Running is a cruel and fickle mistress. Some days it’s all clicking and you feel like a thousand winged seraphs are carrying you on a satin lined cloud. Your feet merely grace the ground and you’re being pulled forward by a mysterious and unearthly force.Other days you think everything is clicking and all of a sudden your legs feel like you were trying to count cards at the Bellagio and the pit boss hit you with a cattle prod and brought you into the back room where neckless thugs took turns beating you with bats. No fun.

The former is the reason I love running. There are few things that compare to the feeling of effortless speed. But it’s fear of the later that makes me a runner. If you think about it it’s really the reason anyone runs – or at least trains. Why else would you pound through long runs, exhaust yourself in a tempo, or do the extra interval when you’ve promised yourself you’d quit after the last three? It’s not simply because runners love pain. There are plenty of less strenuous ways to fill that fetish, (many that involve leather, ballgags, and Mistress Stephana the Goddess of Pain). At the end of the day we’re more than willing to torchure ourselves for the promise that one day we’ll be rewarded, even ever so briefly, by the run.

None of that has anything to do with my Brooklyn Half Marathon last weekend other than the fact that in all of my years of running; grueling workouts in 100 degree weather, miserable long runs in windy snain, painful intervals and hill workouts, vomit inducing races, and the like, nothing (NOTHING) has ever compared to the misery I felt in the last five miles of this race. Awful. It was not just the worst race of my life, or run of my life, it was up there with one of the worst experiences of my life – a hellacious 13.1 mile journey that brought me to the depths of insanity and perhaps beyond.

Yes, I am being a little dramatic, but it really fucking sucked.

Not that I didn’t know that going in. Two days before the race I went to the track to feel out a comfortable pace and turning a 7:00 mile was a chore. But stranger things have happened. I was better trained than now before my 3:24 marathon, and racing and running are different animals. Things could still click. They didn’t.

It started OK. My first eight miles were pretty respectable. Much slower than last year when I left the park on pace for a 1:20, but much better than I had expected. Take out mile six and I was averaging a 6:40 and change. Plus I felt good doing it. There were no satin lined clouds, but it wasn’t like I was pushing it like I was trying to break the tape in a 10K. But at the same time I knew better. This isn’t my first rodeo and there was no doubt in my mind after I rocked a 6:26 mile four that there was going to be a crash and it was going to be ugly. So I kept trying to take my foot off the gas and just settle into a reasonable pace. But there’s no mistaken – leaving the Park I felt good.

Mile 1 – 6:50
Mile 2 – 6:43
Mile 3 – 6:37
Mile 4 – 6:26
Mile 5 – 7:12
Mile 6 – 7:21
Mile 7 – 6:55
Mile 8 – 7:08

Then came mile nine. 8:00.

Let’s take a brief sidebar to discuss the difference between running and racing.

Most people run. Even when they race what they’re really doing is running. I’ve even made the argument that most people never actually run, only jog. Pearl had a great ad campaign that I’ve posted about that said something to the effect of – “If you’ve just run without sacrifice, congratulations you just jogged.” Most joggers see this as elitist hyperbole but I firmly believe that if it doesn’t hurt then you’re doing it wrong. That’s part of the beauty of a distance like 5K. No matter how stupid your first half of the race is you can gut out the rest. In my mind that’s what racing has always been about. You get as close to your threshold as you can stand and you toe that line through the finish. You leave everything on the course. But as I’ve repeatedly been taught, there is no gutting out a poorly run half marathon – lesson that was painfully driven home yet again this day.

After mile nine I started fading fast. And I couldn’t have been passed by more people if I turned around and tried to plow up the course like a salmon going to spawn.

Mile 10 – 8:39
Mile 11 – 8:24
Mile 12 – 9:26

Over these three miles, the three most miserable miles of my life I was passed by dudes in basketball shorts, fat people, possibly even Team in Training people – it was that bad. I was even passed by a dude with one leg. ONE LEG. Granted, this dude was beyond a rock star and I have absolutely nothing but respect for anyone who even thinks about competing a distance race with a prosthetic because I’m incapable of fathoming the extra degree of pain he must be plowing through, but he had one fucking leg man. Think of what that did to my self esteem.

