Details

Marathon is Sunday. My departure time is 10am. Finish time is TBD. My racer # is 28557.

Track my progress here: http://fanalert.ingnycmarathon.org/Alerts.aspx

St. Vincent's Hospital Cheering Zone, and subsequently the Mark Matuska designated crash zone, is at 90th and 1st at Bar East. This is where I've told people to go to watch the race, should you wish to do so with a small group that knows me.

Spectator info here: http://www.ingnycmarathon.org/about/spectator.php

Afterparty is most likely at The Mad Hatter at 26th and 3rd.

Hope to see you there-

-Matuska

Matuska Gears Up for the Big Race, Insults Old Woman

October 30, 2008

NEW YORK, New York- On November 2nd, over 39,000 runners will begin a 26.2-mile trek in Staten Island and continue on through all five New York City Boroughs in attempts to complete the 2008 ING New York City Marathon. Some of these are professional racers with realistic chances of winning; others are the semi-competitive "recreational" runners that run for fun and fitness. Still others, though, fit neither of these categories and are running for more personal reasons. Today, we sit down with one of these runners and ask him, a first-time Marathoner, how he feels about the upcoming race.

Barbara Walters: Mark... May I call you Mark?

Mark Matuska: No.

BW: OK. Mr. Matuska, how-

MM: Don't call me that either. Call me... Tooskie.

BW: OK. Tooskie.

MM: Better.

BW: Can you please describe to me your state of mind leading up to this, your first attempt at running a marathon? I mean, by even your own account, you're not a runner.

MM: Attempt? Who said this is an attempt?

BW: I merely meant-

MM: I know what you meant. Listen- I'm going to finish this race. It may not be pretty. There may be bodies strewn about the course, there may be blood on my shirt, there may be vomiting, diarrhea, uncontrollable dry-heaving, gnashing of teeth, screams of despair, spontaneous urination, blistering skin, chafing, gouged eyes, bloody nipples, and perhaps a white milky discharge. But I will finish.

BW: So you're confident going in?

MM: Confident? Hell no. I'm a mess. Everything I anticipated could go wrong has gone wrong. Both of my knees have given me trouble through training. I've been dealing with a cold the past few days. Every joint in my body creaks. I'm about 20 pounds heavier than I'd hoped I'd be at this stage. After my 18-mile tune-up, I thought I could break four hours. Now, it could be days.

BW: You know, they make you stop after a certain amount of time.

MM: Do they? That's un-American. Those Commies won't be pulling me off the course.

BW: I see.

MM: Do you? Do you see?

BW: Moving on... You mentioned your training. What have you been doing to prepare yourself for this race?

MM: Well, Barb, I started on a 16-week program. I'd been running about four times a week during the first 13 weeks of training, maxing out at about 35 miles over the most strenuous seven days. Since then, though, my chronically achy right knee has been giving me some more acute troubles, so I've been toning down the impact workouts and working more toward cross training and getting it healthy. I've also been keeping a blog-slash-diary of my progress, and comparing miles run to drinks consumed. I've also been reminiscing about the 1980's.

BW: Is that a typical training program?

MM: I dunno. Did anything good come out of the '90's?

BW: Not that I can recall, but-

MM: Neither could I. Other than Point Break.

BW: -BUT-

MM: But nothing. I know where you're going with this. Training's over. I haven't had a beer in... four days. Let's talk about the Marathon.

BW: You mentioned in your blog this past week that you're running against yourself this week. Can you explain that statement?

MM: I can.

(silence)

BW: (Becoming frustrated) Let me rephrase. Please explain that statement.

MM: OK. Let's just say that I have a history of sabotaging myself and trying to make up the difference between readiness and accomplishment in days, hours, or minutes prior to an event. This is evident in my daily life- I'm never early for anything. I instead am always counting on the best-case scenario, expecting the trains to arrive just as I do, expecting traffic to be light, relying upon an alarm clock to wake me up when I've been out until 4am the night before... Being as self-aware as I am, I realize the biggest obstacle between me and the finish line isn't the distance.

BW: So what is the biggest obstacle?

MM: My own laziness. And that saboteur alter-ego.

BW: And what makes you think that this event will be any different than, say, freshman year Calculus at Princeton?

