Tough Mudder Video...Finally!

So after a long process filled with system updates, a fairly steep learning curve, and program purchases, I've finally finished the video. I love it. I still get a kick out of it and I've watched it probably 100 times. It's rock 'n' roll, it's dramatic, it's fucking rad. Who doesn't love a little heavy metal Jurassic Park? If you say you don't you're a goddamn liar. Sure, I took some dramatic liberties, but that's what I get to do by being the video editor and having you sweet viewers as my audience. (Keep in mind this is my first video and I had no idea what I was doing.) I should mention that the video is pretty shaky because I was wearing a GoPro on my head and I bounce around a lot when I'm happy, and that's the way it is. PUT A SMILE ON YOUR FACE AND BOUNCE AROUND,  PEOPLE.

Be sure to check out the highlights like us running through Electroshock Therapy at the 5:40 mark and the girl slamming her face into the half pipe at the 4:48 mark. And my tight clothing, featured intermittently.

You might be better off just watching it on the direct YouTube site though, because you can watch it in HD there and it's way prettier. We're all prettier in HD. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aD1q60WPDAs

What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Hurt Like Hell

I know this is long. Bear with me. To even accurately describe this event and the way it felt to finish would take me about 100,000 more words. I feel like I left so much out. Next week, maybe the video will give you a better perspective. And I apologize for the lack of photos, but those will go in the video, too.

I don't even know where to start. I can't remotely express how jacked up I still am about finishing the Tough Mudder. It was exactly everything I thought it would be, and more. I was muddy, I was wet, I was tired, I was cold, I was laughing, I was electrocuted, I was surrounded by guys with far superior athletic ability. It was like high school all over again.

But the most important thing is I made it out alive. I know some people that thought I'd only make it out in a body bag, but such was not the case. I'm bruised, I was bloody, and I've now hit a new level or soreness I never thought possible. This type of sore doesn't include cramped and tender muscles. My joints are fused, my tendons creak, and the pain resonates to my bones. But I can say I have never been happier to be so miserable.

The morning of the Tough Mudder I woke up at 7:00, strapped on my skivvies and ladies workout clothes. (Somehow, I end up in women's clothing for all sorts of public events.) I grabbed a coffee, a bagel, and a croissant in a feeble attempt to carbo-load. I hit the ATM for some cash and hit the road. I got to Vail Lake about two hours before our start time, which was plenty of time to prep. And by prep, I mean drink malt liquor. This wasn't smart, but it wasn't the worst idea. It definitely calmed our nerves. In addition, the mystery man from the preview blog ended up being two guys, and it was the two guys I so vehemently wished for it to be, so that pumped everyone up. We encouraged each other and hugged each other and taped our shoes on with hot pink duct tape. We made our way in, got our bib numbers written on our foreheads and arms, checked our bags and anxiously waited our fate.

The event, not race (more on that in about two minutes), was harder than I thought, in ways that didn't even cross my mind. In my estimation, it was about two-thirds up or down hill. My strength was adequate, my endurance strong, but when it came to going uphill, that's where I faltered. This gets hard on your feet, knees, hips...just your legs in general. The interesting thing is that my muscles, though burning for much of the hiking, didn't get sore. Now, the pain is in my bones, deep in my left foot and right hip. If I ever do this again, I'll be doing about 10,000 stair sets beforehand instead of running along the relatively flat streets of Santa Monica.

Before it all started, all the participants for our 11:40 wave time were corralled into a gated area and the hype man had everyone jumping and swaying and hyped up. I'm not big on hype men, but this guy really knew how to get his job done. The music was blaring and pumping through the speakers. We were screaming and moving and caged up like wild boar. He asked everyone to take a knee, and then asked those who served or are currently serving in the armed forces to stand up. We showed our appreciation for their sacrifice and hard work with handshakes, hugs and cheers. This was followed by the national anthem. Then Mr. Hype Man had everyone raise their right hands and repeat after him:

I understand that Tough Mudder is not a race but a challenge.

I put teamwork and camaraderie before my course time.

I do not whine - kids whine.

I help my fellow Mudders complete the course.

I overcome all fears.

Every line of the Tough Mudder pledge came true - though some whining did slip through. Ok, there was A LOT of whining. The course is designed to be grueling and mentally taxing. It remains in the back of your mind that some of these obstacles are there purposely to break you, or at least try to. And some obstacles cannot be completed without someone's help. It's all about helping each other and developing a sense of teamwork. Fuck your time. The Hype Man made it pretty clear that it's not about proving how much better you are than the person next to you; it's about proving how much better everyone can be than the course. It DOES NOT matter if you finish in two hours or eight hours. It doesn't matter if you finish first. The point is that you finish at all, and on your way you help others finish. Pick someone up when they fall; they'll pick you up when you need a hand.

Just before starting, Mr. Hype Man got everyone swaying their hands, jumping up and down while playing some sort of victorious music. Then there it is. Before you know it, you're off, headed up some dirt hill, coughing your way through some orange smoke and you have little to no clue as to how difficult the next four hours of your life will be.

It didn't help that the temperature never got above 50 degrees, the wind was gusting at some sort of MPH, and we were covered in either super cold water or super cold mud after the first obstacle, a half-mile into the course. It makes you stiff and numb, of course. But even parts of my torso were numb. Some of us couldn't unfurl our fingers. We had to cut the hands off of one guy's tuxedo morphsuit because he couldn't even use his hands. My sister had to use a space blanket to warm up between obstacles. I think I speak for everyone when I say I have never been as cold as I was that day. By the end I wasn't just shivering, I was uncontrollably quaking. After we finished the course, the beer was spilling from my cup because I was shaking so hard. A few of us won free beer tokens to be redeemed at the finish line, but we didn't bother cashing them in because we were so miserable. For anyone in this group to deny a free beer, it must have been a dire situation. It was THAT cold.

An aside: My throat did not handle the cold weather well. From about the third mile on I was coughing and wheezing, and the air stung with every inhale. Every exhale gurgled like a garbage disposal. This caused more problems than I'd imagined, and there were times I had to stop and the only physical discomfort was my sandpaper throat.

The camaraderie manifests itself pretty quickly. From the first obstacle to the last, words of encouragement are tossed about constantly, and there's a helping hand everywhere you look. There were times where I thought "What the fuck have I gotten myself into?"and "I can't believe I thought this was a good idea." But a supportive pat on the back or an extended hand were never on short supply.

