i fucking did it!

Yes, cold cold feet indeed. As is clearly evidenced from my lack of blog posts and updates, cold feet struck hard. I kept training, though. Just forget to write about it. So it goes.

But here I stand now, on the other side. I finished the marathon! Yes. Pain like I had not experienced previously.

I will write longer bits soon. My loose plan is to put all these entries together, with a few more, into a pamplet of some kind. A sort-of-mini-book.

September 16 (5.5 miles hiking)

Today went for a long hike through Lost Maples State Natural Area, winding through canyons and up plateaus, identifying birds all along the way, collecting tree leaves for later identification, listening to the wind through the leaves and swimming in the spring fed pond. It was perfection and beyond and my Dad and I were the only people walking in the whole park. A shame in a way, but at the same time so perfect. It was the best that Texas has to offer.

September 14 (12 miles)

We move through this life without looking around much, staying within our own little fields of vision and experience and rarely if ever getting a glimpse outside. Everyday I see this principle in effect to absurd lengths along the Lady Bird Lake hiking trail. Folks insert their headphones and get all pumped up to a soundtrack of their choosing and disconnect from the world around them. I see these fine folks bumping into other constantly, the blank look on their faces traded for a quick look of shamed shock. I guess this is why I never use headphones. I suppose it might make the run a bit easier, get myself "pumped," if you will, but I have little interest in disconnecting myself from the world around me. I want hyper-awareness of my environment, I want to see and feel and hear everything as it blurs by me.

And that's the irony of this running stuff sometimes. You dive deep into the brain, further into your own mind, but it makes you more and more aware of the world outside. Whoa. I think I should start a new-age running academy, where we all pantingly try to talk about our inner revelations while sweating and grunting. We would probably end up spittling all over each other but I guess it's a fair trade. The truth comes at a price, my friend.

Speaking of price, I hereby found the "New Age Running Academy." It will cost you one beer per session.

We will run and discuss politics and philosophy and what we ate for dinner last night. We will discuss until the pain becomes too much, then we'll all just groan together. It might seem a bit suggestive to a random passer-by, but I assure, nothing will be suggested by our grunting, aside from the obvious suggestion in everyone's minds that we take a long break and drink a cold beer.

September 5th (4 miles hiking)

Austin's been held hostage by a 2-year drought, and me alongside. I am a creature of the water, you see. I may look human, may engage in normal human talk and trivialities, but I am generally a minute or less from a possible soak.

I used to do tube down in Barton Creek and take my dog and all was fair and fine and a taste of springtime's perfection. That was two long years ago and feels much longer. But today buckets of rain poured down with no hesitation. The sky was bursting wide open.

Tommy, Townes and I walked to the greenbelt and saw the washed up detritus of modern life, swept down below after spending many easy months in gutters up above. Plastic bottles, huge mounds of yellow foam, styrofoam peanuts, dorito's bags, all the essentials.

We walked for awhile but decided greater things called us. So we rose out of the greenbelt and downed some beer and doritos. Not exactly marathon training, I guess.

September 4th (11 miles)

Our feet flew quick over wet pavements and the miles flew by not quite as quickly. The lake and its old familiar curves and twists and running over the highway overpass and the shamed looks of the homeless men begging alongside. We moved past it all and felt each mile burn deep into our legs, our joints screaming for mercy, our minds feeling free as ever though, set free from everyday noise and dipping into a sort of freedom, if only for an hour or two. Diving into the deep end of one's mind, swimming in the depths, holding your breath and staying there as long as you can. It's not a natural place for a man to be. You can only live inside the mind for so long. Eventually you have to eat.

September 2 ( 3.3 miles )

Just when you think summer's passed us by, its long tortuous days have passed on down south of the equator, we get another scorcher. I might not notice this normally, as the rooms as I normally inhabit are blessed with central a/c, a wall unit, or, perhaps if I'm lucky, a man waving a large fan woven together from banana leaves.

But today there was no a/c and no servant waving banana leaves... just me and the scorching sun and my dog Townes, all treading the same bit of earth for a mind-numbing thirty or so minutes.

Today we ran down in the Barton Creek greenbelt back behind my house. My route is generally the same: side street down, wind up and down the rocky exposed ledges of the Balcones Escarpment, down under the 100-foot cliffs, past large stand of Ash Juniper and Lacey Oak and Chinquapin Oak and Live Oak and Sycamore. On down to the dry creek bed, up the empty rocky creek, up a few miles, cut up just near Campbell's Hole (now just a hole, no water inside), back up through the church parking lot and back home.

