Photo by annette62 courtesy of Flickr.

I run with some hilarious characters.

There’s this one chap, well read and possessed of a keen wit, who regularly and zealously rouses the locals for the weekend trail-running binge. He’s become a sort of town crier. Every Friday, he announces the training run, reports on our latest trail ultra results, and offers a succinct weather report. We’ve come to expect and enjoy it.

With the advent of summer in South Carolina, his job has become much tougher. You try convincing people to run eighteen to twenty miles in the oppressive June heat. In the South, one feels the robust heat index and heady dew point at dawn. It can break the willpower of the most determined runners.

Undaunted, our intrepid motivator has offered up a clarion call to our group and to runners everywhere. Today, he sent out a singularly amazing note. If this doesn’t get you out of bed in the morning, I don’t know what will…

Brothers & Sisters,

This week I’d like to talk about sin. Not gluttony; not sins of the flesh like coveting your neighbor’s wife; not using your mouth to blaspheme instead of raising a joyful noise. No brothers & sisters, I am here to save you from the sin of sloth.

Papists called it “Acedia,” and they numbered it among the Seven Deadly Sins—the worst of the lot. You may know them as the Cardinal Sins. Maybe your grandpappy called them the Mortal Sins. Regardless brethren, I’m here to remind you that idleness and listlessness are the handmaidens of the Devil—the tools of Beelzebub himself.

So I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. First we’re going to congregate. Then we’re going to motivate. We’re going to ambulate. And I can guarantee we will perspirate. We are going to cast that demon Sloth right out of our temple! Are you with me brothers and sisters? Hallelujah!

Yes, mighty temptations face us. We are tempted to stay in bed. We are tempted to put things off until tomorrow. Some say the forest is too big, the trail too long, the weather too unbearable. But it is not so. The forest is not too big when you run with your friends. The trail is never too long when others are there to encourage you. The weather is not too unbearable when you meet it with the joy of the Holy Ghost!

No burden will be placed on you that you cannot overcome. I can testify before each of you, the first step out of bed is the hardest step you will take. If you take that leap of faith, you’ll find yourself helping carry the burden of others and discover the load you carry yourself lighter because of it.

Look to the Good Book for guidance; the book of Hebrews in the New Testament:

“Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.” [Hebrews 12:1] “For you have need of endurance, so that when you have done the will of God, you may receive what has promised.” [Hebrews 10:36]

Can I get an Amen?

Sunrise service will be held at the outdoor tabernacle of Harbison Forest at 5:40 a.m. The forecast calls for heat: 74 degrees and 84% humidity at dawn. Hot? Yes, my friends that is hot— but not as hot as the eternal fires of damnation.

- Deacon Rick (The Other White Meat)

I expect to see everyone in church this weekend, full of the sorrow that leads to repentance.

- Dean

Photo by TravISU courtesy of Flickr.

If you’ve run a road marathon, you’ve probably heard an encouraging word from a volunteer or spectator. These folk mean well. Full of enthusiasm and wholeheartedly devoted to your cause, they shout, “You’re almost there!” and “It’s right around the corner!” If you’re seriously lucky, they’ll boldly proclaim, “You look great!”

These are all lies.

You’re not almost there. The finish line is not right around the corner, and you look far, far from great.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate lusty support. But what if marathon fans couldn’t use standard catchphrases? What if they were restricted to the raw, brutal truth? If so, somewhere around mile 22, unsuspecting runners would find themselves absolutely blitzed by excessive honesty. Imagine the wide-ranging, rather bizarre cheers:

NAUSEATING
“You can keep that vomit down for another mile, I know it!”

CRUEL
“You have no chance of catching the senior citizen in front of you.”

OBLIGATORY
“You’re the only runner in sight. I offer half-hearted, token applause.”

REPULSIVE
“Your bloody nipple shirt offends us, sir.”

INSULTING
“Hey look, it’s Abe Vigoda!”

INSENSITIVE
“Can you hurry things up a bit? The police need to pick up these traffic cones.”

INCREDULOUS
How are you still upright?

BLUNT
“All this effort for a cheesy, cotton T-shirt?”

PERCEPTIVE
“You appear to be running dangerously low on hope.”

NERDISH
“The Salt Vampire from the original Star Trek has nothing on you!”

EXISTENTIAL
“You know, I really just don’t see the point.”

SELF SERVING
“Hey sweatipotimus! Five dollars says you get a class-A dehydration cramp before the next aid station.”

CONDESCENDING
“From the comfort of my curbside lawn chair, it’s exceedingly easy for me to tell you to run faster.”

