Running+

I started running last summer after seeing a set of podcasts that made the whole thing really easy. I even ran my first 5k (not a sponsored one, just me out running one night), the longest distance I had run since track season in high school.

Near the end of the season last year, I hurt my knee because of the way I run. It turns out that I roll my feet on the inside, which wears away the soles of my shoes and is rough on my knee. This season, now that the weather is breaking, I decided to grab some supporting Nikes. While I was at the shoe store, the salesman offered me the Nike+ sports set - which fit my style of shoe - and I decided to give it a try.

It seems like for $30 you'd get more, but the whole set only involves a little red and white sensor and a white plug-in receiver for your iPod Nano. Setup is super easy: simply put the sensor into the little hole in your shoe (you don't need a Nike shoe, either), and plug the other part into your iPod. That's it.

To calibrate the sensor, I charted a mile walk around a nearby park. The sensor read the mile distance very well, reading out "0.98 miles" by the time I reached the actual mile. After the calibration I set the iPod to a normal workout to see how it did. Here's what I got:



I only walked a mile, but it still charted my pace and how many calories I burned. Pretty cool. You can set your iPod to give you voiced encouragement (in male or female), and set it for miles or metric.

After iTunes logged my first "run," I went to the Nike+ site to upload my info, and it showed me a cool visualization of the whole thing:



But that's where I got my first hiccup. I tried registering for the Nike+ community stuff, and accidentally logged my birth year as "2008." The site then froze, saying "children under age 13 are not allowed to register." After logging off, then logging back into the sight with Safari, it was still locking me out. A quick call to Nike HQ, and a friendly guy name Mike (who works on a Sunday!) told me that the site resets these kinds of things after two hours.

I waited until Monday afternoon to try again, entering my true birthday, and things were smooth sailing. I set a goal for myself, and typed in a resolution:



There at the top, it shows my profile information and custom icon. It also logged my mile-long Sunday walk. The coolest part of the whole deal is the challenges.



People from around the world post challenges based on distance, most miles accumulated, fastest time running a certain distance, and a distance goal - say, 50 miles during a month. You can do it individually or in teams, and if you meet the challenge you get awarded a trophy. I signed up for a few simple challenges just to get me started:



So for this one I have to run seven miles. That's it. Some of them, however, are pretty challenging - made for only the hardcore runners you hear stories about. But the competition is there, and I could feel the motivational effects before I even took my first run. After reading some of the challenges, I wanted to lace up my Nikes and get started on those challenges.

Forums, a store, customizable maps of your routes - the whole thing is pretty comprehensive. One thing that turned me off, though, was the site's Flash interface. Sometimes it would grind to a halt, and the transitions between the site's areas were painfully slow. I did try a desktop application, HERE, but it may take me a while to get the hang of it.

I still have to get out and try the Nike+ kit on a true run, but until then I'm pretty well impressed. As the running season goes along, I'll report anything else I find. But I've picked my "Powersong" (KMFDM's "DIY"), I've got my iTunes playlist ready, and my shoes are broken-in.

Someone cue "Eye of the Tiger."

Americans are masochistic in Maine.

You start throwing around phrases like "economic downturn" and "...not since the Depression," and it makes one question the sanity of cutting out of town on another cross-country trip - where even the Hamptons are facing declining real estate values.

Gas. Wheat and milk. The price of everything, except houses, is going up, and here I sit on the edge of discovery, ready to journey into the heart of Old America and look into our revolutionary past. What shaped us as a country? Where did the Founding Fathers come from? Is fresh-off-the-boat crab meat really that tasty?

The answers to these questions, and more, I hope to find when I set out on May 16 to the original colonies. I’ll land on my own version of Plymouth Rock, I’ll walk down the streets of Philadelphia, bread in hand, and I’ll swim in the same pond that taught Thoreau to abandon his fellow citizens and embrace the wilderness as the last respite of a sanity-seeking intelligence. If he could spend time in prison to protest his country’s war-mongering, then surely I can sit on the banks of the Delaware and find out if Washington’s late-night crossing was worth the trouble.

Jefferson taught that a government should keep its powers within the confines of the Constitution, except while he was president, and so I don’t feel so bad taking my government money and putting it into my gas tank to run wild all over New England. If Route 66 was a quest to discover the world and my place in it, this trip is a journey to the roots of our country. What makes us tick? Where do we come from? Why can you talk about the weather with anyone, anywhere, anytime and not sound like a raving lunatic?

I’ve decided that I renting a car for this trip would be a waste. The states are so small, and the driving so non-perilous, that my little Suzuki should do just fine. It would have croaked on the side of some Colorado mountainside, but I believe the rolling hills of Vermont will not be such a chore.

I’ve also decided that, since the states are so close together, the back roads and state highways will be more than adequate to see everything I want to see in a reasonable amount of time.

The trip begins where our Declaration of Independance did: in Philadelphia, a logical starting point to a trek so historical. I’ll lay eyes on the Liberty Bell, and Mr. Franklin’s printing shop, and the building where demigods, as Jefferson called them, met and decided to try out a nation-sized experiment. From there it’s down to Maryland, up to Delaware and New Jersey, and straight through for a night (or two) in Boston and on to Maine, where I’ll stream through Route 1 and 3 on back to New Hampshire. Vermont is a resting stop before tackling Saratoga and upstate New York, with a finish through wherever I think the Adams Family (presidential, not kooky) would want to see last.

These trips are the travel equivalent to a Greatest Hits album: not a full picture, but a quick browse-through of the catalog. I may not get to a Red Socks game, but I’ll be sure to grab a picture of Fenway if I’m in the neighborhood.

The vacation time is set, the money is in the bank - what I need now are a few B&B ideas and a map of rest stops for those nights I feel like braving the New England spring nights in my spacious backseat. Nothing beats an economic downturn like a trip out of town and a few adventures along the way. Clinton and Obama can fight for the few remaining states until they’re blue-er in the face; I’ll be finding out about the prize they so greedily seek.

All that’s left is the getting there.

On taking inventory.

Even before I interviewed a local sheriff deputy about his house burning down, and asked what our credit union could do to help his family out, I knew a complete listing of everything I owned was a good idea.

After all, fires happen all the time. I’ve already had valuables stolen from my car. And shucks, zombies could take over any day now.

So I decided that March would be "taking stock" month, a sort of spring cleaning that put all my material possessions in order, taking photos of everything I owned, and keeping information like serial numbers and replacement costs in a handy spreadsheet should disaster strike. Little did I know how much work it would entail.

But it’s all been supremely worth it.




Little did I know, for instance, that my comic collection includes almost 800 comics worth more than $3,200. Just my Spider-Man collection clocks in at $1,500, give or take a few hundred. It took a day in a half, with some online help, to figure all that out.

Few things scare me more than the thought of someone breaking in to our apartment and making off with one of my Macs. While it’s true that I lock my Apples down with enough passwords to make Fort Knox jealous, and I do a decent enough job of backing up all my data with external hard drives, but still.

What’s funny is that, if you take my comic collection, it’s worth more in ashes than it is sitting in the five or six boxes that store them. People aren’t willing to pay a good price for the latest edition of "Ultimate X-Men," but if they all burned up my insurance company would have to give me top dollar for them.




Everything I have is worth something. It’s hard for me to guess what the exact values are, but I’ve read that as long as you keep some sort of record, you’ll be paid back if disaster strikes.

Part of this project has involved cleaning and gutting as well. I have magazine subscriptions that date back years, and some of the issues I’ll never even look at again. Into the recycling bin they go.

All of this will be documented in spreadsheets, photos, iTunes lists, and burned onto a CD that will be kept off-site. After all, it doesn’t make sense to keep an inventory if the inventory melts in the flames with everything else, right?

So here’s my advice: if you have things you value, and they’re not all indestructible, take the time and effort and document everything. Everything. Stand in each room, even, and take a general "here’s-this-side" photo, just in case you forget anything.

Photos, quilts, childhood toys - those you can’t replace. But no sense in watching everything go up in smoke. We’re not all Superman, and we can’t keep everything in the Fortress of Solitude.

It’s called CYA - which means "Cover Your Assets" or something like that. There’s no better time to take stock than now.

Renew subscriptions online, save a tree

A thought occurred to me today, just as I was about to drop two magazine subscription renewal envelopes in the mailbox:

Why not do this online?

I subscribe to two monthly magazines, Wired and Harper's, and both have been bugging me for months to renew my subscription. Harper's even sent me a letter saying that, by renewing early, I could save them the cost of several more notices.

Now I realize what a smart idea that was. Renew early and save the company postage and printing costs AND save on the fuel it takes to ship that envelope from Red Oak, Iowa to my apartment in Jackson, Michigan. Harper's wins, and so does the environment.

But then I thought, shucks, I betcha I could do this online. Sure enough, both sites had a renewal section. All I needed was my name and address, and a debit card, and in two minutes both subscriptions were renewed. No postage needed, no mail infrastructure to engage, no check to write, no yucky envelope taste on my tongue.

I should've thought of this a long time ago...

$600 rebate check rich.

Michael Bloomberg, the plucky mayor of New York, recently compared the tax rebate checks to giving an alcoholic a drink: "This country has a balance sheet that’s starting to look more and more like a Third World country," Bloomberg said.

In which case, we’ll all be tested. Binge, or resist temptation? Splurge, or save?

Nevermind the moral questions regarding this tax rebate deal (here are the details, from the IRS) - others have done more thinking on this than me.

All I know is, I’m probably getting $600. And most of you are, too.