Had to stop for long stretches because I swear Townes' tongue was dragging on the ground. We stopped at the church and I turned on their hose but the water came out steaming and scalding and probably would not provide much relief from the heat, so I turned it off. Not after waiting some thirty or so seconds, waiting for the water to cool down, but it never happened.

Townes is now passed out in the corner, tongue back in his mouth but exhausted like I have not seen in quite some time. I anxiously await summer's departure.

August 31 (3 miles)

Perhaps running speeds up those special internal processes that expel waste. Often while I'm running, I get these unstoppable farting attacks. Not to be crude. Is that crude? I guess farting is one of those things that everybody does but nobody mentions. Never really any reason to talk about those kind of odors. When they strike, it's generally understood that you silently glare at the offending party, but no words are mentioned, never.

But since I'm trying to speak in my own voice and not somebody else's, I suppose it's only proper to discuss my flatulence. If I don't do it, who else will?

I wonder if these farts leave a vapor trail. Sort of like some sick alternate reality version of Knight Rider. David Hassellhoff keeps staring in the rear view mirror. He's actually just fixing his hair. But suddenly he realize he's being followed! "RELEASE THE GASSS, Kit !" he orders his mild-mannered talking sports car. And a cloudy, stinky vapor is released behind Kit (the name of the car, for those of you who never saw that t.v. show) and the driver following has to let go of the wheel to clasp his hands over his face and, most especially, his nose.

I wonder if my ripping farts on the trail could have a similar effect. People in my wake get woozy, start running at funny angles, grow short of breath, or maybe even go puke in the bushes. I would not be surprised. Fortunately, I'm always one step ahead of these gaseous emissions.

My dog Townes seems to have similar problems. Except he just shits. The last time we ran, he shit three times in half an hour. Three times! Considering his weight and the amount of food he eats, that's be like me shitting three times in 20 seconds. And that's not an experience I remember fondly.

August 29 (10 miles)

It's often difficult for me to peel myself away from the couch, or the computer, or my own daydreams. Daydreams have their own importance, though, and shouldn't be ignored. That's the real reason I originally started running: an hour or more of time inside my mind, uninterupted by other people or television or music or internet or anything other than my own thoughts. Running allows me time to unfocus and let the brain's natural chaos overflow its banks. It doesn't shake me back to reality but actually allows me to delve further inward.

So my mind drifts in a daydream and I decide to go for a run, the reveries grow deeper and wider and consume my whole range of vision. Mental knots get untied, or maybe I realize there was never a knot to begin with.

Today I ran and ran and ran so long, 95 degrees outside, until I stopped sweating and my body just seemed to emit these white salt crystals. I could probably bottle and sell this stuff at the farmer's market. "Locally made, organic human salt." Perhaps I should save the stuff and put it on my own food. Wonder if it might taste better that way. I usually tend to avoid any kind of human anything in my food. A curly hair in my sandwich, for example, is promptly removed.

August 28 (4.3 miles)

There's a stretch of highway in my mind that speaks of life's possibilities, the freedom of the open road, the wanderlust that eats at every man's heart, the potential of things seen and unseen. There are no billboards there, the road is empty, I pull my car to the side of the road and look along this endless stretch of imaginary highway and feel that anything is possible, that I stand in some warm place beyond time, that every detail has infinite beauty and importance.

And then there's the stretch of highway along the Town Lake hike and bike trail. Interstate 35, to be exact. Sure, there's plenty of potential there, but perhaps just to get run over and flattened by an endless swarm of cars, or perhaps to trip and fall over a pile of garbage.

Michael and I ran down there this morning, across the bridge adjacent to I-35. Quite a nice view of the lake from the bridge, actually.

But I return to my original thought. I-35 is foul in its own way, tis true, but the road leads both north and south all the way out of the country. The possibility of foreign soil, new situations, unknown tongues, strange faces; it's almost enough to run and keep running, all alongside the highway, disregarding the traffic onslaught and keeping the mind moored to thoughts of adventures in far-off lands. Of course, a run to Canada might take awhile. Perhaps by month three, the enthusiasm would begin to wane a bit, perhaps somewhere around MInneapolis. Then I suppose I could just hitch a ride with a pickup truck and run in place in the back bed, and be magically transported.

Ah, the open road.

August 23 (8 miles)

You never know another person's thoughts. You make quick assumptions based on their looks and speech and maybe if they're crawling on the ground or breaking though your front door or drooling on their shirt. But can we really know other people's minds? I hardly even know my own.