ALARMED
“We need an ambulance at mile 22, STAT!”

BLEAK
“The winner finished like, two hours ago.”

Now then Intrepid runner, wouldn’t you prefer lies? Who wants the truth when you’ve got four or five oppressive miles to go?

At least fans care enough to show support. Goodness knows they’ve probably got more constructive things to do. Most just don’t know any better. If they truly understood the unending, quasi-hallucinogenic misery of the last few miles of the marathon, they’d add subtle nuance to their spin doctoring. They’d avoid exaggeration altogether.

But, I don’t want that.

Fans, you keep right on telling me I look great. I know it’s a lie. You know it’s a lie. It will be our little secret, the proverbial elephant on the course. We’ll be as comfortable together as politicians and voters.

Beyond turning a deaf ear to alluring half truths, I have a practical solution. Fans, position yourselves after the 25-mile mark. Then you’ll be free to say whatever you please about distance. At that point, even the most morose, pessimistic runners will concede they’re “almost done.” Fans aren’t censored. Runners are too buoyant to care. Everyone wins.

Better yet, cheer during the final .2-mile stretch run. There, you’ll have carte blanche to say damn near anything to me. Nothing can offend when I can see the finish line. Call me Abe Vigoda. Insult my beatific grandmother. Heck, announce to the crowd that I heartily enjoy kicking puppies. Knock yourselves out.

But before this remember, I look fabulous.

- Dean

Kentucky Derby Marathon and Mini-Marathon runners needed nourishment for the miles that lay ahead.

When making lemonade from lemons, consider context. Never make lemonade for your diabetic aunt or for people with citrus allergies. You may inadvertently harm them. Similarly, if you’re an injured athlete who wants to run “just for kicks,” don’t race a half marathon in a polyester suit jacket.

Not one to heed my own advice, that’s exactly what I did. I ran the Kentucky Derby half marathon dressed as the inimitable Colonel Sanders. The man has achieved legendary status in Louisville. The plentiful lamppost banners and colossally gigantic downtown mural convinced me. He’s a big deal in this neck of the woods. I just don’t know how he handled the heat in that suit.

Polyester doesn’t breathe in the best of circumstances, least of all in sizzling conditions. By 6 a.m. on race day, temperatures reached the upper 70s, perfect for sipping iced tea on your veranda, but punishing for a long distance race. I certainly didn’t have to wait long to feel the effects of the heat. Perspiration began in earnest on the bus ride to the starting line. During the race, I needed to stop occasionally to avoid getting dizzy (let alone extra crispy). Thankfully, I opted for shorts instead of trousers.

The wig didn’t help. Besides oven-roasting my head, it made me look more like Mark Twain or Albert Einstein than Sanders. The shocking eyebrows completed the Muppet-esque caricature.

Not content to simply look the part, I carried a bucket of the Colonel’s secret formula, original recipe fried chicken with me at all times. I convinced as many runners as possible to enjoy the deep fried goodness. I carried the bucket for the entire race, but I did not partake. As a personal rule, I never consume corn syrup solids and saturated fat during rigorous exercise.

I also spoke in an aristocratic Southern accent. From the pre-dawn bus ride to the post race stretching routine, I embodied the Colonel. All older women were “young ladies,” fried chicken was the currency of champions, and gentlemanly Southern manners ruled the day.

I didn’t race well, finishing with my slowest half-marathon ever (2:03:45). But it hardly seemed to matter. As the iconic Colonel, I enjoyed unceasing, vigorous crowd support, posed shamelessly for umpteen photos along the course, high-fived countless kids and had a lovely chat with Louisville’s courier-journal at the finish.

For the record, I gave away all of the chicken by mile two, mostly to runners. This includes the thigh and leg I gave to the Elvis troupe.

I had a wonderful time. Just what the doctor ordered.

- Dean

(Thanks to “Rick – The Other White Meat” for the costume inspiration.)

I’ve tried everything shy of ritual sacrifice to solve this vexing groin problem. Now it has come to this: I’m reading medical journals. Normal folk waste their evenings with Facebook, YouTube and detective dramas. I read “The Groin Triangle: A Patho-Anatomical Approach to the Diagnosis of Chronic Groin Pain in Athletes.” Exciting stuff.

Written by professionals for professionals, medical journal articles like this are hopelessly dense. They’re full of esoteric terms like “anthropometric,” “trochanteric” and “tuberosity.” It took me less than three seconds to find these words after I randomly selected a typical three-sentence paragraph.