MM: I'm ready this time. I know what it's going to require of me. And I'm willing to give it. In fact, I'm excited to.

BW: Excited?

MM: Absolutely. I can't wait to meet the throngs of adoring fans, press, and race groupies at my afterparty.

BW: Groupies? You seem to have delusions of grandeur, Tooskie. You're not a rock star.

MM: Oh, I'm not now, am I? Y'know, Barbara, I can see why they shoot you in soft focus on TV. Your skin looks like it's made out of distressed leather. You're not a cyborg, are you? Tell me the truth: how much of you is metal?

BW: I believe this interview is over.

MM: I believe it is.

BW: Good luck on the run.

MM: Don't need it.

"I'd be throwing the rubble... on YOU."

I've spent a short amount of time (actually check that- an inordinate amount of time) researching the career of Mr. Marshall R. Teague, better known to Road House fans as the fabulous pool-cue-vaulting Jimmy. I must say- you need to check it out. Click here. I'll wait.

Now, keep that in a window and follow along with me. He begins his career doing one-off TV appearances as peripheral characters, as I'm sure many middling-to-low-end actors do. No big surprises there, except... Look at the resume. An episode of Knight Rider opposite Hasselhoff. 3 (count 'em- 3) episodes on The Fall Guy opposite Lee Majors. An episode of The A-Team, in which he must have almost certainly run into Mr. T. A little of this, a little of that, right? Next comes an episode of Moonlighting with Bruce Willis, an episode of Who's the Boss with Tony Danza, an episode of Quantum Leap with some Bakula thrown in for good measure. Wait, there's more! He's been seen hangin' with Peter Falk on Columbo, making jetpacks out of Silly String and paperclips with Richard Dean Anderson on MacGyver, and then cruising the beaches with his old friend, Kaiser Hasselhoffenstein, on Baywatch. After a sci-fi interlude on two different Star Treks, Babylon-5, Stargate SG-1, and Sliders, and two separate daytime soap opera runs, and a consistent military current running throughout his career, he's still found the time in recent years to buddy up with Chuck Norris on Walker: Texas Ranger and apparently hold a consistent role on a show called American Heiress which a) had a 65-episode run and b) I've never in my life seen nor heard of.

Why do I mention all this? No reason, really, except that it's kind of awesome. I like the idea of a guy slumming around Hollywood looking for roles that require Badassitude (TM). I also like the idea of (the original) Michael Knight, Lee Majors as The Six Million Dollar Man, B.A. Baracus (and Hannibal, for that matter), Bruce Willis as Bruce Willis, Tony Micelli, Dr. Sam Beckett, MacGyver, and Chuck Norris as Chuck Norris all cast together in some sort of intertwined plot, like a comic-book crossover of bad-to-middling 1980's TV. If Don Johnson could be involved, my head might explode. If the Duke Boys could be involved, all of our heads might explode. Maybe Mr. Teague is the guy that can bring them together. Maybe his buddy Patrick Swayze can help. And maybe Sam Elliot will stop by for a beer, too. I love when a plan comes together.

As for Jimmy... What is there to say? He's not the prime source of evil in the movie... He's just the most hilarious. I'm not going to re-hash the intricacies of the plot, the subtlety of the acting, or the inherent philosophy of the script. I will say: this movie has bar fights, blind guitarists, boobs, filthy language, power drinking, explosions, guns, explicit sex, boobs, drug use, Sam Elliot, blond doctors, kung-fu, monster trucks, murder, boobs, moments of zen, guns, knives, sharp sticks... And a record for most memorable quotes in a single movie script until it was eclipsed by The Big Lebowski in 1998.

As for me... Well, the hits just keep on comin'. Let me channel my inner "cooler" for a moment...

Dalton: Take the biggest guy in the world, shatter his knee and he'll drop like a stone.

Yeah, my knee still hurts.

Jimmy: (after Dalton rips his throat out with his bare hand) Cough..gurgle... squish.

