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.

"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.

"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...

"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...

"Ha Ha Ha! I'm the king! Ha Ha Ha!"

An off day today to "celebrate" my first interstate run, catch up with the Punch-Out!! theme, and rest my aching dogs...

So, I erroneously labeled the Don as a Frenchie yesterday. Turns out he's Spanish (which is obvious- I'm either getting dumber daily or merely suffering more frequent braincramps in my old age...) Roth is going to kill me. Perhaps I was confused by the fact that Don Flaming enters the ring to the overture from Carmen, which is of course set in Spain, but is performed in French. (Yeah, I knew that yesterday... right.) Reminds me of when my dear sister came to visit and took me to see Madame Butterfly, which is, for the uninitiated, a story of an American soldier in postwar Japan singing to his Asian half-bride in Italian. Opera makes no sense.

On the other hand, opera in this case affords me the opportunity to link to a useless YouTube clip. You asked for it, you got it: An orange singing the Habanera from Carmen:

Now that made sense.

On to the grisly details:

Monday: Browns @ Giants. Talk about fugly.

Tuesday: 7 miles

Wednesday: Suburban simulator

Thursday: Marathon Team Meeting, Ant's birthday dinner

Friday: 4.6 miles, Aileen's bday party

Saturday: Deep fog. Wake up in Astoria? End up at the Olive Garden?

Sunday: 11 miles

Sunday's 11-miler was a small victory of sorts, as this week I managed to find the George Washington Bridge pedestrian entry and run my way to Jersey. Of course, I turned back immediately.

As you may gather from the above, however, I encountered ample opportunity to break training last week, and I didn't disappoint. Vegas finally had to pay someone. The below are estimates:

Browns @ Giants- Petrov procured some free tickets to the game at the Meadowlands, and thank Crom they were free, because had I paid for that pathetic display of football-like substance I might have spontaneously combusted while stabbing myself with a blunt spoon. 4 16-oz Bud Heavies = 5 beers.

Suburban simulator- This entry refers to an invitation from Rothschild and DK to hang out in Connecticutian bliss over some mediocre margaritas and beers kept in exhorbitantly large refrigerators. Apparently, DK and his wife have adopted a pair of cats.

Cats.

There aren't enough beers.

1 pre-dinner Heiny + 2 dinner margs + 1 dinner Negra Modelo + approx 4 post-dinner Manshack frothwagons = 8 alcobeverages

Ant's Bday @ Li'l' Frankie's- Great restaurant, bad for schedule. 1 pre-dinner beer, maybe 3 glasses of wine, 2 beers post-dinner, one round of shots abandoned for the sake of my job and my self-respect= 6 drinks

Aileen's Bday @ Bar 82- A semblance of restraint? Only four drinks consumed. Oh wait- I met Dane and Child Starc at the Sunburnt Cow for two more after. How I ended up in Astoria... I won't detail. 6 beers.

Olive Garden- Carb loading over the all-you-can-eat pasta bowl. The internet tells me the ammonia smell emanating from my sweat after long runs indicates I'm running through my glycogen stores and am burning amino acids. The solution is to consume more carbohydrates.

I guess I need to drink more booze.
2 beers.

Week 6 Tally:

22.6 miles run

27 drinks consumed

Verdict: "Join the Nintendo fun club today Mac!"

Overall record: 3-3

The past is the past. Let's look toward tomorrow, and the start of...

King Hippo Week!

Petrov has suggested we skip the 12 miler and jump straight to 13 to see how a half-marathon feels. Bet it's gonna feel great, Tim. F'n great.

Catch ya'll later on down the road...

"People like my hair. dont mess my hair!"

Yes, I know. I never wrote up Piston Honda. All you hardcore Punch-Out!! fans out there won't get the full fix. What can I say- there's a lot on my plate right now.

