Tag: Lifestyle

Running. Man and Running Dog.

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vizsla,dog,cute,animal,photography

6:50 am. 67F. 87% humidity. Mom’s gone for the weekend visiting family.  Zeke’s not happy.  Mom walks him every day.  Every single day.  Three times a day.  2 1/2 hours a day.  Daily routine – I wave to them from the couch as they head out the door.  This morning, he’s out of sync.  Discombobulated.  He sees me gearing up for a run.  He scrambles into his cage and lies down.  He’s knows what’s coming.  I grab him by his collar and drag him out of his cage.  He snarls, baring his teeth.  (I don’t need this sh*t. I don’t want to go either but we’re going.  Pure Bred Running Dog who hates running.  Owner is carrying him to the car.  What a picture this is.  He looks me in the eye – not a happy look.  I glare back.)  I shift his weight to my left and pull him tightly to my chest to free up my right hand.  I reach for the door handle of the car.  And, pull my lower back.  And grimace.  Oh, boy.  I open the door.  Heave him into the back seat.  And curse.

I fire up the car.  Shift uncomfortably in the seat.  Lower back.  Hmmmmm.

I back the car out of the garage.  Zeke climbs from the back seat to the front.  And starts licking my face.  “Sit down.  No bloody kisses.“ (He knows that I’m pi**ed.) He sits down in the passenger seat. His seat.  And sulks.

And we’re off.  Mianus Park. Plan: 5-Mile Trail Run. We arrive at the Park, leash up, and walk through the entrance.  He pulls back on the leash and lies down on the bridge.  He will not move.  He will not accept a treat.  (Oh, yes.  A test of wills.  Just what I need.)

Another dog owner walks by.  One older German Shepard Mix.  Another is a happy looking mutt with tail wagging furiously.  (Did she just give me that look?  Like, how’s that pure bred workin’ out for ya?)

I stop pulling on his leash.  He’s now lounging, looking down at the river below.  (How many shades of humiliation are there?)

I decide to pull a Mom and talk nicely to him.  “Come on buddy.  Let’s go for a nice walk in the woods.  Come on.  Let’s go.”  (Oh, for God’s sake.  I can’t do this.  Is this what I’ve come to?  Man-up.  206 lbs of fighting machine against this 70 lb beast and he’s got the upper hand.  No chance.)

I look at him.  He looks up at me.  His tail swishing on the bridge deck.  (Is he smiling? Could this be funny?)

“You are going to come.  Right now. And run.”  (Our last visit to this Park was not a great show.  And an Elephant never forgets.  And this one has a plan.  I will not let him off leash to have him lie down in the grass at the bottom of the hill forcing me to back track.  No sir.  Not me.  I will drag him for five miles, if that’s what it takes.) Continue reading “Running. Man and Running Dog.” →

Running. With Howie.

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Stop-your-Sweaty-Palms

8:24 am. 74F. 66% humidity. Late jump. Two capsules of Nyquil Flu & Cold down the gullet the night before. Slept like a baby. This morning, I’m woozy. After five consecutive days of 96F+ scorchers and too much in-doors time, I needed to get out.

I’m off. Head in a fog. How is it possible to have a head cold in the middle of a July heat wave?

Mind whirrs to Howie Mandel. Comic. Actor. Host of NBC’s “Deal or No Deal.” Howie’s fear of germs. His fist bumps instead of hand shakes. His book titled: “Here’s the Deal: Don’t Touch Me.”

I’m at Mile 1. I start sizing the GERM opportunity. A quick week in review:

  • Grand Central Station: 750,000 commuters a day. 1000’s of hands touching my exit door, all spilling out into Manhattan.
  • MetroNorth: 1000’s of touches on each stainless steel handrail we grip to hold steady while the train lurches to and fro.
  • Lunch. Food particles in the cracks on table. Water spots (one hopes) on spoon. Table top has a light sheen from being wiped with dish towel, after 7 other tables. Grab water glass, warm to touch, soap smell mixed with heavy chlorinated water. Rapid table turnover = > cash flow.
  • Bathroom. Hundreds of touches on the door handle a day. (Did your Mamma teach you to wash your hands after going to potty?)
  • Taxi cab doors and window handles. Office door handles. Elevator buttons. Conference room tables. Arm rests on chairs.