Unfortunately it did noting for my next mile and I limped into the finish just barely getting under 1:40.

Mile 13 – 8:31
Mile 13.1 – 1:05

How about some perspective. Well, it’s about 12 minutes off my PR from last year. No biggie though because I was in much better shape. I ran the Gasparilla Half Marathon with a full sized American flag and ran about the same time. Ouch. In the NYC Marathon my second half would have probably beaten me. Double ouch.

In the end what did I learn? Bring a Metro Card? When in doubt carry an excuse flag? Realistically, I learned nothing. I’ll likely do the same thing again down the road, and likely post about how much that experience sucked as well. But at very least it’s imprinted a memory of pain that I’ll carry with me into my training – which at least on the short term is geared at finding my satin lined cloud, picking another race, and trying to escape the neckless dudes with bats. In short, Paul Leone will rise again! Take that one legged man!

I’m all about tradition. Like my tradition of running Thanksgiving Day parade route every year, and my other tradition of getting drunk and over sleeping when I have to run the parade route every year, and celebrating things like my birthday on the same day annually, and wearing pants. Consistency and shit. One such tradition has become my yearly Boston Marathon Blog sponsored by Nike. It’s amazing that they not only let me do it, but they request it. It almost makes me want to get one of those jobs where you write things and people pay you for it – what are those people called again? Oh right, poor.

Sigh.

Anyway, checks my steez at www.runboston2010.com.

I spend like 75% of my waking hours online. Possibly more. I even spend some of my nonwaking hours online when I fall asleep while watching things online or just being online, thus making total online time at like 80% (or something – not very good at the maths.) Which is one of the reasons my lack of posting on this page is so upsetting. It’s like what the hell else am I spending time doing? That was rhetorical.

But back to the web. Which I actually haven’t gotten to yet.

So, last week someone turned me on this this:

It’s amazing – possibly the funniest thing on the entire web. It might have changed my life if I hadn’t immediately watched this and had my mind BLOWN:

I mean that one literally angers me at how amazing it is. When God gives you lemons you find a new God? Really, it’s awe-inspiring.

But that alone isn’t why I love the webs. Part of it. But what really amazes me is the fact the first one has 17 million goddamn hits. So two years went by and zero of those 17 million mother fuckers told me about it. Fuck you all! How the fuck did 17 million fucking people see that before me? 80% of my day is spent on the web and 17 MILLION people beat me too it! And I only say 17,000,000 not the 17,221,000 that are listed because I’m fairly confident that over the last week I personally account for 221,000 of them.

But that’s the beauty of it. Just when you think there’s nothing left, just when you think you’ve seen it all, just when you think you’re the master of your domain (in a Seinfeld-ish way not like as in ple1derland.com is my domain kind of way), something like this comes along and totally BLOWS YOUR MIND. It’s like dating a girl for five years then she informs you that she poops golden coins.

So thanks you interwebs. For everything you are, everything there’s still left to discover, and all that you had to offer in the future.

You have to be a sick asshole to find this video of kids falling funny. Luckily for me I’m a sick asshole because this could be the best video in the history of the world.

This clip is so cool it makes me want to crap my pants, and at the same time scary enough to make me want to crap my pants. So needless to say I need some wet wipes and a new pair of Batman underroos.

LUIS from diluvio on Vimeo.

I have nothing to back this up with but I’m going on record as saying 99.2% of Consumer Satisfaction Surveys are never filled out. Of the remaining .08%, .07% are only filled out by people who want to bitch about stuff. Of the remaining .01%, .004% are filled out by with absolutely nothing better to do with their time/people from the Midwest, .0039999% are completed by people waiting for someone to get out of a bathroom, and .002% are used to make origami. So if you do the math, the average Consumer Satisfaction Survey reader has pretty much the worse job on earth. Crack whores and Mimes don’t hate their lives as much. The other .0000001% you ask? Those are filled out by me.