I never seriously considered giving up, even when we were chilled to the bone and cut and battered. Even when we ran past our warm waiting cars, I never had the desire to stop. Had I brought my keys, maybe it would have been a different story. But we ran by the cars around mile 10 and there was absolutely no giving up at that point. Because, mentally, the hardest part was the first half. The progress seems minimal as you run past mile markers 1, 2, and 3. However, I paid 150 bucks to torture myself, so (again) there was no way I'd let myself give up. After reaching mile marker 6, the progress felt real, and from then on we always had less to go than what we'd already ran. Eight miles sounds pretty daunting when you're looking at it, but when you're looking back, it wasn't that bad. With four miles left I thought "Well, I've already ran four miles twice, one more won't hurt." With three miles left: "I've ran three miles three times already, another probably won't kill me." And so on and so forth.

When it came to the obstacles, for the most part, I was golden. They were more crawling than climbing, and the only ones I didn't complete were Twinkle Toes and Funky Monkey. I made it halfway across the balance beam on Twinkle Toes before I biffed it. However, it wasn't as bad as the guy that nutted it on the wobbly 2x8. And Funky Monkey, well, I just couldn't hang on. My hands were covered in mud and by some grace of uncoordination, I managed to skip a rung, thus rendering myself useless and forward progress impossible. Into the water I went. I believe three people on our team of 10 made it across, which is not a good ratio.  

One of those was Thomas, who I had originally thought didn't train at all, but was apparently the most prepared. I would later find out that in the months before the Mudder, he would dump buckets of ice water on himself and go on 10-mile runs through the mountains behind his house. This was evident as we lugged ourselves along and he stood there with his long, blonde locks flowing in the wind, looking majestic as fuck.

BG, one of the guest stars, seemed to also have a fairly easy go at it. He plays soccer three times a week and skates 10 days a week, so he was in pretty good shape. The rest of us had varying levels of training and it showed. Jimmy, the other guest star, had the roughest time. Poor guy showed up in cargo shorts and Vans that fell off while he was merely walking. But he made it, and he looked like a rock star when he finished.

Lest we forget electrocution. After much deliberation through texts over the days before, and some apprehension the day of, we got everyone in our group to run headlong through the live wires. Not only did everyone participate, but we linked arms, which, according to one Tough Mudder staffer, makes you a true Tough Mudder. The only way to describe the feeling of the shock is like getting punched. But it's a punch concentrated in a very specific area, and instead of flinching away from the source of the pain, you flinch toward it. It's just as... shocking, as you might think but at the same time, it was hilarious.

Andy and I fell after the last bale of hay and once we were through the mud, but we quickly got up, laughing, and gave each other a muddy little hug. We joined up with the rest of our team, who managed to not fall, and headed toward the end. With little fanfare, flanked by friends and family, we crossed over the finish line, relieved, giddy (maybe a bit euphoric or delusional by this time), and accomplished. We picked up our orange headbands, which can never be bought, only earned by finishing a Tough Mudder course. We got a space blanket, which did almost nothing warm us or shield us from the elements. And we got our beers. Shortly after our triumph, we were on our way to the hotel, with little more than wet clothes, mud, and a shit ton of stories.

It might sound cheesy, but it really did give us a sense of accomplishment. The orange headband was a little badge of honor that we wore proudly. I realized how much mine meant to me when I managed to lose it a day later. Luckily, it had just ended up in Chavz's bag.

The ten of us completed it together, and we did it for fun. Most importantly we helped each other along the way. And for a few hours afterward we just celebrated. We drank, and limped, and gambled. Maybe our heads were held a little higher, our posture a little straighter. We were proud, and there was no reason not to be. It might sound like drama or hyperbole, but this race is a beast, and it isn't something to scoff at. It was brutal, and the most fit of the jocks who were out there with something to prove about how much of a man they were still had to drag their bodies across the finish. But for anyone who finishes Tough Mudder, it's a confidence boost.

Even now, more than a week later, I still walk down the street and feel superior to everyone because I completed the Tough Mudder and they didn't.

It's About That Time

The last pre-race blog, and the last daily blog. I woke up and took my morning doodie and I'm ready to do this.

I’m nervous. I have been for a couple days. The more I write about the Tough Mudder, the more I get scurred. I keep talking about it, and the more I talk about it, the more I doubt myself. That’s not a good sign.

The more I think about it, the more I - Oh, who am I kidding? I'm Austen Montero...

I rock the fuck out of everything I do.

Once I saw the course map and started mapping out my plan of attack for this morning, I got giddy. Nerves turned to excitement pretty quickly. As you're reading this, I'm either driving to the Tough Mudder, preparing for it, running it, or recovering from it.

The course map takes you through a winding and looping 12 miles that include 21 obstacles, most of which I expected because the website has ample description for them. Some of the harder ones are earlier in the race, hopefully making it easier to just get them out of the way. The Arctic Enema is the fourth obstacle, a little less than three miles in. It's just long enough to work up a good sweat climbing over the Berlin Walls and a couple of other obstacles before freezing our balls off.

The other obstacle that I was most worried about, the Mud Mile, comes as number six, and just past the third mile marker. This is perfect because I'm going to still be freezing from the ice-cold colon cleanse, and then I'll warm up while I slog through the trenches.

Three of the obstacles are not explained on the website: the WWP Carry, Just the Tip (which is followed by Hold Your Wood, and this makes me laugh uncontrollably), and Dark Lightening. I can only assume what these mean.

- WWP Carry is a wild wet pig carry - you'd have to nab a crazy, greased up hog and soothe him to sleep before continuing. Bottles of milk will be provided, but that's more for the contestants than the pigs.

- Just the Tip is where you have to take your pants off and crawl on all fours through murky water, and just the tip of your weenie has to stay in the water. If it comes out, you get electrocuted. If it submerges too far, little snapping turtles will get a snack.

- And I really, really hope Dark Lightening is exactly like the Tough Mudder mainstay Electroshock Therapy. Except Dark Lightening is in a tarp and it's pitch black and hot and dusty and the only light you see is the spark of electricity being transferred from a live wire to someone's body. And it smells like fart.

I can say that the only obstacles that are missing that I am disappointed about are The Gauntlet and Greased Lightening. These seemed like the most fun, rather than painful.

OH MY GOD. What if Dark Lightening is pitch black Greased Lightening?! Ohhhh I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up.

I have no way to transition to the next part, so lets meet the SoCal Wussbags, shall we?

First, there's me, but you already know me.

Elly Montero, my sister.
Strengths: Works out a lot. Eats healthy. Incredible cardio. Thinks she's a cat.
Weaknesses: Lemon drops. Vegetarian. Thinks too much about her cat.

Sean Quinn, my sister's boyfriend.
Strengths: Freakishly strong. Looks like The Thing. Girlfriend makes him eat healthy.
Weaknesses: Low cardiovascular strength. Shitty rum and cokes. Ginger.

Sara Wilke (right), friend to everyone, bestie to my sister.
Strengths: Works out. Terrific hand hugger. Comedic relief.
Weaknesses: Cosmotinis. Men.

Eric "Yngwie" Chavez. Or just, Chavz, token shredder
Strengths: Gas man. Lays pipe for a living. Has multiple tattoos.
Weaknesses: Four Loko. Probably drunk. Lifts nothing but drumsticks.

Andy Halcom, the married guy.
Strengths: Built like a brick shithouse. Owns a cute dog. Also, shreds. Ridiculously charming.
Weaknesses: Unattended drinks at a bar. All brawn, no brains. Gets lost easily.

Thomas Catlin, aka TomCat. Lead singer extraordinaire
Strengths: Rocks out. Very much MAN. Scary growl.
Weaknesses: Bud Ice. Probably doesn't work out. Is pretty. Thinks he's James Hetfield. 

Will Lopez, aka Bill, the catalyst for every peak and trough of every trip.
Strengths: Beautiful beard. Athletic. Farts that propel him super fast.
Weaknesses: Every alcohol known to man. Jet fuel. Men. Vomits too easily.

Someone else is coming. I have my suspicions who it is. I know who I want it to be. Whoever it is, if he is coming with this group, his first weakness will be some sort of alcohol. Second is probably laziness. Hopefully his strength is counting cards.








And that's all folks. Stay tuned for a couple of videos later this week. As I said, I'll be filming the Tough Mudder with a Go Pro, and so too is Will. We are staying at Pechanga that night to celebrate. Videos for each instance to follow. Stay tuned! Wish us luck. God knows we'll need it.

Tough Mudder and an Oscar... Two Things I'll Never Win

In order to bring you the best, most up-close and personal coverage of the Tough Mudder on Saturday, I got a GoPro. It's one of those little cameras you strap to yourself, your helmet, or your motorized bicycle. I bought it off a nice man who posted on Craigslist, my first Craigslist transaction that didn't involve taking off my pants! He showed me how to use all the doohickeys and thingamabobbers. Let me tell you, I COULD NOT BE MORE PUMPED.

I got so jacked up about it, I made a video. I used my DSLR for one view, and the GoPro for my view. But I'm not cinematographer, director, or actor. I do not have a voice made to be recorded. I do not have a body that should be on film. I didn't write anything down and did not plan properly. That's why I filmed it all for you. I have to show off my lack of talent somewhere.

I tried to make a nice video with an introduction and then me getting in a (rather debilitating cold shower) with voice overs and smooth cuts. But it took me a bunch of takes to get the introduction right, and once I did, I tried to climb into my freezing shower. However, unbeknownst to me at the time, I had not turned the GoPro on to record. I merely switched it from video to pictures. Once I discovered this, I rerecorded the intro and got back into the shower. This time the DSLR didn't record. By then, I was burnt out. This is the result...

At least I got some experience using iMovie and importing/exporting videos.

In one of the lost takes of the video, it was clear just how big my belly still is. I don't like this. I didn't just look out of shape. I looked like I was going to get stuck in my tiny little shower. How. Depressing

Gyms: The Roided Out, Perfumed Discoteque

Part of my "training" for the Tough Mudder involved some weightlifting and resistance training.

Before I decided to do the race, I didn't run too often. I would mostly head to the gym, do some lifting, get a gnarly swoll on, and call it a night. But so much of the Mudder relies on cardiovascular endurance rather than brute strength. I don't mean to brag, but sometimes I don't even need to make two trips when I bring the groceries into the house. That's how much I teetered toward brute.

I started working out at a pretty early age...

(A buff baby is a tough baby.)

So you can imagine that I was more bulky than I was sleek, considering that, despite not actually working out since I was a toddler, I have always concentrated on size. Get bigger! Get buffer! Get stronger! BE A MAN!

I knew that I could complete most, if not all, of the obstacles in this race - some might be more cumbersome than others, but I could git 'er dun.

The solution was simple: I needed to run more, but we've already discussed that. But if that's all I did, wouldn't that end up counter productive to the obstacles and things that do require strength? I had to still mildly work out so I could still throw my body weight around. I created a workout circuit type thing that would concentrate on pushing and pulling while maintaining balance, all while concentrating on using my body weight, or something of similar mass to create resistance.

Here are the results...

(Photos are in no way altered in post production. 

Model has been not been retouched. 

Photos taken four months apart.*)

I didn't always follow the regimen I had set for myself, only because I realized where I needed to improve most was in running. And this is a good thing. I don't always have to be working out to be "buff."

I used to go to the gym because I wanted to be so yolked that I could take my shirt off at the beach, pool, or supermarket and have women flock to me to continue my disrobing, right there in the frozen food aisle. Shortly after graduating high school, I realized this was never going to happen. So, I stopped working out, got fat once I moved to college, and then I started lifting again.

Lifting weights is actually very therapeutic, for me, at least. I really enjoyed it when I first got back into it, and then I started working out just because it was one of the few things I liked that was healthy for me. It feels great to be sore, and the fatigue is indicative of being one step closer to a Greek God...or as life would turn out, a Costa Rican court jester. However, because I always tried to lift heavy, I never had that lean muscle this race requires. So I tried to get it in three short months, because that was feasible.

Before moving to Santa Monica, I went to the gym during off hours, so I didn't see all it had to offer in terms of eccentricity. While spending time at the LA Fitness in Santa Monica (the capital of narcissism, apparently), I grew to hate, or at least develop a strong distaste for, some people at the gym.

There's the guy pumping his ass full of steroids, HGH, and some sort of equine estrogen. The sort of mutant that spawned from the blood and semen of a locker room shower. After a nuclear spill. And eating paint chips. He flexes at his reflection constantly, only putting his Starbucks mochachino-soy-latte-nonfat-double-extra-shot-two-pumps-vanilla-with-whipped-cream trenta to curl 200 pounds about 19 times. Then he walks around for 30 minutes chatting with his simian homies before leg pressing a dump truck.

 (I wanted to censor him, and show a Starbucks cup. This is the 

best of both worlds. This man is scary. You could see his penis.)

