Well, now that I am training for the The World’s Oldest Annual Marathon I really am going to have to reconsider my diet. I need to reevaluate things. I need a “training food,” like something Rocky would eat during those painful yet necessary months, you know, the Russian winter montages…
I do not eat eggs, so please do not think: A blender full of eggs.
Something with carbs, protein, dairy–a balanced running fuel. Fortunately, at Ball State, we have a serious Sports and Exercise Science dept. I walked over (took the stairs) and met with several professors, all of them leaders in the field of sports nutrition, etc.
(Aside: This reminds of the time I went to school in Tuscaloosa, AL. We had an awesome workout center, with a huge parking lot. Whenever I ran over there, I would notice the cars circling the lot, driving around and around, to get a spot CLOSEST to the workout center, you know, so they, um, wouldn’t have to walk very far…)
The BSU professors ran a few expensive tests. I had to run on a treadmill and breathe into a hose. I felt like Luke Skywalker right after he was frozen in an ice cave on planet Hoth (and had to cut a monster’s arm off to escape) but right before he kissed his sister. When he was floating in that giant aquarium under the careful watch of a Medical Droid.
(Aside: George Lucas has a fetish about cutting arms off. Think about it.)
They took blood, other fluids. They rubbed a chalky blue patch onto my forehead. I had to eat salts of glysophates. I had to engage in dynamic, multi-step processes, on an elevated carpet. They said, “Cut the dead wood!” and other encouraging words. They studied my enzymes. They studied my thoughts on paper. They researched my muscle mass, vinegar status, and ceramics.
This took days.
They gave me a print-out, a binder, a book of blue vowels. They told me I drink too much. They told me my lungs were the size of telephones ringing in the middle of the night. My heart a fucking Fender Bender machine of Thor. A Pacific Northwest Experiment Station. Finally, after crunching numbers, after pre-writing and writing, after slide script and slide script, after consulting with some tall dude in Switzerland, they developed a comprehensive diet–the most perfect fucking diet!!–for my endeavor to conquer the Boston Marathon:
Zygote in my coffee has my favorite poem today:
Please Meet My Table
It’s Formica. We’re in, what you would call, a relationship. One day I woke up under it. I know. It looks better on film. You look as if you haven’t lain under one for sometime. At least, that’s what my hairdresser says. She uses saran wrap to cover her furniture. It was a bad idea inviting my neighbors to the New Year’s Eve party. You’re bound to learn these lessons once you’re seeing someone you should stay away from. A therapist, for one. Or a spouse with sweaty hands. I can still fit my first marriage into a coffee mug. Thirst can drive animals out of the cave art. I’ve recently moved from Cincinnati myself. Scabs never lie. I’m not sure I should’ve stuck my head out the window. I like to observe what I vomit, watch the fizzle. That night the fireworks burst at ten-second intervals into flower-shapes. _Love me, love me not._ I find that if I lie softly under the table, I can identify the feet of those going in and out the room. You shouldn’t talk politics before you’ve put on your teeth. That’s my grandmother’s advice. A bed of egg sandwiches is still a bed.
For when you are bored and wondering late at night why you bought that damn dog and don’t have many friends, here is a Best of Craig’s List so you can laugh and feel free and all that. Etc.
It’s fucking cold in Muncie. It’s been a weird day. I feel like this: