A Man Scorned

During the first week of July, I suffered a betrayal that shook me to my very foundation, and disturbed me so much that it’s taken until now to write about it. It was sudden and unexpected and seemingly defies logic.

During the first week of July, my favorite radio station decided to change its format.

Monterey is probably one of the smallest independent media markets you’ll come across, but for the past few years we’ve been fortunate to have one of the best alt-rock stations I’ve ever heard. It was comparable to KROQ in Los Angeles, Live 105 in San Francisco, and...well, that’s about all I can compare it to (is 91X still going in San Diego? I'm not sure). But trust me, it was pretty darn cool.

Then without warning, they tinkered with the format to include rap music alongside its standard modern rock. They alternate back and forth between styles, so now a typical four-song sequence would be something like 50 Cent followed by Matchbook Romance followed by Kanye West followed by AFI. I mean...huh?

Their new moniker is “The Revolution,” but instead of feeling groundbreaking, the overall vibe just seems really weird. Am I missing something? Was this trend pioneered in a big city somewhere? Has this format been successful someplace else that I’m not aware of? Are there huge groups of kids out there who are swapping heavy metal and gangsta rap music files on Napster? The whole thing just seems baffling to me.

Thankfully, they haven’t completely abandoned the old format. But imagine if your longtime girlfriend suddenly came home with a pentagram tattoo and an introductory witchcraft book. You’d probably hang around for a while to see where things headed (especially if the, um, “relationship” was good), but deep down you would be thinking of getting one foot out the door before things got too bizarre.

My relationship with my radio station was good. I was satisfied. I never let my ears wander around the dial. (Yes, I can have feelings for a radio station. Really – at this point, does this surprise you?) But I can’t help feeling like this is the beginning of the end.

If so, it would truly be a sad development in my daily existence. And worst of all (you knew this was coming), it might even affect my running.

In my daily travels by car, I’m a traditional radio guy. I haven’t converted to satellite radio, and I haven’t invested in an iPod or mp3 docking system. I have a lot of CDs, but to keep things fresh I’ve always tuned in to (what used to be) our great alternative rock station.

Now here’s the connection to running. At least two or three days per week, I leave my house before 5:00 AM to drive somewhere for my morning run. Driving through the darkness, I use the up-tempo rock music to help keep my eyes open and stimulate some adrenaline production for the workout that lies ahead.

And since I never run with headphones, the last song I hear typically stays in my head throughout that morning’s run. I’ve become accustomed to hammering out the miles to the beat of Blink 182, Velvet Revolver, Linkin Park, or the Offspring. I don’t know if these songs helped me cover the miles any faster, but it’s become a familiar groove that I’ve embraced over the years.

So my question is this: Am I going to run any differently after listening to Chamillionaire, Pit Bull, or Lupe Fiasco? Is my alertness going to be adversely affected by getting less than my RDA of hard rock in the mornings? Will my internal rhythm be offset to the point of disrupting my natural running cadence? Am I going to start wearing my running cap sideways and tilted, or use a giant rotary clock on a chain around my neck instead of a Timex on my wrist?

OK, that’s a lot of questions. But you can sense how I’m troubled by all of this.

As surprising as it may seem (even more so after reading this post), I’m a grown man. I know what I like, and what works for me. I enjoy rap music primarily as a comedic diversion, but I’m not going give up my identity as a new rock aficionado. I don’t foresee myself buying into the whole hip-hop lifestyle, especially since I couldn’t afford the yacht or SUV limo or the gold-plated grill for my teeth. And I’m darn sure not going to let some stinking radio station have a negative impact on my training.

Like that guy keeping a closer eye on his girlfriend, I’m going to let this situation with the radio station play out a bit and see what transpires. I'm hoping it's just a short-lived experiment, before they see how misguided it was and return to the old formula - kind of like Coca-Cola did after their crazy "New Coke" idea bombed. But I realize I may not be sticking around for long, and I’ll have absolutely no reservations about severing my ties to this particular Revolution if necessary.

And when that happens...let’s just say if you don’t already have stock in iTunes, this might be an opportune time to buy in.

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Weekend Ramblings

Nothing especially earth-shattering happened around these parts over the weekend, so I thought I’d just jot down some loose odds and ends from the past couple of days:

• It was nice to see Italy win the World Cup yesterday. As I indicated a couple of weeks ago, I’ve been a longtime fan of the Azzurri.

