Monthly Archives: July 2011

I went William Wallace on this 5K.

When I woke up yesterday morning before the 5K, my first thought was, “I am a champion!” I didn’t need to tell myself this as a pep talk because I was scared. Over the last month of training on pavement, I’ve come to believe–or rather, Bri-lieve!–it.

When I made the transition from treadmill to pavement, I’ll admit I was concerned–for my groin, my still-fresh relationship with tortilla chips and my childhood fear of being made fun of for RWF, Running While Fat. But after my first couple of runs, my fear became freedom, and I began caring less about what I assumed people thought–or what the assholes of my past would have said–and more about the boundlessness I felt from running.

Of course, I had my limits–still do. A few months ago, getting on the treadmill was a near anxiety attack, and not too long ago, I wanted to pull a Catherine Becker on running. But yesterday, I extended my limits by running a 5K–and not walking and then running but really running. Like the whole way.

I knew the day before that I was going to do it. On Saturday morning when I woke up, I just felt like running, a feeling I’ve never had in my life. Originally, I was going to take the day before the run off, but with a jones for the pavement, I ran two miles–again, the whole way–and unlike other times, I made an effort to pace myself. When I got home, the runner’s high settled in as I was showering, and I began shouting like William Wallace before battle. After the shower, I spent the next 8 hours (Yes, 8 hours.) playing video games while stretching my quads, hams, calves and–you know it’s coming–groin and drinking as much water as I could without causing myself to hallucinate. I avoided heavy foods for the day, ate two huge plates of pasta for dinner and got eight hours of sleep. I was going to run the shit out of this 5K, not the other way around.

I'm coming for that ear, Evander.

So, after telling myself I was a champion, I began yesterday morning with a cup of coffee and more water and then made a smoothie that would make Mike Tyson bite Evander Holyfield’s other ear off. The smoothie is a slight variant on a recipe Steve gave me (It’ll be posted on here soon.)–coconut water (For maximum hydration.); blueberries and strawberries (For maximum flavor. Because coconut water tastes about as good as it looks.); orange juice (For extra flavor, in case maximum isn’t enough.); ice (For maximum coldness.) and three tablespoons of chia seeds (For maximum crazy.). After downing the smoothie, peeing all too many times and listening to DMX (For extra crazy, in case maximum isn’t enough.), I was ready to run.

Steve and I before the 5K

But first, we had to wait awhile for it to start, which would have been really boring if Steve didn’t look like a terrorist with that 40 lb. weight vest on–which, if you’ve forgotten, he agreed to wear so we’d be the same weight when we ran the 5K. So many people stared at us as we stood there pinning on our racing numbers and taking a final few sips of water. One woman said, “Is someone going to bomb us?” Another asked Steve, “What’s in all your pockets?” (Apparently, 40 lbs. of sand turns a skinny Canadian into the Una-Bomber. Come on, America, the fear-mongering has gone too far!)

This is when I realized I truly had nothing to fear. All these people at the 5K, whether they were running the whole way or not, were just people, each with their own fears, insecurities, weaknesses and eccentricities, like the woman we lined up near who was running through Capitol Hill during Block Party weekend barefoot. (For anyone unfamiliar with this part of Seattle, this woman basically gave herself a foot bath in STDs.) If everyone there thought Steve was the Una-Bomber, it didn’t only mean they were stupid–it meant they feared us, so even if I feared Running While Fat, I wouldn’t be alone.

Once the horn blew, I ran like I had no fear, dodging around all the old people, kids, women walking with strollers, and oh-so-many people who looked just like me, people who wouldn’t be caught RWF. Steve and I cruised together for the first half of the race, either running next to each other or right near each other, our bro-mance reborn. When we reached the halfway point, Aloha St., we turned downhill, and I hit the hill hard while Steve reeled back, unsure of how to take the slope with the extra 40 lbs. At the bottom, we turned again, and I saw all these volunteers handing out water, and all these people, people who didn’t look like me, who probably never had to worry about being caught RWF, stopping for a drink. Part of me wanted to run by and grab a bottle without stopping, like I’ve seen real runners do in races, but then I thought, “Let these skinny people drink their water. I’ve got a race run.”

I picked up my pace and took notice of all the people I was passing, all of them skinnier and fitter-looking than I am. My competitive spirit kicked in, and, looking back now, I wish “Fatter Than You” was written on the back of my shirt, so everyone I passed would know this fat guy was different. I had reached that point where running becomes an existential quest, where your mind is filled with nothing except the thought of survival, but instead of letting the emptiness make me hopeless, I felt empowered by it. Giving up and walking was an unknown concept to a champion. Having the BPM-churning Girl Talk blasting on my iPod didn’t hurt.