Yes, for the nth consecutive big moment in my athletic career, I've managed to catch a cold before the most important event of that given season. I had bronchitis for the junior year football playoffs. I was sniffling before my senior year district wrestling meet. And now, my landlardass has decided to take his sweet time fixing the boiler so my apartment doesn't have any heat. I'm making do by turning my stove on while I'm awake in my apartment; not exactly fire-safe or efficient, I'm sure, but it at least gives me some satisfaction knowing that instead of footing my own heating bill via electric space heaters, I'm burning the natural gas that he pays for. I have high hopes that the bill I'll never see will be four times what he would have paid had he just fixed the damn boiler.

This doesn't change the fact that on Wednesday I woke up with a scratch in my throat. Or that Thursday I wanted to die. Or that now, even as I feel myself getting over the cold, I realize that the last day I exercised in any real fashion was Tuesday, on which I did 6 miles on the elliptical machine and spent the next two days hobbling around not because of my knee but because, apparently, the elliptical works my calves a wee bit more than they're used to. Now I'm terrified of doing anything, running or otherwise, for fear of sabotaging the few parts of my body that actually function correctly.

Other than that, everything's peach.

As for the booze this week, Tim peer-pressured me into 4 1/2 beers during the debacle of college quarterbacking that was the OSU-PSU tilt on Saturday. I followed that with two beers at TK2k8. 6 miles elliptical, 6 1/2 beers... Well, TK, happy birthday. I lost this week for you.

Which brings us to Marathon Week. The above might lead you to believe that I'm not feeling very good about what's to come on Sunday. Your conclusion would be half-right; in truth, I'm dreading it. My knee won't be ready and my lungs will likely be compromised. On the other hand, I've put in the work. I know it. I was ready three weeks ago, I'm just a bit less ready now. It's going to hurt a bit more than I'd hoped. But it's going to get done.

So I've thought about villains for this week, the week leading up to the Hours of Truth. Jose Mesa came to mind as a potential object of bile. Realistically, though, I feel like the constant vitriol aimed at his person by the City of Cleveburgh after his 1997 World Series Game Seven blown save, effectively ruining his confidence, his career, and his marriage (well, I heard Carlos Baerga had more to do with that than Cleveland)... Well, that's enough punishment for a one-out sac fly. More appealing is John Elway, who managed to seemingly single-handedly browbeat the best Browns teams of my lifetime in 3 of 4 AFC championship games, only to crap the bed each time in the Super Bowl. He then went on to become THE John Elway, modern superhero, much like Bill Belichick has become THE Bill Belichick, coaching genius, after he laid waste to the Browns of the early-to-mid '90s. Then there's Art Modell, soulless millionaire, Michael Jordan, greatest player ever (at Craig Ehlo's expense), Dennis Kucinich, D-bag...

And then.. it hit me. There's really only one person I'm running against. And it isn't Petrov.

It's me.

Welcome to Matuska Week. More to come as the muse suits. Stay cool- you know I will.

A quick note...

Before I start in on what I'm sure will be both an enlightening and thought-provoking essay on 1991's Point Break, let me first pause to thank all of you who have so generously donated to St. Vincent's Hospital. I (or rather you) eclipsed my benchmark goal of $2500 raised last week. It's not often that I stop to pause and contemplate what a lucky guy I am; I suppose it's just not in my nature. But don't for a moment think that I am not keenly aware of how thoroughly fortunate I am. I hope to (probably clumsily) thank all of you personally sometime in the near future, but should that opportunity not arise, please know that everything I do would be utterly impossible without your continued friendship and support. As it happens, 26.2 miles ain't so far when a small town is carrying you.

And so, I keep going. 2 weeks to go. Don't Stop Believin'.

-M

"Vaya con dios, Brah."

For those of you unfamiliar with 1991's Point Break... well, I don't know what to tell you. Actually, I do- RUN, don't walk, to your nearest hub of intellectual property commerce and purchase this pinnacle of modern film achievement. Keanu Reeves vs. Patrick Swayze, brother against brother, one a government agent, the other an outlaw surfer and part-time spiritual guru... And did I mention Gary Busey is prominently involved? As is Anthony Kiedis, in a too-short cameo as a crazed drug-trafficking Uzi-toting surfer bully? And Tom Sizemore, at his strung-out undercover DEA agent apex? Even Keanu's wet-blanket, not-quite-hot-enough girlfriend (brought to the screen by Lori Petty) is somewhat redeemed by her involvement with Tank Girl.