However, I’m also the guy who in 2006 has pulled for the UCLA basketball team, Chris Daughtry on American Idol, Terry the Navy pilot on Survivor, and the American guy going up against Kobayashi at last week’s Coney Island hot dog eating contest. Throw in the fact that I missed my goal time at April’s Big Sur Marathon by one minute (I mean...not that I’m still thinking about that), and it’s felt like a year of consecutive near-misses. So it was nice to see somebody for whom I was rooting finally be able to seal the deal.


Plus, I don't remember the last "Whoa!" moment in a game quite like when Zidane completely lost his mind and leveled the Italian dude. I don't care what the sport is - anything that makes you jump out of your chair and think, "Did that really just happen?" makes for pretty riveting television. Instead of Brent Musberger, we almost needed Jerry Springer to close the broadcast with a final thought. Who says soccer isn't exciting?

***
• My 7-year-old son had his first-ever swim meet on Saturday. This is his first summer on the swim team, and he just started learning the breaststroke and butterfly about two weeks ago.

At the meet, he was entered in the 25-yard free, the 50 free, the 25 back, and 25 fly. The last event led to the following two separate exchanges...

Conversation 1: Between my son and me, after he finished his warmup and sat next to me wrapped in a towel:

Son: So what events am I racing today?

Me: 50 free, 25 free, 25 back, 25 fly.

Son: Oh...(long pause)...Dad?

Me: What?

Son: What’s the fly again?


Conversation 2: Between our team’s assistant coach and my wife, as our son was lining up on the block for the 25 fly:

Asst Coach: So, um…how did he end up in this event?

My wife: The coach asked if he’d do it, and he said yes.

Asst Coach: Oh...OK then.


Needless to say, our expectations for the butterfly race weren’t exactly soaring. Yet my son dove right in and somehow managed to splash his way through 25 yards. And despite the relative difficulty – or maybe because of it – it turned out to be the most memorable part of his day.

He had a brief near-panic episode about 30 minutes prior to the race, fearful that he wouldn’t be able to do the stroke the right way or wouldn’t be able to finish. But his mother and I (OK...mostly his mother) talked him through it, and he found that he was capable of more than he thought.

It’s one of the reasons that I’m glad he’s doing the swim team thing this summer. I don’t really expect him to be a competitive racer, and I don’t anticipate that he’ll ever master the butterfly. But sports provide so many opportunities for small lessons and have such enormous potential to improve someone’s self-esteem, that I think it would be sad to completely miss out on those experiences.

Plus, I’ve already taught him to bike and run, so...um, on second thought, never mind. Let’s just leave it with me being proud of him.

***
• Finally, on the running front: remember the 4-mile tempo run workout I wrote about last week, and the way I was anguishing about running my slowest time of the year? Well, I did the same workout this morning, and ran it more than 20 seconds faster than last week.

So I guess it’s possible that I over-exaggerated my plight a bit. It’s a good reminder of how the vast majority of what I write here frequently ends up being meaningless. But you probably knew that already.

I’ll try to keep the whining to a minimum from now on. Because although I’m still slower than I’d like to be, I’m improving. And that should always be a reason for optimism.

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La Tortura Me Encanta

“And I'm on tonight, you know my hips don't lie and I'm starting to feel it's right…
All the attraction, the tension…Don't you see baby, this is perfection…” -Shakira, “Hips Don’t Lie”


Yesterday, prior to getting in the shower for the second time that day, I had an epiphany of sorts: working out twice a day is exhausting.

I was standing in the middle of our employee gym, stretching and watching (what else) music videos. Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” video was playing, and it seemed perfectly appropriate.

(**Disclaimer: this is likely to be a convoluted post completely devoid of intellectual significance. If you’re looking for something thought provoking, this would be a good jumping-off point to visit another blog.)

I confess that I’ve never really been into Shakira. She always seemed like a little more than I could handle.

This is the girl whose previous video for “La Tortura” features her making out (putting it very mildly – what’s the best phrase to describe “having sex with your clothes on”?) with a man in her kitchen while holding a 12” carving knife. She also douses her entire body - hair included - in what looks to be motor oil, then writhes provocatively on the floor while repeatedly arching her back and rubbing her hands all over her body.


I mean...there’s sex appeal, and then there’s borderline insanity. Shakira has always seemed like that crazy girl in college who is exotically beautiful and passionately sexy, but has an intensity to her that is overwhelming. Normal guys couldn’t come close to satisfying her, although secretly they wonder if they would be up to the task (especially with a girl whose current album is called Oral Fixation).