Today after running I met a man who shared his mind and I wished hadn't.

I'd just finished a long run, now doing some stretches on the metal bars on Riverside Drive. A young mother was playing with her son, doing jumping jacks. And by the shower was this weird looking fellow, dressed in all red. Red shoes, red shirt, red shorts. He had white socks.

He walked up to me while the woman was doing her jumping jacks and whispered, "I sure like how Mommy's doing her jumping jacks."

And this red-clad creep made me run for the car. Ughhhhhh,

So yeah, can we know the minds of others? Perhaps yes, perhaps no, and perhaps I just don't want to know.

The run was great, though, with me settling into an early rhythm and thinking my crazy thoughts. I vowed to myself that if I could finish this marathon, I would someday walk the entire Pacific Coast, from Mexico to Canada. And I mean to do it, too.

August 21 (3.2 miles)

Somehow I've managed a feat that defies imagination, expectation, and decent common sense. I've somehow managed to straddle the line between laziness and extreme exertion. How, you might ask?

It's a weird thing, really. After a long run, a feeling of premature accomplishment sets in. You pat yourself on the back, you remind yourself how great you're doing. And this process somehow robs you of your motivation. After my 7 mile run last weekend, I shrugged off the next few days obligations of my running schedule. Oh, I'm doing fine, I tell myself. I'm right where I need to be. And you see how I arrived here; in the midst of marathon training, I somehow manage feats of laziness and inaction. So funny, and so true to the constant contradictions of my life. Nothing can be simple, it seems.

So today when I ran my 3 miles, all the shrugging off of my running duty came back to haunt me in panting gasps and drips of sweat soaking through my shirt. These three miles felt like the most difficult since the first week of training. Amazing to me how quickly my body can revert back to its flaccid blank emptiness. They say our bodies have "muscle memory;" your body remembers the great condition it was in before and the next time, it's easier to return there. Well I guess my body has "couch potato memory." My body can remember its former complacence and will slip back there any chance it gets. I suppose I better not fall off the wagon again.

Today I tried a new stretch as well. The sides of my kneecaps had been sore and I'd been advised it was my TB band, or something similar. So I stretched that little TB band, doing a stretch that makes it look like I'm thrusting my ass outwards in an effort to garner some looks, whistles or compliments. None yet though.

August 16 (7.2 miles)

Today ended a several day drought during which I conjured every possible excuse to avoid lacing up my running shoes and dipping my toes back into that reservoir of pain I call my running schedule. Oh, I had handfuls of excuses and plenty to justify my absence from the trail, but most of it apocryphal or delusional. The honest truth is that I could've easily pushed through the pain and sweat out the hangover, but I just didn't.

Well, that came to an end today. I felt the beer and whiskey of the previous several days coming back to haunt me. But I fought through it and bounced back all the stronger. Had to start the day with a triple-espresso, though. I find that coffee gives courage. I knew I would be in pain, but somehow that bitter black caffeinated bit of joy made me buck up and stiffened my spine. I wonder if soldiers in battle drink espresso before jumping out of the trenches.

Which reminds me of something. I recall only a few years ago never even having run a full mile without stopping. My attitude then seemed fairly simple; why in the hell would I ever want to run? I'll run if somebody's chasing after me.

But later I learned the joy of endorphins. Ah yes, the sweet sweet biochemistry of our human form. We put ourselves through pain that our bodies might tap into their innate pain-relief reservoirs. You feel the sweet numb rush, the release of all stress and worry and desire. You push through the pain that inevitably wells up, and the body has its mechanisms to push back.

But I return to the soldier in his trench. His is an involuntary release and a constant one. Whatever pain relief might be won through a hard run between trenches is inevitably counteracted by the stress chemicals flooding the brain due to constant fear of death and bombardment. I have no such worries, thankfully. I wonder if such chemicals might be useful in achieving heretofore unknown speeds and stride. I did once run by a vicious dog, and he growled, and my pace did pick up a bit. No pun intended. But the dog was not explosive, nor holding a grenade or improvised explosive device, or even a rough bludgeoning tool. He did have knives though, the kind we find attached to the ends of a dog's incisors. I wonder if there might be a correlation between the size of a dog's teeth, and the increase in speed by a passing-by runner. I imagine there is a very direct relationship.