But what to do with all that cheddar?

Because I’m like most Americans (and especially like most people our age), I have what’s called a "negative self worth," meaning I owe more money (car loan, student loans) than I have in the credit union. So I’ll tip the balance at least a few hundred dollars in the "savings" column. A nice deposit of $300 into my emergency fund would do well for my security gland (that one in your head that beeps and swells every time you write a check you don’t know if you can cash). That’s smart thing number one. There are many others.

Smart thing number two would be to donate some of it to my favorite charity or cause. Right now our local organizations are hurting because Michigan’s economy (and, good lord, Jackson’s) sucks right now. So a few dollars here and there would do a lot of good.

Then the fun part comes in (we’ll call it "not-so-smart-thing number one"). I’m leaving for my New England trip sometime this spring, and a few hundred dollars would be welcome in my gas and food budget. This depends on when I get the check, of course, but most signs point to sometime in May.

If it doesn’t come in time, I’ll just consider it a New England trip rebate, and the rest of money can pad my checking account for rent or an emergency.

An iPhone? Not with this money. I’ve already set aside the funds for the Jesus Phone, thankyouverymuch, so it’s already a given.

How about you? What will you do with YOUR tax rebate check?

Warning: fake news story

Lawrence is carted away from The Parlour after failing the Dare to Be Great Challenge.

LOCAL DIABETIC IN COMA AFTER ATTEMPTING ICE CREAM CHALLENGE

A Jackson man was hospitalized today after attempting The Parlour's "Dare to Be Great" 21-scoop ice cream challenge.

Dave Lawrence, a 26-year-old Brooklyn native, was taken away from the Parlour's Wildwood St. location after lapsing into a diabetic coma - one bite away from completing his quest to be placed on the ice cream vendor's wall among others who had completed the task in years past.

Lawrence was spurred on by a 48-year-old Oklahoma man's completion of the challenge earlier this week, as well as a dare by his friend Chris Spielman.

"Chris is in Wisconsin, and should've been here to help," Lawrence said, his breath labored in between full system flushes at Foote Hospital, where he was being treated as of press time. "That wimp...couldn't have come as close...as I did."

After eating most of the 21 multi-flavored scoops of ice cream, Lawrence collapsed with his last spoonful on its way to his mouth. Patrons called the ambulance after repeated attempts to massage the last remaining bit down Lawrence's throat.

"We thought we would help him finish it, even if he was passed out," one woman on the scene said. "The rules don't say you have to be awake the whole time. After a few minutes of trying, we finally gave up and called the hospital."

Lawrence is being treated for glucose shock, hypertension, and acute bloating - all due to a catastrophic system reaction because of his Type I diabetes.

"To hell with sugar-free ice cream," Lawrence was heard screaming when he began the challenge. "That's like eating tofu burgers, and it's a laxative."

Family members refused comment, but had purchased a trophy with Lawrence's name and the Dare to Be Great Challenge carved onto a brass ice cream scoop in anticipation of the challenge's completion.

Foote Hospital doctors are pessimistic about Lawrence's chances of making it out of the coma any time soon, but one surgeon said any hope of recovery rested in Lawrence's chance of digesting the 10 pounds of chocolate chips, sprinkles, and strawberry chunks.

"He may never walk again," the surgeon said.

The Parlour claims no responsibility for the incident, adding that the Dare to Be Great Challenge wasn't meant to be attempted by diabetics. The restaurant's proprietor says he will add Lawrence's name to the "attempted" list, however.

Donations can be made to the Lawrence Dared to Be Great But Shouldn't Have Even Tried It fund, which will help pay for the stomach pump's electricity costs, at any Jackson-area American 1 Federal Credit Union branch location.

Chaos and tomfoolery at the Restaurant Rally.

John and I drink to ease the pain of living.


Midway through my first margarita, I knew that the Greater Jackson Chamber of Commerce's Restaurant Rally would be trouble from the start.

The idea was crazy enough: a group of local restaurants offering free food to anyone wearing a bracelet, with chamber members slung around town in short school buses, herded like cattle into the waiting arms of Jackson entreprenuers. Pay $20, buy the ticket, take the ride, and eat 'till you puke.

Our table was casually munching on the free chips and salsa at the Crazy Cowboy when the chaos of the evening took its toll.

"We need a plan!" I said.


We were missing sombreros and donkeys with tutus.


But no one heard me. One minute we were drinking $1 margaritas and chatting about the evening's plans, and the next minute we were leaving in a huff - off to the next restaurant in line.

We stuck to the downtown restaurants at first, which seemed like a good idea at the time. since most of the spots were within a block of each other, we could maximize our Restaurant Rally experience in the shortest amount of time. Crazy Cowboy to Lenny's Sub Shop to Bella Notte to Daryl's Downtown - it all seemed so easy.