She’s the girl who would completely devour all of your time and energy if you ever tried to date her, and may potentially turn psychotic on you if you ever try to extricate yourself. Most guys, when they’re thinking rationally, know to stay away from these chicks.

(Actually, one of my college roommates dated a girl like this, and we wouldn’t see him for weeks at a time. Sometimes they would be in his bedroom with the door closed, and not come out for three days. He may as well have been on the moon. It was totally surreal. We didn’t know whether to envy the guy or stage an intervention. And it took him two years to finally break up with her. But I’m getting off track…)

Let’s say you’re at a frat party where Shakira is on one side of the room, and Jewel is on the other. Who are you going to start hitting on? Part of you can’t help wonder what it would be like to date Shakira for a while, just to see what kind of mindblowing lunacy you can tolerate. But deep down you know Jewel is ultimately the girl you eventually want to settle down with.

And keep this in mind: guys don’t often act rationally. Many of them will go for Shakira, knowing full well that they’re getting in way over their heads, that there’s no way they can stay on this road they’re heading down for the long haul. But the temptation to know what it’s like is simply overpowering.

Which brings me back to standing exhausted in the employee gym.

For the past four weeks, I’ve been working out nearly every day, and frequently twice per day in my new role as a triathlete. Although I’m managing it well so far, I know it has the potential to completely wear me out.

Traditionally, running has been my Jewel: a well-balanced, rational, reliably beautiful activity that I know I want to settle down with for many years to come. It was meant for me, and I was meant for it (sorry, that was easy). I knew I could dedicate myself to it, and still have a lot of energy for all the other things I enjoy. But like many guys, I crave the exotic life every now and then.

So I wandered across the room to hit on the hot Colombian girl with the body paint and the seductive stare – that was the day I signed up for the triathlon. And now all of this extra training makes me feel like I’ve signed on to date Shakira for the next two months.

I’ve lost all of my free time. I’m tired all day long. I mean, I like getting some action as much as the next guy, but sometimes I simply don’t have the energy to go at it twice in one day (um, just to clarify...I’m talking about workouts here). I haven’t seen some of my running partners in weeks. I’m attracted to all sorts of new equipment and techniques that I typically only read about (still talking about workouts). I’m sore in ways that I’m not accustomed to.

The amount of time I’m dedicating to one race is becoming completely irrational. There’s no way I can keep this kind of pace up over the long term.

Yes, it’s crazy. Borderline insanity, in some ways. But you know what? I’m having a blast. I’m starting to feel it’s right. I don’t know if I’ll ever reach the perfection that Shakira demands (really, what man can?), but from now until September, I’ll certainly have fun trying.

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Lazy Day

Just south of the Salinas city limits you’ll find the tiny town of Spreckels, CA. In the late 1800s, Spreckels was created as a company town for the sugar company of the same name, which was one of the biggest sugar producers on the West Coast.

Although the company was sold in the 1980s, the sugar refinery still stands at the base of the Santa Lucia range, and 500 or so residents occupy the former company housing units. Spreckels remains a snapshot of small town America, and a throwback to a simpler time.

Nowadays, Spreckels is known primarily for its Fourth of July celebrations. Every year the town hosts a 10K race and a 1 mile kids’ run as a fundraiser for the local fire department. After the race, there is a barbecue in the park, and a parade down the town’s main thoroughfare. It’s about as small-town America as you’ll find anymore, with something to offer people of all ages.

We considered taking the kids to Spreckels this year, but after thinking it over, our family pretty much blew it off. As much as we like going to events like this, something else our family cherishes is lazy time together, which has been a somewhat precious commodity lately.

Almost every day since school has been out, my wife has had to rush the kids out the door to some activity or another. Whether it’s swim team, swim lessons, church camp, Sunday school, or just running errands, the lazy summer days have been a lot more busy this year. And we’re definitely not parents who overschedule our kids – in fact, we’re very much the opposite, preferring to have free time to go hiking, go for bike rides, or play at the river.

So when we talked about 4th of July plans, and our son said that what he wanted most was to sleep in late and read comic books...well, that sounded pretty darn good to the rest of us, too.

My wife and I both ended up scrapping our workout plans for the morning, and just rested in bed as long as possible. Our 5-year-old daughter entertained herself in her room after she woke up. Our 2-year-old even played along, sleeping until 7:30 instead of her normal 6:45. (Unless you’ve had young kids, you can’t appreciate how rare it is that we all get to sleep in until 7:30. It’s like an eclipse: multiple factors have to be perfectly aligned at precisely the right time, and afterwards, you know it probably won’t happen again for quite a while.)