Today while running I did see some curious life forms along the trail, but certainly nothing threatening. Near the Congress avenue bridge, the trails juts a bit south and runs along Riverside, all because a few apartment complexes and businesses bought the lakeside land along a quite scenic bluff. One of these businesses happens to be Joe's Crab Shack.

Joe's Crab Shack always seemed to me like the waiting area for a roller coaster at a theme park. You know, the fake wood, the scrawled handwritten signs, the weathered siding on the building, all carefully placed just so, providing the feel of an old "crab shack," presumably owned by a guy named Joe. It is a soulless affair and fully worth ignoring. Today, though, I ran by and saw a flock of about 20 or so ducks marching across the parking lot, plodding their way towards the lake from a nearby creek. And the juxtaposition struck me and filled me with joy. It was an incongruity that resonated with the string of my heart and reminded me that, in nature, shit lives alongside beauty, and it's all fleeting anyway. And that's the dance of life. Imagine --> possibly the most soulless place in Austin - the oil-stained stretch of cracked concrete fronting a fabricated, soul-less corporate sham of a restaurant. And an image of simple beauty dances across this barren landscape.

Perhaps life is like this. The beauty and the shit are inseparable, and to receive life's glory, we have to sort through its refuse.

Just make sure to wash your hands.

August 11 (3.1 miles)

The smell coming off my body today seemed to attract the attention of several dogs along the trail. Perhaps time for a deep scrub cleansing, or something of the sort.

Not to focus too intently on the smells and sweat of this whole endeavor (seems half my writing is devoted to the subject), but it certainly becomes the most salient concern after a short period. We live in a antiseptic, white-washed, fluorescent-bulbed, scrubbed clean happy smile world, and I've never much fit into that. Not that I didn't want to, you see; it's just every time I would get a toothbrush near my mouth, some hidden force would make me throw down the toothbrush and slap myself on the cheek. Perhaps hygiene is not in my DNA.

On an unrelated note, I have noticed something disturbing, and slightly gross. You are now forewarned.

It almost seems perfect -- a sweaty, panting woman seems the height of sexual arousement, doesn't it? Well, perhpas in the abstract. When I am on the trail, seeing an endless stream of bouncing, grunting woman, I don't think about sex. It looks to me like they are each farting, squeezing out painful gas, battling their intestines, perhaps even shitting in their pants. It seriously grosses me out.

August 8 (6 miles)

Settling into the full weight of 26.2 miles must not be easy. Your body starts cursing at you using every dirty word it knows. Your head screams. Your legs twitch like caffeinated cockroaches.

Such thoughts danced around my head today. We raised the bar again, to 6 miles, but with each incremental increase comes the "oh shit" moment. As in, "oh shit, this is going to be a long long freaking run."

Michael and I did our six miles around the east side of Lady Bird Lake. It's funny -- Austin touts the hike and bike trail as its jewel and centerpiece, but if you head east from congress, you end up running along a very busy road, quite far from the lake, and crossing over I-35. It's noisy, polluted, and somewhat sketchy. You have to run across the highway on-ramp.

On the other side, it's all pretty tranquil once you rejoin the trail. We watched the sun set over the lake and the city's warm glow almost made us forget the throbbing pain in our legs. On second thought, the sunset's red splash across the rippling water actually reminded me of blood. A bad omen perhaps? No, more just a reminder of my pounding heart.

August 4 (3.1 miles)

My dog Townes nudged me awake this morning and we locked eyes. "Let's do this, " he seemed to say to me. Wasn't sure what "this" was, though; I took him outside, fed him some food, cuddled a bit. But his eyes still met mine with that determined glare that says, "You dumb ass, I said let's do this." So I took him on my scheduled run.

It's always a sensitive issue when you're on the trail and your dog decides it's time to defecate. The stares are heavy, silent, and disapproving. I feel like yelling at these gawkers, "O.K., so he's not potty trained yet." Seriously people.

I usually bring a bag to pick up his refuse, but sometimes I forget. This morning would be one of those times.

Once Townes goes into that "mode," there's no turning back. At this point, I can quickly flee the scene and not look back; I could cover the offending pile with sticks and dirt; or I could nudge it the the side of the trail with my shoe. Inexplicably, today I chose the latter. To the disgusted fascination of many runners-by, I pushed the pile out of harm's way. Of course, any fool could've predicated at least a quarter of the pile would end up on your shoe from such a method. And this indeed happened here. I dragged my foot along the ground, hoping to scrape off the offending smear. The smear stayed and simply accumulated mass, a whole mess of grass and dirt and rocks now attached to it. I started stamping my foot on the ground, and the splotch broke up and kind of sprayed into the air. Pretty sure some of the debris landed on an old guy's leg.

