Bo-Bo Knows I'm No Runner

But I've been playing one for the two months I've been training for my first 5K race. Tonight I ran my second consecutive 30 minutes. Unfortunately, during that time I only traveled 2.4 miles. For those keeping score at home, those are 12.5-minute miles.

Here are a few words that don't come to mind: lightning, flash, zippy... I'll stop there.

The 5K that I'm running is actually 3.5 miles. That means if I keep up at my present pace, I'll finish just under the 45-minute mark. Here's a word for you: blistering. But only in the sense that I've been rocking a hairline blister ever since I hit my first consecutive 20 minutes. I can't help but wonder what possessed me to sign up for this business. I also can't help but wonder why the running nightmares haven't started up. Maybe because my conscious mind is terrorizing the inchoate runner in me just fine, thank you.

My biggest fear isn't the shame of having to walk--the adrenaline will be pumping and I know that I will soar (though I guess coast would be a better word given my pace) right through those 43-45 minutes. My biggest fear is death by trampling. If you think I'm overreacting, you haven't read the literature JP Morgan sent to the registered runners. They ask runners to separate themselves into two groups at the starting line--those who pace between 5 and 6 minutes per mile and those that pace at 7 minutes per mile or slower. If I'm reading this correctly, I'm pacing so slowly that even if a fast runner and a slow runner took turns on the course, they would both beat me to the finish line. Easily.

In this case, it's really not about whether I win or lose, it's about not getting flattened during my first 5K. Following the details about where the slow runners can stick themselves, comes this helpful tip:

"Please note that a slower runner at the front of the race could potentially be injured should they not be able to keep up with the pace of the faster runners."

Should they not be able to keep up? Should? What the hell do you do when you run five and a half minutes slower than the slowest of the slow?

OK, fine. These speed demons are probably too skinny to actually flatten me, but if I get in front of a pack of them--even the 7-minute slow pokes--it seems quite possible my heart might explode.

OK. New goal. An image of me at the start of the race waving every last runner ahead of me. "No, no, after you." Maybe I should factor in some self-preservation chivalry points and aim at finishing in 60 minutes. Yes. That seems doable. And since it's quite likely that all the good people from J.P. Morgan will be packed up and home by the time I cross the finish line, I'm recruiting a cheering section. So if you know the words to "The Final Count Down" or can approximate the sound of synthesized trumpets and feel like serenading me down Charles Street along the Boston Common on Thursday, you'd be welcome.

Da-da laaaa da
Da-da lah dah dah
Da-da laaaa duh da
Da-da lah dah dah dah dah, etc.

Bo-Bo Knows "Dancing in the Dark"

I'll admit that I've had Oldies 103.3 as a radio preset as long as I've owned my car (2003). I'll also admit to tuning in and motor mouthing to whatever surprise I found there when NPR took a turn down a story alley I didn't feel much like following. But today it happened. The oldies station has finally caught up to my childhood: 103.3 played "Dancing in the Dark."



"Born in the USA" wasn't my first album. It wasn't even my album. My sister was the one who bought that glorious square of man butt posed before an American flag. But the summer that record came out, I was 9-years-old, she was 6 going on 7, and albums were rare enough in our house that mine felt like hers and hers felt like mine. So we spun that one over and over and over again, singing at top volume to lyrics we didn't understand:

• "Born in the USA" was just its anthem of a chorus;
• "I'm on Fire" was a pretty lullaby; and
• "Glory Days" and "Dancing in the Dark" were just as happy as their bouncy guitar riffs and upbeat drums said they were supposed to be.

What did we know?

Since that time, I've laughed at myself--and Ronald Reagan--for how wrong we all were about that album. I've become aware of the creep in the bad desire, recognized the clarion call in "Glory Days," and appreciated how "Dancing in the Dark" is really about climbing the walls of your life. But I'd never really felt those things until the song slapped at me through my shitty car speakers today. Exhibit A and B:

"I ain't nothing but tired, man I'm just tired and bored with myself.
Hey there baby, I could use just a little help."

"They say you got to stay hungry.
Hey baby, I'm just about starving tonight.
I'm dying for some action.
I'm sick of sitting round here trying to write this book."

I've long believed that old age isn't about chronology, but state of mind. This is why an eighty year old who shows off her neon pink tennis shoes is in fact younger than her 18-year-old great-grandson who won't dance with her at a wedding because he's afraid people will laugh at them. We're all Merlin's that way, if we're lucky: age makes us bold and boldness keeps us young.

So why is it that the line about being tired and bored with myself popped out at me? Why did I hear the lyric about being sick of my book? Why did I feel the twenty five years between that summer and this one like vertigo? Why did I for one fleeting, but painful, minute feel about my life that crush of let down you get when you reach for the door to some restaurant only to see you've missed the closing by five minutes or so? Why indeed when I have so, so, so much to get grateful for?

No idea. But I'm comforted by the questions.