My son read comic books and built Legos, my wife did some yardwork while the girls played outside, and I watched Italy’s World Cup match on the sofa. In the afternoon, we went swimming, then barbecued some burgers and made s’mores.

Instead of seeing small-town America, we just circled the family's wagons and enjoyed each other's company. Maybe it’s not overtly patriotic or glamorous, but it made for a very satisfying Independence Day.

And honestly, missing the race never really crossed my mind.

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Return of the Tempo

Before today’s post, I wanted to wrap up a few loose ends related to some recent posts...

* I watched the finish of Portugal’s shootout victory over England on Saturday. I had thought that England’s exit from the tournament would be reason to mercilessly heckle my British friends during our next few runs – but after seeing the heartbreaking fashion that they lost...well, I don’t think I’ll have the heart to do it. I mean, I was bummed for those players after watching it. I just can’t imagine how disappointed real Englanders must feel.

So now I’ll probably pass on a ideal opportunity to sharpen one of my primary talents. You know, sometimes I hate having a conscience.

* I wrote an entire article about devising a cool nickname without thinking of my 5-year-old daughter. She has a toy killer whale that she named Kindkill, because, in her words, “He’s kind, but he'll kill you.” Talk about a cool nickname for an athlete. And she was four years old when she thought of this. Sometimes I reach way too far for creative inspiration, when it’s sitting right under my nose all along.

* People have suggested that Hoot and Ringo might like sharing a cage, since doves are known to be highly social animals, and since they clearly like spending the day talking to each other. We asked the birds’ owner about this, and she said that when she kept them in the same cage, they fought with each other constantly.

Apparently they couldn’t get along together without bickering and dragging each other down, but since they were separated, they’ve each become happy in their own environment, and they seem to respect each other again. Perhaps we should have renamed them Shaq and Kobe.

* Our kids’ bedrooms are down a hallway, and they sleep with their doors shut, so luckily the doves don’t often wake them up in the mornings. Plus, it’s one of those weird type of sounds that isn’t enough to wake you up on its own, but once you are awake it’s impossible to ignore.

* Finally, Robb Runner, I’ve reported you to PETA on suspicion of avicide. (PETA has a Canadian branch, don’t they? Do they ride on horseback like the RCMP, or does that go against their philosophy?) That story about your bird's "unexpected" death seemed a little too convenient.


OK, enough of that. On with the real post…

I wrote to Matt last week about the importance of event-specific training. Namely, to succeed at a particular event, your training must feature workouts that replicate the conditions your body will experience during the race. If you are doing an ultra, practice long, slow runs on hilly terrain. If you are marathon training, run a lot of miles near marathon pace; and so on. The physiological rationale is that the body gradually adapts to specific strains placed upon it.

Unfortunately, the body also tends to forget these accommodations quite rapidly, as I demonstrated over the weekend.

I set out on my 4-mile tempo run course that I do on a regular basis while marathon training. I run it at a speed somewhere between 10K and marathon pace. It’s a difficult workout, but I can usually sustain a steady effort and maintain a strong pace throughout.

This weekend, the workout just destroyed me.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from this particular run. It has been three weeks since the Dipsea Race, and since that time I’ve done a lot of biking, swimming, and easy trail running - but nothing excessively strenuous. I certainly haven't been slacking, but I also haven't done any hard running in quite a while.

The first mile of my tempo run felt pretty typical, as I set out at a pace that felt difficult but sustainable. During the second mile, the effort increased a bit, but my pace dropped significantly.

In the third mile, I realized my tank was pretty much out of gas, and in the final mile, instead of pushing hard to the finish, it was all I could do just to keep my legs moving. Several times I felt like walking, but I somehow struggled through it and kept running to the end. My time was the slowest I’ve done for this workout in 2006, by almost 30 seconds.

The obvious take-home lesson is that I need to do more tempo runs again. It also highlights some of the difficulty in transitioning from a pure runner to a triathlete. Even though your overall volume of training remains high, it’s easy to overlook specific workouts that eventually erode the abilities you had as a pure runner.

And I suppose a lot of triathletes - well-adjusted triathletes, less neurotic triathletes - either don’t notice, or don’t lament the fact that their race pace is 15-20 seconds per mile slower than when they were dedicated runners. But it bugs the crap out of this triathlete.

So there’s one more item on my to-do list now, in addition to the miles on the bike and laps in the pool and continuing track workouts and everything else I’m trying to cram into a finite amount of hours.