Let's track August 11-18:

Monday: Off
Tuesday: 6 miles
Wednesday: 4.6 miles
Thursday: Off
Friday: 4.6 miles (in the rain, no less)
Saturday: 10 miles...?
Sunday: Off

Saturday would normally have been an off-day given the training schedule, but I felt pretty good and decided to give it the old college try. So I ran up to the GW bridge hoping to make my first interstate run. Unfortunately, the pedestrian entrance to the bridge isn't very well-marked, and I wasn't in much of a mood for aimlessly wandering around Upper Manhattan. But wander I did, over to the Harlem River, and down the East River side back to my apartment. Or sort of- the linked Google map doesn't adequately describe the number of dead-ends and "Closed for Refurbishments" I ran into while trying to navigate the industrial wasteland that is the series of "parks" on the Harlem/East River. I stopped a few times, not due to exhaustion, but due to general frustration. Thankfully, I didn't run into any impromptu public toilets (in a particularly concealed section of the Manhattan approach to the Triborough Bridge footpath) or homeless guys crapping on the sidewalk (not far from said toilet). So, in some ways, I was lucky.

Frankly, I don't remember my binge-drinking schedule for this week, but I'm actually fairly certain that it was a week entailing very little negative impact. Saturday I recall being invited out to a barbecue on Long Island, which involved a tall boy at Petrov's, a Foster's Aussie pint on the train, maybe 4 beers at the Q, and then another tall boy on the way back. The barbecue was memorable in that the hosts and their guests first tried to recall the explanations of the sexual classics "Dirty Sanchez," "Cleveland Steamer," "Rusty Trombone," and the like, and then moved on to attempting to define their own deviant (hopefully) imagined acts. (Mom, DO NOT look up these terms.) I didn't go out on Friday, and mid-week was generally uneventful. So, given the questionable officiating during Von Kaiser week, the official record after Week 5 is Matuska 3, Matuska's (Un)Social Behavior 2.

I'm not going to go into it now, but let's just say Don Flemenco is one despicable Frenchman:Hopefully, I'll soon wrangle up the gumption to detail what (hopefully) is a mid-season anomaly. A blip. A... Who am I kidding? As I told my sister recently, "We are the sum of the choices that we make." Train or party? Uh.... Both?

It's a good thing I get a rematch.

"Sushi, Kamikaze, Fujiyama, Nipponichi..."

Dear, dear reader(s),

It's been too long. I know, I know- the fault is mine. I've been lazy in keeping you up to date. I will try to do better.

In the meantime... Click on that "St. Vincent's Team Page" linky over there on the right. Quick question: What don't you see on the list of "Top Fundraisers"?

I'll give you a moment.

Ok, the answer is: my name! Seriously folks- I will not be outfundraised by a bunch of who-dat flunkies. This is Mark Matuska were talking about here- aka the hub of a a global communication network that dwarfs all others in sheer fantastitude and ginorsomeness. Get cracking! Every little bit helps.

To those that have offered support- moral, financial, or athletic- you have my continued gratitude.

Speaking of athletic supporters....

My dear friend Cassie, who works for a PR firm somewhere, was kind enough to send over tubs and tubes of something called Aquaphor. I had never heard of this product before, but Cassie was adamant that it would be an indispensable aid in my quest to run further than I've ever run before. I was of course skeptical, but also eager for free crap. I believe my phrasing was "Go ahead and send me some lube."

I'm going to take a moment now to discuss a serious problem that affects many of us in one way or another- the problem of chafing. In my particular case, I create a great deal of heat between my legs in a completely un-fun way. For those of you who've seen me naked (and there are a few of you), you already understand; for those of you who have not, allow me to be more visual:

That photo was taken Tuesday. Anyway, thanks to this magic balm known to the free world as Aquaphor, I'm abrasion-free. Next time you see me, ask to check out my smooth inner thigh- you'll become a believer too!

Yeah Aquaphor!

(This has been an advertisement paid for with some sort of curious petroleum jelly. If you have some gelatinous goo (or something else) you think I can use, or think I might want, or think I might be able to store on a shelf, or might fit in my apartment, let me know. If I like it, I'll say something nice about it.)

On to more important things...

While I was on hiatus, Von Kaiser week came and went. I know you're dying to know, so...