Then there's the guy that works out in every bit of Ed Hardy gear he owns, sparkling like a sleeping limb, and overpowering everyone within a 20-foot radius because he used three cans of Axe. Please, sir, do not wear this. It looks like Ke$ha shit on you. And you'd probably smell better. If you insist on wearing this stuff, don't do it at the gym. Wear your shitty clothes... oh, YOU ARE (who didn't see that joke coming? So cheap). You paid for that? You paid upwards of $90 for that? And now you're sweating in it? STAAAAHHHP. I keep stepping on your stupid rhinestones. 

I guess I can see the point if they wear it now. Our buddy Eddie made some pretty expensive clothing, but now even some of the top-notch disco balls on his website are selling for less than 20 bucks. Including tax and shipping. That's cheaper than other workout clothes.

(You might think this is blood/semen mutant. You'd be on the 

right track, but the difference usually comes in the subtle form 

of blinding light radiating from his "Swarovski crystals." 

These guys also bulk up with Target-brand protein shakes 

and live chickens because they spent all their extra cash on 

visually offensive outerwear instead of high-quality steroids.)

Of course, there are the people that have NO clue what they are doing. I don't really hate these people. It's the wandering aimlessly that gets to me. If you know you're a bit lost, which you clearly are, and you clearly understand because you keep reading all of the directions, get out of the way or ask a question. Asking things: good. Spinning in circles and struggling so hard you fart and nearly blow out your o-ring: bad.

I will give them credit, though. Oft uncoordinated, lumpy, unfortunate looking, and definitely out of shape, they are doing something to benefit themselves and improve their quality of life. It's just so hard to watch them struggle and putter around the gym floor. The worst part seeing someone turn red, with veins popping out all over their neck and head, all while using the wrong form (which is, incidentally, why I can't work out in front of a mirror).

Ah, but after all the complaining, weightlifting will always be my favorite form of exercise. There's something so awesome about pushing hunks of metal around douche bags and geriatrics until you sweat and cramp and you smell like a sweatsock in an Armani Exchange. Gyms, a little slice of heaven.

*Total fuckin' lie.

The Age Old Question: Bacon or Bench Press?

The fact that the L.A. Bacon Festival falls on the same day as the Tough Mudder race I've so aptly almost trained for is a most appropriate metaphor for the battle I've participated in since birth. Or, sometime around when my metabolism slowed down and my drinking and eating notched up to excessive.

Whenever I have free time, there is a war that take wages inside my head. Do I eat? Do I exercise? If I eat, how much bacon do I have? Do I have enough? Do I even have any?

I tell you what won't run out of bacon. The Bacon Fest! The best thing about that little nugget of heaven? The VIP admission includes cocktail tastings. And you just KNOW that one of them will serve whiskey...

THIS IS MY HEAVEN!

(Look at that. This was in March of last year, or something 

like that. I was the Bacon Festival before the Bacon 

Festival was the Bacon Festival. I am the bacon hipster.)

(Not actually me. I can't grow that nice of a beard.)

And this is my newest pairs of sunglasses...

(Sadly I never wore them because I ate them.)

And had I not been signed up for the damn death race, I would have been wearing those sunglasses while enjoying my pig belly and cocktail pairings under the beautiful L.A. sun...or the stuffy confines of the Petersen Automotive Museum where our greasy, drunk little fingers will not be allowed to touch anything shiny and fun.

Bacon, the sweet, salty, sometimes maple-y giver of life, smiles, and nutrition. I can't say anything about bacon that hasn't been said before. Everyone loves bacon, and bacon deserves that love. Bacon has been made into all sorts of things: bacon vodka, bacon ice cream, bacon lip balm. (Yes, I've tried all three. Yes, all three were worth the money.)

I even saw this week how to make a bacon candle. Out of bacon fat. CAN YOU IMAGINE HOW GOOD THIS SMELLS? Your house can always smell like bacon is cooking. That's probably exactly what it smells like when Bigfoot farts.

God, it just makes me want to do just terrible, awful, sexual things to pigs bacon.

And at this festival I could put my mouth all over all sorts of bacon and other assorted swine products. Because a pig is more than just the cured, fatty underbelly, theres PIGG, which uses almost every part of the pig, so as to create not waste, but happiness.

There's Slaters 50/50, which makes its patties with half ground beef, HALF BACON! How no one ever thought of this before is beyond me. Look at this fucking brownie. Look at it. If you aren't aroused, you are not human. This is Stephen-Hawking-of-food level genius. This restaurant speaks to me in about 20 different languages. Except Hebrew, of course.

And there are others, naturally, like The Sticky Pig, which might actually be the new No. 1 destination on my pig list.

This is where I want to be, and I will be sure that next year, I will be greased up and ready to bacon myself up. It would be an educational experience. The bacon you're likely thinking of is the bacon we eat in the U.S. and Canada. The rest of the world eats bacon from other parts of the pig. 

THE WHOLE PIG CAN BE MADE INTO BACON.

(Pig, simplified.)

Do you comprehend what I'm saying? There are varietals of bacon! Bacon is to obesity what wine is to alcoholism. You can try different cuts. Different styles of curing. Different ages. You can pair it with other sides and alcohols. You can eat it plain. You know those e-cards that always have some woman talking about only drinking wine for dinner. Now you can make one that says you're only having bacon for dinner.

"Excuse me, while I dip into my bacon cellar for another cut. Anyone have a preference? Perhaps a Broiled 18-year Fatback? I think I have a 12-year Unsmoked Loin...What's that? Why, yes, I do have a '96 Sliced Jowl! I'll be right back. Butler Jeeves! Please pour everyone else another glass of the Franzia. It will pair nicely."

Gah! I'm about to faint, and I didn't once mention exercising. I could probably write about bacon for days without even remembering to get off the couch. I'd just stew in my own feces while daydreaming of skillets and fat.

I guess we know how today's battle went. I'll let the artery clogging commence.

And just because this is about the funniest fucking thing I've seen all day...

(HAHAHAHAHA lolololol)

Part Two: Run Like Breaking Wind

This is a continuation from last week's blog. It was too long for one post. Even this is almost too long for one post. The only fart joke in today's post is in the title. I'm maturing!

Once I got up to speed and started running on a regular basis, I realized how boring it is. There's no variety, except for the scenery, but when you're running the same few routes over and over, it all looks the same. It's just the heavy thud of my feet on the pavement, over and over and over. Thump, thump, thump.

