testMonkey realm

Some of you are aware that I am training (though less than effectively these days) for the St. George Triathlon that is coming up in May. I am doing this for purely selfish reasons: I need some reason to get out and exercise. Not that I like running, mind you, nor am I a big fan of swimming (nerds, as a rule, refrain from removing clothing in public). But a reason to exercise I needed and a reason I now have.

Despite the seemingly good intention of, oh, I don’t know, trying to not die by getting exercise and stuff, it seems like I could be doing more with the opportunity to race and train. Perhaps I need more altruistic motivations.

Here’s what has been kicking around the ample space in my grey matter: I would like to get some people/companies to sponsor me in my training then take any money that comes and donate it to the ever-present worthy cause. Something akin to a monetary figure per mile/meter swum, biked, or run leading up to and during the event. Maybe it could be based on time spent training, not milage. I don’t know.

Another issue: who gets the money? With so many causes, what is the one cause that fits this kind of small scale operation? Does the chosen charity have some bearing on the effectiveness of the endeavor?

There are a couple obvious benefits to doing something like this: I get motivated to really train hard; I get healthier; the community gets some form of betterment. What are the drawbacks? Any reason (aside from earning a measly tow dollars) I shouldn’t do this?

Thoughts? Suggestions? Ideas?

Never followed up on the whole “I find myself running a 5k” thing, did I? Well, I survived, so all you hounds jockeying for my stuff: fugetaboutit!

The image above breaks it down for you, though. Let’s use some common adjectives to tell the story, shall we? By the numbers:

1) Pre-race: smiling, happy, excited. Naive.
2) During the race: nauseous, hypoxic. Becoming suspicious.
3) Post-race: pain, winded, gasping. Very jaded.

After fixing a clerical error that had me winning the half-marathon with a 3:29 average mile (call Nike!), it turns out my final time was 33:09, I ranked in the middle of the pack, and the grandmother I felt very smug about passing 5 minutes into the race smoked my tookus by close to 5 minutes (ah, life’s little ironies).

What’s next, you ask? Did I not mention that I’m signed up for the St. George Triathlon in May?

Turns out I’m quite the glutton.

I find myself suddenly running a 5K on Saturday morning. How did that happen? It’s a sponsored event with t-shirts, race fees –the whole nine.

Think about it: I’m paying to run 3.1 miles. In the cold. When I could be sleeping.

Someone tell me why.

I’m not a structural engineer. In fact, the only time I think I’ve ever held the title of ‘engineer’ is when I made sandwiches for a popular food chain and my name tag read, somewhat misleadingly, ‘Sandwich Engineer’.

Nor am I an architect. Can you imagine me being in charge of making sure buildings stay in the air? I can’t even be bothered to wear shoes.

I do, however, know a thing or two about what could be better in the ever illustrious trade of bathroom design.

Every so often, my wife and I find ourselves eating at a local chain restaurant. Invariably, we are seated with a bird’s eye view of the staff entrance and bathrooms. Without exception, the men’s room finds itself occupied several times a meal by various patrons. To this I do not object. I do object, however, to the fact that I and anyone sitting near me gets a clear view of the activities going on.

To you women out there, let me educate you about a concept called “stage fright” (otherwise known “gun shy”). I’ve been in a women’s bathroom a time or two in my life (don’t ask), and I have to say with some level of envy that you’ve really got a nice thing going there. They are always clean, smell nice, and are free of the questionable solicitations that we men have become fairly immune to. You get 12-15 square feet to yourselves, usually boxed into a cozy, private stall. I’ve even seen a couch or two in there from time to time. In short, you’ve got a great place to go about your business (bid’nes?).

The realm of men’s rooms, unfortunately, is rarely as serene. The smells - burning through nostril hairs like an out of control forrest fire, the aforementioned salacious graffiti, and the palpable filth are all givens. Add to that the fact that instead of individualized stalls, men get the opportunity, nay, the privilege, to be lined up side by side in Spanish execution-by-firing-squad style, facing the wall scant inches (ha!) from another feller. All this leads, as you might expect, to a situation that is less than, shall we say, comfortable.

Enter stage fright. We’ve got to go. We have to go. We need to go. But we can’t; there’s simply too much pressure. And all this is in your typically well laid out bathrooms.

So what’s my beef? Clearly, men have more than enough on our plates with business as usual. Add to that the poorly designed bathroom where some poor schmuck gets a good look at me doing my thing every time the door opens. The SATs and LSATs are nothing compared to that kind of pressure. And think of the people trying to enjoy their meals.

All I’m asking for is a bit of (enter trendy new controversial phrase here) intelligent design. Someone can approve a bathroom layout that will inhibit the viewing of men in the midst of urination. It’s possible. I’ve seen it. And I’ve not seen it. For heaven’s sake, let us pee in peace.

I’ve made it no secret over the past two or so months that I have been working to lose some weight and to get in better shape. To do this, I have worked closely with UFIT Personal Training, who have been great at teaching me how to change certain behaviors. While I now sweat a ton more than I did previously, the pounds that have come off are mainly due to changes in what and how I eat.

Change takes sacrifice -no doubt. After a hard workout or after starting the week measuring a few pounds lighter, it is pretty easy to give up the cookie or pie. There are other times when it is really hard to overlook the sweets. It calls. You feel weak. It happens. You sack the guy who suggested this foul sacrifice nonsense to begin with.

Tonight, I discovered a great way to buoy up the defensives: head on down to your local Golden Coral, Chuck-a-rama, or any other buffet-style restaurant. Have yourself a look at what I call the “pro class” buffet frequenters. These are the people that make the news because they ate all the roast beef and the manager kicks them out. These are the people who check the oxygen tank at the door before devouring the fried chicken. These are the people who procreated so their children can go get them more mashed potatoes (heavens, I might burn calories if I do it myself).

These are the people who helped me put the cookie down.

I’ve been watching lots of tennis of late due to the copious coverage of the US Open. This is having a serious side affect on me; I want desperately to play tennis. Yes, I’m using this here blog to further my own needs -forgive me, I’m jonesin’. I’m sending out the call for a tennis partner. Anyone, seriously, let’s play. Please. It’s cooling off here, I swear. Leave some info in the comments or drop an email at j (at) testmonkeydesigns (dot) com.