Two Important Things

First, a big THANK YOU to everyone who voted for my video!! I finished solidly in second place, which I tend to do in online voting competitions (note the silver ribbon on the right side bar).

But I’m not going home empty handed. The winner gets a years supply of Drymax socks, and I’m going to get a half a years supply for coming in second! Don’t ask – I don’t know what a “half a years supply of socks” is either...

Anyway, thanks for all your votes, blogger buddies!

Secondly, I’ve been thinking about the Doughnut Run 5K this weekend (a 5K with 8 “doughnut stops” where you can stop and eat donuts – each donut consumed on the run subtracts time from your overall finish time). I’m TOTALLY doing the run, but I’m wondering how good of an idea it is. Case in point, the following is a poem that I posted nearly 2 years ago. It was my 11th post on my “new” blog. It shows how food and running don’t always mix. Some of you have read this, but many of you haven’t. Enjoy:

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The following poem is a true story,
and I apologize if it gets a little gory.

I was happily into my 6.2 mile run.
I was having a good time; it was fast and it was fun.

At about mile 3, my stomach gave a twitch.
I shrugged it off; it was just a minor glitch.

Before mile 4, the little pain was back.
“Is this going to be a problem?” I thought as I clenched my crack.

The pain kept getting much worse,
And I was afraid that I was going to burst.

A few blocks from home, I started flipping through my keys.
I needed to get into the house fast and with great ease.

I picked up the pace; I was running with all I got!
It was either get home now, or duck into the bushes and cop a squat!

I was running so fast that I actually wheezed.
I didn’t think I was going to make it; my butt cheeks were squeezed!

Two blocks from home, my stomach really began to hurt.
And down my leg, I nearly felt a little squirt.

I got to the house just in the nick of time.
What I was about to do could probably be considered a crime.

Sprinting to the bathroom, I almost dropped to a knee.
I shouted to Sarah as I slammed the bathroom door, “Don’t stop loving me!!”

I had made it in time! I had made my goal!
And I concentrated hard as not to look down into the bowl. (gross)

It was a sad, sad sight: I had horrendous squirts!
It felt like the cast of Sesame Street was parading out of my ass, complete with Ernies and Berts.

What happened in there I can only describe as a gush.
It was such an incident that it called for a courtesy flush.

Had Sarah heard what just happened in the bathroom?
If she had, she is now reconsidering ever taking me as her groom!

But her love is unconditional, like the love a child has for her doll;
Outside the bathroom door sat a brand new bottle of Pepto Bismol.

The significance of this story holds true, whether near or far;
The moral being, “Ten minutes before a fast run, DO NOT eat a Klondike Bar!”

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By the way, that poem is completely true. I DID shout "Don't stop loving me!" as I ran into the house, and Sarah DID have a bottle of Pepto waiting for me outside the bathroom when I was done. Oh jeez, what have I gotten myself into this weekend? Check back late Sunday or Monday to see how I handled the Doughnut Run. It might not be pretty...