My mindset is that I won’t compromise my running standards while I’m transforming into a triathlete. I know it may not be realistic, but it will surely keep me driven.

And when it comes to producing results, I think that's the most important factor.

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Early Birds

OK, I feel guilty for taking so long to respond to the tagging post, so in addition to today’s regularly scheduled post, you’re getting a bonus post afterward. Looks like I picked the wrong week to cut back on my blogging...


Part I – The Birds

Allow me to introduce you to our summer houseguests:


That’s Hoot on the left, and Ringo on the right. They are ring-necked doves. We picked them up about three weeks ago.

During each of the past two years (and this will be our third), we have been a foster family for these birds during summer vacation. When school is in session, they live in the classroom of my son’s former kindergarten teacher.

Apparently her husband doesn’t like the constant cooing from the birds throughout the day, so the birds aren’t welcome at her house when school is out. On the other hand, our house maintains a pretty much constant din anyway, so the birds just fit right in.

My wife and I find the cooing of the doves to be a fairly soothing sound, and the kids love watching and listening to them throughout the day. They (the birds) constantly hoot and coo and echo each other during every waking minute, and their background chatter has become part of the natural summertime soundtrack at our house. (Come to think of it, that could apply to our kids, too.)

The doves are also very light sleepers.

When my bedroom alarm goes off in the pre-dawn darkness, they hear it and spring to life within minutes. When the first traces of gray daylight seep through the windows, they inevitably start chattering at full volume. And when they do, my chances of falling back asleep become very slim.

In that regard, they are beneficial to my training. There are several mornings when I feel like canceling my workout plans simply because I’m too tired to crawl out of bed. But when the birds remind me that I probably won’t be able to fall back asleep anyway, I will begrudgingly pull back the sheets and get ready to head out the door.

So I’ve started thinking of the doves as my summertime training partners. When I realize that they won’t let me go back to sleep, it’s just as effective as knowing someone is waiting for you on the corner; even though you don’t want to, you feel obligated to drag your butt outside.

There’s no way of telling how many workouts I would have skipped if it weren’t for the doves; it may be only a few, or possibly a lot more. Either way, I’ve come to be thankful for their time in our house, and when they leave us again at the beginning of the school year, it will probably feel like a training partner is moving away.

I guess you could say I’m attached to them.


Part II - Tag

Yes, I’ve been tagged. I think everyone is familiar with this one, so I’ll jump right in:

4 jobs I've had:
1. Poop-scooper crew assistant for the Pioneer Days parade, Butternut WI. Sure, it wasn't glamorous, but it was an easy way for a 9-year-old kid to pick up 20 bucks in the summertime. That buys a lot of Tangy Taffy.
2. In high school, I was on a work crew that cleaned up the assembly room of our neighborhood Catholic church after wedding receptions on weekend nights. We started work at midnight, and spent the next four hours cleaning up beer, urine, vomit and assorted other messes in the dancing area, dining area, and bathrooms. I know that Catholics are all about clean living, but they sure make a holy mess at their parties.
3. In grad school I was a per-diem meat and cheese slicer in the deli at our local gourmet store. I got pretty good at it, too – I could slice the Black Forest ham so thinly you could see shadows through it. When it came to slicing, I had crazy game.
4. Remember the Vlasic pickle stork? One day I was paid to dress in a costume of him – all the way down to a pair of yellow tights and oversized bird feet - and walk around the grocery store handing out pickle coupons. It was a fun gig, aside for the elderly ladies (yes, more than one) who took it upon themselves to pinch my thighs when I wasn’t looking. Who violates a 6-foot bird like that? Does this happen on Sesame Street?

4 movies I watch over and over:
1. Shrek
2. Shrek 2
3. Finding Nemo
4. Star Wars Episode IV
(Have I mentioned before that I live with young children? Just checking.)

4 Places I have lived:
1. Los Angeles, CA
2. Westwood, CA (Go Bruins!)
3. Denver, CO
4. Chapel Hill, NC (Go Tar Heels!)

4 TV shows I watch (What? Just 4?):
1. Pardon The Interruption
2. The Daily Show
3. VH1 Jump Start (you must have figured this one)
4. Jeopardy
Plus just about any manner of sports you can imagine. I've got the U.S. Paintball Championships on my TiVo right now. I'm not kidding.

4 Places I've been on vacation:
1. Disneyland
2. Big Trees, CA
3. Kauai, HI
4. Key West

4 Websites I visit everyday:
1. Bloglines
2. ESPN.com
3. LetsRun.com
4. Slate

4 Favorite Foods (again – just 4?):
1. Pizza
2. Barbecued Salmon
3. Fajitas
4. Pumpkin chocolate chip muffins – one of my wife’s specialties.