A mile later, I was starting to fade, yet with only a mile left, I simply slowed my pace and kept pushing. I had no clue where Steve was. Once I picked up my speed at Aloha, he disappeared in the cloud of people who couldn’t keep up with this champion. Once we hit the final ascent up Union St., the existential empowerment turned into a tired acceptance. I knew the finish line was close, and I just needed to cross it. Then I saw the barefoot woman ahead of me and had a new goal in sight–pass the finish line before the woman who runs without shoes. At the top of the hill, I sped past her and kept going through the finish line, completing the 5K at 31:22, about a minute before Steve finished, who didn’t look like he was going to kill anybody but himself.

Steve and I after the 5K

The day after the 5K, I think I’m more than just a champion. I am someone who has accomplished something I never imagined I’d be able to do in my entire life–RWF, running without fear. Running the 5K wasn’t really about proving to myself that I could do it; it was about taking on my deepest fear–being fat for the rest of my life. Since I began training five months ago, I’ve lost about 20 lbs., giving me a total of 55 lbs., meaning 20 more to go to reach 200, the weight I was before I hurt myself, when I first lost 140 lbs. I never believed I’d make it back here.

The difference between then and now is I no longer have that fear. I’m no longer obsessing so much about my weight that I’m binging and starving and attempting the unexpected with Preparation-H. I have accepted that I am who I am. When I eat, I’ll always want more than I should have. When I flex these guns–or pythons (Take your pick.)–like I did in the pictures above, I’ll always know about the stretchmarks, a remnant of when my arms were more Oprah than weapon–or reptile. And when I look in the mirror, I’ll always see the person I was, the fat kid who was too scared to ever be caught RWF who became the adult for whom food wasn’t just for survival but for comfort, too.

But this morning when I looked in the mirror, I saw someone new. I saw a man without fear. I saw a man that would run again.

[In less than two hours, I will run my first 5K. Here are the thoughts floating through my mind right now.]

Get. In. My. Belly. Right. Now.

1) I am a champion!

2) I’d really like some sausage, eggs, potatoes and pancakes.

3) Oh… and a beer!

4) Someone should really make designer nipple band-aids for men. There’s a market out there.

5) How much is a groin-iotomy?

6) Will they really call me Admiral McGuigan?

7) Please gods of the bowels, don’t let me end up like this guy.

8) Coconut water has the consistency of runny semen. I hope it doesn’t taste the same.

9) There will be fatter, slower people running too, right?

10) I hope they have sausage, eggs, potatoes and pancakes at the finish line.

[I know the title is misleading--I haven't actually run the 5K yet. I'm still just training to run the 5K, making the transition from solely running 5Ks on the treadmill to running them on pavement. The real 5K, the Swedish Summer Run, is in 10 days, and if you want to support the fight against ovarian cancer while doing something good for your body, you can register right here. And now, without further ado...]

"Say Yes to Runner's High!"

1) When you run downhill, eventually you have to run back up.

2) Snot rockets are far less disgusting when the alternative is death by choking on your own snot.

3) People smoke weed just about anywhere in Seattle, and when you see them while you are running, you are jealous that you, too, aren’t sunbathing in dry grass while smoking a joint.

4) Do not shout, “My runner’s high is better!”

5) Off-leash dogs want to fetch you, and their owners think you’re an asshole for looking at them incredulously.

6) Blisters are your purple hearts.

7) Feeling like you’re going to die is only better than actually dying.

8 ) Under Armour is the shit. (They did not pay me to write that, but if you want to pay me to do it again, Under Armour, I can be reached here.)

9) Burping up coconut water while running will make you want to vomit.

10) Pavement should be made out of pillow-stuffing. Or marshmallows.

Six months ago, I never thought I'd be running on pavement.

For most of my life, I feared running. It all started in second or third grade when we had to do the Presidential Fitness Test, a round of activities, including push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, the sit and reach and, worst of all, running a mile, that made me feel like the fat kid people made fun of me for being.

I could do some push-ups and sit ups, completed the sit and reach (Because all you have to do is sit and reach.) and couldn’t ever do one pull-up, but the activity I hated most was running the mile. It wasn’t so much the running. I played sports throughout my childhood and teen years, both organized and disorganized (And by disorganized I mean arguing over every call until someone gave in or got into a fight.) and always competed and enjoyed playing. And for the last ten years, I’ve lifted weights regularly (minus a three-year dry spell when my back, neck and shoulder were in a sailor’s knot).  What I hated most about running the mile was knowing that everyone was watching me (I was always last, or close to last, in the run.) and fearing how they’d make fun of me.