Do I grab the handle high, or grab it low, as most grab the middle? Or lean on door with shoulder? Or slide jacket sleeve over hand? Or, do I surreptitiously slow my pace to let another open the door in front of me?

And from these touches, a frictionless hand-off to my pen, my blackberry, my phone and my computer keyboard. Hand to nose to face to mouth. The germ baton is passed on; a leaf in the wind, a feather in the air, all silently and deadly landing on yet another unsuspecting prey.

But the moment that sticks is a split second decision to shake a hand prior to the kick-off of a meeting. A natural reflex. A custom. A greeting. A courtesy.
Continue reading “Running. With Howie.” →

Running. With Moobs.

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Kramer-Man-Boobs-Bra-Moob-Seinfeld

5:00 am. 75F. 89% humidity. Need to get a jump on the heat. Weatherman calling for 91F by noon. It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. Right. (Bullsh*t.) I’m off.

Feeling good. Three consecutive days of running. Not bad. Yet, a bigger deal? Avoiding all food intake after 7pm last night. Now, this, this, was a major accomplishment. A single break in habit. A lifetime of four more-than-square meals a day. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Bed-Time Snack. (A hard Pivot? A Break? Hmmmmm. More like a kink in a fire hose. Or overnight bout of constipation. Dam will burst. It’s just a question of when. And it won’t be pretty.) But…let’s focus on the positive here. Six days into my Biggest Loser Campaign and the trend is my friend.
Continue reading “Running. With Moobs.” →

Running. With Marc and Eddy Verbessem.

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Identical Twins, Euthanasia, Belgium

5:30 am.  59F. Birds up and singing in all their glory.  It’s still.  Very still.

I put on my Adidas running shorts.  Rachel’s scolding from months back surfaces: “I can see your tan line.  They’re too short.  Those are Perv Shorts.  Embarrassing. Go change.”  I growl.   Now, each time I put them on, I’m thinking Perv-Man.  Words. Killer.  What a delicate flower.

“What do you want to do for Father’s Day Dad?”
“I’d like to be left alone for the day.”
“Really?”
“Yes, if you could arrange for me to be sitting alone next to Thoreau, at Walden Pond, listening in on his thoughts, that would be a perfect Sunday.”
“Who? What?”
“Forget it Honey.  Forget it.”
“Have to say Dad, you have to stop your incoherent mumbling.” Continue reading “Running. With Marc and Eddy Verbessem.” →

Running. With Better Than…

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john-butler

It’s Saturday. 5:30 am.  45F. Drizzling.

Zeke is up early.  Which means his keeper (Susan) is too.  She’s at the kitchen table sipping coffee and reading The Times.  He’s looking up at her, being cute, sitting like Royalty, waiting for a hand-out.  It’s Banana today.  Dog loves bananas.  Who knew?

He watches me warily.  It has become the weekend routine.  He sits between his Mom’s legs.  Growls at me. Signaling, No way in H*ll I’m going out with you. No Way.  Fur is up at the back of his neck.  I approach. “Let’s go Bud. Let’s go for a run.”  He shows me his teeth…and emits a low raspy growl. And then another. Yep.  Pure bred running dog.  This is what it’s come to.

On with the gear.  Accessories first. Garmin GPS.  iPod. Ear Phones. Water bottle into black waist pouch. Then on with the suit.  Black running pants. Black rain slicker.  Black Baseball cap (not water proof). Red and Black Brooks running shoes.  Batman is ready.  The Dark Knight Rides.  He’s off.

Mile One.  It’s drizzling.  But manageable.  Light rain and mist.  Feels refreshing on the skin.  Miles.  I’m going to do Miles today. Continue reading “Running. With Better Than…” →