It's all about getting into a rhythm, because so much of running is rhythmic: the pounding of your feet on the pavement, the staccato beat of your heart, the in and out and in and out and in and out breathing. And because the whole tortuous act of running is rhythmic, it makes sense that music helps.

I feel like I always have to run and work out with music because I get so. fucking. bored. if I don't. Sometimes I forget my iPod or my headphones when I'm doing one or the other and it's like this...

(Not my cat.)

My cat is beautiful and super cute and and is pretty much the sweetest thing on the planet. And looks like this...

(If that doesn't make you say "d'aawww,"

 you have no heart. Model: Diablo)

I digress.

I usually keep my iPod on random and it's a generally good soundtrack for working out, but running needs upbeat songs, or at least songs that seemingly fit the moment or the mood. (That was essentially the most emo sentence I've ever written.) However, due to keeping plenty of songs for my mother, whose incredible electronic ineptitude has relegated plenty of unwanted songs onto my device, I come across some that don't fit for running or working out and will bring you to a screeching halt. Case in point: Celine Dion. Ain't no way my heart is going on anywhere after that comes blaring on.

(Author's note: From here on out, you will be inundated with links. Feel free to listen to them, or feel free not to. Just click it. You know you want to. Make a playlist, then go running. You'll thank me later.)

Running is supposed to be Fun. (How about that for a solid transition, eh?) I know it's cliche and overplayed, but running along the beach at night when your energy is waning and the cold is biting at your cheeks, it's a good song to keep you going. That drumbeat is like whoa.

I've also heard some songs that I haven't listened to in years, from the likes of: Millencolin, Bad Religion, and Thrice (I swear, if I ever got mugged while I was listening to this song, I could probably rip the guy's asshole through the top his skull. I just get so AMPED! Unless it's the slow piano part at the end - that's when I play possum. "Take my iPod, take my shoes, take whatever!"). The list of bands I listened to in high school and could still run to now is endless, so I'll stop that business right now so I don't lose you, as long as I haven't already.

I don't even know how to start on this one, so I'll just say it: Ashlee Simpson. I didn't really ever give it much of a thought, and I hardly remember why I have it on my iPod, but this song is fucking filth. She's telling me I make her want to "La La" and she's like an alley cat and wants to drink the milk up? *SWOON*

When I'm running and this song comes on, I inadvertently imagine she's waiting for me at my apartment and she wants me to La La her while she's dressed as a French maid. And then I'm running with an erection, which introduces a whole host of challenges that can only help my coordination, right? Hell yeah.

Maybe if I'm feeling like a badass, Blake Shelton will do.

If you're running in Venice, the fictional band Steel Dragon from the movie Rockstar will do.

Suspicious Minds, while slow and a little sad, is a dark horse for my favorite running song. I'm not sure why, but it propels me.

A band that you may not have heard of... The Audition. Yeah I went there, I'm way better than you because I knew about this band before you did. I actually hope you don't like it because I don't want them to be more popular than they used to be.

Free is just... Just good. Good to do anything to. Don't question me. Sit down and listen. Because I run, and you don't. You lazyass. 

Running in the rain along Montana, next to some restaurants and it's dark out...that's what U2 is all about. It's the first lyric for crying out loud! (Now this is the most emo sentence I've ever written.) Especially if you've just broken up with someone. (Now that one wins the emo award.)

Sometimes Elton John comes on (another product of my mother, but I don't hold this against her in the least), but that results in what looks like a seizure to the common observer, but is actually rundancing. If you haven't tried it or seen it, I suggest you give it a try.

(Thanks for your help demonstrating, Phoebes.)

Don't ever listen to Dragonforce unless you want to sprint the entire way and then cry for eternity because you listened to a whole Dragonforce song. I swear, feels like you just drank 17 5-Hour Energy shots and you take off like someone branded your ass with a hot fire poker. By the time you get back home, your heart has exploded and your eyes have popped out of your noggin and just dangle there like face testicles.

I've never run or done anything but work while listening to this song, but I think I could run to this song. I think I could cure cancer to this song. Thank you, Hot Water Music. And if I somehow cure cancer, the world will thank you, too.

Last but not least, if you're running in the buttfuck cold of morning as the sun is coming up and you're running through little puffs of your own breath, the first Boston CD is always perfect. Because as you're working out the kinks of sleeping and all you can think about is how nice it would be to be back in the warmth of your bed, the softly plucked guitar of "More than a Feeling" comes through your earbuds and you think to yourself, "Fuck it, I'm already up. When's the last time someone had a bad day when this is the first song they heard?"

By the time you're running along the beach and the sunrise is almost too bright and beautiful to look at, and you're hitting your stride and feeling good,  you gain a little clarity. Some Peace of Mind, perhaps.

Part One: Run For Your Life

“There is something magical about running; after a certain distance, it transcends the body. Then a bit further, it transcends the mind. A bit further yet, and what you have before you, laid bare, is the soul.”  
― Kristin Armstrong

No. After running a certain distance, your body cramps and contorts. "Fuck you!" scream your quads. "I'm going to turn into little rigor mortis ouch-balls!" say your calves. And then your hamstrings snap and you fall over and it hurts REAL bad.  

Then a bit further, your mind wanders and the more you try to corral it, the harder it becomes to focus. A little voice whispers "You don't need to keep going. Just stop. Your legs hurt. Your feet hurt. That cramp in your side isn't going to go away. You don't need to impress anyone, no one is watching. You don't need to impress yourself, you love yourself. Quit...Just. Quit. You suck and the Tough Mudder is going to murder you no matter how much harder you train. Quit."

And a bit further yet, what you have laid bare before you, is not in fact, your soul, but dinner with remnants of the day's lunch, and a hint of bile.

“Every day is a good day when you run.”
 ― Kevin Nelson

Nope, see above. But nothing compares to the day after a run, that's for damn sure. Crippling soreness, nausea, and shortness of breath is your day-after reward

“I don't run to add days to my life, I run to add life to my days.”
― Ronald Rook

When I run, I feel like death. I add death to my days.

"There is an itch in runners."
― Arnold Hano  

Jock itch.

This is more of what it's like:

My quads are burning, my calves quiver with every step, and my lungs feel like someone threw a molotov cocktail down my throat. Sweat pours down my forehead and drips off my nose. I wheeze with every inhale. My shirt is sticking to my chest, wet and sloppy. I can feel my ears and head throb every time my heart beats, which is often and quick. A pain constantly stabs me in the ribs. An Amish woman is using my gut as a butter churn. The seventh circle of hell is well within view.