My fear of being made fun of for my body during my childhood has been circling through my head since I first accepted the challenge of running the 5K, and, from the beginning, it was a feeling that I wanted to tackle. Months ago, when I began training on the elliptical machine, I purposefully used the one right in front of the street-level window, making my flailing, sweaty body a chubby piece of eye candy for Downtown Seattle. I didn’t enjoy it at first, but as I built up my endurance and fitness and began noticing that no one gave a shit if a fat guy was exercising on the other side of this plexi-glass window, my fear of all the staring, gawking and taunts I’d receive was completely unfounded.

My Wu-Wear shirt never made me look as cool--or as slim--as Method Man.

As soon as I stepped on the treadmill though, I was nearly back to the starting line, uncomfortable with the thought of actually running–not just ellipticaling, which, for the record, has nothing on actually running–in front of all these people freaked me the fuck out. Immediately, I flashed-back to my first time ever stepping on a treadmill, which was also my first time in a gym, my junior year of college just before I began a weight training class to fulfill my physical education requirement after I was told I couldn’t take archery for a third time. I went to the gym with my roommate Eli, who was already in pretty good shape, and decided to walk on the treadmill for an hour. Before I even got on, I was sweating because I was so nervous that all the people in the gym were thinking, “Look at this fat fuck in knock-off UFOs and a Wu-Wear t-shirt trying to exercise!” I hadn’t stepped on a treadmill since.

I wasn’t going to let that thinking stop me this time though, and so I started jogging, knowing that Adult Brian would have a come-back to any insult, something Young Brian didn’t. After a warm-up, I started running faster. And faster. And I hated it. And I got a migraine and made tortilla chips my new best friend. And then my thighs bled and my groin ached but never once did I throw up.

This is what my groin felt like.

After several weeks on the treadmill–and with only two weeks until the 5K–I knew it was time to take my feet to the pavement, so Sunday, with the help of the ever-trusty MapMyRun.com, I ran what amounted to 3.6 miles, about a half mile more than a 5K. (To be honest, I walked about a half-mile–taking a break at the halfway mark where I walked a couple of blocks panting like a hairy dog on a sunny day, and then again about four blocks from my house when it felt like a dirty bomb was nearing explosion in my groin.)

Each time I passed someone on the run rather than feeling uncomfortable, returning to those awful Presidential Fitness Test days where my fitter classmates pointed and laughed at my jiggly core bounding around the gym, I felt free. I wanted to scream at them, “Look at me! I’m running!” but I know that only crazy people yell obvious things like that at strangers.

I won’t say I feel completely at ease with my heaving body in motion; however, through training for this 5K, I have come to understand why for so long I’ve feared running and how liberating it can be to forget what I think everyone is thinking about me and just do it. (Thanks for brainwashing me, Nike.) Young Brian wouldn’t have been able to run a 5K, not just because he was outrageously overweight and out of shape, but because he was so afraid of what people would say about him. Adult Brian doesn’t give a shit.

I guess that’s the cool thing about getting old–and becoming a Bri-liever.

Pass me a tissue. Jeter's up.

When I first read about dropping testosterone levels in expectant fathers, I thought, “Well, that’s not going to be me.” Don’t get me wrong: I’m not some meathead who treats feelings like a disability, but I am somewhat of a manly man, at least for a guy who writes poetry and wears the color yellow more than most men do. Crying isn’t exactly a pastime of mine, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve done it. Some moments that come to mind: my college roommate’s funeral, every time I’ve had my heart broken (I guess, deep down, I’m a romantic.) and anytime a pet has died. But ever since Jaime found out her eggo was preggo, I’ve found myself fighting off the tears with far more regularity.

Now I know why Jaime looks like Kimbo when she's angry.

I first noticed it when our dog Jelly hurt herself about a month ago. After a vigorous round of fetch where she slipped running up a hill and face-planted into the grass, Jelly came up limping. She’s had a limp before, so I didn’t think much of it until later that night when it was clear she was in pain. We gave her an anti-inflammatory, and she sulked around the house with that nervous dog look. “Jelly’s getting old,” Jaime said before she went to sleep that night. I stayed up by myself listening to music, and after drinking a few beers, I curled up on the rug with Jelly to cuddle. Reminiscing about all the good times we’ve had together (Jelly’s been my sidekick for seven years since she was an 8-week-old puppy that slept in the crook of my elbow.), I began crying–not one of those elephant wails, but there were tears as I stroked her furry blonde head. I took a few breaths, wiped my eyes with my hand, which Jelly then licked, and thought, “What the fuck is wrong with me?” I blamed it all on the beer.