Technical jargon can be forgiven. But these articles habitually break the most sacred laws of sentence structure. I’m reading English, but it feels like German. I keep wondering when the verb will rear its fearful head. Such is the dilemma for the common man. How can one gain knowledge when it requires both an advanced degree and an interpreter?

Consider the abstract (introduction) for the article I’m currently reading:

RIDICULOUSLY COMPLICATED ABSTRACT
(skimming recommended)
Chronic groin pain is a common presentation in sports medicine. It is most often a problem in those sports that involve kicking and twisting movements while running. The morbidity of groin pain should not be underestimated, ranking behind only fracture and anterior cruciate ligament reconstruction in terms of time out of training and play. Due to the insidious onset and course of pathology in the groin region it commonly presents with well-established pathology. Without a clear clinical/pathological diagnosis, the subsequent management of chronic groin pain is difficult. The combination of complex anatomy, variability of presentation and the non-specific nature of the signs and symptoms make the diagnostic process problematical. This paper proposes a novel educational model based on patho-anatomical concepts. Anatomical reference points were selected to form a triangle, which provides the discriminative power to restrict the differential diagnosis and form the basis of ensuing investigation. This paper forms part of a series addressing the three-dimensional nature of proximal lower limb pathology. The 3G approach (groin, gluteal and greater trochanter triangles) acknowledges this, permitting the clinician to move throughout the region, considering pathologies appropriately.

Remember, the abstract is the simplest part of an article. Call me crazy, but I’m still trying to find the verb in sentence four. Reading becomes more laborious in the body of the article. Unless you’re a trained grammarian, you’ll exhaust your patience quickly.

If you just want to learn about your groin injury? Never fear. I’ve rewritten the article’s introduction:

MY REWRITE
Groin pain is common and worse than you think. Injure your groin and you won’t run, play or compete for months. Forget about a straightforward diagnosis. The human groin is a class-A mystery with anatomy more complex than the plotline of LOST. Groin pain can be maddeningly difficult to pin down. It comes and goes and moves annoyingly from place to place. We triple-dog dare you to clearly describe your vague symptoms.

Your doctor is probably flummoxed, which doesn’t bode well for you. If she can’t figure out precisely what’s wrong, you’ll be up the proverbial creek. Inconclusive tests await. Kiss that deductible savings good bye.

But don’t despair! We have a way to solve this problem. It involves drawing an imaginary Triangle™. Really, that’s all you need to know. We’re pretty sure this will help but promise nothing.

I’ve submitted this rewrite to the authors. I’ve yet to hear back from them.

Longing to run again,
- Dean

I appreciate the marathon fan that goes out of his or her way to encourage runners. Having suffered through many races, I know how immensely helpful this can be.

Three cheers if the fan goes through the trouble to handcraft a sign: the icing on the cake of robust support. Naturally, I look forward to witty signage. But the best marathon posters aren’t merely clever. They reveal a deeper understanding of the runner’s journey… of the runner’s pain. They exist at the intersection of creativity and understanding.

Marathon Noir



2007 St. George Marathon | Photos by sabrebelle courtesy of Flickr.

I’ve always believed morticians were secretly whimsical. You can’t take yourself too seriously if you apply cosmetics to dead folk all day. At once inspiring and hilariously morbid, these signs would take my mind off the pain of long distance running. More businesses should cultivate darkly comedic marathon support.

I can only imagine what similarly grim humor embalmers might hoist upon marathon runners:

Mile 21
Got guts?

Mile 23
Nothing Lasts Forever!

Mile 25
Want your mummy?

Refreshing Candor

2007 Las Vegas Marathon | Photo by Dawn – Pick Chick courtesy of Flickr.

That’s right, no one made you get up at four in the morning in the dead of winter. No one made you cough up a lung during speed work. You are responsible for your shin splints, planar fasciitis, tendonitis, stress fracture or groin pull. The stressed relationships, funky laundry and graveyard of shoes belong to you alone. Timothy Geithner didn’t fund your training. No one held a gun to your head and made you run the marathon.

You were this stupid all by yourself.

Good for you.

E Tu Wellesley?

2008 Boston Marathon | Photo by dengaterade courtesy of Flickr.

Motivation comes in so many forms, especially at the Boston Marathon’s infamous Wellesley “Scream tunnel.” To wit, right after you kiss this enthusiastic coed, the girl in the dark shades punches you square in the mouth.

Classic bait and switch, really.

Open to Interpretation

2008 New York City Marathon | Photo by whas courtesy of Flickr.

Option 1
You too can come out of nowhere, rise despite the odds and become an inspiration to others.

Option 2
If a remote, unknown provincialist can find herself on the Presidential ticket, surely you can do damn near anything.