When one travels with rowdy companions, however, ease became merely a misguided state of mind. I couldn't help but feel sorry for Bill (or was it Bob?), the owner of Lenny's, who had a feeding trough set up for the chamber members who trickled in off the bus. Imagine four yellow submarines zipping around town full of hungry business owners and their dragged-along employees. I remember hoping the bus drivers were earning time and a half.

Suzanne showed up midway through our free sub sample (a simple club sandwhich, with a glass of water). She had volunteered to host one of the four buses, and we were one of her stops. We asked where she was going, and whatever she said didn't interest our party.


We called the cops soon after this.


Instead, we moved on to Bella Notte Ristorante, a preppy Italian joint that held steam trays full of pasta and sauces. Noodles, tomatoes, cheese, broccoli, chicken - again, all buffet style, and thank goodness we showed up early. Soon the line was 20-patrons deep, their eyes twitching with hunger. Some folk singer was bellowing "Hallelujah" in the corner, and Captain Jackson showed up to restore order to the madness.

"Have we lost all sense of decency?" I asked, pushing my way through the half-starved food line in order to make my escape. Our party left before the drinks even got there, and we no doubt pissed off a good many chamberettes with our cries of "excuse me" and "I have to use the restroom."


Andrea nurses her drink.


Walking into Daryl's, probably the classiest joint on the whole tour, one couldn't help imagining some secret business deal taking place while we were herded to the backroom - some waiter standing gaurd to make sure the rabble behaved themselves.

And that was hard, because when we arrived the buffet (again!) had run out of Daryl's famous dinner rolls. Instead, we made fools of ourselves devouring barbeque wings in front of William Ross, Jackson's city manager, who looked on in horror at the amount of booze placed in front of us.

I was six wings into my meal when the drinks finally arrived, and was on my way to grab a few more brownies (which they also ran out of), when we again left in a huff. Carolyn's sister, Andrea, even pushed me into the door - the restaurant turning their heads in unison at my "ouch!" - to make her getaway.

This time we loaded onto one of the buses, bravely corraled by an Ambassador Committee member who had given up on all sense of order and logic. We behaved like savages, and were told to "Quiet!" by the hapless bus driver during a railroad crossing. The destination was Ground Round, but after some lobbying a lady convinced us to stop at the Greystone. All she said was "seventy-five cent beers" and clawed my way off the bus. What else needed to be said?


Greystone's idea of a "deluxe meal."


The Greystone Tavern, made famous by its delicious hamburgers, was my kind of place: narrow, smokey, full of long faces and blue-collar sensibility. The waitress tried to place us at a long table in the back, but it was all in vain. Our group headed directly to the bar. I stumbled my way to the bathroom and found it clean.

We had nachos (they call it, oddly enough, "Beef and Greens") and peanuts at the Greystone - more like a night at a ballgame than a dine-and-dash, but whatever. Some 18 year old calmly passed out our food, and deferred to the angry looking waitress who kept having to shout her demands.

"That's fine," I answered back, "at least the bathroom's clean."

And what do you know, our circus-on-wheels exited the Greystone in a cloud of peanut shells when another bus arrived to take us to the Time Out Bar & Grill. The bus ride there was a blur, but I do remember trying to leave my Greystone nachos on the bus for the next person to board.


Found her!


We ran into Suzanne again at the Time Out, along with the dart crowd - that group of hard-core gamers who considered lawn darts a bastardization of their fine art.

"I just hope there's no crime tomorrow," Captain Jackson said, smoking a dark-brown cigarette, "because my utility belt won't fit."


Alex searches for meaning admist the madness. "Want a shot?" he asked.


We all knew how he felt. By then we had consumed so much of Jackson's finest food - and yet had only visited a few select restaurants - that the night had to come to a conclusive end before someone got sick.

Time Out offered fried cheesecake and cold pizza, all presented behind a stronly-worded sign to let the locals that this was a bourgeois affair. We weren't as spirit as we were at the Cowboy (which seemed like an eternity ago), and I think we all felt like the Restaurant Rally had run its course.


Jackson isn't known for its politeness.


"Find the fire exits, Dave," John told me. "I'll follow you."

Instead of making an exit fit for any movie, we simply loaded onto a bus bound for downtown, our origin point, and unloaded back at the Crazy Cowboy. We had come full circle, in spirit as well as in destination, and we said our goodbyes.


My companions blatantly stole this fine glass from a struggling downtown business.


It was an epic evening, for sure, and there's no better way to take in all that Jackson's fine eateries have to offer than loading drunken chamber members on cramped buses and shout orders to them in between crude jokes and pornographic picture messages (that last one involving two ladies and Subway's current slogan, which I didn't get), with no time to discover the personality of a place because you're too busy whisking away to the next stop.

Complete chaos, and I felt it first thing that night. But what could I do? I had bought the ticket. I had taken the ride, and eaten the nachos.