I haven't finished a marathon, but I what I have done is finally made my way down the stairs to my sidewalk, and one of these days I'll make it all the way around the block.

So I exaggerated a little bit. But the first couple runs were something pretty similar to what I described. Naturally, it became easier as I ran more often, and I actually managed to get up to running a consistent 7 miles for my long runs each week. I was a regular success story. An average Joe turned Prefontaine.

(Seduction.)

Naturally, running has its hazards. When I first started, there was a lot of heavy breathing. Panting, if you will. It was an overcast, chilly morning, but I wanted to get in a quick jog before work. As I jogged and dragged my way toward home, my mouth was agape while I sucked wind. I happened to inhale while crossing paths with an ill-fated fly. It found itself plastered to the back of my throat, and as a woman pushed her stroller along the sidewalk next to me, I dry heaved harder than I ever have before. Nothing came out. I don't know what happened to that little guy, but he definitely didn't make it out of my head that morning.

Then, of course, running at night in Santa Monica is a death trap in itself. For some reason, the city has deemed it unnecessary to see at night, and therefore has sparingly installed streetlights. I spend more time tripping than I do running.

And what is a blog post without a fart joke? Seriously, running with one in the chamber is excruciating at best, especially when the matter of the beast is unknown. It's one thing to know when it's solely a gas pocket. Expulsion merely requires a quick look behind to be clear of innocent bystanders, and a bit of a longer stride. On the other hand, when the substance is unknown, or just plain liquid or solid, it ruins the entire endeavor. Running while clenching might work more muscles, but it adds an element of fear...fear of shitting your pants, making "the runs" quite a real thing.

These instances are generally few and far between, except for the farting. I'm a gassy man. But despite all of these obstacles, whether brought on by rogue insects or terrible eating habits, I managed to push through and turn myself into quite the running machine. It felt good, refreshing. Everything was looking up, and I probably wasn't going to die during the race.

However, due to an abundance of freelance work, a buttload of holiday parties, and an ill-timed New Years illness, I haven't been able to run as often as I'd like. This, I assume, will decrease my runnable distance by about 95 percent, thus rendering me a useless blob, and I now have two weeks to get myself back into enough shape to where the Tough Mudder doesn't turn into the Death Mudder.

(A note from the author regarding his absence: I'm a terrible blogger. I'm not so bad at training. But I'm definitely not good at either one. At more than six weeks since my last post and only running a few times the last couple of weeks, it's time I jump back on both bandwagons. I will hopefully blog more than once a week now that the holidays have settled down and I'm not as drunk as often and there's so much to tell and because you all love the shit out of me.)

Pass Me the Gravy Boat

Oh man, so much to catch up on. Not updating this blog for two weeks has created pent up content that I don't have the patience to write, and you surely don't have the patience to read. So this will be an eating update, because I love food and it's so easy to write about, and I will update later about running and lifting.

To summarize: In the past two weeks, I've managed to go running six times and do some sort of weight training four times. That's a total of 10 workouts in 14 days. Considering some doubled up, and I needed days off to recover, that's pretty good - a 71 percent workout rating. I feel good, I feel healthy, I feel strong, and I'm sleeping better. This whole exercising thing regularly is pretty rad. And despite the unknown fate of Twinkies, I managed to avoid these puppies...

(I know these aren't real. I want them anyway. Meat sweets. If you read that 

wrong, you read it as meat sweats, which is something I am known 

to experience after eating large quantities of, well...meat.)

All of this vigorous training does, however, have some drawbacks. I cannot stop eating. I'm always hungry and I almost never have healthy foods. To recap the last two weeks, I ate (not including breakfast):

Pizza for nine meals;
Five meals that were just two slices of cheese bread;
Six runzas;
Taco Tuesday twice;
Two Subway sandwiches;
A salad.

My dietary habits read like the 12 Days of Christmas of a stoned college student. But, that's not the worst of the lot. Last Friday night (Nov 9), I ate a normal dinner (garlic cheese bread), then ate a grease-soaked quesadilla at 2 a.m. I wasn't even drunk, I was the DD! If it's there, I can't say no, and I like to keep the local Mom and Pop businesses afloat.

The next night I had pizza for dinner, and got together with old friends to bid adieu to a girl moving to San Francisco. That night, I was drunk, and we continued the celebration at 2 a.m. at Del Taco, where I partied with two shredded beef burritos, a taco, another quesadilla and chili fries. But I'm working out and running! So that totally offsets it.

Sadly, even when I'm working my catering job, I'm no better. I ate a cheese bread dinner and then made my way to the coolest of the cool Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part 2 after parties. I actually was on my feet for about seven hours straight before I got to eat. I did sneak some ceviche and chips, which was a delightful treat to hold me over during my long night. But once I got to eat, it was on. I started with chocolate bread pudding, followed by salmon, cheese bread again, prosciutto, mashed potatoes, and three different types of sugary little desserts.

This proved to be a potentially lethal combination the next day when I evacuated my bowels and the man in the stall next to me hit the deck, pants around his ankles, completely unconscious. I cleared his pockets of all valuables and fanned him until the haze cleared and he started to stir. Then I got the hell out of there.

Point is: These habits aren't good for me, and apparently not good for the people around me either. Such is life. I'm thinking I have to stop writing about the food I eat because it never changes and HOLY SHIT Thanksgiving is right around the corner!

Somebody pass me the gravy boat, I'm about about to clog some arteries.

(This is exactly how large I want this year's gravy boat to be. I want to bathe in it)

Exercise Won This Round

For everyone who was looking forward to punting me in the dangler, I have bad news. I actually worked out last week. Not once, not twice, not three times, but FOUR! Of course, not all of it was supremely intense, but a guy has work his way back into shape. I can't just go out and do a Tough Mudder style workout without working up to it. The main thing is that I got a couple workouts under my belt and it's motivating. I'm pumped to run this week, I'm pumped to work out this week. I'm high on exercise!

On the other hand, there were some difficult moments, which mostly revolve around excessively eating or drinking We will spell those out first. Wednesday, Halloween. I went to Wurstkuche, a popular restaurant that serves gourmet meats in phallic casings (i.e. exotic sausage, not to be confused with what women are hunting for when they want vacation sex). That wasn't too bad, because I only got one sausage, with sauerkraut and onions (vegetables!). But afterward, I was cajoled into going out. That resulted in mild drinking at Cabo Cantina. It was definitely not the worst night out, but it wasn't exactly a calm night in. I also ate pizza for five meals last week. Maybe six. I lost track. somewhere around the third and fourth pizza meal. On Saturday I ate more runzas!