Either way, you’re inspired.

Stark Militarism

2007 New York City Marathon | Photo by Library Maven courtesy of Flickr.

Meet Marine Gunnery Sergeant Hartman’s civilian brother and scourge of marathoners. Don’t drop out of the race in front of this dude. His maniacal cohorts might burst from the crowd to beat you senseless. You’d certainly endure an expletive-laden tirade. Stanley Kubrick would have loved this guy.

But perhaps he just understands runners.

Deep inside the marathoner’s psyche, lies a core uncertainty. “Can I do this?” “Will I fail?” But runners are also fiercely determined. Resolve and fear exist in parallel and war for the runner’s mind. This simple poster indirectly acknowledges the fear and bluntly shuts it out, offering only stern defiance – the very thing a runner needs to achieve their goal.

This may be the most singularly insightful and blisteringly motivational marathon poster I’ve yet seen.

For those who’ve seen it in person: As soon as the nightmares pass, you should be fine.

Hialriously Indecipherable

2006 Kiawah Island Marathon | Photo by Angie.

This is my all time favorite marathon poster. Who needs coherent signage when one has access to the creative innocence of a four-year-old mind? Only this boy knows what his scribblings mean. There’s an guileless beauty in his determination.

At least he was clear on the fundamentals; marathoners need encouragement, even if they’re too tired to translate.

- Dean

Runners have uncanny body awareness. We can tell if our IT band feels ever so slightly off the mark, we describe everyday aches and pains to the minutest detail and we routinely discuss optimal methods for body glide application.

So it seems inevitable that marathon posters should reflect this obsession. A majority of hand-made race signs have something or other to do with the oddity of pushing the human body to the brink of endurance. Some just fixate on the body itself.

Not every sentiment is dignified.

Mensa Oblique

2005 New York City Marathon | Photo by sabrebelle courtesy of Flickr.

In case you didn’t already know, ATP refers to adenosine triphosphate, the “universal energy currency for metabolism.” Basically, ATP stores energy so that you can do stuff. I had to look it up.

This sign would appeal to the relatively few molecular biochemist marathoners who would instantly recognize the acronym and draw great inspiration from this highly energetic, essential molecule.

Intriguing Offer

2008 San Diego Rock n’ Roll Marathon | Photo by tned_99 courtesy of Flickr.

Any male who has experienced the dreaded bloody nipple phenomenon would never accept this offer. The last thing I want after a marathon is excessive nipple stimulation.

But perhaps I’m missing the point. The real question here might be “just who massages whom?”

Shamed Into Achievement

2007 Twin Cities Marathon | Photo by Pookareena courtesy of Flickr.

You haven’t lived until you’ve been passed at mile 21 by someone who doesn’t appear to be in tip-top shape. You stare incredulously and helplessly as they drag their stout frame past your unworthy carcass.

This Clydesdale probably didn’t run quickly enough for this. He may have finished his marathon in a sedate six hours. We don’t know. He may be one of those annoying folk who looks like they’ve enjoyed one Denny’s Grand Slamwich too many, yet is a perennial Boston qualifier.

What can I say? Life’s not fair.

Inevitable Excretory Humor

2008 Grandma’s Marathon | Photo by Sjixxxy courtesy of Flickr.

Every race features at least one urination or defecation poster. Usually runners are encouraged to press on regardless of need or consequences. If George Lucas frequented marathons, he’d hold aloft a sign like this. I’m sure of it. Nothing amuses the masses like poop.

But this girl’s sign is a bit different, and quite plausible. She wants to know if her father has lost control of his bodily functions. Perhaps dad sweats profusely and she can’t tell the difference.

Ominous Reassurance

2008 Boston Marathon | Photo by Jake T courtesy of Flickr.

Translation: You are about to attempt something that could cost you one or more toenails. But don’t turn back, because losing them would be COOL.

Incidentally, let’s not forget the raw entertainment value of the marathoner’s toenails. Next time you’re about to lose one, show your kids. Describe the injury with your best Bear Grylls accent while pivoting the dangling flap like a curiously squeaky hinge. Add sound effects at just the right moment, and your tweenage daughter will run from the room screaming.

Rather Personal Encouragement

2006 Chicago Marathon | Photo by Andy Marfia courtesy of Flickr.

This guy is either:

a) A brash, young rogue who plays by his own rules.

b) Providing an indecently awkward romantic overture that may not be received well.

c) Actually cheering for a man.

To be continued…
Stay tuned for the next series of marathon posters!

- Dean

There seems to be no end to the creativity of marathon fans. Perhaps they just have time on their hands. What else is there to do while huddling in the cold waiting to cheer your favorite runner for a few precious seconds? At least clever signs are a source of entertainment.