Regret may be an inevitable part of life. There are too many choices--big and small-- in this life to ever hope we'll get them all right. Tonight at dinner with friends I was talking about the one and only time I was in a restaurant ritzy enough that the desert menu offered chocolate souffle on the menu, but I passed. To this day I've never tasted a souffle. Not the world's largest regret, and completely fixable. And truly, if I come to the end of my life without ever trying a souffle, I'll live. Well, actually, I'll be dead, but you get my point. Or maybe you don't because I'm only just now getting to it myself.

The point, I think, is this:

If I listen to a lyric about being tired and bored with myself and that resonates with me, I better damn well be asking myself some hard questions. If not I really am sitting "around getting older; there's a joke here somewhere and its on me."

Bo-Bo Knows Movie Montages

I'm in training for my corporate 5k. I'm the karate kid. I'm gonna be your man in motion!* I'm on the highway to the danger zone.** I'm Rocky freakin' Balboa.

Alas, when I'm doing the actual running (and not romanticizing the jogging into a cheesy eigthties movie montage) I feel more like the fly in the karate kid's chopticks. Like all I need's a pair of wheels.* Like I most definitely have the need for speed.*** Like Rocky's swollen pulp of a face when he screams, "Adrian!"

I've concluded that jogging is for the birds, and birds FLY everywhere, so what the hell does that tell you? I have a theory that the only way seemingly sane people turn into joggers is by addicting their bodies to the endorphin release at the end of all that knee-pounding goodness. The afternoon following my first consecutive eight-minute jog* since college, I giggled like I'd been drinking wine. The next day, my legs felt so strong, I choreographed a little soft shoe while waiting for my tea water to boil. And as the number of consecutive jogging minutes increased (I'm up to 25 now**), I found that my personality split while I ran.

To the part of me that bent my head down and grumbled about the ridiculousness of doing something that made my legs feel like Rocky's swollen pulp of a face, the burgeoning endorphin junkie reminded me that a few minutes of dead legs and searing lungs were a reasonable price to pay for a general sense of laughing-like-a-loon well being. To the part of me that wondered how I could possibly be making progress when I felt so bad, my inner Richard Simmons was pointing out how I'd gone about a tenth of a mile further than I had during my second 25-minute run.

To that I say, oh whoopy.

Tomorrow I will get up, walk Bo for 25 minutes then go out and run for 25 more. And by run I mean jog. And by jog I mean a bouncing-like step that clocks in at roughly ten minutes per .9 miles. The corporate team I'm running the 5K with is well aware of my (lack of) jogging prowess, and though I've joked that my loftiest goal is to come in dead last, I'm starting to think about how bad dead last will actually feel. Maybe I'll be laughing too hard to notice I suck as badly as the jerk that swept Danielson's leg.

* Lyrics from "St. Elmo's Fire" by John Parr

** Lyrics from "Danger Zone" by Kenny Loggins

*** From Top Gun

**** Condescending marathoners need not comment on this post, thank you.

***** Ditto, marathoners.

Bo-Bo Knows "Death's a Breath Away"*

As Bo and I left the beach and turned toward home this morning, I was gunning to get home and write a post about how bittersweet a sunny April 30 is (Winthrop kicks pooches from the sand from May 1 to September 30, the jerks). But tramping toward home and working up a good lather, I saw something that short circuited my grousing.

On a porch about a block from the beach, a couple emerged, each holding a handle in a sagging, circular blue tarp supporting a mound wrapped in yellow plastic. Behind the couple, a tall man I recognized pressed his arm against the doorway and leaned. This was a guy who was always walking a few steps in front of an elderly, yellow lab who followed him in loping, slow steps. A dog I'd marveled at before because she could be trusted to lie out in the lawn without a tie, even while Bo was sniffing her over. The yellow plastic went electric. When the owner caught me gaping, I looked down and hurried away; I wish I'd said something, but any comfort I offered would have been swallowed by the healthy dog at the end of my leash.

Bo will be seven years old in June. How many years does that leave him? Five? Seven? Eight? My nephew, Ryan, is 6 years old now. It's quite possible that Bo has less time left than Ryan has lived, but then again, he could go tomorrow. I don't like thinking about it, of course, but I figure that maybe if I let my heart break a little now, the part that Bo has curled up in won't shatter when the time comes.

As I turned the corner, an Alastair Moock song called "Lovely Day" danced through my head:

"And it's a fast paced life;
death's a breath away.
I'm so glad that you could stay
on such a lovely day."

To be fair, this song is not about losing dogs--it's more a gentle giant of a song that'll coax a response hum from the tuning fork of your soul. But I'd been listening to this album (Let It Be) on a loop in my car for days, and so it was there for me in this moment. In its still way, "Lovely Day" is an anthem. And really, there's this: A part of your world could be carried away on a round stretcher tomorrow, so you better enjoy today. Even if it is the last day you can frolic on the beach for six months.


* From "Lovely Day" off of Alastair Moock's album Let It Be. Listen to it here, and be sure to click on "Unwanted Guest." That one's an anthem for anyone who ever struggled with depression...at least to my ears.

Bo-Bo Knows Crazy Bitches

I'm no dog whisperer, but I'd like to think that during my 2.5 years of doggy mommyhood I've learned a thing or two about canine body language.