(I swear, it's fucking impossible to find a picture that make runzas look appetizing. The 

homemade ones almost always come out all wonky, and the promotional photos for the 

Runza restaurant chain look so fake and processed. This is the best I could do. I'm going

to photoshoot the hell out my mom's next batch of these heavenly little meat pockets.)

And then I had dinner with the fam. It was super tasty. I managed to put down a full hen, and then some. I don't know what my father did to these damn hens, but it was off the charts. This was the moistest fully cooked fowl I've ever had. But I probably could have survived with only half. Sunday consisted of In n Out for lunch and more savory dinner with the parent that included tri-tip, potato, zucchini (MOAR VEGETABLES!) and garlic bread. Lots of garlic bread. SO much tasty bread. I have overcome my general laziness, but, man, eating a nutritional or remotely balanced meal is difficult.

On the positive note, I played soccer on Thursday, and seeing at it ended up being a 3-on-2 game, with me being on the smaller of the lopsided teams, I ran A LOT. Friday, I went for a run, and according to Google Maps, it was just longer than four miles. And I didn't die! Saturday, I worked out, mostly upper body stuff, but nothing too intense because, you know? I didn't want to strain myself and end up setting back my training a mere week into it. This was capped off with a solid hike near Mentryville, a supposed haunted ghost town in Santa Clarita. Of course, three of these four workouts were negated by some combination of the aforementioned vices.

It feels good to make progress, get outside and exercise, and start actually working toward the goal. I just wish energy wasn't so fleeting. One minute I'm bursting to get out, exercise and be productive and the next I'm like THBHTBTBTBTBT (you know, that deflating balloon fart noise). Maybe I can explain better with some photos.

I'll be at work and I get antsy and all I wish I could do is hop out of my cubicle and go flying out the door. I feel like I could just rocket out of there. Like this...

(I am a professional stunt astronaut. Do not try this at home.)

I always figure I can hang onto that energy and use it later. I mean, there's only 20 minutes left in the work day, how hard can it be to just delay that energy? Very hard. I'll get home and start to change to exercise and the next thing I know, I'm passed out on the couch looking vaguely homeless. I can't even pick up a guitar.

(This is a Photo illustration. This never happened. But, again, even 

if it did, I am a professional guitar-sleeper, do not try this at home.)

This doesn't just happen when it comes to waiting an hour or so to exercise. If I have the inkling to do anything active, but I don't act on it withing a couple minutes, it's gone, and who knows when it's coming back!?

Clearly, it's about getting in a routine. I want my body to be used to doing something active around the same time each day, that way I'm not missing out on a workout because I'm already obligated to work or play video games. This week, more running, and for longer! More working out! Eating the same shitty foods! Last, I haven't posted a photo of a cute animal lately, but I don't have a segue. So here it is. 

Wait for it, wait for it...OK, I do have a segue. When I try to exercise, I end up falling asleep in my food bowl.

Punt Me in the Dangler

Since the time I started this blog and trying to train for the Tough Mudder, I've learned a lot about myself. This has been a time of reflection and self-revelation. I have found strengths and weaknesses. I know what I need to do to make myself into the machine that will dominate this race. If only I could bring myself to execute. Sigh.

People joke about getting old. That shit is NOT funny. The aches, the pain, the creaks, the pops. It's all real. It's all too damn real. And it's not my body, it's my attitude too. I went to a concert last week. It was a Taking Back Sunday show; part of their tour to commemorate a decade of Tell All Your Friends. For the most part, it was a pretty cool concert. But the opening band, Man Overboard, made me realize how far removed I am from this scene. I hauled my walker to the balcony level of Club Nokia to watch a this band punk-jump all over the stage. They were energetic! exciting! ...stuck in 2002! However, their Wikipedia page says they formed in 2008, right around the time I got my first hip replacement.

I was beginning to think it was a bad idea until Bayside came on and shat all over the previous band. Then TBS came on and I actually found myself enjoying the show. It was nice to reminisce. It actually took me back to high school for a while. The band sounded great, and Adam Lazzara can still swing the microphone around his neck three times a song like nobody's business!

Once my hearing-aids gave out, though, I listened to the dull warble of being so last summer. I noticed a few things. Some people were really reliving their youth and it was awesome; other are still living at 16 years old and never moved on. Mr. Lazzara has put on a few pounds. I've put on a few pounds, or somewhere closer to 30. I really wanted to be at home with a snifter of brandy, smoking a cigar and listening to Engelbert Humperdinck on my phonograph. (He says as he turns into his grandfather).

 *Photo Illustration by Austen Montero

Moving right along.

I worked a catering event on Friday night for almost nine hours. It was a Halloween party. It was fun! See, I'm not that old, I still like holidays and dressing up. I was a zombie. RAWR. Or GRRRRR. GURGLE? GRRRRRRRGLE!

Yes, that's Instagrammed. Don't judge, you know you have one, too. The event was actually a great time, and despite working nearly nine hours without a break, I had a blast. I would tell you all about it, but I've already bitched a bunch about irrelevant non-fitness stuff, and the non-disclosure contract I signed says I'm not allowed discuss the party. It was THAT exclusive. What I can do, is name drop and tell you that if you've ever thought that Dave Grohl might be the coolest fucking dude on the planet, you're totally correct. I've said too much!

The point here is that I didn't get a break, so I drank no water for roughly 11 hours while I was driving to and from the event, and while working it. I walked a ton (exercise?) and hardly ate. Once I got home, I got a cramp in my left hamstring. It still hurts. Four days later! I would have bounced back from that in minutes when I was 16. I would give anything to be that...age.....again....... Oh my god. I'm one of them. I want to be a teenager again. Time to buy my tickets to The Starting Line's show.

Clearly, I still need to step up my game. I ate enough Flame Broiler on Thursday to feed about four people. I didn't even eat dinner on Friday. I ate burritos, tacos, pulled pork sandwiches and pizza (twice) on Saturday. I ate one hamburger on Sunday, followed by a bunch of cheddar cheese and pepperoni. This meat and cheese party pack thing is going to be a tough reputation to kick.

My shopping habits are declining, too. I bought two loaves of bread tonight. I already had one at home. I followed that up with two pounds of shredded cheddar cheese. I didn't need it. I already have another two-pound bag of cheese in my fridge.

To top it off, I ate a school of Swedish Fish once I got home from grocery shopping. Roughly 35 pink, little fishies. I'll probably shit straight Red 5. It looked like this.

