is. If you know any video game programmers, then you damn well know they named that woman.

Gym Rats

Editorial Note A: Due to technical difficulties, and because a week to God is however the f*#k long God wants it to be, The First-Ever BOTG Jesus Week has been extended to eight days. Unless He tells me to stretch it to nine or ten.

Editorial Note B: By God, we'll get at least the last week's worth of music up and running very soon. Probably by Wednesday (tomorrow) night.

THE FIRST-EVER BOTG JESUS WEEK
(sponsored by Yeungling)

Post #5: Gym Rats

Always Running Home - Paloalto (mp3)
Washed by the Water - Will Hoge (mp3)

I got a mix CD in the mail today from my good buddy Mark. It was the final product of an experiment which went far better -- and cost far more -- than either of us ever would have imagined.

Basically, he sent an email to 19 people in his email circle asking for songs that would perhaps inspire a little more gusto in his exercise routine. The "carrot" he dangled -- probably absent-mindedly, thinking only a couple of us would respond -- was that he would provide all participants with a CD of all his favorites. Mark ended up receiving almost 200 recommended songs, not including entire albums that got plugged by one person or another. I won't go into my theories on why Mark got so many responses, 'cuz all of them involve making fun of him for one reason or another.

What was certain, however, to all who know him was that Mark would obsess over this. He's meta-obsessive. He's never going to stalk Jodie Foster or anything, but his bulldog nature is unwavering, and once he's focused on something -- a person, a competition, a professional goal, a color of M&M -- he's going to bleed that passion dry and then keep squeezing.

Everyone also knew he'd follow through, not just on sending every CDs, but on using the songs for their original purpose -- to boost his obsessive exercising. Although he occasionally falls off the wagon, most of Mark's life has involved a heavy dose of physical exercise. Preferably in a form where he can push himself to an unreasonable zenith. Also preferably in a form where he can burrow into the weak psychology of others.

He's not a Gym Rat, but he is an Exercise Freak.

Exercise Freaks enjoy their rush even alone on an open road, on a basement weight bench, on a solitary mountain trail. Gym Rats require a very specific environment in order to feed their needs. They savor particular machines or benches. They feast off the social aspect, of people constantly buzzing around them, all of their endorphins and hormones bouncing off one another like radio waves. Exercise Freaks need nothing, need no one. Gym Rats need other Gym Rats.

I worry sometimes that, if I was stranded alone on an island, I would lose my religion. I wouldn't lose it all at once. It might even hang out for a while and keep me company, like Wilson the Volleyball. It would help keep me sane at times and even sustain me in those darker moments. I would eat dinner with it and want it by my side even if I gave up all hope.

But eventually, I fear I'd fall asleep and wake up only to discover that my religion had floated away while I slumbered, drifting well beyond my grasp, never to be retrieved.

Some of us, even those whose faith is carefully considered and deeply heartfelt, still need other living creatures around us to help keep that faith strong and reliable.

I'm more of a Jesus Rat than a Jesus Freak.

Will Hoge is a struggling but stubborn musician headquartered in Nashville. He is a touring rock madman who puts on one helluva live show. "Bible vs. Gun" is from his EP America. "Washed by the Water" was first performed at a Nashville concert to benefit victims of Hurricane Katrina and was later included in his most recent album, Draw the Curtains.