Matuska Makes Statement Against "Discrimination"

From wire reports

New York, NY- "Cautiously optimistic" were the words Mark Matuska used in a pre-race interview while lining up to run in the ING New York City Marathon Tune-Up, an 18 mile, three-loop jaunt around Central Park scheduled to serve as a barometer for fitness to complete the main event of November 2nd. "I think I can win- that's why we're all here, isn't it?" he said, smiling, as he waved to identify others preparing to run. "But there are a lot of great competitors in this race. I'll just lace up, do my best, and God willing, things will work out."

Matuska's optimism initially may have seemed misplaced. The Tune-Up attracted over 3,900 runners, some as young as 15 years old while others eclipsing 80. Within that group were several long-distance race veterans expecting to post times well under 2 hours. As if that were not daunting in itself, the conditions facing participants on this morning were less than ideal, with intermittent rain expected and 93% humidity to accompany the higher-than-ideal starting temperature of 67°F. Matuska, however, was characteristically defiant. "I don't worry about conditions. Everybody's got to deal with it."

However, when asked how he expected to compete with all of the seasoned race veterans around him in this, his first long-distance race, Matuska laughed. "Oh, I don't. That guy over there is probably going to lap me midway around the second loop. The wheelchair guys are going to leave us all in the dust. No, I'm just hoping to win my weight class." Upon being informed that there are no weight classes in typical running competitions, Matuska's tone changed from flippant to stern. "Well, I know that. That doesn't mean there shouldn't be. All of those skinny guys up front- they've got an unfair advantage. That girl over there (pointing towards a particularly diminutive female competitor)- I could probably eat her. Answer me this, reporter: Why is it that in boxing or wrestling, they separate the little guys from the big guys? I'll tell you- the big guys would kick the crap out of the little guys. To pit a heavyweight against a flyweight would be absurd.

"But.. what happens when there's a sport in which the little guys have an advantage? Do they even the playing field? No. They let the little guys win. It's discrimination. Racialism. Long-distance running has been begging for a big-boned high-profile athlete to carry the flag for weight class delineation." When asked who that high profile athlete might be, Matuska replied stoically, "I think I can make a difference. Someone has to put their foot down. That foot is me."

When asked to weigh in on the topic of runners' weight classes, Matuska's team member and fellow 200+pound "super-heavyweight" Timothy Petrov simply responded, "Matuska's a retard. And he's going to lose- to me. And he stole my idea."

As it turns out, Petrov was prescient in his prediction. While they ran stride for stride over the first lap, Petrov pulled ahead over the latter half of the race, managing a time of 2:35:40, an 8:38 average mile. Matuska lagged behind with a time of 2:51:10, or a 9:30 mile. Still, Matuska remained upbeat. "He got me today. I battled through some knee tendinitis, but I'm not here to make excuses. Still, I think it was a good result. Five more weeks to the Big Dance. For all I know, I finished second in the super-heavyweight division. And I lapped Bertha McGruder. That's something to build on."

Click here for searchable race results

Done.

18 miles. 2:51:10.

"I drink to prepare for a fight. Tonight I am very prepared!"

Ah. Soda Popinski.

Originaly Vodka Drunkenski in the arcades (Nintendo changed the name to be more kid-friendly on the NES), Soda Pop has always represented the harbinger of death in my mind. Perhaps it's my Reagan-era anti-Russki upbringing, fear of global thermonuclear war, Rocky IV...

Nowadays, it could be because of his resemblance to my running-mate. Check it out, from his appearance this past summer in the Wall Street Boxing event:

Uncanny, no? Gives me flashbacks to the Wrecka in Tribeca.

Most likely, though, the reason I dislike Popinski so much is that at this stage, Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!! stopped being fun and began to be a source of frustration. In some ways, it's appropriate that we've come upon Soda Popinski here in Week 11, because here we're going to find out if my body's going to stand up to the punishment I intend it to endure. I've never beaten Soda Popinski. Never. Always hitting the canvas, never pulling out a victory, the deeply evil laugh echoing from the crappy TV set as Soda stands above the mangled corpse of Little Mac, taunting me from a universe very, very close. I still remember the code to start direct to the World Circuit - 267-853-7538 - so I could skip the patsies, thrash Piston Honda II, and get straight to the Popster. It's less memorable than Up-Up-Down-Down-Left-Right-Left-Right-B-A-B-A-Start, but it's there, amongst the rest of the detritus in my head. A reminder of the feeling of repetitive failure.