But the crying hasn’t only happened when I’ve been drinking. For the last few weeks, nearly every highlight I’ve seen of Derek Jeter during his quest for 3,000 hits has made me choke up, thinking about all the moments–the Flip, the Dive and, finally, the Jack.–that I’ve witnessed, the last while sitting in my very own set of seats from the original Yankee Stadium. When I watched Lil’ Wayne performing Tupac’s “Haily Mary” as part of Weezy’s recent MTV Unplugged, I rapped along the lyrics with a shallow voice, fighting off one of those throaty near-cries, thinking about the life Tupac could have lived. Later, I’d tell Steve, who’s been calling the baby “Lil’ Tupac,” that ‘Pac will be my child’s John Lennon or Marvin Gaye, making me feel both old and even sadder. Then, just the other day on my lunch break, I read this article about the father who fell 20 feet to his death at the Texas Rangers’ game while trying to catch a foul ball for his young son who watched his dad’s brutal death, and I had to close the door to my office and collect myself, thinking about how much I wanted a father at all the games I went to as a kid to catch a ball for me and how sad it must be for that little boy to grow up knowing that his father died trying to make his son happy.

Without testosterone, Pepe needs to work on his game.

Apparently, what I’ve been experiencing is called “sympathy pregnancy,” or Couvade Syndrome, which is kind of like the whole phantom limb thing except instead of missing your lost leg you crave pepperoni pizza and cry every time Derek Jeter steps into the batter’s box. Sympathy pregnancy is caused by increased levels of prolactin, the hormone that triggers expectant mother’s to begin producing milk, and decreased levels of testosterone, the hormone that can cause men to have the libido of Pepe Le Pew and the body hair of a Labradoodle.

The effects of sympathy pregnancy are more than just cravings and crying though. Some men have morning sickness, headaches, nosebleeds, stomach cramps, diarrhea and other symptoms that spur pregnant women to Kimbo Slice people. (For example, just the other day my wife said she didn’t want to hang out with someone because she “hate[s] looking at his stupid, ugly face.” That’s a direct quote, people!) I haven’t puked or pooped myself since Jaime’s been knocked up, but the, at times, uncontrollable emotions I’ve experienced have made me thankful to have a penis.

The symptoms go away eventually though. Once the baby is born and begins its climb out of the crib and into the “real world,” testosterone levels return to normal, meaning I can put down the tissues and resume yelling “Suck it, [insert name of opposing team here.]” whenever Jeter gets a hit.

But if I do keep crying, I’ll just blame it on the beer.

They don't sell sports bras for these babies.

Three weeks into taking the 5K training to the next level, I’m finally starting to not hate myself for agreeing to do it. I’m running at least a mile or two every time I go to the gym and have recently built up to running the full 5K, doing it twice last week–and sweating so much I looked like a fat guy who swims with his shirt on just getting out of the pool.

Despite all the complaining I’ve done, the nipple-bleeding and the thigh-burning, I’m becoming a Bri-liever, which is kind of like a Belieber only all the ‘tweens believe in me–not Justin Bieber. Getting on the treadmill no longer requires “I Am a Champion” blaring from my iPod on repeat and the thought of everything I’ll do the moment I get off the ‘mill–first on that list being not running. Now I get on. I run. Then I run a little harder. And I don’t stop until I’ve reached my goal.

Sure, you can out-sing me, Bieber. But can you out-run me?

The only explanation for my shift in thinking is that I now believe I can do it. For most of my life, I made excuses for not wanting to run. In my fattest days, it was because I’d rather be eating. (Put that on one of those “I’d Rather Be…” license plate holders.) In my decreasing in fatness days, it was because I felt self-conscious about my moobs. In my “skinny” days (I put “skinny” in quotes because, you know, it’s all, like, relative, man.), it was because–and I quote–”Running is for pussys. I don’t run; I lift.” (I was a little abrasive in my early 20s.) In my “I was ‘skinny.’ What the fuck happened to me?” days, I just didn’t want to run. I didn’t want to do much of anything other than feel sorry myself.