1. Wagging tail = best day ever
2. Dog face in my face = I got needs, man.
3. Stiff as a statue and drooling = Terror that leaves shitting a brick in the dust.
   

But learning about dog behavior by watching Bo is about as instructive as analyzing literature via Spark Notes--I get the general gist at the expense of deeper meaning.

If Bo had his way, he'd gallop toward every dog that crosses paths with us on our morning walks. I don't know what kind of hippy commune the tracks were running during Bo's racing days, but apparently those kennels were all about all-for-one and one-for-all and peace and love and all that hairy horseshit. Because Bo sees no difference between a dog wagging his tail so hard it blurs and a snarling, nasty punk spoiling for a fight.

Which leaves me to clear the dogs we meet for a little nose-to-butt action. But while I've become skilled at steering clear of dogs giving out the Cujo vibe, spotting crazy bitches is harder than it seems. The craziest bitches present themselves as happy-go-lucky loves. Their tails are going, their ears are up; some even echo Bo's whimpery hello-o-o-o! Everything about the way these dogs carry themselves says normal and healthy until something trips the bitch switch and the love bug turns scorpion. Gnashing teeth, snarling, and just general bad manners. I'm fine with it when the owner is surprised in a whoa-what-just-happened kind of way. But I can't stand it when the owner looks all sheepish and says, "yeah, she gets that way sometimes."

If you own a crazy bitch of a dog--and you know who you are--when the nice lady with the goofy greyhound asks for a green light for a meet-and-greet, do NOT give it to her. Because if your dog can go from hyper tail wagging to snarling faster than you can say pooper-scooper, the only correct answer when you're asked if your dog is friendly, is not always. So to all the owners of crazy bitches in the world: when I ask you if your dog's friendly, say no.

Because let's face it: I'm all the crazy bitch Bo needs.

Bo-Bo Knows the Obamas Can Name a Dog

Bos of the doggy world unite!

When reports started coming in that Daddy Obama was going to make good on his election night doggy promise with a visit to the pound, Bo-Bo crossed his paws in hopes that the nation's first dog would be a greyhound.

And really, who could blame him? It was a lot of fun to picture the lankiest president since Lincoln walking a lean-but-not-so-mean ex racer.

But it wasn't meant to be. The Obamas went with a Portuguese water dog, a breed that made more sense for allergy-suffering Malia. But although we were disappointed that some deserving greyhound didn't get his chance to run laps around the oval office, we were thrilled to hear that the Obamas have named their puppy Bo. And while it's an honor to share the First Dog's name, Bo-Bo would NOT turn his nose up at a an invitation to sniff Bo's presidential butt.

Though I do wonder how long it is before the Obamas start to call their dog Bo-Bo, too. We started out with all intentions of calling our dog Bo (short for his racing name, Bohemian Hoosier), but Mike called him Bo-Bo a few days in and the nickname for the nickname stuck.

So Bo-Bo salutes Bo. And he's serious about that invitation. He'd love to race you once around the Rose Garden (though with the excitement of all those cameras around, Bo-Bo would most likely just stand there with his head down and drool).

Bo-Bo Knows Mom Writes from the Twilight Zone

I met a character from my novel on Friday. It happened while I was catching a quick bite to eat and writing long hand about a character who's not coming to life the way he should.

In strong fiction, every character should be like the Gingerbread Man--writers can mix and roll out the dough all they want, but if their cookies never jump up and dance, they'll never taste quite right to readers.

As writers, we know our dead-dough characters when we we see them. They're the ones we cut extra perfectly. The ones we ice with tender care. The ones we save our edible gold sprinkles to decorate. But our characters always taste better when we go back to our bowls and mix up a more convincing collection of character traits and motivations. If our characters aren't dancing gingerbread men, no one wants to know them long term, icing and gold sprinkles be damned.

So on Friday afternoon in a Boston Market somewhere off I-495, I was hunched over my purple journal with my lovely, new roller ball pen, scribbling away about my dead gingerbread man of a character. I was in that special, writing place. You know. The one where you let your hand gallop ahead, messy as she pleases, in the hopes that she'll outrace your preconceptions about a character you've known (or thought you've known) for years. And it was working, too. I'd settled on a new name, and I had that lit-sparkler-in-your-blood feeling that heralds a potential solution. When I looked up to catch my breath, there he was: a man of spry wit and doddering body, and he was lowering his tray in the booth next to mine!

This is the point where a sane person would expect Rod Serling* to step out of the men's room and start narrating her day. But writers aren't really sane. I swapped my seat so my back wasn't to my flesh-and-blood gingerbread man, kicked my phone into video mode, and took footage of this guy's slow, bow-legged steps and the way he held his fork like he was hugging his plate. Apparently I enjoy being a creep in the name of better fiction.

I don't believe in muse as goddesses a la the ancient Greeks, but I do believe in the muse as spirit. Turn away from your writing blocks, and your muse is likely to feel like a fickle, fairy bitch; dive toward your writing blocks and your muse is the giver of sparklers and dancing gingerbread men. So go ahead. Shove your hand into that mixing bowl and make your cookies dance.


*The Twilight Zone. Come ON, people!