Give up? Retire?

Eventually, yes. There's only so many beatings a guy can take until he must come to the realization that he's just not quick enough, fast enough, skilled enough... Good enough. To continue to play would cross the line from competitiveness to madness. As my bud Al 'Stein once said, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." And of course, it is with that quote where the similarities between by current quest and my 0-for-the-century against Soda Popinski end. For, after all, while there is no mathematical difference between 0/296 and 0/0, there is a statistical one. One indicates repetitive failure; the other indicates lack of data.

I've never run 18 miles in a row before, and yet here I find myself entered in a Marathon tune-up race with Timmy "This Will Be Easy" Petrov this coming Sunday. I expect the environment of this race will give me a more accurate measure of where I stand training (and injury) -wise for the Marathon than my solo runs have, if only because I'll be afforded regular opportunities to rehydrate and refuel with liquid other than that which I've been carrying. This week, victory will not be measured by miles versus drinks, but instead by an actual measure of fitness for the upcoming race.

Race starts at 7:00am. I want to be finished by 10am. Wish me luck.

Runnin' Down a Dream...

Short post today. Quick recap: My knee seems OK- a more controlled stride on downhills, as well as running the wrong way on one-way streets, seems to have resolved the problem for the moment. I took an extra day off and started icing afterwards anyway, because a cubit of prevent defense today equals a rod of Schottenheimer tomorrow.

Stats:

Monday: 6 miles

Tuesday: Rest

Wednesday: 7 miles

Thursday: Rest

Friday: Date Night

Saturday: 16 miles run, 2 miles walked, Sake Bomb

Sunday: Why the %$+#@! didn't we trade Anderson for draft picks?

Inebriation meter:

Friday: 500ml Shiraz, 1 G&T @ Stanton Social= low

Saturday: 450ml warm Sake, 5 beers (approx.) = moderate

I'm not going to waste your time calculating. I think I won this week. Saturday's run was cut somewhat shorter than goal distance due to muscle lock. Prescription is more water. I'm also not going to tell you about Date Night, but if Tiny Tumbler is reading, I had a great time and I hope you're feeling better.

Record: 7-3

It's Soda Popinski week. I think I'll write more about that later. For now, I'll leave you with this.

"There goes the Challenger, being chased by the blue, blue meanies on wheels. The vicious traffic squad cars are after our lone driver, the last American hero, the electric centaur, the demi-god, the super driver of the golden west! Two nasty Nazi cars are close behind the beautiful lone driver. The police numbers are getting closer, closer, closer to our sole hero in his soul mobile - yeah baby! They're about to strike, they're going to kill him, smash him, RAPE... the last beautiful free soul on this planet.

But...

It is written: if the evil spirit arms the tiger with claws, Brahman provideth wings for the dove.
Thus spake the super guru."

Vanishing Point

"Hey bartender! Joboo needs a refill!"

Ahh... Adversity.

Perhaps it was that shot at Karma last week. Perhaps Chuck Norris concentrated his nefarious powers on my training regimen. I should know better than to taunt Walker Texas Delta Force. Perhaps I'm flying too close to the sun these days. Perhaps it was just one too many non sequiturs. The gods are fickle- they don't like to be confused.

Whatever the case, one of my few reliable joints has developed an irritable demeanor. I'm not terribly surprised- I've got a history. Now might be a good time to recount my injury litany for the less informed. In semi-chronological order:

Osgood-Schlatter Syndrome (good name for a mediocre punk band): Knee disorder that caused pain in my early athletic career, surfaced at the onset of football in 6th grade

Left ankle sprain: @ Hawken, high school sophomore

Right ankle break: Wrestling at Ledgemont, high school sophomore. Still tells me when it's going to rain.