Enough of the cast recap. Needless to say, it's all-world. In hindsight, I'm surprised the first day of filming didn't culminate in a spontaneous black hole of awesomeness enveloping the solar system, leaving no trace of the civilization that spawned Point Break to be discovered by future alien expeditions to our neck of the Milky Way. Thankfully, apocalypse was somehow averted, and we can pass down the precious historical documents to all that wish to know about living to get radical.

Now, regarding Keanu: occasionally, we get movies with bad scripts but good actors (see Star Wars Episodes I-III); these movies make you feel deep sympathy for the poor souls trapped reciting egomaniacally contrived drivel at the behest of writer-directors surrounded by yes-people. (For example, I believe Leo DiCaprio cries in his beer every time he thinks about Titanic, and not because it's a sad story.) Other times, we get good scripts but lousy actors (see Starship Troopers); these tend to be more successful than the former variety, if only because we get to watch completely overmatched actors attempting to feign believability for 120 minutes. Every once in a while, though, we'll find a script that matches its cast perfectly, either with excellence or putridity. These are rare occurrences indeed. Some may argue that a better actor might have been able to pull off lines like "Zero distortion, sir!" or "I caught my first tube today, Sir," or even "Whoooaa! Whoaaaa!" with greater subtlety and craft; I, however, contend that Keanu was precisely the man for his time and place, and that no one, save Mickey Rourke, could have done more with what was given him during his time on-screen.

This is why I salute you, Keanu Reeves. You took Johnny Utah and sat him down in my living room. When you nearly had your face shredded in a lawnmower blade, I could feel the tension; when you discovered that your surfer buddy was also the ringleader of a contingent of rad bankrobbers, your inner conflict was palpable; and when you couldn't bring yourself to fire upon the Swayze as he made his escape, instead emptying your clip into the atmosphere as you rolled in busted-knee anguish, I felt your pain as if it were my own.

Speaking of busted knees...

Let's just see how much running I did over the past two weeks, eh?

Week of October 5th:

Monday: Rest

Tuesday: 6 fast miles

Wednesday: Rest

Thursday: Work late? Huh? What?

Friday: Hmmm....

Saturday: 20 miles, "Celebrity"

Sunday: Ice

Week of October 12th:

Monday: Rest

Tuesday: 6 miles

Wednesday: Rest

Thursday: Still resting?

Friday: 6 miles

Saturday: Dkorp bday

Sunday: Recovery

The good news: The marathon is 2 weeks away.

The bad news: The marathon is 2 weeks away. (!)

It's the right knee this time. I felt a little twinge near the end of the first 6-mile run listed above. I wasn't too worried, though, even when I'd feel that same twinge walking up and down steps on subsequent days. I meant to run that Thursday, but found myself in the office at 11pm for a Friday deadline. I decided to give myself until Saturday and do the last big run then. Wouldn't you know, about 6 miles in, that same twinge. Got worse. And worse.

Zoom this guy out to get a sense of the route.

View Larger Map

I eventually finished the 20, but my knee was barking hard. Runs the following week resulted in immediate but manageable pain. Research again seems to point towards Runner's Knee (TM). I bought a brace. No change. I reversed my course. No change. I may or may not buy another pair of shoes this week. We'll see if that does, or doesn't do, anything.

As it stands, I'm in taper-down mode anyway. I can probably maintain shape doing non-impact exercises at the gym until the marathon. That's the upside. The downside is that I don't think I'm going to resolve this in two weeks. I'm certain I can gut it out; there's no way I drop out now, so don't think I'm thinking about it. The 20-mile run is supposed to be a confidence builder, and in a way, it was: with my knee telling me to hop on the subway, I was able to press on.

(channeling the reader) : Was that smart? I don't think that was smart.

(re-entering my being) : Yeah, well, you think like my mom. Next question.

(re-channeling the reader) : Ok then. You mentioned something called "Celebrity" after the 20-miler. What is that?

(re-re-entering my being) : Glad you asked!