And at this point, I adopted my first dog shit strategy -- quickly flee the scene and don't look back.

I wonder of hte laws of karma apply to dog shit as well. If they do, I might be in trouble.

August 2 (5.1 miles)

Clouds might prove a bad omen for most folks, but for a runner they're a godsend. And if we're getting specific about it, not sure which god is the god of clouds. I know Thor is the god of thunder/lightning/flowing blonde hair, so we'll just give a great big "Wuzzup" to Thor. And, dear Thor, may my locks always be flowing and golden.

A little cloud cover allows you to run longer with less strain. You sprint, you soar, your stride perfect, your breath easy and constant. You feel like Nike, the Greek god of running shoes.

But I ran into another little problem today. Seems I have no white shirts. And those dark shirts absorb whatever sunlight is out there, amplify it, and crank your chest to a medium broil. After a good run in a dark shirt, I could cook eggs on my sternum.

Like today -- I wore a dark green shirt and the damn thing looked like a dirty sponge. I suppose it smelled like one too.

And then the lightbulb above my head kind of dimly lit up and I felt a flash of dazed inspiration. A sponge t-shirt! It could be super lightweight, super absorbant, and stitched together from old sponges. When you take a bath, you could put all your dishes in the tub with you, don the sponge t-shirt, and roll around on all the dishes. Like killing two birds with one sponge.

I imagine before I can find an investor, I'll need to make a prototype. Too bad I don't really wash my dishes. More just a little rinse and the old sniff test. Sometimes I might scrape something off the plate with my fingernails.

In other words, not many sponges around the house. Ah well. I just about a retirement home that discontinued its sponge bath program. Perhaps I can ask them for their leftovers.

All this crazed inspiration from only 5.1 miles. Can't wait to see what I'm imagining after 26.1. Probably an interdimensional running shoe that allows you to jog alongside dolphins. Yikes.

July 31st, 3.1 miles

Woke this morning feeling like a sunken ship, like some invisible weight was pinning me in bed, rolling around my crumpled sheets. But I fought back, pushed off the early morning ennui, and headed out for 7:30am fun time sweat-a-thon along the Town Lake trail.

Of course, now it's called Lady Bird Lake, named after Lyndon Johnson's famed spouse and protector of all things wild and beautiful. She came up with the idea to make Town Lake a sort of central feature of Austin's urban landscape, and it seems the city owed her at least the name.

Just this past weekend I ventured out to East Texas, paddling along Caddo Lake, and passed through Lady Bird's hometown of Karnack. Not much to speak of there. I suppose that town could've used a bit of her magic.

But anyhow back to my run. I felt a bit sore in the knees today and noticed a number of older runners with all manner of bandages wrapped around wrinkled kneecaps. Funny how I hadn't noticed that before. Outer reality lines up with our predispositions and whatever's occupying our mind, it seems. I wonder if folks with an incurable foot fetish might sit on a city bench and watch pedestrians from the knees down all day. I suppose that would be more of a shoe fetish.

I have my own shoe fetish, it seems. Not sure if I believe in the idea of the "subconscious mind," but if there's anything to that theory, I need to give my subconscious mind a firm talking-to. It seems I subconsciously desire to run in really really shiny shoes.

My first pair of running shoes, which I purchased from the half-price bin at Run-Tex a year or so ago, were a ridiculously ostentatious female pair, silver strips running the length of them, with such blinding reflective flash that they would've made a fine substitute for a mirror. Hell, I suppose they are mirrors. Perhaps these shoes were designed for those particularly vain female runners who enjoy monitoring their perfect stride.

I don't consider myself one of those. Besides the fact that I'm not female, I don't much like to look at myself, especially when I'm all red and sweating and huffing and puffing and straining against my body. I made the mistake of observing myself in that state once, and I didn't exactly see the svelte, smooth motions of the effortless athlete. I looked more like a commercial for emphysema.

Thus I never much liked the reflective quality of the shoes. I called them "Buck Rogers" running shoes. Or perhaps I'm thinking of "Flash Gordon?" Some future world where people wear Mylar blouses and drink martinis that smoke like dry ice.

But I knew all that when I bought the damn things. No, the real problem with those shoes was they were way way too small. After a hard run, I'd be limping around the rest of the day. Not because of sore muscles or anything even remotely commendable, but because of tourniquet footwear. I felt like one of those Chinese princesses forced to wear miniature shoes. Only instead of gracefully balancing a cup of ultra-fine tea and trying to figure how to quell a peasant uprising, I was doing my best to ignore snickers on the trail.