Monday: 4.6 Miles
Tuesday: Eddie Vedder
Wednesday: 6.0 Miles
Thursday: 4.6 Miles
Friday: Little Buddy's Birthday Party
Saturday: Worst Hangover Ever
Sunday: 8ish miles

(Note: Google has recently added a "walking directions" option to its maps app, and it's pretty fantastic for calculating milage. Unfortunately, it's not very expansive- it's fairly detailed as far as the park, but is completely oblivious to the walkability of a number of bridges, including the Triborough and the 3rd Ave bridge. Also, Randalls Island doesn't exist in its universe. So, for the record, Sunday I ran through CP, crosstown to the East River on 103rd/2nd, across the 103rd St. footbridge to Randalls/Wards Island, north the length of the island, back to Harlem via the Triborough, and then over to the Bronx via the Willis Ave. bridge for a cup of coffee before coming back on the 3rd Ave Bridge and back to good ol' 118th. I have aspirations of running the GW bridge this weekend.)

Beers consumed:
Tuesday's Eddie Vedder Concert: 7
(I'd write more about this, but this blog entry's bloated already.)
Friday: Astronomical quantities

I count 23.2 miles run this week, meaning I need only have had fewer than 16 beverages on Friday night to come out the victor.

...It's frightening how unlikely that is.

However- if I can't remember, it didn't happen, right? Score this one for me...

Overall record: 2-2! As Marv Albert would say: Yes!

Let's meet this week's opponent!

For the Minor Circuit Championship Belt, it's...

Piston Honda Week!

More on the "TKO from Tokyo" tomorrow...

"Your punch is soft...just like your heart!"

Greetings friends! It's another action-packed issue of MM2K8INGNYCMTB. As if I hadn't run out enough gimmickry so far, get ready for...

Von Kaiser Week!

[As an aside: I had originally had the idea that I'd nickname a given training week after famous villains from film and literature. (Marathon Week was going to be Drago Week. It still might be. Stay tuned.) After a romantic dinner with my training buddy Timmy "I'll Smash Your Face" Petrov, though, I've decided to take it in another direction. Master of pattern recognition that he is, he suggested that the remaining training schedule roughly corresponds to the fight sequence from the old NES classic "Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!!" (I'm a sucker for superfluous exclamation points.) So we're going to work our way up the heavyweight ladder, hopefully beat the champ, and then fade into Bolivian.* I've decided to do this at the risk of alienating much of my audience, which probably just consists of my Mom. So be it.]
*Current running gimmick may change without notice.

Let's get reacquainted with the "German Steel Machine," shall we?


Check out that 'stache- that ain't legal. According to Wikipedia, which we all know is the most reliable source of information anywhere ever, ze Kaiser is a "militant German ring veteran." I don't know about you, but to me that makes him a Nazi. Villains don't get much more despicable than Nazis- just ask Jake and Elwood. So, this week, I'm not just running for St. Vincent's or for my own health and well-being, but also to combat intolerance and bigotry by knocking this chump out in the name of Polish sausage.

More about Keyser Soze later. For now, let's recap what will posthumously be known as "Glass Joe Piscopo Week":

Monday: Off
Tuesday: Lazy
Wednesday: 5.5 Miles
Thursday: 5.5 Miles
Friday: Off
Saturday: 7 miles (Full Central Park Circuit!)
Sunday: Off

Drinks consumed: 7 (5 on Saturday night/Sunday morning out, then a giant Pina Colada and a G&T at dinner Sunday)

Happily or unhappily, many if not all of you decided to be out of town this week, fortifying my normally weak will into rocklike stoicism. The real tests come this week, most notably at Little Buddy's birthday bash. Despite any asterisks, though, I can with a guiltless conscience score this one a victory for the good guys, even though Glass Joe tossed me to the canvas once during the long run (I think partially due to the post-thunderstorm humidicloud in which I chose to engage Central Park.) Never mind...

Von Kaiser Roll enters the ring to a Nintendization of an old Wagner favorite. So... Let's get this week rolling. Ride of the Valkyries, anyone?

Smells like... victory. Let's talk again this week, yes? Until then...