Chronic "stingers"- Pinched nerve in my neck causing numbness and pain down my left arm whenever I took an awkward hit to the head in football; first surfaced junior year @ Mercyhurst, eventually prompted the end of my inauspicious college football career; neck remains stiff

(that's what she said?... Hm. Feel free to boo.)

Mild left shoulder separation- @ Columbia, junior year. Still pops out every once in awhile.

Right knee tendinitis- it's always been annoyed that I'm a two-legged creature

Lower back pain- everyone gets this... Right?

Concussion- Freshman @ Princeton, forced me to wear a bubble helmet for weeks afterward prompting ridicule from the practice tapes. As if my giant orange head weren't already a little out-of-scale.

Torn cartilage, left rib cage- Sparring 2006

Broken nose- Thanks, Petrov

Side stitches- Cramping in my right side, on and off since mid 2007, mostly while running on treadmills

Shin splints- recur only when I'm wearing crappy shoes

From the above, I had deduced that I basically can rely on my right shoulder and my left knee. I see two ways to analyze that data: either A) they're invincible, or B) it's only a matter of time. Up until this point, I'd been leaning toward invincible, in a reverse-Achilles sort of way: I can be killed in lots of different ways, except via the right shoulder or left knee.

Based upon recent events, I can now say with confidence that if any part of me is invincible, it is definitely NOT my left knee, leaving only my right shoulder as an effective bullet-catcher. Unfortunately, it doesn't get to run this marathon.

The Intertubes tell me it's probably just runner's knee. Since I think I'm wearing the correct shoes, I'm going to guess that the likely cause is that I nearly always run in the same direction through the park, so the road is most often tilting slightly left. The solution? Run the other way, dummy.

I will say that I wouldn't be writing about this if I thought it a minor setback; the stabbing pain digging into my patella while exiting Roosevelt Island left an impression. I, of course, remain undeterred, but unbridled enthusiasm has been tempered by a steaming pile of reality. Can you hear the sizzle?

Last week's statistics:

Monday: Rest

Tuesday: 6.5 miles

Wednesday: Rest, 5 beers w/ Petrov

Thursday: 7.0 Miles

Friday: Rest

Saturday: 13 run + 6 walk, maybe 10 drinks during OSU-USC and afterwards (damn you and your shots, Ari...)

Sunday: Rest

(channelling the reader:) Wait... What happened Saturday again? Other than the pounding delivered by the USC Rubbers?

(re-entering my being:) Well, you see...

I got it into my head I wanted to run to Roosevelt Island. I thought it semi-likely that there would be a pedestrian entrance via the Queensboro Bridge. (Inexplicably, not the case.) Luckily, I had planned for this eventuality, and mapped the extended trip through Queens that would land me on the 2-mile-long island in the East River.Just as I was finishing my loop around what may be the nicest run in the city, my knee decided to bark. I managed to continue off and on until back over the Queensboro Bridge, but by then.. I was still 5 miles from home. With stupidly no cash or a MetroCard. Fun walk back, I'll tell you what. I got back in time to make the second half of the football game, and things just kept getting better.

Tally:

26.5 miles run

15 drinks consumed

Win? I suppose. But not without cost. Bald Bull will pay for his insolence...

Overall record: 6-3

"Roddy! Who's our next contestant?"

It's...

Piston Honda II!!

Yes, I know. This is getting tiresome. Believe me- I'm tired. 6 1/2 more weeks. Stick with me- more to come...

"My barber didn't know when to quit... Do you?"

In recapping Great Tiger week, I was initially stumped trying to come up with anything to say about this guy. I mean, seriously- he's an Indian boxer, and in the heavyweight division, no less! Last week, I had no idea such a thing as an Indian boxer existed- everyone in India is working at a Dell or Verizon call center these days, as far as I knew. There can't be much time to train in between getting berated by Americans having difficulty with their DSL connections. Additionally, it appears from his pixie image above that he's some sort of tiger hunter or pelt trader, neither of which I'm keen on endorsing in the current political climate. (Off the record, of course, I'm all for human vs. tiger wrestling. Hopefully I'm not alienating my one visitor from Bangalore- come back, buddy! Good stuff here!) Little did I know, had I paid more attention to the travesty that was the Beijing Olympics boxing competition, I'd know that not only does India have a national boxing team, but one of their fighters (Vijender Kumar- good name) won a bronze! Who knew?