So I eventually broke down and bought some nice new shoes. Yes, they're more expensive. Yes, that whole shiny female shoes debacle haunts me to this day.

Only I didn't seem to learn my lesson. Without realizing it, the shoe salesman guided me towards another pair of ultra-reflective shoes. Oh well. At least now I'm not limping to the fridge for my post-run beer. And if I ever get lost in the wilderness alongside Lady Bird Lake, I can signal a rescue team with my extremely shiny shoes.

July 29, 4.2 miles

Woke to a loud rapping on the door and Michael (my brother and running partner) stood with coffee in hand. But no coffee for me. Not even time to rub the sleep from my eyes. Laced up my ultra-shiny shoes (more on that later) and out the door.

Funny thng about sweating. It's like some strange distillation of whatever you've been ingesting. This morning, for example, I'm pretty sure if I"d licked my arm I would've gotten at least a mild beer buzz.

All along the pathway, folks I see have this strained grimace. Perhaps this is the true secret joy of running. You put your body through hell just so you can feel the intense relief of stopping.

I think my own face probably twists into a particularly gruesome grimace. I kind of grimace a lot anyways. Meaning if I'm even slightly uncomfortable, I look like a mime screaming.

Well, I hope that's not true. Perhaps I will try another approach -- a constant smile, unnaturally large, scary even, while running. This might work. I only need some Crest Whitening strips. As things presently stand, I think I might scare some folks. Just imagine a sweaty grunting man running down the street, grinning an unnaturally large grin, lips pulled back to expose mossy yellow teeth. Say hello to "Bill your creepy neighborhood runner."

And that smelly trail of sweating spraying out from behind him? He ate some pesto last night, so the sweat might be a little slick. I'd watch your step.

July 28, the start of training

Today begins the training for 26.2 miles of foot-numbing, face-cringing, sweat-pouring punishment. Well, perhaps not punishment, but something similar.

Not sure why I've embarked on this. I've never been much a fan of testing my limits. My tattered blue La-Z-Boy chair is permanently reclined.

I think back to a few years ago, when I wrote down my list of "life goals." Basically a list of thing I never really planned on doing. I'm pretty sure I only made this list because it was on another to-do list I had. Seems half my to-do lists are usually dedicated to either writing or organizing other to-do lists. Sort of like one of those Russian dolls, or perhaps having to buy containers to store all my containers. What can I say, I get suckered in by The Container Store.

Anyhow, my "life goals." I'm pretty sure one was running naked in Antarctica. Further down the list, and only a little less likely, we see "run a marathon," an unsure scribble pretty far down on this list.

Not to say that it's an unachievable goal. I ran the half-marathon last year and have been on plenty of long-distance hiking trips. I guess the problem is one of day-to-day lifestyle. I enjoy two or three beers before bed, coffee in the morning, crouching in front of computer monitors (ahem) -- basically I'm a severely un-hydrated dude with bad posture. You buy those running magazines and see the fellows with those short shorts seemingly made out of tissue paper, they have abs that practically leap off the page and this easygoing smirk that coolly intones, "You'll never get here. But buy the magazine anyway, sucker." Not to mention this magazine runner cover star hotshot never seems to be breaking a sweat.

Well, I'm gonna prove something to myself and everybody else like me. Some runners aren't smirking Adonis wannabes with blinding white teeth. Some are coughing back last night's excess -- spliffs, wine, beer, french fries -- and are sweating their tattered old t shirts a stinky yellow. I will stand up and represent for these under-represented folks. I will be your feet.

So I will here post my progress as I start on my 4-month training program towards the 26.2 mile Rock n' Roll Marathon in San Antonio.

Today I ran 3 miles and it breezed by. Early morning starts do tend to help. Afterward made it to Barton Springs during free hours for a nice frigid belly-flop. Wasn't sure how well I would do, considering I woke up surrounded by three beer bottles and smoked a cigarette while at the studio yesterday. But my body responded better than I thought it would, only in the last mile or so did I feel that acidic ball of nastiness bouncing around my gut. Me and that acidic ball of joy do a little dance sometimes. It's not really a slow dance - not a waltz or even a polka. More like some dude at a rave who took some bad X, now he's spazzing and smiling a little too big and twitching like a lizard tongue in fast-motion. Oh, me and my ball of acidic yuck. How we love to dance.