But there may also be a competitive subtext on the sidelines. While marathoners run against the clock, some in the crowd engage in a fierce battle of wits. It’s a poster arms race: The more humorously urbane the sign, the more worthy the fan.

If runners happen to incidentally draw inspiration from this drive to out-chic other spectators, so be it.

With this in mind, let’s examine another batch of marathon posters:

Fandom Dualism

2006 Chicago Marathon | Photo by kabn courtesy of Flickr.

On the right, we see well-meaning marathon supporters, lightheartedly cheering runners. Shivering on the side of the road, they’d clearly be happier if the whole nasty business were complete. Clint Eastwood wouldn’t approve.

Apparently, neither would the spectators on the left, who sport a rather hardcore message. But perhaps this harsh sign is not meant for runners. It might be a challenge to the nearby fans holding the weak-kneed sign. The Namby-Pambyists proclaim, “We are the heartier fans! Bring on the Frostbite!”

Amen sisters!

The Defiant Cliché

2007 New York City Marathon | Photo by edEx courtesy of Flickr.

This sign (or variant thereof) has become a staple of road marathon fandom, probably because it serves both runner and spectator well. For the runner, the message appeals to base instincts. It actually helps to see something like this at mile 22. For the fan, the low-grade profanity is benignly naughty, the counter-culture equivalent of the magnetic earring (all of the rebellion none of the commitment).

Cue the Umpa Lumpas

2007 New York City Marathon | Photo by misplacedparadox courtesy of Flickr.

What has become of us? Apparently, fathers are now making smart phone bribes to pre-teens under the guise of spousal encouragement.

I don’t trust dad’s agenda. He’s using mom’s marathon to prop up his sketchy parenting skills. Consider: A poster like this can’t possibly inspire mom. She does all the work and gets nothing in return. The family budget takes a hit, coach potato dad becomes the undeserving hero and little Veruca Salt gets a better cell phone than me.

I hope mom finished in precisely 4:31:01.

Sacrilegious Error

2006 Salt Lake City Marathon | Photo by deltaMike courtesy of Flickr.

The main refrain to Vangelis’ Chariots of Fire (our most sacred anthem) features precisely twenty-two “NAs.” This sign inadequately offers only fifteen “NAs.”

Without clarification, one might assume the sign referred to “Get a Job” by Sha Na Na (potentially insulting); “The Na Na Song” by Cheryl Crow (lyrics only make sense after mile 25); Possibly the “Theme from Rocky” (three cheers for pugilism); or more likely the inevitable “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye” by the Chateaus/Steam (hardly encouraging to marathoners).

Codswallop

2005 London Marathon | Photo by Rufous Y Anunciada courtesy of Flickr.

Right. So this bloke named “Stooz” must really fancy lard. How else could he put up with such cracking, barmy signs? I’m interested in the wee bonny sign on the right. It directs Stooz to “Follow the crowd to free beer, fags and lard.”

Beer, I understand. Fags less so. Only dodgy buggers would smoke after a long distance race. But what of the lard? Why is it free? Does it possess mysterious recuperative qualities? Is it (gasp) tasty to the knackered runner? Should I give it a go after my next race?

British readers, please enlighten me.

All Hail Sakyong!

2005 New York City Marathon | Photo by whitkick courtesy of Flickr.

Weldon Smith doesn’t instantly command respect. Dennis Frumperton is nobody’s tyrant. Replace “Sakyong” with “Bill” and “Mipham” with “Jones” and you have one boring poster.

I love the swirls here, which add a hypnotic quality to the design; as if Sakyong is far more svengali than sovereign.

Indulging the Id

2007 Marine Corps Marathon

These young ladies offer the perfect fusion of motivation and witticism. Let’s scrutinize their respective messages:

Woman on the Left
An avid marathoner and ultramarathoner, I do indeed possess abundant stamina. I also take people at their word. So I called the phone number on the sign. A woman answered, and was quite taken aback by the subject of my call. Odd; she seemed so earnest in the photo. Perhaps I reached the wrong person. The last digit of the phone number is a bit fuzzy.

Woman on the Right
At least Woman Seeking Stamina had the courage of her convictions. I question the commitment of Cleavage Sally. Runners pushed their bodies to the limit as they passed, offering their last measure of endurance to the unforgiving course. If this woman were serious about inspiration, her neckline would be far lower.

To be continued…
There’s more where this came from, including a classic sign from Brooklyn, and an intriguing offer seen at the San Diego Marathon.

- Dean