4 Places I'd rather be right now:
1. In the pool
2. On my bike
3. Running the trails, or…
4. Home with my family. But not necessarily in that order. In fact, turn that list upside down, then read it. There - that’s better.

4 Favorite Bands/Singers: This list varies tremendously from month to month, and depends on where I am…
1. At work: Fall Out Boy or Yellowcard
2. In the car alone: Avenged Sevenfold or Foo Fighters
3. In the car with the kids: Bob Marley or Jack Johnson
4. At home: Classical – typically Yo-yo Ma or Anne-Sophie Mutter

4 Bloggers I'll tag: Seriously, aren’t I one of the last people to do this? So no tagging from me – just best wishes for a nice weekend.

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The Name Game

(Administrative note: Michelle tagged me with the "list of 4" thing going around, but I'm not going to do it today, since I had this post mostly finished before I discovered the tag. I'll do it someday, I promise.)

Brazil easily won their World Cup match yesterday against Ghana, the slot that would have belonged to the United States if we hadn’t, well,...I guess if our team hadn’t completely stunk.

Trust me - even if we had survived to the second round, there’s no way we would have given the Brazilians a match. They’re in a whole different category when it comes to what they call “O Jogo Bonito,” the beautiful game. It will be a major surprise if they don’t win the whole deal.

Obviously I’m impressed by the skill of the Brazilian players, but what’s more fascinating to me is the concept of changing one’s name in adulthood, as so many of the Brazilian players do. In fact, 17 of the 23 players on Brazil’s roster go by a single name.

I mean, I’m just full of questions about this: When do the players pick their names – is it some rite of passage in adolescence? Is it when they become professional players, or when they make the national team? Are there guidelines for coming up with a tight name – and if so, how did one guy on this year’s team end up with “Fred”? What do they do if somebody already has a nickname they want (like when George Costanza wanted to be T-Bone on “Seinfeld”) – is there some sort of national team dibs policy, or do they settle it with a penalty-kick shootout? And doesn’t anybody check to make sure their nickname isn’t a slang word for “poop” in another language?


More importantly, if the American players did this...would it make them a better soccer team?

Apparently it’s commonplace in Brazil for people to go by nicknames. There are various cultural theories for why this happens: it could be a way of symbolically cutting ties to the surnames bestowed upon slaves by European landowners, or it could be related to the nation’s high rate of illiteracy. Or maybe they just collectively decided it’s a cool thing to do. Whatever the case, the practice is widespread, even including Brazil’s president, who goes simply by Lulu.

To the rest of the world, particularly Americans, it’s an unusual consideration. I tried to think of some other situations where adults get to pick a new name, and it’s a pretty short list:

1. After being elected Pope
2. Upon entering the witness protection program
3. Converting to Islam, or...
4. Being a superstar musician, a la Bono or Sting (or even Slash).

That’s all I came up with. I think we can agree that all of those, with the exception of #4, are pretty weighty circumstances. But then we have the countless Brazilians who essentially say, “Screw what my parents named me – I want to be called Zico,” and everybody goes along with it.

And you know what? Maybe it would be a cool thing to do. At the very least, it’s a great parlor game: if you could make a new name, what would it be?

I figured that most runners or triathletes would choose something related to the sport or activity they like. Unfortunately, when I posed this question to my group of running partners, the conversation somehow deteriorated into what the best porn names would be for runners (Obviously we're not the most intellectual training group around. If you’re interested, the winning names were Max Stamina and Miles Long).

Clearly, my runner friends weren’t much help. So now I’ll post the same question here. If you could change to a nickname, would you do it? And if so, would it be something related to running, or just a variation of your given name? Or something totally random?

As for me, I’m kind of noncommittal. I’ve always loved the nickname Slash - it implies a perfect combination of speed and toughness, which seems ideal for a runner. During the late 1980s, when I was finishing high school and when all of the Guns ‘n’ Roses guys seemed certain to die of a cocaine overdose, I figured I could swoop in on that name if Slash croaked. Unfortunately he survived (that sounds bad - of course I mean fortunately. Fortunately for him. Unfortunately for my potential nickname. You know what I mean.), and I eventually grew out of the idea of having a cool moniker.

So I think I’ll just stick with what my momma gave me. Unless, of course, someone determines that a nickname can somehow make me a faster runner. In that case, I’ll quickly throw myself wide open to suggestion.

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