That said, here are some excerpts of my responses to a recent Jet Blue Survey:

What could we have done to make your experience better?
My TV didn’t work for half the flight. It miraculously started working about an hour out of LGA and I got to watch the second half of the Giant’s game, but the TV is at least 72% of the reason I take Jet Blue. Nothing against the staff or the Terra Chips but when it comes down to it I gladly spend a few bucks to not have to stare blankly into the back of an empty seat, or be forced to engage in idle conversation with the random train-wreck sitting next to me. So to not have a working TV in front of me is a total WTF!?! Especially on Sunday with football going on. I tried to watch the game over the shoulder of the guy in front of me, but by the first quarter he was watching This Old house – he must have been a Jets fan? I honestly have no idea, but if you get rid of the TVs, I’d be booking flights with Spirit or another slightly below average airline with cheaper rates, inferior snack food, and annoying middle seat passengers who are far less interesting than me. I felt bamboozled, hoodwinked, as if the wool had been pulled over my proverbial eyes. It was a major bummer. I don’t want a formal apology, or really anything for that matter, except a formal apology. Actually, I’ve moved on, and this survey offered me a lot of the closure I needed, so thank you for following up.
Are there any other comments you would like to make about your airport experience?
The Homeland Security guy checking my id at the security check point noticed I was wearing a Miami Hurricane hat, (I was in South Florida to watch the Miami Hurricanes beat the Oklahoma Sooners in a collegiate football contest.) With my id in hand he addressed me by name and asked if I went to the game the previous night. I in fact had, and confirmed. Then, perhaps noticing the fact I looked like I’d been run over by a train, he asked if I had gotten drunk at the game. I replied, “Of course sir, we can’t allow the terrorists to win.” He thanked me, most likely thinking that I’m totally a patriot and an American hero. The whole exchange made my day. That guy deserves a raise, or maybe a high five, or perhaps a raise followed by a high five? I’m not sure how you guys handle stuff like that?

Are there any other comments you would like to make about your flight?
Being that I was hung-over and my TV didn’t work, I decided to take a nap which resulted in me missing beverage service. By the time I woke up I was fiending a Diet Coke something fierce, but I was anticipating that if I asked I’d get a deep sigh from the flight attendant and some kind of excuse about beverage service being over. Then I’d follow up by saying something smart like, “My apologies for missing beverage service but if you could please find some time between doing nothing and handing out pillows to run to the back and do you’re F-ing job that would be super.” Then she’d begrudgingly go back and spit in my cup or scoop the ice cubes off the floor, and the two of us would both be angry for the rest of the flight.

Instead, when the attendant came through with snacks she noted that I had missed beverage service and she asked what I wanted.

Most people wouldn’t even notice or think twice about the fact she recognized I didn’t get a drink, and make a point to get me something, but it’s actually a fairly big deal. The first scenario could have ended in fisticuffs, instead I’m writing a complimentary Consumer Service Survey. Huge swing there.

Customer service is all about the little things. Recognizing a passenger hasn’t gotten a beverage, smiling, not spitting in people’s drinks. I don’t ask for much, I don’t expect much, but I do appreciate good service when it happens and I was extremely grateful for the caffeine.

In what year were you born?
Nineteen Hundred and Seventy Nine (who designed this survey with a free text field with this many characters for DOB?)

Over the last few years I’ve probably seen 1000 of these Hitler memes and I have inexplicably laughed all 1000 times. Not like 500 times or 999 times but 1000. Possibly more if you count the times I’ve watched the same one multiple times. I don’t know what it is. It should get old. This one isn’t even that funny. But every single time I see one I giggle like puppies are nibbling on my toes. In conclusion, the fuhrer is right…Fuck Kanye.

Bonus: Just saw this for the first time today and I have new found respect for TSwift. But on all honesty getting me to respect a hot 19 year old blond chick doesn’t exactly take sorcery.

Bonus to the bonus: One more Hitler clip. Pretty much best line in every single one is the two German broads comforting one another outside. This may be the greatest line in Hitler rant meme history.

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