I was invited over to my friend Blair's and her husband Kevin's apartment for... I dunno. Game night? Anyway, it was very nice, with appetizers and drinks and good company, 75% of which was female. The evening was centered around a game known as "Celebrity," which involves every player writing down "celebrities" and dropping them into a bowl. From there, it turns into modified Charades: round 1, everyone gets to talk at length to get their team to guess the names. Round 2, it's 1 word and then charades. Round 3, it's just charades. I love and hate this game. I hate it because I'm not very good at it (although it doesn't help when people mis-identify celebrities- Kimil Jung does NOT look like Kim Jung-Il on paper, Nikki.) I love it because I enjoy coming up with niche celebrities. For example this time, I wrote down 2 porn stars (1 male, 1 female, because if I'm anything, I'm equal opportunity), one former professional wrestler turned actor (The Rock), one current college football coach (Jim Tressel of The Ohio State University), and of course the Swayzenator. My beef here is that the group decided that Swayze's body of work was most memorable for his dancing, and such the Charade to identify Swayze degenerated into a fruity dance-like gyration. Dancing! As everyone knows who has seen Red Dawn, Point Break, Road House, Next of Kin, or even Black Dog, Swayze may be graceful, but only to bridge the gap between his sensitive side to his ass-whoopin' side.

Which, of course, brings me to this week's villain. From Road House: lead Brad Wesley henchman, man of few words, and recipient of the "Most Exceptionally Over-The-Top Sinister Cackle," the "Most Confounding Movie Insult," and the "Most Absurd Movie Death" Oscars, it's Marshall Teague as...

Jimmy!!!!

Jimmy: I used to (bleep) guys like you in prison.

Audience (Collectively): WHAT!?

And take that stuff off your face before your mother sees you!

So, if you're just joining the blog, let me catch you up: Last week, I identified Jerry Orbach (or, more specifically, Jerry Orbach as Dr. Jake Houseman from Dirty Dancing) as a "nefarious" enemy of Patrick Swayze, playing the also edificially-named Johnny Castle. Upon re-watching this fine film, however, I've come to the conclusion that it's not really Daddy Houseman that's the enemy in this movie, but the ever-ambiguous society of early-1960's middle America.

Put yourself in the Doc's shoes for a moment: you take your happy early '60's family off on a little summer retreat. Your oldest daughter is a certifiable dunce and your son is a twit; really, your "Baby," as it were, is your only real chance at non-mongoloid grandchildren. She's a little bored by the squares at the retreat so she starts hanging out with the help; that's not exactly

ideal, but you can live with it. It turns out she's taken a liking to dance, but not "proper" dancing; rather, the dancing she's interested in is downright scandalous. Ok, I'll say it: the dancing is dirty. Again, this is not ideal, but also not an unexpected type of thing coming from a teenage girl exploring the universe.

Then she starts shacking up with an older, devilishly handsome, going-nowhere but the STD clinic dance instructor.

Imagining myself a father, I can't see a single way to feel good about this development. Especially the "But Daddy, I looove him!" argument. Seriously? This bum?

THEN, to top it off, you're woken up in the middle of the night by the light of your life to provide medical attention to this devilishly handsome dance instructor's presumed ex-girlfriend who has apparently just undergone a (then-) illegal abortion that's left her in obvious distress. You're supposed to approve of this relationship? Really? This is goddamn vacation! I'm surprised Daddy didn't start power drinking and domestic-abusing during his stay at Kellerman's. What. A. Nightmare.

Instead of flying off the handle at his completely irrational daughter, though, what does he do? He says, "I won't tell your mother about this, right now I'm going to bed." He later continues to forbid her from seeing her devilishly handsome statutory rapist boyfriend again, noted specifically as a precaution against the next hack-job abortion being performed on his Baby.

Wow.

Not that I'm dissatisfied with my family, but being a Houseman doesn't sound too bad. So, Jerry, you might have been a contract killer in Crimes and Misdemeanors, and you may have had an endless supply of semi-inappropriate clever quips at murder scenes on Law & Order, but as far as 1963 Dad duties go, you're alright by me.

Because, hey- when I'm wrong, I say I'm wrong.