His hair is HUGE! Kind of looks like Kumar from the Harold and Kumar movies, doesn't he? Check out Vijender's Wikipedia page- pretty cool story. Anyway- Indiaboxing.org doesn't seem to be the most information-rich site on the planet, but it's nice to know that throughout the world, people get a kick out of punching each other in the face.

On to the bloody-nosed details:

Labor Day Monday: 5 non-impactful beers w/ Petrov

Tuesday: 6 Miles

Wednesday: Rest

Thursday: 7.5 miles

Friday: 4.5 miles, 10ish drinks at the Zantop birthday bash

Saturday: Shomer Shabbos

Sunday: 11 miles, 5 beers to drown my sorrows

You'll notice Sunday I didn't do 15. I crossed the Madison Ave. Bridge coming back from the Bronx an had had enough. Pretty hot day Sunday, and I felt it necessary to watch the Browns get pounded by Dallas. This will not become a trend, one way or the other.

Tally:

29 miles run

20 drinks consumed

Verdict: "It's a Liger. It's pretty much my favorite animal."

Overall record: 5-3

Uh-oh. It's...

Bald Bull Week!

I'm a bit concerned, as he and I have similar fighting styles, and similarly misshapen heads. Check back soon to see how it goes...

Whooooaaaaaa.... Halfway theeee-er.....

Whoa-ho!

(Livin' on a prayer...)

Cuttin' through the wind like a greased-up spacemonkey, rumblin' through the streets of Manhattan like a K-Yed Hulk(amaniac), cruising down the coastline with raccoonish ferocity...

Comin' atcha' at 6.8 miles per hour... It's a meandering flightless bird! It's a plane(t)!

It's MAM2K8INGNYCMTB!

Allow me to break with the normal pre-statistical rant about nothing in particular and recount this past Thanksgiving, now nearly ten months gone. A moderately inebriated portly fellow, 1+ years removed from a smashingly... eventful entry into amateur boxing, begins spouting off at the dinner table about how he plans to run the NYC Marathon in 2008. Upon further questioning, it becomes apparent he's done some research into the subject, even detailing a then-underway workout regimen that is probably at least 50% accurate. His relatives gathered around the dinner table, while supportive, are understandably skeptical. After all, this fellow was a college football player (sort of), high school wrestler, and of course had recently pretended to be a pugilist. Never before, even as an extraordinarily bored senior-year member of the Gilmour Academy track squad (as a shot-putter), had he been a runner. Sure, he had run the mile as a larf at one meet that year, finishing 7th (out of 8) with a sub-spectacular time of 6:32. This, however, was seriously strange talk coming from the 230-pound linebacker out of Willoughby Hills, OH.

Skip to Christmas at the Matuska household. The younger generation cousins of this clan typically engage in a randomly-drawn gift exchange in which everyone receives a gift from a non-immediate family member. The delusional fellow's cousin and contemporary Tim and his wife Jamie draw his name and deliver the goods via USPS from their abode in DC. What follows is a detailing of the gift sent to Ohio from Tim, Jamie, and their newborn son Hank to...

You know who that guy was, Danny?

Mitch Cumstein. My roommate. Good guy.

The gifts came enclosed in a plastic container, with a photograph of a paramedic and a marathon crowd taped to the lid. The caption to the cover reads: "*Marathon Response Kit Not Responsible for Injury or Death Resulting from Running 26.2 Miles for No Good Reason." Additionally, a note was attached. It reads (w/ recipient's commentary in italics, like now):

Your Marathon Response Kit (MRK) contains the following items to assist in your bitter undertaking:

1. One 1 pound box of pasta for carbohydrate loading before the Marathon

This should be helpful in combating my ammonia-sweat problem, which persists, despite my best efforts to have ample supplies of Brawndo (it's got what plants crave!) coursing through my veins while running. It's somewhat disconcerting, taking a shower smelling like a combination of gym socks and gym mop.

