Git 'er done

Coming up the final straightaway... Yes! It's Mark Matuska! With a finishing time of 4:55:13, in 28,837th place! A new personal best! He's got to be pleased with that result!

He is.

Summary thoughts later this week (or early next). Tune in one more time for answers to all your questions, including:

How'd the knee hold up?
Are you going to do this again?
What's going to happen to the blog?
Who's your favorite New Kid?

Until then...

Click here for searchable race results

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.

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.