On to the week of September 29th:

Monday: Rest

Tuesday: 6 miles

Wednesday: Rest (aka inexplicable drinking of massive amounts of Sake with Petrov & Wee)

Thursday: 8.5 miles

Friday: F.U.N.K.Y. boat cruise, out @ Stout

Saturday: Rest

Sunday: 16.5 miles

Big bottles of Sake measure 1.5L. Were I to send a message to myself in that now empty bottle from the future to Wednesday, the first of October, it would be, "Do Not Drink." Thursday sucked. Morning Matuska hates nighttime Matuska.

For those that read this and don't know of the organization, F.U.N.K.Y. is the Flatland Urban Network by KC Yankees, a nonprofit group made up of migrant Kansas City socialites currently residing in the NYC area. They raise money for somepeople somewhere via a couple events every year, and I like to go, because many of these folks are my friends and it's probably a good cause. And they serve booze. And because I'm now making light of something that is most definitely completely serious, I'll direct you to the serious website so as not to have these friends of mine un-friend me: http://www.funkynyc.org/

One last note on Jerry Orbach week: I was scheduled for 18 miles on Sunday, but didn't really map a route. I decided to run the length of Central Park, over to the East River and Randall's Island, up the island, back to Manhattan, and then weave back and forth over bridges until the bridges started to look too far away. I was going to go up to the GW bridge on the Harlem River side to see if I could run to the Bronx that way, but certain (lack of) pedestrian paths up the River alongside the FDR frustrated my efforts. So I turned back. The real revelation here, though, was that the run was... well, kind of easy. Mark this week down as the week I became overconfident. And victorious- no way I consumed 31 alcobeverages between a Wednesday and a Friday night out. Definitely no more than 25, anyway.

Which, of course, means that the next week, the week of October 5th, would be the week I came crashing back to reality.

And that can mean only one thing.

Keanu Reeves in...

Johnny Utah Week!!!

Yes, he's a former Ohio State quarterback. And, he's an EFF! BEE! EYE! AGENT!

Housekeeping! You want me fluff your pillow?

Sorry for the delay in posting. Training's coming along nicely, though I'm falling behind here. Efforts at diligence will be doubled and redoubled as time ticks forward to November 2nd.

First, to wrap up Soda Popinski week:

Monday: Rest

Tuesday: 6 Miles

Wednesday: Rest

Thursday: 8 Miles

Friday: Rest

Saturday: Rest

Sunday: 18 Miles (ING NYC Marathon Tune-Up)

Were it not for a split bottle of wine on Friday, this could be described as a booze-free week... if one were to exclude Sunday, during which I drank eleventy beers while watching the Browns play less poorly than the Bengals. Barely. I'm going to come out and say it: I would be a better head coach than Romeo Crennel. From game planning to clock management, the man is a mental midget. Lerner must have been high on meth during the interview, fascinated by the radioactive glow of his Belichick-stained Super Bowl rings. I don't want him to fired; I want an errant tackler, or failing that Tonya Harding and a crowbar, to take out his knee on the sideline so he's got to spend the rest of the year "coaching" from an elevated booth a la Paterno. Perhaps the product on the field will cease its resemblance to an Afghani fire drill in that scenario. (Chinese fire drills seem too 80s. Today, I feel like a Chinese fire drill would be highly organized and efficient, if gassy.)

Anyhoo... Oh yeah. Soda Popinski. Beaten. As I indicated when introducing the Popster, alcohol consumption is no longer linked as a measure of victory- more appropriately, success is tied to victory. And the 18-mile Tune-Up was an unmitigated success. And I didn't drink 28 beers on Sunday. Probably not, anyway.

And with that, I'm going to bring the Punch-Out!! running gimmick to a close. I'm bored with it. I think it's appropriate to end it where my Punch-Out!! career concluded. Like John Kruk- one last single, and walk off the field. Blah blah Don Flamenco blah.

But we're not done. Where, oh where, will I garner inspiration from now? Less than four weeks from the big show?

I've considered this long and hard... And I've decided to go with a true hero to millions. That pinnacle of modern cinema, small-town USA celebrity cooler, and dance instructor to us all...

Patrick F'n Swayze.

For the next four weeks, or as long as I find it amusing, we'll be taking on Swayze's most nefarious movie nemeses. So, tune in tomorrow (or whenever I get around to it) to read about what happened during...

Jerry Orbach Week!!!!

Nobody... I mean NOBODY... puts Baby in the corner.