2. Two Guinness draft beers to avoid "pussying out syndrome" before the Marathon, and carbohydrate loading (Not pictured)

Yeah, these lasted about 26.2 minutes.

3. Safety pins for attaching your race number

Also useful in puncturing blisters, boils, and nipples. Speaking of...

4. Nip Protectors; let's face it, no one likes to sandpaper any body parts-especially those ones- over the course of 26.2 miles

I've already detailed the joys of cotton shirts and sensitive nipples. Here's a link to the NipGuard website- you should click on it, the frontpage photo is borderline hilarious. I'm still not convinced I'm going to run this thing with Janet Jackson-style pasties on my man-boobs, but I do appreciate the thought.

5. One pair double-lined running socks; who needs blister treatments if you never get any?

Yes, these have certainly proven useful, hence the fact that they're not pictured in the above photograph. Now what I need is a girlfriend and/or cleaning lady to do my laundry. Remember my snark about smelling like gym socks and gym mop? Remove the mop bit, and you have the general funk that is my 118th St. studio.

6. One tube chap stick; so the girl of the week doesn't have to kiss the Sahara desert after you cross the finish line; alternatively, so the paramedics can get a good seal while applying mouth to mouth after a collapse at Mile 11

Now holding auditions for "girl of the week" for November 2nd. Any takers? My lips will be moist as a towelette. Don't make me fake those convulsions in hopes of a hot female paramedic.

7. One jar Vaseline; MRK Tester "Henry" insists nothing prevents chafing between the legs better; apply liberally

Hank uses Vaseline? Man, he's started early.

8. Five electrolyte/carbohydrate gel shots to get you past miles 5, 10 15, 20 and 25*

*used effectively by some for miles 2,3,4,5, and 6

These have become my go-to mid-run carboreloader. They have the taste and consistency of chocolate-flavored toothpaste. They remind me of that instant brownie mix before it's microwaved- like raw cookie dough, except 3000X less appetizing. The fruit ones swallow like strawberry-banana-flavored snot. The Clif Shots advertise 90% organic- from what organ they were produced I don't wish to know, but I can certainly guess.

9. Immodium caplets; MRK Tester "Henry" claims moving in soiled pants is no fun and nothing spoils a victory party more than uncontrollable diarrhea - probably best to take his word for it

Unfortunately, I've already decided to take the day off after the Marathon. Explosive diarrhea is usually my typical "I'm not sick but I'm skipping work" excuse. Works as a symptom-specific explanation that the boss never wants to hear about. Try it- take a day off on me.

10. One .44 caliber pistol, loaded,** for the pain

Saweeet! Oh...

**removed due to cross-state transportation of your MRK, replaced with one vial Aleve pain medication

Hmph. This would be useful, were not two of the more prominent commandments in the Matuska translation of the Bible "Pain Don't Hurt" and "Pain is Weakness Leaving the Body." You hear that, Chuck Norris? When I run, the Earth spins!

Well, that about wraps 'er up. I'll be posting briefly tomorrow to recount Week 8. Thanks are due to Tim, Jamie, and little Henry Charles (Hank Chuck) for the fantastic care package. And thanks to the smartasses that are going to write me to tell me that the Earth spins even when I'm not running. Don't taunt me. I'm getting faster.

"So a pussycat wants to fight a tiger?"

So this whole marathon deal has begun to incur minor injury. I purchased some new shoes for running purposes after consulting the local experts on pronation and heel-striking. The new kicks felt reasonably comfortable running the short runs mid-week. Here they are, the aptly named Brooks "Addiction 7" series running shoe, sitting on my floor:

And here they are, apologizing to my right foot after making it revolt in blisterondinitis during the 13-mile jaunt to Inwood:

Notice how the right shoe is particularly repentant. Had I a video of the popping ceremony, in which I lit a flame to symbolize eternity, inserted a needle into said flame to symbolize humanity, and then inserted humanity into my foot to realize fluid squirting all over the towel I didn't place below the ritual beforehand... Well, I'd have posted it. Unfortunately, the reader will have to imagine the solemnity of the occasion, and the wondrous mystery of it all, in post-blogoscopic meditation.