(*Photo Illustration. Not real life.)

Something's gotta give, and hopefully it's not a my waistband. If my next post says nothing about exercising, someone please punt me in the dangler. If that doesn't motivate me, I don't know what will.

The Meat and Cheese Party Pack

I haven't even started exercising properly. This crazy train went off the rails before it got on track, and my growing midsection is Exhibit A. My diminishing endurance is Exhibit B. There is no Exhibit C. I don't need an Exhibit C. I can hardly walk up to my front door without getting winded anymore.

So, here it comes, the inevitable reflection and analysis. My self-loathing and regret.

That's over dramatic. I'm not loathing anything, especially myself, and there isn't anything I've done in the time since the RockNRun that I regret. Though I'm not full of regret, I am full of various cheeses and meats, generally in the form of pizza and sandwiches. Just this past Friday, I accidentally got hammered before I went to my parents house, then proceeded to drink with (and slur at) my lovely mother and father while slamming down piece after piece after piece of cheese and meat. My blurred vision during that time gave way to a smorgasbord that looked something this...

The title of that image is "meat and cheese party pack," which is, incidentally, one of my nicknames.

This is probably also one of the reasons for my 1:13.22 time on the RockNRun. That's one hour, thirteen minutes and 22 seconds, the equivalent to a 23:41 mile. This time was good enough to come in at 596th place of 1625 5K runners. Which means I finished before 63.3% of the field, two of which were Elly and Sean. This percentage is roughly equivalent to every grade I received

Now, to lament. I haven't really exercised in the two weeks since the RockNRun. For a while, it's because I was too sore; already a sign I need to get back on track. Then, it was because I had too many plans to get out and run. On top of that, I've been stingy about going to the gym, because I have to drive there and I need to be frugal with cash until the next paycheck because I decided that since it was my birthday last month, I would spend beyond my means. Hashtag: oopsie. But really, who can afford to drive with gas prices like this?! (He says as he slowly turns into his father.)

However, there have been points of exercise lately. I played soccer twice, and that's a lot of hard work. So what if it's a mere 4-on-4 pick-up game? I was sprinting like a cheetah!

(My friends and I. Ferocious. Fast.)

That is the obligatory cute animal photo. I could have used a photo of a cheetah running in the Serengeti, but they look so menacing with blood on their jowls and whatnot. If there's one thing I'm not, it's menacing.

During soccer, I ran so much that I could wring the sweat out of my shirt. It was mesmerizing and disgusting at the same time. I did it twice, and got another half-squeeze of sweat afterward. I am disgustingly awesome.

On top of that, I celebrated a bit by drinking on a balcony overlooking the lovely Manhattan Beach, and then I walked a bunch. I broke up a fight betwixt a 6'2" brute and a 6'0" somewhat twiggy man. That takes effort. It takes gall. It takes strength. It was almost exercise.

This past Saturday, I partied and drank on a rooftop in Venice Beach to celebrate a dear friend's birthday. It was perfectly bourgeoisie, and I finally got to do what I've always longed to do when I saw groups of friends schmoozing it up, four stories high in a beach city. I got to schmooze it up with friends, in a beach city, on the rooftop balcony of a four-story house. And then I walked the four miles home at 3 in the morning. This was fucking excruciating. I generally walk everywhere, only using my car for longer distances. However, this pair of shoes were not built for long-distance, brisk walking. My feet were killing me, and I was huffing and puffing like a beast.

(I swear, this shit is real. I'm not even embarrassed. You can see 

where the strap trapped sweat on my left shoulder. Impressive.)

I don't know how I started sweating that much. I'm not sure why. It wasn't even a warm night. It was actually somewhat chilly. My backpack must have trapped all of the heat my body was producing, concentrated it in a Frosty the Snowman-shaped area and made me perspire. I can try to attribute this to the meat sweats but that's a bit flimsy because I only ate six pulled-pork sandwiches. On second thought... it might have been meat sweats.

And then I worked my second job all day on Sunday, and walked all over the place. By the end of the day, my feet felt like ground beef, and I think I somehow got fatter.

There's a term for this, when someone partakes in anything excessively and then exercises. It actually works when they happen separately, like a lifestyle. I present to you, Excessercise. This is what this blog is about. It took me a whole three posts and three weeks to find a term (really credit should go to one Josh McBee) that adequately describes exactly what it is I'm attempting to do here. I drink in excess. I party and play in excess. I lazy in excess. I try to exercise. Excessercise.

So now that I've been successfully excessing, I need to start exercising. Realistically, this will happen after the Halloween weekend and when I receive my next paycheck. For starters, I will attempt to eat healthier, and in portions.*

JESUS CHRIST. That looks like a daunting task. How boring will eating all those green things be? Maybe exercising will be easier. For now, I'm shooting to run Wednesday and Saturday. Why the delay? Well, because I'm feeling a bit under the weather as of late, and would like to be fully healthy before I set myself back. Thursday, I'd normally play soccer, but this week I will be at a concert. And Friday, I will be dressed as a zombie in a lab coat, catering from 6 p.m. to 4 a.m. That's a bonus, because I will be walking all over the place for hours on end. Then I will ruin all that by eating rich and indulgent foods at all hours of the night.

Next week, I will be back to running and attending the gym, because that's what I need to do. I also, at some point the the near future, will be working out at the jungle gym/monkey bars/rings/ropes just south of the Santa Monica pier, because they will simulate the tasks needed for the Tough Mudder. Look at me fly!

(Dramatization. This graceful woman is not me. Photo Credit: Zachary Cole)

Given my primate tendencies, this should not be a problem. My focus should be on running. By February 9th, 2013, I'll need to be able to run 12 miles. Considering there are plenty of obstacles and my wardrobe will be weighed down by 20 pounds of mud...I should try to hit a goal of running about 15 miles without ending up in the hospital or a morgue. Seeing as I can run about 4 miles right now without being chauffeured home by emergency services, I really need to step up my game, and each week, add about 1 mile to my total runable distance. This is gonna hurt, and require a lot more motivation and discipline than I have been utilizing.

Signed,

The Meat and Cheese Party Pack

----------

*These are relative terms. For me, healthy is eating fewer than three fried things each week, and portions will vary depending on food rations. Basically, every goal I've set in this post is a complete crock of shit considering none of this is going to happen. I ate a baloney and cheese sandwich today, after eating bacon-wrapped jalapeno poppers. I am a champion of setting goals. I am a failure at reaching them.