Now though, after losing 140 lbs., gaining 80 and then losing another 50, I’ve reached a point with my body–and possibly with age–where I think I can do anything if I try hard enough, even run this 5K that I thought was going to kill me three weeks ago.

I just gotta Bri-lieve.

Soon this avocado will be citing "The Communist Manifesto" in the sandbox.

After just four months, Jaime is tired of the advice. Everyone seems to have some for her–from what first names work best with McGuigan to how to properly latch the baby to the nipple. (Keep in mind–this baby is only 17 weeks and about the size of a large avocado.)

I’m not going to name names here since some of you unwanted advisers may also read my blog, but if you’re reading this and thinking about giving my wife baby advice, don’t do it.

I, on the other hand, am perfectly happy to hear your advice, but don’t be surprised if you hear something absolutely ridiculous in response. For example, recently, someone who shall not be named was asking me about my parenting style. At first, I said what I really think: I think Jaime and I will be good parents. We’re both thoughtful, smart people whose strengths and weaknesses are complimentary. Also, we both were scholarship students, which means we’ll produce an even smarter baby, who I’ve come to call “Little Scholarship” while rubbing Jaime’s stomach. (Another thing: not only is unwanted advice not cool, but rubbing a pregnant woman’s stomach without asking isn’t cool either.) I mentioned the scholarship thing to this person half-joking.

What followed was a critique of my still unformed parenting style with the major points being: 1) You cannot control a child and 2) Children need to learn early that they have choices, so they understand how to make better choices later in life.

I desperately wanted to disagree with these two statements in a logical and reasonable fashion (In short: 1) Children are puppies with thumbs and heightened language skills–you need to have some control over them, and 2) Children make the choices that you allow them to make, i.e. “Do you want apple juice or chocolate milk?”), but sometimes you know you can’t reason with someone who really just wants to tell you you’re wrong.

So I didn’t.

Meet Jelly, a party girl with a strong sense of self.

Instead, I said, “I look at raising a child kind of like raising a dog.” Then, I called my dog Jelly, who came trotting over to me, her tail wagging like a furry whip (She’s wacked our walls so hard the end of it has bled.), made her sit and gave her a few other commands which she, of course, diligently followed, as she always does.

“If I can create a kid that’s as good as Jelly, I’m pretty sure I’ll be a successful parent.”

The critic bristled, and her eyes rolled.

I went on.

“It’s more than just training though. A crib is basically a dog crate with fewer bars. Crying is a language on par with barking. A Kong is like a nipple for dogs….”

I continued to list other similarities, but it didn’t matter. My point was: I don’t give a shit what you think, but so you don’t automatically think I don’t give a shit what you think, I’m going to say something ridiculous until you either A) accept that I don’t give a shit about what you think or B) believe I’m a lost cause whose child will someday go on to perform at an event called “Fuck Father’s Day: A Toast to Bad Dads.”

I haven’t been talking crazy to just one person either. When asked about what sex I wanted the baby to be, I immediately said I wanted a boy because they can’t get pregnant, which I’ve been told is sexist (Um… how? It’s biology!) because boys can get women pregnant. “Not if you shellack their bodies in condoms and spermicidal lubricant,” I suggested. End of conversation.

In response to my preference of a boy over a girl, another person asked me what I would do if I had a girl, to which I replied simply, “I’d hope my daughter becomes a nun that knows how to wrestle.” When told that I no longer believe in God, I shot back, “The Lord welcomes the return of all his prodigal sons,” and began pushing even further by explaining how a wrestling nun would be virtuous but still know how to kick ass.

Now wouldn't Che look better with a bonnet on his head?

In the last few months, when questioned about my parenting style, I’ve explained how we’ll be skipping Winnie the Pooh and heading straight for Marx, Camus and Nietzsche, a summer reading list that may cause depression but will most certainly create a young revolutionary, Baby Che, as I occasionally call the lump in Jaime’s gut. The baby will also follow a strict stretching and calisthenics routine, like Little Hercules minus the steroids, and make Bobby Fischer look like Bristol Palin.

Sometimes I don’t even believe the shit that comes out of my mouth.

But truly, I have no fucking clue what my parenting style will be like until this avocado-sized fetus becomes a shit-spraying baby (I’ve heard some stories…) that Jaime and I have to form into a respectable human being who may or may not also be a nun who can Randy “Macho Man” Savage your face. We’ll make mistakes, to be sure–every parent does–but we’ll do it together, and we’ll have each other to rely on, as well as the advice of every single person in our lives.

Whether we want it or not.