In related news, I now have a new place to apply my decade's supply of Aquaphor. I don't believe I've written about it earlier, but I've begun applying the stuff not only to the "hot zone" in between my legs, but now also to my right nipple before running. (I'd photograph the nipple, but children might be reading this.) Crotch, nipples, feet... The fetishes are becoming somewhat more bizarre- an onlooker might actually view all of this balm application as moderately erotic. I've begun to think sexual deviance may have been introduced to the human race by long-distance running. I doubt Plutarch or Browning say so, but I think it's fair to speculate that Pheidippides would have to have employed some primitive Nipguard in order to avoid chafing on his toga. If not, I imagine his words after "We have won!", but before he dropped dead, would have been "Someone get me some ice for my nipples!" Not quite Prometheus stealing fire, but a landmark event in human history, to be sure.

(Before anyone writes me to suggest Pheidippides wouldn't have been wearing a shirt or a toga, let me cut you off. I've seen 300. He was obviously wearing a spandex loincloth and nothing else as he ran from Marathon to Athens. Just bear with me.)

Let's take another look at the schedule now and see where we're at, and where we're going:

16-Week Marathon Training Schedule

Week	Tue	Wed	Thu	Fri	Sat	Sun	Mon	Total
1: July 14th	3	Rest	4	3	Rest	5	Rest	15
2: 21st	3	Rest	4	3	Rest	6	Rest	16
3: 28th	3	Rest	4	3	Rest	7	Rest	17
4: Aug 4th	3	Rest	5	3	Rest	8	Rest	19
5: 11th	3	Rest	5	3	Rest	10	Rest	21
6:18th	4	Rest	5	4	Rest	11	Rest	24
7: 25th	4	Rest	6	4	Rest	12	Rest	26
8: Sept 1st	4	Rest	6	4	Rest	14	Rest	28
9: 8th	4	Rest	7	4	Rest	16	Rest	31
10: 15th	5	Rest	8	5	Rest	16	Rest	34
11: 22nd	5	Rest	8	5	Rest	17	Rest	35
12: 29th	5	Rest	8	5	Rest	18	Rest	36
13: Oct 6th	5	Rest	8	5	Rest	20	Rest	38
14: 13th	5	Rest	8	5	Rest	9	Rest	27
15: 20th	3	Rest	5	3	Rest	8	Rest	19
16: 27th	3	Rest	3	Walk 2	Rest	26.2	Rest	34.2

Week 7 hath been completed. Almost halfway there. Here's how we did:

Monday: Off

Tuesday: 6 miles

Wednesday: Uh... Business meeting

Thursday: 6 miles

Friday: 4.5 miles

Saturday: Nuthin...

Sunday: 13 miles, US Open

As a note, the link-to map of the 13-mile run isn't terribly accurate, because Gmaps is misbehaving. I ran to the tip of Manhattan on the north side and back. I meant to go to the Bronx, but apparently you can't run on the Henry Hudson parkway over the bridge. I ran to a dead-end park here. I also might have muttered a few expletives under my breath before I turned back. Trust me- it's somewhere around 13 miles.

Were it not for a former co-worker asking me to beers over discussion of some freelance work, and Petrov's insistence on staying out afterwards, and my own acquiescence and general irresponsibility, then this would have been a virtually beer-free week. As it stands, I'm setting 10 drinks on Wednesday night and 3 on Sunday at Flushing Meadows. Still not close to tipping the scales...

Miles Run: 29.5Alcobeverages consumed: 13Verdict: The King is dead. Long live the King!Overall record: 4-3
No time to rest on our laurels. We must prepare for:
Great Tiger Week!

Yeah, I know that's not him. But the GT's quotes from between rounds got me thinking LOLcats, and this one actually did make me LOL. It's my blog, I'll do what I damn well please.

Thanks everyone for reading, donating to St. Vincent's, and generally being awesome. I'll be back again this week as the muse suits. Until then...